Inside Out

by Thorne Moore

  Now shadows were lengthening over the golden city and lights were beginning to appear. From this safe distance he could see people swarming like ants in the bustling haze, leaving their work and heading to the restaurants, the theatres, the clubs and bars.

  For days he’d kept to his room. No fear of being disturbed in Triton Inn. He could shut himself up, and no one would care. But at last he’d emerged, to look around, just once. To survey the crawling spectacle of human activity. To listen to the distant murmur of carefree voices. To smell grass and resin and to feel a flow of cool air that might pass for a breeze.

  For the last time.

  Soon he’d be in a world of darkness where there was no pretence, no pretty illusions, no grass, no breeze, no laughter. He would be Out, never to return.

  Chapter 12

  Abigail was walking again. And talking and making demands. The physical and mental effects of her illness were still swirling inside her, but she needed to be free.

  Free to act. Four days and Christie still hadn’t returned to report on the outcome of her call. Abigail was burning with frustration. If she had to take matters into her own hands, she needed to get on with it now. Pacing her room, waiting for her discharge, she turned hopefully as the door opened, but it was only a nurse.

  ‘A visitor for you, my dear.’

  ‘Christie?’ asked Abigail, eagerly.

  ‘Mr Faber, the nice young man who brought the roses. He’s brought some more.’

  ‘Oh. As long as it’s not Smith and Maggy again. Send him – no, wait! Tell him – give me ten minutes. Tell him I’m still sleeping or something.’

  The nurse smiled. ‘Of course. Ten minutes.’

  A dose of male admiration, even from a boy, would be therapeutic. Abigail studied herself in the mirror. Romantic languor was one thing, but bags under the eyes would have to go. Her lips were too bloodless. At least, thanks to a little TLC from Nurse Davis, her hair had recovered its sheen.

  Satisfied, she cleared away the evidence and sat back to await her visitor. He came in cautiously, his concern brightening into a wide smile at sight of her.

  ‘Wow! You’re better.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She smiled in return, amused by the effort he’d made. He was in his best civilian gear, very dashing, very youthful. ‘Are they for me?’ She gestured to the bouquet he was holding.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Tim looked bashful. ‘A bit pointless, I suppose. They reckon the doc will be discharging you any moment.’

  ‘Very sweet, Tim.’ Abigail relieved him of the roses and deposited them in a vase by the window. ‘Yes, I can’t see why they should keep me any longer. I’m perfectly well.’

  ‘Do they know what caused it yet?’

  Abigail tweaked the flowers into position. ‘Still doing their tests. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I’m better.’

  ‘Oh, you look just great,’ said Tim, enthusiastically. ‘Hey, but it was a lousy way to waste your time on Ganymede. It’s a hot place.’

  ‘I’ll just have to make up for lost time.’ She gave a brittle smile. The city sights could go hang. She had work to do. ‘How about you? Have you been enjoying it?’

  Tim pulled a face. ‘I only got away from Refit a day ago. I haven’t had a chance to do much at all.’

  ‘Perhaps we can see it together,’ suggested Abigail, with a hint of condescension. ‘Just as well you didn’t come visiting a day later, or I’d be gone.’

  ‘Oh, but I asked them to let me escort you to join the others.’

  Abigail laughed. ‘And here you are.’ She was quite capable to getting herself delivered to the doorstep of the Triton Inn, but Tim could always carry her bag.

  There was a point, Merrit thought, where he could not be asked to absorb any more misery. Like a sponge, he was full. He sat in his cell, staring at the white tiles of the walls for the ninth day in a row. Why count? This was probably it for him. At moments he fantasised about Jordan Pascal’s wrath when he heard how his valued employee was being treated. Then reality intervened. How valuable would Pascal rate him? An incompetent fool, who’d lost all his money in futile gambling and got himself arrested by Seccor Police in the first bar he’d entered.

  Arrested and detained! People didn’t get detained for illicit trading. They got a slap on the wrist and a fine. Why had he been dragged away and locked up? It had to be something much worse. Abigail? Perhaps she’d died. If they were looking for a scapegoat, they’d pick on him. They always did. They were going to do him for murder! He felt the sweat pouring down his face, soaking under his shirt.

  Doors clanged along the corridor. They were always clanging. He paid no attention, but when heavy footsteps approached, he listened, wondering if they would stop or pass.

  They stopped. As Merrit’s door began to slide open, he felt his bowels loosen. He was shaking.

  The guard looked down at him with weary indifference. ‘Come on, Burnand. On your feet. Your time’s up.’

  A firing squad flashed before Merrit’s eyes.

  ‘Superintendent’s office,’ ordered the guard, gesturing the way with his gun.

  Merrit walked, hunched. He was ready to wet himself by the time they reached the superintendent’s office.

  And suddenly the atmosphere was different, congenial. The superintendent had a guest, a neat elderly officer wearing a faded flying suit, brighter blue patches showing where military insignia had once been. A blue beret. Addo.

  ‘Ah, here he is.’ The superintendent topped up his visitor’s glass. ‘Only hope he’s worth the bother, Kwame. You really want him?’

  Merrit straightened himself, overwhelmed with relief. Addo was an angel of salvation. Even the contempt in his smile was welcome.

  ‘Can’t let you out of my sight for a moment, can I?’ said Addo.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Merrit.

  Addo sighed. ‘Sure. You don’t need to. Excrement just lands on you. What do we do with him, Martin? Do we have to go through the motions, or shall I just take him off your hands?’

  ‘Why they had to bring him in the first place…’ The superintendent scowled. ‘But he’s here and forms have been started.’

  ‘Oh, forms,’ said Addo, dismissively.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, Kwame, you’re still only interested in action, not bureaucracy, but in my job...’

  Addo slapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘You should never have retired behind a desk, Martin. You’re having the spirit sapped out of you. Take a bit of a risk. Forms can disappear into files and files can disappear into ether. What’s he done? An unwanted brat, cluttering up your nice clean prison and messing up your nice clean colony. We’re taking him Out, where he won’t be in anyone’s way. Lose the forms, lose him and everyone will be happy, including the taxpayer.’

  ‘Yes, yes, especially the taxpayer,’ chuckled the superintendent. He turned to the guard. ‘All right. See to it, Borg, will you? Mr Burnand can leave, in the company of Major Addo. And make sure he doesn’t come back.’

  Merrit walked in a daze, not knowing whether to whoop with joy or fret about the implications of his release. Major Addo? Did it mean he was now in the custody of the Military? He’d planned to jump ship. Did that rank as desertion? What was the penalty?

  As they walked out of the compound into the main thoroughfare of the judicial quarter, Merrit eyed his companion warily. Addo did indeed have the upright poise, the easy stride, the confidence of a military man. But why was a major serving as an officer on the Heloise?

  Addo turned to look at Merrit, shaking his head. ‘If you’re going to get done, you could at least pick something more adventurous than unlicensed trading.’

  ‘Was that it?’ Merrit was too relieved to be stung by the contempt. ‘Trading?’

  ‘What else have you been up to?’

  Merrit mumbled. ‘Nothing! No one’s told me anything. Is Abigail all right then?’

  ‘She’s doing fine, I hear. You’re wondering if maybe you poisoned her? Let’s hope that t
hought doesn’t occur to Seccor police in the next hour or so.’

  ‘Jesus,’ breathed Merrit.

  ‘Once we’re Out, they can’t touch you,’ said Addo, turning away. Merrit fancied he was smiling. ‘And we’re going straight to Omega; it’s a condition of your release.’

  ‘Great!’ The hated Heloise had become a longed-for bolt hole. ‘Can’t wait.’

  Addo laughed. ‘That’s the spirit. No regrets. Don’t even regret the Lucies they confiscated. The Outer Circles are narc heaven. Everything’s so readily available, you wouldn’t have been able to give away that kid’s stuff out there.’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’ Kid’s stuff for a kid. Addo was treating him like a child, but what was the point of resenting it? For a while, as the major shepherded him towards the shuttle, a child was exactly what Merrit wanted to be.

  Abigail prised herself from the low-slung armchair, in the private lounge of City Transit. Tim had insisted on installing her here in secluded luxury while he dashed off to arrange their onward transport. Very sweet of him, no doubt, but Abigail wasn’t in the mood to curl up and rest. She’d been inactive for days. Now that she’d recovered, she wanted to be up and doing.

  She paced the room, feeling the energy surge back. They should have taken the taxi all the way to the Triton Inn, but Tim probably couldn’t afford it. Abigail smiled to herself. Money, or its lack, had never worried her. She’d have summoned a taxi and taken it for granted that someone else would settle the bill.

  Just as she decided to abandon him and go her own way, the door opened. Tim bowed theatrically. ‘Your carriage awaits, Ma’am.’ He scooped up her luggage and ushered her out into the corridor. ‘This way.’ He led her through a boarding gate, and she found herself in the small premier compartment of a shuttle. Abigail threw herself into a seat with a laugh. What a pointless gesture, switching to a cheap shuttle and then blowing the savings on a premier seat. But Tim was young, she decided tolerantly. There was an undeniable charm about his gaucheness.

  ‘So, what have the others been up to?’ she asked, as he stowed her bag and dropped into the seat next to her.

  ‘Burnand got himself arrested. Unlicensed trading.’

  Abigail bit her lip to stifle a laugh. ‘Pathetic. No one gets arrested for trading. What will happen to him?’

  ‘The Commander will have got him out.’

  ‘Is Commander Foxe staying at the Inn?’ Abigail asked cautiously. She didn’t want to be operating under his eagle eye.

  ‘No, he’s got his own place in the city.’

  ‘What about the others? Christie?’ Abigail strove to keep the question light and indifferent.

  Tim laughed with adolescent superiority. ‘Totally drunk for days.’

  Abigail fastened her seat belt at the flashing command, concentrating on the buckle as the shuttle lurched into action. Too drunk for the call to Rolf Dieterman? Or drunk as its consequence? As soon as they reached the Triton Inn, Abigail would find the woman and slap the answer out of her.

  They were several minutes into the flight before alarm began to bite. She’d dismissed the stopping and starting, the muffled clunks and rattles as a minor irritation of traffic control. But now, as they were smoothly on their way, it dawned on her that the background drone was not that of steady movement across the city, or the vibration of deceleration as they approached their destination. It was the whine of acceleration. The whine of a shuttle shooting away from the sealed containment of the settlement dome. There were no windows, no monitors to give a hint of their location, but something was wrong.

  ‘Where are we—’ Suddenly irritated at being directed by a mere boy, she released her belt, stood up and staggered to the partition door separating premier class from the common clay. It parted at her approach and she surveyed her fellow passengers.

  Brawny technicians, military men, silent watchers. These weren’t shoppers bound for Atlantis Way or the Venice Boulevard.

  Abigail turned on Tim. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Omega Port.’ Tim seemed surprised by the need to explain.

  ‘Not yet!’ Abigail was rigid with panic. ‘We were to have ten days on Ganymede.’

  ‘This is the tenth.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It can’t be!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Abigail put her hand to her brow. How long had she been in that hospital? Not more than six days, she was sure. Six days that she could remember. How long had she been in a coma? She’d thought she still had days to play with.

  And now, suddenly, there was no time. She sat down again, outwardly calm, fighting to control the terror within. How could she contact her father now? Somehow, she had to avoid re-embarking on the Heloise.

  There was still hope. Perhaps Christie had got through. Maybe she had worked miracles and was only getting drunk because Rolf Dieterman had taken charge.

  And if not?

  Abigail turned to Tim, forcing a smile. ‘My luggage. They told me it had been taken to Triton Inn. I need—’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s been sent on.’

  ‘Tim.’ She had to stop this now. ‘I don’t want to go to Omega.’

  Tim looked nonplussed. ‘I can’t hi-jack the shuttle.’

  She ignored him, still smiling as coquettishly as panic would allow. ‘I want to go back to Ganymede. I haven’t seen the city.’

  ‘There’s no time now.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back on the Heloise.’ No disguising the desperation in her voice now. ‘You can arrange it, can’t you? Lose me?’ She hurried on as he began to shake his head. ‘You wouldn’t have to do anything, just shut your eyes for a moment. I can manage. You could say I’d already left the hospital; you couldn’t find me. Just...’

  Abigail met his eyes and stopped. Naive? Gauche? Chivalrous? Tim was Foxe’s agent, sent to get her back to the ship without a struggle. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  Siegfried stared malevolently at the blank door. Enough of buzzing, rapping and rattling. Glancing round quickly, he applied himself to the lock, which yielded with ease. The room was deserted. It looked as if it had never been occupied. David’s bags lay untouched on the floor. The bed hadn’t been slept in.

  Siegfried swore. Where the hell was the little shite? They had an hour at most to get to the shuttle port. He shouldn’t have cut it so fine. He should have stayed glued to the boy as instructed, instead of leaving Triton Inn to take care of him.

  He opened David’s bag. Everything was just as it had been when he’d bundled David’s clothes and medications in, back on the ship. He’d been ordered to make sure the boy took his pills, but how was he to know David was too stupid to look after his own health? And how was he going to explain to Foxe that he hadn’t given David a thought since dumping him here?

  He accosted the clerk at reception. No one had seen David leave the Triton Inn, no one had seen him eat, no one had seen him, period, for nine days. Returning to the room, Siegfried knelt to look under the bed. The bathroom was empty, the basin dry and unused. He opened the wardrobe doors.

  A sound made him turn, and there was David, standing in the doorway, blinking.

  ‘Jesus, where the...’ Siegfried stopped. David was unwashed, begrimed, his skin grey, his eyes feverish. He staggered and then slumped to the floor. Siegfried dropped beside him, feeling his pulse. It was fast. His skin felt clammy. He reeked of vomit and ordure.

  ‘You stupid fucker. Why didn’t you take your fucking pills?’

  David’s eyes rolled.

  Siegfried helped him to the bed, then stood back, thinking. Medical assistance would take too long. Getting David back on his medication would do the trick, surely. The main thing was to return him to the ship, and no shuttle was going to accept him in this state.

  ‘Right,’ said Siegfried. ‘Shower.’

  David was unaware of being stripped, showered, dried and dressed. He knew his body was ill but that was someone else over whom he had no control. That someone had lain in the deep su
bterranean passages for two days, sick and groaning, but David, the real David, had taken over at the critical moment. Nine days. That had been the length of his exile from the Heloise. He knew many things, a heaving mass of facts, puzzles, patterns, but above all he knew that on this day he could return to his ship.

  Unresisting, he allowed the Siegfried to manoeuvre him, just as he allowed the waves of hot and cold to wash over him, the tides of nausea to sweep through him. They were in the hotel room, they were in the corridor, they were in the street, they were on a shuttle. David sat huddled in his seat, rocking back and forth, while Siegfried shielded him from suspicious eyes. He was the perfect picture of misery, but inside there was only warm contentment that he was going home.

  Maggy checked her hand luggage, fussing to see that the catch was secure. Really, she just wanted to touch it. It was class, even if it looked more like an attaché case than a bride’s vanity bag.

  It was all part of the new image Dear John had insisted on for the start of their new life. He’d been so adamant that she’d passively submitted. She’d allowed her hair to be cropped; if Dear John liked it so much, she would get used to it in time. She donned the smart new outfit he’d selected for her.

  Dear John was equally transformed. His previously clipped hair had grown and was now slicked back. He wore a silk business suit and dark glasses and there was something predatory in his stride. No wonder the hotel staff failed to recognise them when they left. The fêted newly-weds had become an unscrupulous businessman and his secretary, on their way to clinch a major deal in the Outer Circles. Exactly like most of the other people on the shuttle, as they took their seats and strapped themselves in. That at least was reassuring. There was nothing Maggy enjoyed more than being exactly like everyone else.

  She’d have enjoyed it more if Dear John hadn’t immediately been engrossed in work on his notepad. It had occupied him long enough during those quiet hours in Xanadu. Surely he could put it aside now.