by Thorne Moore
‘Probably. He was trying to establish a cleaner than clean image.’
Abigail clasped her glass, knuckles white. ‘So now he can’t help me,’ she said, in a small voice.
‘No.’
She breathed deep, letting it sink in. Then she looked up again. ‘Why was he angry with you? You said he was angry with you.’
‘I’m the one who started the rumours.’
Abigail stared. ‘Why?’
‘Because that was my job. I’m not Christie Steen, Abigail. I’m Yasmin Gwynne. I was head of Info-Prom for Ragnox. Their black arts department. It was my job to spread rumours, to smear, to undermine, to destroy. Ragnox and TransSy were involved in some Outer Circle operation of Pascal’s devising. Your father opposed it. Pascal wanted him undermined. It worked. Pascal got his deal. And a year down the line, your father loses his job and you’re on your way to Triton. All because of me.’
The shock exacerbated Abigail’s pallor. For a moment, her brain sluggishly tried to make sense of the words, then it was as if the whirlwind that had been hurtling her through a kaleidoscope of chaos and destruction dropped her suddenly in the still heart of the storm. All was wonderfully, horribly clear. ‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m here because of me.’
Yasmin Gwynne said nothing.
‘You told him what I’d done. I suppose it was the last straw.’
‘In a way, perhaps.’
‘What did he say? Exactly.’
‘He just hoped – he cried.’
‘Oh.’
‘He said, “Get my little girl home. When she really needs me, I can’t help her.”’
Yasmin was waiting for Abigail’s inevitable tears to spill. They didn’t. The news had clicked a dislocated part of Abigail’s character back into place. A tremble ran through her from head to toe and away, like an evil spirit being exorcised.
In answer, there was a flicker, a flash and above them the massive screen came to life. Automatically, they turned to stare at it, at the incomprehensible sight of a vast arc of darkness, creeping inexorably across the wide expanse of stars.
‘What is it?’ whispered Abigail.
Yasmin, equally mesmerised, struggled to find her voice. ‘Jupiter? We’re going behind it.’
Behind it. Beyond it. Abigail stared at the devouring shadow, like a door slowly, firmly shutting in her face. As she watched, it appeared to recede, the revolution of the ship taking it further out of their view.
For a moment, they watched in silence. Then Abigail drew a steadying breath. ‘My father needn’t worry,’ she said. ‘No need. I can take care of myself.’
Merrit was worried. He was hungry. He hadn’t had anything to eat since the one lousy sandwich Major Addo had ordered for him on the shuttle to Omega. That was hours ago. Surely it was time that dinner was served. Why hadn’t he heard the gong? Maybe they didn’t have a gong anymore. Christ! Maybe dinner was under way and he was missing it. He hurried round the winding corridors to the dining hall, his stomach churning in panic.
The panic increased. The place had been stripped. No long tables and upholstered chairs, no serving trolleys, no chandeliers, no gilt-framed reproductions of old masters, and worse, much worse, no food. The oak swing doors to the service area had been removed, and all that remained was a gaping arch into a dark and silent galley.
Table 19 was still exactly where it had been, bolted permanently into place, but there was nothing on its scratched surface. A waste grinder with steel jaws greeted him at the door. Against one wall stood a monstrous slab of machinery, with chipped enamel panels, and opposite it, five neat monitors silently conveyed a non-stop flood of meaningless figures and hieroglyphs. Nothing else cluttered the echoing space.
Merrit turned hopefully at the sound of footsteps. Abigail, followed by Christie, who seemed to be discreetly supporting her.
Abigail nodded, then wandered across to table 19, staring down at its empty surface. ‘All very well saying I should eat something,’ she said with restrained politeness. ‘Looks as if they don’t have anything planned.’
‘Yeah!’ said Merrit, eager to bury past quarrels. ‘What do they think they’re playing at? I’m starving.’
‘I don’t suppose we’re very high on their priorities at the moment,’ said Christie.
‘Oh great. When will we be back on top? Can’t even get to a coffee shop on C-Deck. The elevators won’t work.’
‘There aren’t any coffee shops on C-Deck. It’s closed off. And A. There’s only us left. We make do with this.’
‘What about the casino?’
‘I expect Selden has a pack of cards.’
‘Oh hell. To hell with this. I want to eat!’
Smith appeared, clapping his hands. ‘Waiting for dinner to be served? You just can’t get the staff these days.’
‘What do you propose we do?’ asked Abigail coldly.
‘Complain to the management? If it’s any help...’ Smith paused as the door opened again.
Selden came in, glanced at them with a curt nod, then strolled to the mammoth grey machine standing against the wall and flicked open one of its panels. Within lay a keyboard and an array of multi-coloured touch keys. He considered them for a moment, then pressed a few. The machine sighed, belched, and a plastic dish dropped down behind a glass flap.
Merrit watched at first with curiosity, then with dismay when he saw Selden rip the cover off the dish and begin to eat, with a plastic scoop. The horrible truth began to sink in.
‘You don’t mean that’s our food?’
Selden looked first at the dish and then at Merrit. ‘It’s standard. NDP.’ Realising, in the face of their stunned silence, that further explanation was necessary, he added ‘Nutritional Diversification Processor.’
Merrit stared with loathing at the pale-yellow mass in Selden’s dish. ‘What the hell is it?’
Selden explained as laconically as possible. ‘Reconstituted proteins. Minerals. Vitamins. I don’t know. You choose the flavours and textures that you want.’
Merrit glanced again at the array of controls. They were extensive. His spirits lifted a little. ‘You mean we can choose anything we want?’
‘You choose,’ said Selden with enigmatic emphasis.
‘Lobster? Caviar?’
Selden shrugged. ‘Theoretically, anything.’
‘Theoretically?’ said Smith.
Selden’s lips twitched. He almost smiled. ‘It will all taste the same.’
Merrit anxiously scrutinised the choices. ‘Meat?’
‘Usually has a meat-like flavour.’
‘What sort of meat?’
‘Meat-like.’
‘Oh great!’ Merrit pressed it.
‘Texture,’ prompted Selden.
Merrit thought about it and selected ‘Fibrous.’
A dish dropped down. Merrit lifted the cover and stared at the contents. Brown and fibrous.
Smith sniffed it. ‘Yes definitely a hint of meat there. Not sure what. Dog, possibly.’
Tentatively, Merrit tried a little, then spat it out. ‘It tastes like shit!’
‘A taste you know?’ Smith sampled a little on his finger. ‘Not so bad. Meat-like. Almost.’
Abigail followed suit. ‘Perhaps a hint of meat.’
Merrit trembled with indignation. ‘They don’t seriously expect us to live on this for the whole voyage? Eight fucking months?’
Selden perused him thoughtfully. ‘This is what everyone lives on in the Outer Circles. You think they ship in groceries? You’ll be eating this for the next seven years. If you make the full seven.’
‘What the fuck do you know about it?’ asked Merrit, his pitch rising with petulant fury.
‘I know about it,’ said Selden abruptly.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘You’ve been Out before,’ asked Abigail.
‘Yes.’
‘Triton?’
‘Yes. Triton.’ Selden finished his dish and dropped it in the steel bin. Then he turned a
nd walked out. Abigail stared after him.
‘I don’t believe this!’ wailed Merrit. ‘This is – Shit! Fuck this!’ Hurling his helping of meat-like fibre into the bin, he stormed out in Selden’s wake. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
In the sudden silence of the dining hall, Abigail drew in a deep breath and then turned resolutely to the controls. If this was it, this was it.
‘You fancy something a little more tempting?’ proposed Smith. ‘Fettuccine ai Funghi? Spaghetti alla Puttanesca?’ He sauntered into the galley, switched the lights on and threw open well-stocked cupboards. ‘I don’t suppose it will last eight months. But look on the bright side; it will last a lot longer if Merrit doesn’t find it.’
Abigail stared. ‘Of course you found it.’
‘If there’s anything to find, I find it.’ Smith helped himself to a packet and a couple of tins. ‘Well, ladies? What do you reckon? Enough for three, or for everyone?’
Abigail began to laugh.
‘I’ll fetch the others,’ said Christie.
Chapter 14
The pin-striped suit was back on a hanger, where it could stay. Maggy’s eyes moved along the rail to a garment far more promising. Cream satin with a frilled hem. It had been advertised as a cocktail dress, but wouldn’t it serve just as well as a wedding gown? Dear John had smiled his understanding when she’d bought it, along with the long lace scarf that wasn’t quite a veil. He had promised – not in so many words, but he had definitely implied – that once they were Out, beyond Jupiter, It could happen.
She could picture it now, the observation lounge sorted somehow, crew standing smartly to attention, Commander Foxe in his magnificence, smiling paternally as he presided, the others awed by the occasion and behaving themselves for once, the hush as she entered in her cream satin, and Dear John…
Maggy pouted, wincing with indigestion. It was Dear John’s fault, putting too much garlic in the pasta. That was the trouble. Dear John was becoming a bit too much of everything. He was no longer playing the devoted lover. Sometimes she didn’t even like him anymore. Never mind. She didn’t need to like him. She just needed to marry him.
Do what her sister Affy had done, the only sure means of entry to this exclusive club of corporate identity. Maggy had tried to belong, by devouring and obeying all the rules, but the truth was, the rules weren’t the key at all. What did Abigail or Merrit care about nice manners? What did Christie care about appearances? What did David care about social etiquette? And yet without effort, they belonged and Maggy did not.
But as soon as she was the wife of Seccor Intelligence Officer John Smith, no one could challenge her. She turned away from her wardrobe, and her eyes fell on the silver picture frames, the photos of her family, snipped from magazine adverts. There they stood, smiling back at her, just as they would smile if she were being eaten by a lion. They weren’t real. They were lies, fake, an illusion.
A slither of creeping horror trickled down her spine. What if Smith were a lie too? What if everything was fake?
Her sense of falling was brought up short by a new idea. If Dear John really wasn’t all that he’d told her, maybe Commander Foxe should be informed. Of course he should, and she would do it. Because, whatever else deceived and confused, Commander Foxe was one absolute certainty on whom she could rely.
‘My cubs, I want you all in the observation lounge,’ said Commander Foxe.
Maggy jumped, looked round, expecting to find him in her cabin, but the voice came from the speaker in the corner.
‘Everyone,’ he added. ‘Time for some clarification. Now!’ He snapped the last word and Maggy obediently turned to the door. The commander was still in charge. Something at least was as it should be - unlike the observation lounge, which had already acquired an untidy air and a sour musty smell. Maggy looked round with a quiver of distaste. The glasses hadn’t been washed.
Everyone but David obeyed the summons. They paced or perched or sprawled, according to taste, and waited.
‘To hell with this,’ growled Merrit, when nothing had happened for five minutes.
‘I think—’ began Maggy primly, but she was interrupted by the hiss of the doors and an energy field swept in.
It was undeniably an energy field. Maggy recognised that much, just as she recognised the looks on the other faces, of shock, surprise or acknowledgement, but she was left floundering for a moment, before it dawned on her that this figure, demanding her attention, was, in truth, her Commander Cornelius Foxe.
Maggy felt a wail building up inside her but it burst forth as an indignant hiccup. She shut her eyes, then looked again with a last fleeting bubble of hope, but the impostor was still there. Gone was the dignified beard, the pearly braided uniform and the appearance of majestic bulk. He wore a common flying suit, and a wholly inappropriate red silk bandana round hair that was no longer neatly clipped, nor even its former noble grey.
All changed, changed utterly. Where was the reassuring figure of fatherly authority that Maggy could worship? He was leaner, fitter, harder than his former beribboned self, predatory and infinitely more menacing. The mocking eyes were no longer remotely sympathetic, observing his prey through the haze of the cigarette he was smoking.
‘Sit,’ said Tod Foxe.
Unconsciously perhaps, most of them had risen at his entrance. Now they sank down again.
‘Let us consider our situation,’ said Tod, perching casually on the bar. ‘You may take notes.
‘We are en route, very circuitously, to Triton. We are the crew; you are the cargo. Jordan Pascal commissions a couple of dozen ships for this trade and you probably don’t appreciate it yet, but you have drawn the lucky straw. If you choose to make the most of it, you will have a reasonably civilised voyage. I shall get you off to an easy start by explaining the facts of life out here.
‘I am in command. I shall assume you’re not stupid enough to question it.
‘If I deliver you in full working order, within 270 days of leaving Ganymede, each of you is worth 25,000 to me, so it suits me, for purely economic motives, to keep you alive and healthy. On the other hand, 25,000 is small fry against the likely overall profit of this voyage, so if you become too irritating you will find yourself expendable – and the ship has ejection facilities. Everyone clear on that one? It always helps to understand the fundamentals.’
No one spoke.
‘Very well. We have the resources to keep you alive and fit if you choose to use them. It’s up to you. We run the ship, you run your own nursery.
‘A and C-Decks are dead. Far too arctic for comfort, so make the most of this one. The gym is fully functional. So is the library. We provide for the development of minds and bodies, and some of you look as if you could do with both. Beyond the gym, if you haven’t already explored, you’ll find necessary stores, cleaning facilities, workshops for repairs. The upkeep of your living quarters is your business. I won’t interfere. I won’t even appoint one of you to clean up that vomit. You can choose who deals with it, or you can live with the consequences.’
They looked warily at each other and at the crusted mess on the floor.
‘Don’t fight over it.
‘I don’t need to tell you about food, because you’ve met the NDP, and Smith, in his campaign to win your hearts and stomachs, has already broached the dry stores. I’d be sparing with them, if I were you. They’re all we have and it’s unlikely we’ll be able to replenish them along the way. NDP is the staple fare of the Outer Circles.
‘But...’ He leaned back to examine the crates now ranged behind the counter. ‘You’ll be delighted to know that the bar can be restocked with ease. If you can’t think of anything more constructive, you can drink yourselves into oblivion. Which is superfluous advice in Miss Steen’s case. Miss Gwynne’s, I should say. Try to be sober by the time we arrive at Triton: the witless won’t survive more than a couple of minutes. But in the interval, we can pick up new supplies at every stop we make.’
‘Great
,’ said Merrit, trying, and failing, to sound relaxed.
‘We are likely to make a few stops, are we?’ asked Smith, idly.
‘Quite a few, I imagine. One, definitely. We are now en route for S97 with a delivery. A relay station, a long way from anywhere on the wrong side of the Saturn circle. It will offer what all such stations offer: hooch, narcotics and sexually transmitted diseases.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ said Abigail.
Tod shrugged. ‘You could stay on the Heloise. It’s healthier. And speaking of health, you’ll find a medical store by Flight Control. It has a bed, currently occupied, and some basic equipment. It would be hyperbole to call it an infirmary. One of the ironies of the Outer Circles is that you can lay your hands with ease on any lethal substance or device yet invented, but medical attention is a mythological concept. Siegfried is our medical officer. He has a book on first aid, though I don’t think he’s read it. He regards syringes as a form of self-expression. If you really need medical attention, I recommend prayer.’ He paused, concentrating on his cigarette.
After waiting for someone else to say it, Abigail asked, ‘How’s David?’
‘And I thought you’d all forgotten him. He’s on the mend. Which is fortunate. I don’t particularly want Michael Rabiotti’s son to die in my care. Of course, that might yet happen. The deregulated zone is an exciting arena. Sometimes very exciting. Which brings me to the last point of this little lecture. This deck is your territory. Flight Control is mine; don’t get in my hair. On the other hand, it is the safest place. In an emergency it can be sealed from the rest of the ship. It has its own life support. Should a situation occur—’ He added as explanation, ‘Situations tend to arise during negotiations. Should a situation occur, I suggest you all trot along to Flight Control and if I’m feeling amiable, I might let you in.’
He surveyed them all, inscrutably. ‘Any questions?’
There was a general stir as all their questions evaporated.
‘Maggy, surely you can think of something.’ She froze as Tod added, ‘A question about dining etiquette in the Outer Circles, perhaps?’