by Thorne Moore
The man inside, wearing an old Ragnox security uniform and assorted knitwear, watched their approach with watery, indifferent eyes, a machine gun on the counter beside him.
‘Heloise?’
‘Three crew,’ said Tod. ‘Two more to engineering. And these are my seven cubs, all bound for Triton.’
The guard grunted, ogled Clytemnestra blearily, and waved them through towards an open concourse.
‘Here we are,’ said Tod. ‘You can return to the Heloise whenever you want. The hatch scanners will recognise you and Siegfried has been requested politely not to shoot you. Now. Some of us have work to do.’ He exchanged a quick glance with Addo, who nodded, and they headed briskly in opposite directions.
Tim looked at Abigail, undeterred by weeks of pointed snubbing. ‘If you fancy a—’
‘Tim! Work!’ commanded Tod, over his shoulder as he vanished from view.
‘Maybe later?’ suggested Tim, with an apologetic shrug, before scurrying after his commander.
Abigail disdainfully shrugged off Merrits’s smirk and looked around. The concourse had a few directional signs, a chalked notice board and a couple of benches on which a drunk was snoring loudly. The last lingering effects of her illness had long passed, but this place made her stomach churn and her skin crawl.
After a moment, Selden strode off in the direction of a dark red cavern emitting smoke, noise and a strong smell of alcohol.
Smith was studying the directions. ‘Provisions, lodgings, baths, communications, medical, trade, engineering, munitions, brothel…’ He hazarded a suggestive glance at Clytemnestra. She snarled back.
‘Well, this is fuck all,’ said Merrit.
‘What did you expect?’ said Clytemnestra. Tossing her spiked hair back, she stalked after Selden. Yasmin followed her.
‘Looks like the bar is all there is,’ said Merrit.
Abigail gave a pained sigh. Smith was sidling off in the direction of communications and David had vanished entirely. ‘I suppose so.’
The bar was smoky, dirty and repellent. A couple of dozen customers, nearly all men, were sprawled at the tables or on the floor, some slovenly, some theatrical, but mostly shaven-headed military types, their eyes fixing on the newcomers as they adjusted to the gloom.
There was a barrage of wolf whistles, laughter and much intense scrutiny. Abigail approached the bar with her usual disdain, but the bartender scarcely noticed her. His eyes were glued on Clytemnestra. Her red patent leather and tiger skin glowed seductively in the dim light, making the most of her generous curves. Abigail was brought up with a jolt, comprehensively upstaged.
She managed to laugh.
Clytemnestra ignored her, liberatingly indifferent to derision. The murky ambience was reminiscent of the noisome bars where she’d worked most of her life, its familiarity both contemptible and comforting. No fear here of feeling like an outsider. She belonged and, hate it as she might, there was no place like home.
She perched on a bar stool and ordered a gin and orange.
Half a dozen customers were immediately around her, some even offering to pay. The barman, moving along to Abigail and Merrit, grinned at he struggled to turn his attention away. ‘Is she with you?’
Merrit blustered. ‘You might say that.’
‘You the business end? We could do a deal.’
‘Yeah, well...’ Merrit adjusted his collar. ‘Now we’re talking. What are you proposing?’
‘We have a house here. Modest little establishment.’
‘He’s not my manager,’ said Clytemnestra indignantly. ‘He’s just...’ she waved her hand dismissively. ‘Somebody.’
Abigail laughed. ‘Or nobody.’
‘They’re for Triton,’ said someone, further back in the gloom.
‘Oh. Sure. Right.’ The barman dropped the subject, pouring their drinks. They hadn’t specified anything, but it all came from the same bottle.
‘What were you going to do?’ asked Abigail.
Merrit glanced sidelong at Clytemnestra, daintily sipping her drink amidst her admirers. He heard a stinging slap as the tiger skin proved irresistible. ‘Look, while your boyfriend’s busy—’
‘Tim Faber is not my boyfriend. He kidnapped me! Don’t you dare imagine—’
‘Whatever. He still wants to hold your hand, so before he returns to moon over you, how about we talk, somewhere private. Somewhere Nessy can’t overhear us.’
Abigail looked over her shoulder, and led the way to a corner table, before demanding, in a low voice, ‘What is it she mustn’t overhear?’
‘Anything that we don’t want her reporting back to Foxe.’
‘Such as?’
‘What do you think?’ said Merrit. ‘I’m getting out.’
Abigail sniffed her drink. It smelt vaguely of petrol. ‘Out of what?’
‘Triton. What else?’
Abigail looked at him earnestly. Then she looked away again. Occupied on her perch, Clytemnestra was busy scowling at her suitors.
‘So what do you reckon?’ asked Merrit.
‘What can we do?’ asked Abigail. ‘How can we get back?’
‘Who wants to go back? There’s scope out here. Thousands of colonies. Plenty of opportunities, and all of them better than Triton.’
Abigail looked meaningfully round the bar.
‘There are other places,’ insisted Merrit. ‘Titan IV. I’ve heard there’s an incredible joint there. Casino, everything. All we have to do is jump ship.’
‘Oh, how? You got money?’
Merrit hesitated. ‘No. You?’
‘About 200. Where would that get me?’
‘If they’ve got tables here...’
‘Oh no! You’re not throwing my money away on a poker game!’
‘Okay, so we think of something else. We can do a deal—’
‘You weren’t thinking of offering me, I hope. You jumped at the role of pimp.’
‘No! Come on. What about stuff on the Heloise?’
‘Tinned tomatoes? Coffee beans?’
‘Don’t be stupid. She must have valuable stuff.’ Merrit bit back his frustration, keeping his voice hushed. ‘We can come and go, Tod said. Okay, we go back to the ship, grab anything worth flogging...’
She turned away in exasperation. He seized her arm. ‘Think about it, Abigail. You want to spend seven years on Triton?’
She hesitated. ‘No.’
‘Well then.’
‘Siegfried’s still on the ship.’
‘It’s a big ship, Abby. This might be our last chance. What are we waiting for?’
S97 was one of a vast web of stations, substations, relay posts and signal beacons in the Outer Circles. Screens mapped their interweaving layout on a three-dimensional chart, feeding out the necessary segments as required, but it was too confusing for most people to grasp the whole. Not for David. He had it all in his brain, an ever-changing chart of the Outer Circles, each insignificant part ordained and exact, known and lovingly acknowledged. S97 was not an isolated tin can, lost in the silence of a void, but a piece of a beautiful masterpiece, just as every nut and bolt of its structure was part of a not altogether harmonious whole, and all was seen by David, recognised and assigned to its allotted place.
He needed to touch it and bless it before passing on to other things. Every passage, every corner, every secret place.
A clerical officer, marooned there several years before, looked up hazily as David came into his office, fearing that some demand would be made to interrupt the tedium of his half-life. But David said not a word, not even registering his presence, and toured the office, touching walls, shelves, desk, before pattering out again. The officer gazed after him, faintly perturbed.
The bar was more of a challenge, being full of loud, watchful people, but it was replete with dark shadows and David managed to circumnavigate it without being interrupted in his visionary quest.
The brothel received his attention along with everything else, but as it consisted of a
spotty youth, fast asleep, and a scrawny woman lethargically engaged with a client, he came and went without being molested. They didn’t see David. David didn’t see them.
In the communications centre, Smith was at the console but the mechanics alone concerned David. And the child. A small child, unwashed and ill-nourished, crawling along a corridor. It wailed, without any obvious emotion, reeling off a toddler’s meaningless wordless chatter.
David sat in the corridor and looked at the child.
The child looked at David, subsiding into silence. Neither showed any recognition of Yasmin as she passed them. She paused and stared back at them thoughtfully.
Selden retreated to the Heloise gym. Far better than the feeble exercise facilities on S97, but then everything on the Heloise was better than S97, which was unappetising even by OC standards. He’d returned, primarily, to get away from his chattering shipmates. That initial relief, bordering almost on happiness, when the Heloise had crossed the Protocol Line into the deregulated zone had worn thin. Once again he was finding himself fighting to curb his irritation, muzzling unfocused anger.
The gym was a useful outlet for his pent-up rage, when he had it to himself. The crew made good use of it but he knew their schedule and fitted around them. Merrit came occasionally, working himself up, grunting and sweating, to the point of collapse, and then sleeping it off for days. Abigail was the only passenger who subjected herself to a daily workout, designed to keep herself trim and svelte as a cat. Whenever she found Selden there, she naturally ignored him. Her body was a temple in which she worshipped herself, and no other devotees were required. He ignored her too. Better that way than watching her flaunt and taunt, until he felt compelled to break her elegant little neck with one blow of his hand.
No sign of her now, though. Probably too busy playing the fool on S97, whining about broken nails or OC fashions. Selden turned to the punch bag and spent twenty minutes murdering it, leaving his muscles aching and his mind empty.
Pausing at last to wipe away the perspiration, he perceived that his reactions were still acutely tuned. He’d lowered the towel, his head jerking up in response, before he consciously registered the distant purr of the elevator. Someone returning. The faint hiss of the observation lounge doors. Double doors. They produced their own unique sound.
Anger spent, he ought to prove he could master himself, even among idiots. He mopped himself down and stalked off to the lounge.
Yasmin was there, moodily pushing a vodka bottle round a table. She looked up as Selden entered.
He helped himself to a whisky. ‘Had enough of the S97 hooch?’
She shrugged and curled up on a sofa. ‘I didn’t want to pass out in a public bar. Came back while I could still stand.’
He grunted.
‘What about you?’
‘Nothing there I want.’
‘Just want to get to Triton?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why Triton?’
He didn’t like the cross-examination. ‘It’s where I belong.’
‘Do any of us belong? I saw David…’
Yasmin’s words hung in mid-air as the door hissed open again and Smith stalked in. A prowling Smith, his insouciant grace masking unusually ill-tempered frustration. ‘Station too dull for you? Not surprising. If the Universe has an arse, S97 is up it.’ He poured himself a brandy at the bar, then strode down to the snooker table and began, with neat precision, to pot the reds. Suppressed annoyance in every stroke. Each ball went exactly where it was intended, miraculously, since Smith’s knuckles were visibly bruised.
Selden watched for a minute, then strolled over to join him, picking out a cue and weighing it in his hands. ‘Caught stealing the station silver, Smith?’
Smith sent the pink spinning into the furthest pocket. ‘There is nothing I could possibly want to steal on S97.’ He shook his damaged hand. ‘Got into an unproductive conversation with that oaf Siegfried, concerning access to the Ultima. What a waste. It’s infinitely superior to anything in that rust bucket out there. You don’t take from S97, you donate, apparently.’ Smith finally missed a ball and swore. He stood aside to make way for Selden. ‘Like those imbeciles are doing.’
‘I don’t think Nessy is doing any donating,’ said Yasmin.
Selden smiled, grimly.
‘Merrit and Abigail! The morons raided the Heloise for treasure to hawk round, to buy passage out of here. Except they wouldn’t know treasure if it kicked them in the teeth. They took drugs from the infirmary. I ask you. And an antique astrolabe from Tod’s office. Where do they think they are? A street market? If they made it to the cargo hold, they probably came away with tiger-skin leggings.’
Selden examined the table thoughtfully. ‘Doesn’t matter what they took. It wouldn’t get them anywhere.’
‘Of course not! Bloody amateurs.’
Yasmin prised herself up. ‘Jo Jo is cross because their little circus has buggered his own plans for jumping ship.’
Smith growled. ‘When I jump ship, believe me, it wouldn’t be at this God-forsaken cesspit. If the Leviathan were still here, maybe, but those clapped-out freighters, with their clapped-out crews? No way. Can you believe people choose to live out here?’
Yasmin smiled. ‘You’re not really an Outer Circles guy, are you, Jo Jo?’
‘God, I hope not. Premier crus, French films and silk underwear, that’s me.’
‘I don’t think you’re going to find any of them on Triton.’
Again the door hissed open, this time to reveal Tim Faber, excited and out of breath. ‘You’d best come. Tucker says he’s too busy and I can’t manage them on my own.’
‘Can’t manage what?’ asked Yasmin.
‘Merrit and Abigail. Tucker’s dumped them down at the hatch. Got themselves beaten to a pulp.’
Chapter 19
‘Merrit, for God’s sake, you’re not going to die,’ said Yasmin. ‘Abigail came off a lot worse than you, and you don’t hear her squealing like a stuck pig.’
‘Bastards!’ muttered Merrit, for the twentieth time. He caught the reflection of a developing black eye in the steel panelling behind the bar and groaned theatrically. ‘When are they going to let us out of here?’ He kicked the doors of the observation lounge, which were once more refusing to open on command. ‘I need medical attention.’
‘You’ve had it. You haven’t got any broken bones, so just shut up.’
Merrit lapsed into sullen silence as a faint juddering told them the Heloise was at last preparing for departure. Which meant he was safe from those Neanderthals on S97, if nothing else. Four to two and the thugs had been armed. It would have been a lot worse if he hadn’t had the sense not to resist. Abigail had stupidly fought back. She’d actually drawn blood before they overpowered her, hitting her so hard she was still out cold when Tucker appeared, with Tim in tow, and sent their assailants flying.
Abigail hunched on a sofa, blood still glistening on her swollen lip. She hadn’t said a word since she’d come round to find Tim swabbing her cuts and bruises ineptly with iodine. Now, since an irate Siegfried had locked them all in the observation lounge, she sulked, ignoring them.
Was there any further outrage awaiting her? Poisoned, kidnapped, sedated, and now this. People had dared to lay hands on her. It was the indignity rather than the injury that stunned her. Why had she gone along with Merrit’s stupid idea? Surely even he could realise that you don’t show your wares to armed bandits and then expect them to bargain.
Clytemnestra was perched on the neighbouring sofa, in smug disapproval. ‘I heard a terrible racket. I didn’t know where they’d got to.’
‘You were otherwise engaged,’ said Yasmin. ‘Just as well. You saved yourself a mugging.’
The ship’s soft growl was rising. Glasses rattled. David, sitting in the corner, looked up as if the ship were speaking to him.
Yasmin glanced at him, then moved her bottle to safety.
‘Looks as if we’re all stuck with the Heloise f
or a bit longer,’ said Smith.
‘It’s not the ship, it’s the destination,’ said Merrit, nursing his jaw. ‘Anything’s got to be better than Triton. I’m not choosy anymore.’
‘Forget it.’ Selden held back from potting a snooker ball as the ship heaved into action with a final vibration. ‘Foxe told them you were for Triton. No one would have taken you anywhere.’
Smith laughed sarcastically. ‘Not for want of asking. What a performance. They deserve a good kicking.’
‘We had a good kicking!’ said Merrit. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed. And we lost everything in the process.’
‘Yes, what exactly were you offering? Apart from the aspirin in the medicine cabinet.’
‘Zeron Blockbuster.’ Abigail turned grudgingly to face them. ‘I don’t care if it’s worthless. I just wanted the satisfaction of stealing it.’
‘And?’
‘The jewellery in your cabin for starters!’ retorted Merrit. ‘The stuff you nicked from the first-class passengers.’
Smith only laughed. ‘Oh, that. Mostly paste. But I had to keep my hand in, didn’t I?’
‘I told you it was garbage,’ Abigail snarled at Merrit.
‘No you didn’t! You said gems were vulgar. Well, if it was all fake, I hope he’s discovered what a lousy deal he got.’
‘Lousy? Whatever it was, he got it for nothing, thanks to you.’
‘I know you made off with a really useful antique or two,’ said Smith. ‘But I don’t suppose you thought to try the cargo hold? There’s about a tonne of industrial grade diamonds back there, from that unscheduled pick-up.’
Abigail and Merrit scowled at each other. ‘He couldn’t figure out how to get in,’ said Abigail.
‘We couldn’t,’ snarled Merrit. He stopped as the doors suddenly opened.
‘How are the patients?’ asked Tod solicitously, from the doorway. ‘Can’t have my cubs being subjected to this sort of unpleasantness, can I?’
‘Unpleasantness!’ said Merrit. ‘Fucking gorillas!’
‘Oh dear. What did the nasty brutes do?’
Abigail tossed her aching head. ‘What business is it of yours?’ She quailed, realising that the mocking concern in Tod’s words was not remotely matched by the humourless glint in his eye. There was a spray of crimson across the breast of his tunic, and a dark smudge on his sleeve where he’d wiped his knife.