by Thorne Moore
Ganymede Alpha.
782 million kilometres from Earth, at that precise moment, and who could tell the difference? A little corner of a foreign moon that was forever recognisable, unchallenging and safe, if a touch vulgar, as colonies far from home tended to be. Not that David would have noticed if the burger and sushi bars had been manned by two-tongued lizards serving human heads on toast. It was all as alien to him as Earth. The noise was painful.
‘Here,’ said the uniform, guiding David into the welcome calm of the Triton Inn. He presented David’s card to the reception clerk. ‘Ragnox 2361084. Flight EGT 490.’
‘Uhuh.’ The clerk scanned the card, checked his screen and handed over a key. ‘48. Second floor. Transport to Omega on the twelfth.’
‘Right. This way, Mr Rabiotti.’ David found himself being led to the elevators and up to a room that was like all the other rooms in his life.
David waited for the uniform to leave, then he padded back into the corridor and paced its length, past twelve other numbered doors, all identical to his own. He came to a different door. Grey. Labelled not with a number but with the words ‘Danger. Private. Keep Out.’ It marked the centre of the hotel; the shaft leading down into the tangled web of service passages beneath the city. A poor substitute for his ship, but it would have to do.
Ganymede Alpha should have been home from home for Merrit. It was loud, bustling with self-importance, and teeming with people convinced that they were going places. None of the exclusive elegance of Platinum City. He could eat in boisterous restaurants with overdressed clientele. He could stroll under the flashing neon lights and the laser displays, around shopping malls delighting in unapologetic vulgarity. He might even find a friendly game of poker where he had a faint chance of winning.
But Merrit had no time to enjoy himself. He had his future to organise. Yet again. Why did things always go wrong? Embarkation back at Newtonia had been a new beginning, but now, three months on, here he was, still surrounded by people who despised him, undermined him, stole from him. It was too late to undo the humiliation he’d undergone on the Heloise. He’d have to start afresh, negotiate passage to Triton on another ship.
Jordan Pascal was paying for his passage, so it could hardly matter which ship he travelled on. And where better to start looking than Triton Inn itself. Most of its occupants were coming from or going to the outermost colonies.
The foyer was quiet. A grey-haired blank-eyed woman walked through. Merrit debated accosting her, then dismissed the thought. She wasn’t in charge of anything. Two men approached the desk, muttering conspiratorially with the clerk and staring Merrit down with instant hostility. Merrit knew better than to try. He waited, flicking through news reports. A close-faced man wearing quasi-military flying gear with insignia, strolled up to the far end of the desk and beckoned the clerk.
‘Any word from Brodie yet?’
‘Not yet, Captain.’
The captain glanced at his watch, his face expressionless but his fingers beating an irritated tattoo on the counter. ‘I’ll be at Morgan’s. If he makes contact, tell him he’s got three hours to make up his mind, then I’m leaving.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
This was a man to do business with. Merrit followed him as he strode across the foyer.
Without pausing, the captain turned in his stride and came back to meet Merrit. ‘You want me?’
Merrit shrugged. ‘That depends. You going Out?’
The captain’s lip twitched. ‘That’s what we do.’
‘Triton? Are you going to Triton?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Okay, right, so maybe we can do business.’
The captain looked him over. ‘Business.’
‘Yeah.’ Merrit grinned. ‘Believe me, it will be worth your while.’
The captain nodded thoughtfully to himself. He glanced round and motioned to the door of a small private lounge. ‘Let’s talk.’
Merrit followed him in, smirking. The smirk was still in place as he found himself pinned back against the door, a gun forcing his chin up and two very cold eyes an inch or two from his own, staring at him with humourless menace.
‘Who sent you?’
‘No one!’ The gun dug more painfully into Merrit’s throat. ‘Honest! No one sent me.’
The pressure of the gun eased. ‘Business. Whose business?’
‘Mine. Jesus, mine. Passage. I want passage to Triton, that’s all.’
‘Foxe. Try him. He’s the one to ask for passage.’
‘No, no, I’m with him now. I want...’ Merrit paused to control the trembling in his voice. ‘I’m looking for a new berth. On a different ship.’
The captain stared coldly for a moment longer, then stepped back, sneering. ‘You want to drop Tod Foxe?’
‘Yeah!’ Merrit rubbed his throat tentatively. ‘It’s worth 25,000.’
‘You’ve already paid him? Foxe doesn’t give refunds.’
Merrit shook his head impatiently. ‘No, Pascal pays. I know he pays 25—’
‘Oh.’ The captain took a further step away and folded his arms. ‘Pascal pays. You’re on contract.’
‘Yes.’
‘If Pascal’s fixed up for you to go with Foxe, I don’t mess with Pascal’s plans. No one messes with Pascal’s plans.’
‘Look, he won’t care. Why should he care, as long as I get there?’
‘Boy, I don’t know what Pascal cares about or why. I just know I don’t mess with him.’
‘But for 25,000...’ Merrit couldn’t see how anyone could resist.
The captain put his gun away. ‘I don’t take passengers, and maybe I’m going to Triton, maybe I’m not. You want to find some white knight to rescue you from Tod Foxe, go to the Pig Exchange. That’s the place to book passage. Tell them you want to leave the ship Pascal put you on, no one will touch you. Tell them you want to book passage on your own account, it will cost you thirty grand minimum. In advance. You got thirty grand, boy?’
Merrit’s desperate attempt at insouciance was lamentable. ‘Maybe. Yeah, maybe I could lay my hands on 30,000.’
The captain smiled. ‘So you’re laughing. You go find the money, then book yourself a nice comfortable berth to Triton.’ He moved Merrit firmly to one side, to open the door.
Merrit watched him stride away across the foyer. Shit. 30,000! Who had that kind of money? No one had 30,000. How could he raise it? Not legitimately, that was for sure. Could he raise anything at all?
Back in his room he ransacked his bags. Three months before, he had set out with a quantity of little green pills sewn carefully into the seams and linings of his clothes, his stand-by nest egg. Now there was fuck all. He’d used a bit himself, of course, and he’d let Abigail have some, but McBride had taken most of it, as payment for this and that, and there had been the fiasco on Platinum City with the security guards confiscating everything on him.
He set to work, ripping open the handles of his luggage, prising out the last couple of strings. All he had left. Two lousy strings. Where would that get him? Maybe he could trade up, get in the right crowd, perhaps find an opening for a bit of blackmail, extortion, theft, surely something.
But 30,000! Shit, shit, shit!
Stomach churning and already hopeless, he headed for the nearest bar.
Christie slipped into the private recovery room and shut the door gently.
Abigail was propped up on pillows, her eyes drooping but open, her face pale. She looked up with a conscious effort to focus as Christie stepped forward in the dim light.
‘How are you?’
‘Terrible,’ Abigail replied in a hoarse whisper. ‘Better being unconscious. I didn’t feel it.’ She attempted a smile.
‘They decided you were well enough to be brought here, at any rate,’ said Christie, looking round the room. ‘Who sent the roses?’
‘Tim Faber.’
‘The choirboy officer? So you’ve got a ship’s guard looking after you, have you?’
‘Came with me from the ship. Sweet.’
‘Very,’ said Christie thoughtfully. ‘Do they know what it is, yet?’
Abigail shifted uncomfortably on the pillows. ‘Still doing tests.’
‘Was it drugs?’
Abigail managed a dismissive shrug. ‘Just Lucies.’
‘How many?’
‘Four. Five.’
‘I see.’ If Abigail had been allergic to Lucies, she’d have discovered it long before now. Unless they were contaminated. ‘A reliable source?’
Abigail’s lip twitched.
‘Merrit?’
The girl nodded and reached for the water by her bed.
‘Are you eating?’
‘Not much. On a drip.’ She tugged petulantly at the tube in her arm.
‘So, how long do they reckon before you’re up and about?’
‘They say a week.’
Christie nodded, with a faint smile. ‘You look exhausted. I’ll let you rest.’
‘Wait.’ Abigail was urgent, pulling herself up. ‘Got to talk.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘No! Can’t wait.’ She grabbed Christie’s arm. ‘Got to sort it now. Must get in touch. With my father. Can’t hang on till I’m out of here.’ She struggled to breathe. ‘He needs time. To arrange. Before they ship us out. To Omega.’
‘They can fix up for you to call your father from here.’
Abigail shook her head. ‘No!’
‘Why not? Wouldn’t it be the simplest?’
‘It wouldn’t...’ Abigail swallowed, panting. ‘Have to get past his. Secretary. Have to. Make him listen. He won’t. Not at first. I can’t do it. Not feeling like this. You’ve got to do it for me.’
‘What!’
‘Call him. Tell him where I am. Explain. He’s got to get me home.’
‘He wouldn’t listen to me – even if I could get through.’
‘He will! He’ll speak to you. Don’t know who – what you were. Before. But you were someone who could speak. To Rolf Dieterman. Weren’t you?’ Breathless, Abigail looked searchingly at Christie, waiting for a response.
It came eventually. ‘Maybe I was. But not now.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Abigail waved the objection aside. ‘So you quit. Or running. He needn’t know.’
‘This is not a good idea, Abigail. You should call him yourself. Why won’t you?’
‘Told you.’
‘Now tell me the real reason.’
Abigail bit her lip. ‘Our row. About drugs.’ Christie froze, but Abigail was too absorbed in her confession to notice. ‘Ordered cocaine. Through his office. So? Done it before. Never complained. Everyone did it. Who cares, legal quotas? This time. Went berserk. Stupid. Started accusing me. Trying to ruin him. Said I was a spoilt brat. Had enough. Sorting my life out for me! Sort it out? Never needed his help.’
Christie walked to the window and looked down, blindly, into the garden. ‘Well you need him now,’ she said calmly.
‘See? If he hears. Calling him from hospital. Stupid drug overdose, he’ll just. Won’t listen. Won’t want to know. That’s why. You call him.’
‘No.’ Christie turned around. ‘No.’
‘You have to. You can. Demand his attention.’
Christie laughed sourly. ‘Yes, I think I’d be able to do that. It won’t serve your cause.’
‘Must! Explain.’
Christie shook her head.
‘Please! Got to. Only way reach him.’
‘And if he won’t listen?’
‘Try!’
Maggy was toying with the concept of complete and unalloyed happiness. Here she was, indulging in charmingly respectable pleasures such as candle-lit dinners, and afternoons drifting on the lake. For once, she was completely confident in her role – newly-wed, on honeymoon with a devoted husband. A pity there hadn’t yet been a wedding, but no one at the Hotel Salut need know this. They certainly wouldn’t guess it from Maggy’s demeanour, radiantly demure, clinging in adoring deference to her man, and yet ever so slightly demanding, with just a soupçon of petulance. Maggy was playing this by the book, and it was a book she knew back to front.
Dear John knew it too. Everyone was enchanted by his assiduous devotion. They were the very epitome of ardent young lovers. No one in this romantic rural retreat would suspect that John was really an undercover agent. But she never forgot it. She knew that even while he fawned over her, he was scrutinising the staff, the guests, every new arrival at the hotel, always alert for nuances she couldn’t begin to fathom.
They dined at one of the grandest restaurants on the Venice Boulevard, where Dear John persuaded the string quartet to play the wedding march in their honour. They visited Abigail in her hospital and fussed over her with such an enthusiastic display of romantic attachment that the nurses presented them with a bouquet, although Abigail, sadly obsessed with her own illness, declared that she wanted to vomit.
No one could fault their performance. Therefore, this was happiness.
If so, Maggy decided, happiness was a nerve-racking affair. Why was she riven by this ever-gnawing indigestion?
Oddly, when they were alone in their honeymoon suite, Maggy felt more relaxed. Odd because, when alone, Dear John dropped his absolute devotion to her wishes. Alone, he was far more interested in his work. He’d be busy on his notepad, reading, checking, scribbling. A young bride ought to resent anything that distracted him from her, but in private, to be honest, the respites from ardent love were a relief. She could get some sleep.
Maggy snored. Quite gently. A mouse-like snore. It wasn’t a distraction.
Smith frowned over the screen, eyes devouring the information. He’d always done his homework, ready for every eventuality, but when he’d embarked on the Heloise, it hadn’t occurred to him that the Outer Circles needed research. It wasn’t as if he intended to be out there a moment longer than necessary. Why waste grey cells on it?
But that wittering interview with Foxe before the ball had brought home his perilous ignorance. The reality of the Outer Circles was something he, like ninety-nine percent of the human race, hadn’t grasped at all and that was dangerous. He’d learned what he could on the ship. Now he had ten days on Ganymede to become an expert on the subject.
It was alarming but, in its way, quite intriguing. Who’d have thought that the mega-corporations, the giants who held sway on the Joint Corporations Council, were arranged on a completely different chessboard in the deregulated zone? Bishops were rooks, knights were bishops and pawns were queens. The king, of course, on both boards, was Ragnox, but out there, forget LCD, TransSy, Cybercorp. They were mere extras. Even Astromarina, struggling to hold onto its remaining bases, was a meagre pigmy. But Pan – what the hell was that about?
Smith had, hitherto, dismissed Pan as an outfit too insignificant for his attention, apart from checking occasional broadcasts from its single Inner Circles operation, OCN, a station that bored on interminably about Ragnox’s depredations in the deregulated zone.
And yet… and yet, as far as Smith could see, drawing on rumours, corporate manoeuvres and confidential messages, Pan ranked as Ragnox’s only serious rival in the Outer Circles. This was exactly the sort of thing Smith should have known but didn’t. Careless.
Likewise, he should have known that some sort of insurgency was being put down at Titan Epsilon. Successfully, it seemed. And an unidentified disease was rampant on S4. So rampant that most corporations were moving out, relocating their operations elsewhere. How virulent? Fatality figures were vague, which was in itself a clue to its seriousness. If he could…
‘Uh?’
Maggy was sitting up, bleary-eyed and rumpled. Only half awake, he hoped.
‘Sh,’ he whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’
Please go back to sleep. I’ve got better things to do.
When Christie booked a direct connection to M1, the clerk summed up her shabby appearance and demanded prepayment. He looked twice, when she returned to make her
call, hurriedly reappraising the smartly dressed, authoritative businesswoman.
‘Steen?
‘That’s right.’
‘Er, yes, your call is ready. If you want any assistance—’
‘I don’t, thank you.’ Christie firmly shut the door of her cubicle, and resolutely turned to face the screen, waiting for the green light of her connection to the TransSy headquarters on M1.
She knew better than to waste a transmission from Ganymede on polite nothings. Each word needed to be precisely planned and delivered without hesitation. ‘My name is Yasmin Gwynne of Ragnox Information and Promotion. You will ask Rolf Dieterman’s P.A. to put me through to him immediately.’
She sat back, knowing how long it would take for her words to reach Platinum City. The time ticked by, while a receptionist appeared, dealing with other calls. Then her message got through. For half a second, the woman turned impatiently to face Christie, before sitting up alert, open-mouthed, hastily pushing buttons. The screen went blank. Christie continued counting. She drew out a flask, then thought better of it and put it away. Her mouth was dry.
The screen flickered back to life, with the iron features and stony eyes of Rolf Dieterman.
She spoke fast. ‘I am Yasmin Gwynne. I am calling you about your daughter Abigail.’
But he wasn’t waiting for her explanation. He had words of his own that needed saying. ‘Yasmin Gwynne? You bitch!’
Selden sat on a rock on top of Mount Friedman. An artificial hill, with a few carefully constructed crags and some tastefully arranged conifers, zig-zagging paths offering a five-kilometre romp in the Wilderness. It was popular enough, but just at the moment, with evening advancing, Selden had the hilltop to himself, with its view out over the sprawling city. Overhead blue sky faded to an apricot tint of sunset. No sun, because that would have given the game away. An artificial hill, an artificial sky.
Somewhere up there hung Jupiter, utterly alien, threatening to overwhelm them all, but it was concealed. In the early days of the colony, the sight of it had proved unsettling, looming over them like a vast cannonball heading their way. It had caused nervous breakdowns and several suicides, so the Joint Corporations Council had acted to ensure that the biodome blotted it out. No expense had been spared.