Inside Out

by Thorne Moore

  Abigail stared at him.

  ‘The jab Siegfried gave you at Omega was just a sedative. We thought you’d probably try to make a run for it.’

  ‘You…’ Abigail fought for words. All she’d been through, all her desperation foiled, at his command. She tried to out-stare him, but she couldn’t. He continued watching, mocking, invulnerable.

  She looked away, at David, rigid and mesmerised on his bed, and found her voice at last. ‘What have you given him?’

  ‘Only his medication, as prescribed by his father. David was born with a heart defect. And he isn’t trying to escape, are you, David? Oh, escape from me maybe, but not from Triton. I do my best, but I suspect he doesn’t find my chess games very challenging.’ He perused the board quickly. ‘I have been thinking about it and...’ He moved a bishop decisively.

  Before he had withdrawn his hand, David had moved a rook.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to do that,’ said Tod, studying the board through half-closed eyes.

  ‘Two moves left,’ said David, demonstrating.

  Tod mouthed something under his breath. ‘I shall be glad when you’re back in your own cabin, boy. Shouldn’t be long. Smith’s good home cooking will put the colour back in your cheeks. What do you say, Abigail? Abigail doesn’t have an opinion, Davey. Abigail wants to bite Tod’s throat.’

  ‘Go to hell!’ spat Abigail, overcoming her paralysis, and pushing past him, out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her.

  Tod considered the chess board thoughtfully. ‘Her wish is my command, Davey boy.’

  Maggy sat staring sullenly at the door, refusing to respond to the knock.

  It came again.

  ‘Go away,’ said Maggy in a low growl.

  The door began to open without permission, and she jumped up, ready to bar the way, but the commander pushed her firmly back.

  ‘Droit de seigneur, child. All doors are open to me. I wouldn’t fight it if I were you.’ He shut the door behind him and stood, arms folded, looking down at her, as she sank back to hunch, dishevelled, on the floor. The nice girl was distinctly soiled.

  ‘Go away. You’re not getting anything here, whatever they think.’

  He glanced at the bed, where an empty packet of almond madeleines had been turned inside out in search of crumbs. ‘Neither are you, it seems. When did you last eat?’

  ‘Who cares?’

  ‘Me. I get a bonus from Pascal if my passengers arrive plump.’

  She looked up suspiciously. ‘I don’t believe anything you say. You’re a liar.’

  ‘True. There’s no bonus. I just get the basic fee if they arrive alive. And that’s what you are going to do, whether you like it or not.’ He kicked shards of broken glass to one side. ‘So. Clytemnestra Jameston.’

  Her ravaged face twisted into a snarl again. ‘He had no right to tell people.’

  ‘Your dear John? Not the gentleman he pretended to be, is he? But then, pretence is for the Inner Circles, for the nice world. We’re not nice out here, Nessy. Out here, life is nasty, brutish and, unless you keep your wits about you, very, very short. Out here, we are what we are, and you are Clytemnestra Jameston.’

  ‘I’m Maggy Jole! Liar!’

  ‘Why are you going to Triton?’

  ‘I have a contract,’ she said primly. Then repeated it more shrilly. ‘I have a contract!’

  ‘How did you get it?’

  ‘What do you mean, how?’ she spat. ‘You think someone like me shouldn’t have a contract, is that it?’

  ‘It was your reward for informing on the Grey Wolves.’

  ‘So? Yes, and I don’t care!’ She glared at him. ‘I could inform on you too, you know. They pay well!’

  Tod smiled. ‘Oh, very well. They killed your mother, your brothers and sisters, took away your name and sent you to Triton.’

  Her lip quivered.

  ‘So now that we’re Out, where lies don’t signify, shall I tell you the truth, so that you know what sort of a deal you’ve engineered for yourself? Your family are all alive. It was the Seccor squad that was wiped out. Schilling was a traitor; he was with the Grey Wolves all along. Your own sister persuaded him to use you to set up an ambush.’

  She stared at him, as if he were speaking a foreign language.

  Tod shrugged. ‘Seccor doesn’t like admitting its own stupidity. You’re lucky they didn’t eliminate you, to cover it up. But they bundled you off to Triton instead, where you’ll be forgotten and probably you’ll die anyway, and you’ll certainly be safely out of Schilling’s reach.’

  She sat listening to him in rigid stillness, her eyes giving no hint that she was rerunning a dozen scenes through her mind.

  There was a long silence. At last she said, ‘I wanted a contract.’

  ‘Was it worth it?’

  Again there was a pause. ‘My mother is still alive?’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘And Pat and Nonny and Jo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jo hated the corporations.’ She mulled this over. ‘I do too.’

  ‘And yet here you are. Under contract. You can’t go back.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked surprised. ‘I don’t want to go back. I want to go to Triton and take their money.’

  Tod smiled again. ‘That’s a very constructive approach. But I don’t think nice Miss Maggy Jole would last very long on Triton.’

  ‘I’m not Maggy Jole, am I? I’m Clytemnestra Jameston.’ She stood up, unsteady with hunger. ‘Shall I tell you something about Maggy Jole? I hate her. I hate everything about her.’ She ran her fingers through her hair, throwing the neat styling into disarray.

  ‘I hate it all.’ She jerked open a drawer and pulled out a pile of clothes. ‘I hate cardigans!’ To prove her point, she began to rip the offending article. ‘I hate being proper!’ She set about shredding a pile of white cotton underwear.

  ‘I think you’ve made your point,’ said Tod, reaching out to restrain her, but she had produced a pair of scissors and was doubling her speed of destruction.

  ‘Enough!’ he said.

  She ignored him, fending him off with the snapping blades, so he stood back, letting her get on with it.

  ‘I hate brides!’ She had the cream satin dress now, reducing it to fraying ribbons. ‘It’s all going to go.’ Another drawer was emptied out, then a third. Tear, snip, slash: a savage massacre of pin stripes and knitwear. Maggy was left with nothing but the clothes she stood in. She began to strip.

  ‘Perhaps stop now?’ suggested Tod.

  ‘I hate it all!’ she said, ripping and rending. ‘I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!’ At last, standing naked, she looked round thoughtfully for something else to shred.

  Tod looked her over. ‘I was going to suggest it was time you came out to eat. But in the circumstances...’

  ‘I’m starving!’

  ‘I’m sure.’ He inspected the drawers, hoping to find one or two garments still intact but she’d been thorough. ‘The others might have something.’

  ‘I’m not wearing their clothes!’

  Tod considered her voluptuous curves. ‘They wouldn’t fit anyway.’

  She tossed her head. ‘I don’t care!’

  ‘But I do! I have a ship to run and you might prove a distraction.’ He stroked his chin. ‘We have something in cargo that might do to cover you up. I can’t guarantee it will cool anyone’s blood though.’

  ‘Paella,’ said Smith, despairingly. ‘What can you do with canned shrimps?’

  ‘Eat them,’ said Merrit, his mouth full.

  ‘Only under protest.’ Smith handed a plateful to Selden.

  ‘Better than NDP,’ said Abigail.

  ‘I wonder.’ Smith crossed to the ominous grey NDP machine. He studied the panel and after much thought, made a selection. They watched, intrigued, as he removed the membrane from the plastic container to reveal vivid pink contents. Smith sniffed it, then held it at arm’s length. ‘You’re right. Canned shrimps are one whole
lot better. And we must do our best to celebrate David’s return to the living, mustn’t we?’

  David, sitting in their midst, looked exactly as he’d always done, oblivious.

  ‘We’re celebrating your escape from Tod,’ explained Abigail. ‘I wish you’d shoved a chess piece down his throat. A knight. Then twisted it.’

  Merrit winced. ‘Yuk.’

  David gazed at them all solemnly. ‘I am David how do you do.’

  ‘Have some more paella,’ said Smith generously.

  David proceeded to eat.

  ‘He hasn’t thrown up once,’ said Smith. ‘Very encouraging. Now all we need is sweet Maggy and then even Yasmin will be happy.’

  ‘Yeah, well, whose fault is it she’s locked herself away?’ asked Merrit.

  ‘Hers,’ said Smith stoutly. ‘Don’t feel so sorry for the poor wee timorous beastie. She’s really not the nice little girl next door that everyone seems to...’

  He stopped. His jaw dropped.

  The nice little girl next door walked in.

  Everyone turned to see.

  Clytemnestra Jameston met their gaze with flagrant indifference. Her face was pale and drawn, which gave startling emphasis to the very black mascara, the very red lipstick and the streaked spiky hair. But it was the scarlet patent-leather basque that really caught their attention, along with the slinky tiger-skin leggings.

  They gaped.

  ‘What are you all staring at,’ she asked, malevolently.

  ‘Shit!’ said Merrit.

  ‘Maggy, thou art translated,’ said Smith, his voice an octave higher than normal.

  She glared at him and he managed to lower his pitch. ‘Just in time for dinner. We’d have waited if we’d known...’

  ‘Sit down, Maggy,’ said Yasmin, indicating a vacant seat.

  ‘I’m not Maggy. I’m Clytemnestra Jameston. Like he said.’ She stabbed a red fingernail at Smith, who flinched.

  ‘Bit of a mouthful,’ said Merrit, in a strangled voice.

  ‘Something Maggy knows all about!’ said Smith gleefully.

  Abigail picked up a fork and jabbed it in Smith’s arm. ‘Shut up, Jo Jo.’

  The momentary pain failed to quench Smith’s levity. ‘You see, Maggy, they’re all on your side.’

  ‘I am Clytemnestra,’ she repeated. ‘And if you call me Clyt, I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Okay, Nessy.’ Smith offered her a conciliatory plate. ‘Have a nibble.’

  She ignored him, though the mere smell of the food had her drooling over it like a hungry dog. Smith placed it before her, then returned to his seat and topped up his wineglass. Maggy’s transmogrification demanded fortification.

  She ate. Her correct table manners lasted three heartbeats. In seconds it was gone. She grabbed more; she had a bottomless void to fill.

  Merrit had momentarily lost his appetite. He kept glancing incredulously at Clytemnestra. Little Maggy, the humourless girl in sensible shoes and beige cardigans who wouldn’t say boo to a goose? This woman could throttle him between her thighs. She glared back at him, over hurried forkfuls of paella, as if she were planning precisely that.

  Selden was also regarding her with interest, if less terror. Smith was peeking under the table at the tiger skin. David was the only male not mesmerised.

  ‘Don’t any of you stand up,’ said Yasmin. ‘Or the table will rise with you.’

  Abigail laughed scornfully. ‘Shall I fetch a jug of ice?’

  Smith recollected himself. ‘All right. Here we are, back to full quota.’ He glanced slyly at Clytemnestra again. ‘And what a quota. What are our plans now?’

  ‘Do we have any?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Surely. We’re on a ship in the middle of nowhere. We’re not just going to sit and snooze for the next eight months, are we?’

  Yasmin smiled. ‘What do you propose, Jo Jo? Discussion groups? Mindfulness sessions?’

  ‘We pool our talents.’

  ‘Which ones?’ said Abigail.

  ‘Good question, Abby. Where do your talents lie?’

  ‘Retail therapy?’ suggested Merrit.

  ‘We all know what his talents are,’ said Clytemnestra, jerking her head at Smith. ‘Lying, cheating, stealing.’

  ‘Almost as colourful as yours,’ he replied. ‘But yes, let’s start with mine. A brief introduction to thieving techniques. Anyone interested?’

  ‘Oh great,’ said Merrit. ‘And what could we possibly steal? There’s nothing left.’

  ‘There’s the ship.’ said Smith.

  Selden snorted a laugh. Having eaten his paella, he started on the NDP shrimp.

  Smith winced. ‘Will you eat anything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Merrit eyed the dish with disgust. ‘Great. We steal the ship when it’s already been stripped bare. Nothing left but a fish paste machine.’

  ‘Nothing left?’ Smith grinned. ‘Ragnox Travel took the plastic trimmings. What’s replaced it all is a very elaborate navigation and weaponry system.’

  Selden poured himself a whisky and lit a joint. ‘If this operation’s as good as I think, they’ll have a state-of-the-art O/D system.’

  ‘O/D?’

  ‘Offensive/defensive,’ said David. ‘Nicen shields, HP anti-probe reflectors, Foster-Klein Random Scatter SPCs, Gamma 12 Seek and Destroy...’ He seemed happy to continue the list in detail for the next half-hour, so they politely tuned him out.

  ‘All of which would make the ship a very profitable catch,’ said Smith.

  Yasmin laughed mirthlessly. ‘Do you ever stop?’

  ‘You think I’m aiming too high?’

  Selden paused in picking his teeth. ‘You want us to steal the ship, right?’

  ‘It’s something to consider.’

  ‘You just haven’t got it, have you?’

  ‘Got what?’

  ‘Any idea what it’s about out here.’

  ‘I thought it was all about entrepreneurial spirit,’ said Smith. ‘And I’m full of that.’

  ‘You’re full of something.’

  ‘You’re not messing with the ship,’ said Clytemnestra. ‘I want to get to Triton. I want my money.’

  Smith sighed. ‘Ah well, there goes a pretty fortune for the asking. Still, there must be some profit to be made. How about auctioning Nessy? Who’ll start the bidding?’

  Merrit squeaked.

  ‘Was that a bid?’ asked Smith? ‘Or is she getting to you? It’s the fur!’ He suddenly ducked. Under the table he’d been surreptitiously testing the quality of the tiger skin and Clytemnestra’s hand, claws at the ready, had caught him.

  ‘Do that again and I’ll bite your balls off,’ she said.

  Merrit squeaked again.

  ‘Ah.’ Smith, nursing his hand, moved his chair back. ‘Okay, so it was worth a try.’

  Abigail and Yasmin exchanged wearied glances. It was going to be a very long voyage.

  Chapter 17

  Tim Faber stepped into Flight Control, ears pricking. ‘Hey, what’s up? I was in Ob and the screen went blank.’ He stopped short, as the three men, gathered conspiratorially round the central bank, turned to face him. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Something was definitely going on. Tucker hardly ever left his engineering playground on D-Deck and yet here he was, hugely, wickedly filling the chamber, the bright light gleaming on his bald pate and his gold earring. Beside him, Tod looked almost insubstantial and Addo downright elfin.

  ‘Nothing is wrong.’ Tod straightened, an evil gleam in his eye.

  ‘Then...’ Tim glanced at the forward vision screen. A distant repeating flash indicated where a solitary ship was wending her oblivious way. ‘Oh right! Hey!’ Tim was all enthusiasm. ‘Shall I call Siegfried?’

  ‘No!’ roared Tucker. ‘This one’s for the Three Musketeers. Run along, brat!’

  ‘Can’t you use me on the Ultima?’

  Tod laughed. ‘The Ultima’s already told us what she’s carrying. Stay if you want, Tim, but keep quiet. Keep a lookou
t for weasels.’

  Tucker was rubbing his hands, gazing lovingly at the screen. ‘Plump and juicy. And absurdly easy! Remember our first run?’

  ‘Could I forget?’ asked Addo, controls shifting minutely at his command. ‘Two hapless brigands saved from their own incompetence by the brilliance of a passing pilot.’

  ‘Na!’ said Tucker. ‘A couple of boy scouts who couldn’t even hot wire the ship they’d nicked if the world’s greatest engineer hadn’t been hitching a ride.’

  Tod sat down, leaned back, tapping his fingers together. ‘And I thought it was a question of two bumbling mechanics being rescued by my intelligence, unerring business acumen and unique talent for organisation.’

  ‘Bloody accountant!’ Tucker gave a stentorian laugh.

  ‘But enough of these blue remembered hills,’ said Tod. ‘Let’s concentrate on our lunch. Locked on? Defences up?’

  ‘All A1,’ said Tucker, gleefully. ‘Let’s rock and roll!’

  ‘Time to open negotiations.’ Tod tapped the communications controls. ‘Sampan, you look as if you’re running on a flat tyre. Can we assist you?’

  There was a burst of static in response, then silence, then a cautious voice. ‘This is LXO Sampan. Identify yourself please.’

  ‘ISF Heloise. Look behind you.’

  Another pause. ‘Thank you, Heloise, we do not need assistance.’

  ‘Are you sure, Sampan? You’re crawling and your scanner’s malfunctioning. You’ve got a blind spot. Maybe we should come over and help.’

  ‘We do not have any malfunctions. If we need assistance, we’ll call for it.’

  ‘Long way to anywhere, Sampan. We’re the only ones around.’

  There was a long pause, before the voice of the Sampan found its tongue again. ‘Negotiate?’ it suggested.

  A series of melodies, veering between jaunty and melancholy. Since Yasmin had entered his cabin without knocking and without a word, Tod continued to play. Eventually he lowered the saxophone from his lips and his feet from the desk.