by Thorne Moore
Merrit’s complaints dried on his lips.
Tod sauntered across to stand between them. Then, without warning, he seized them both by the hair, whirled them up and round and threw them across the lounge.
Abigail buckled over a table, shrieking and gripping her scalp. Merrit was squealing, cowering where he landed, arms over his head.
Tod loomed over them. ‘Get up.’
They struggled up, quivering in terror.
‘You tried to buy your way out of my company and you’ve caused me to lose an hour and more, getting my goods back,’ said Tod. ‘Be thankful that you’re assigned to Triton, or I’d kill you now and have done with it.’
He pushed them back to join the others and turned to a stunned audience, surveying them with undiscriminating scorn.
‘You all go to Triton. If not with me then on another Triton carrier. With Gorman perhaps. He drugs his Triton consignments. Keeps them totally passive, even unconscious, for the whole voyage. Quite a few react badly and die. Or there’s LeBrun. He has specially constructed cages for his cargo. Fills the food troughs every thirty hours and hoses them down occasionally. Survival rate is very low, but his overheads are minimal. Other commanders will simply lock you in your hutch for the voyage. Eight or nine months’ solitary confinement. Suicide’s frequent. Many arrive insane. Women get an especially rough time. Most arrive crippled if they survive at all.’
He paused to let it sink in. ‘You were lucky. You were assigned to me. I have this quirky notion that brutality, rape and pointless sadism are bad for discipline. Purposeful sadism is another matter. I’m fine with that. But if you’d prefer to transfer to another Triton ship, let me know and I’ll arrange it at the next port.’
No one said a word.
‘If you have ideas of buying passage to another destination, forget it. No ship will touch you. You are Pascal’s property. Marked. You became Pascal’s property when you voluntarily signed your contracts. Jordan Pascal doesn’t permit a breach of contract, on any pretext whatsoever, because it would set a precedent, and that’s bad business. So if you run, he will come for you. Titan IV, Ganymede, Earth, or the darkest remotest hideaway beyond the Kuiper belt, he will get you. Nothing personal. Nothing vindictive. Just rational commercial practice. He will terminate you promptly, efficiently, and without asking questions. Do you understand?’
Merrit and Abigail nodded.
Tod turned. ‘And you, Mr Smith. Do you understand it yet? Seizing this ship wouldn’t help you in the least. She’s well-armed and serviceable, but she’s no match for a superbitch or a squadron of Pascal’s gunships, which is what she’d be up against if she tried to run for it without delivering her cargo.’
Smith said nothing. He appeared not to be breathing, too busy calculating.
‘Think about it. Hard.’ Tod fixed each of them once more with his stiletto stare, then marched out, lip curling with contempt.
Abigail sank down with a sob.
Merrit was shaking like a baby. ‘This is a fucking nightmare.’
Smith found his voice. ‘Great demon king act. He wasn’t serious. Was he?’
‘He was serious,’ said Selden.
Smith folded his arms. ‘There is no way I am going to spend seven years on Triton. Money can get you out of anything.’
Selden was setting up the snooker balls again as if nothing had happened. ‘U11,’ he said. As they just gaped, he added ‘You’ve never even heard of it, have you?’ He chalked his cue. ‘A Beta station. Colony. Big. Not like S97. Fifteen years ago? A bunch of contractees changed their mind about Triton. Decided to jump ship on U11. It was a Pan station. The staff offered them asylum; thought they could fob off Pascal’s trackers while they smuggled them out. Pascal didn’t bother with trackers. He obliterated U11. No negotiations, no warning. Sent in a superbitch.’ The cue ball hit the reds with a crack, scattering them across the table. ‘Nothing left. Two thousand casualties, maybe more. People got the message. They find you’re bound for Triton - they can’t wait to be rid of you.’
Silence.
‘This is a true story?’ asked Smith politely. ‘Not just another OC myth?’
‘It’s true.’
‘Not much talked about in Platinum City.’
‘It was reported on OCN,’ said Yasmin. ‘But nowhere else. The incident sparked off a major war, Ragnox and Pan blasting each other to kingdom come for three years, before things settled down again, and no one in the Inner Circles paid the slightest attention. That’s the way everyone likes it. The OCs don’t want to tell and the ICs don’t want to hear.’
‘Why the fuck didn’t we all jump at Ganymede?’ groaned Merrit.
‘Some of us tried!’ snapped Abigail.
Selden shook his head.
‘Abigail, it wouldn’t have worked,’ said Yasmin.
‘No, thanks to Tod!’
‘Maybe, thanks to Tod, you didn’t get to find out how long Pascal’s arm can be.’
‘Oh yes?’ Abigail laughed shrilly. ‘What would he have done? Blown up Ganymede?’
Selden gave a hollow laugh. ‘Wouldn’t put it past him to try.’
‘He wouldn’t need to,’ said Yasmin. ‘He could use the law instead. Contract enforcement. Seccor would bring you in and you’d probably be shipped out to Triton on one of those other ships Tod mentioned.’
‘My father would never have allowed...’ Abigail stopped.
‘Abigail, you’re not thinking. Suppose your father had still been with TransSy and Pascal discovered he was getting Rolf Dieterman’s daughter. You’d just be ammunition to him. It’s how Pascal works. Much better he has no idea who you are. You’re an anonymous number. Stay that way.’
‘Am I supposed to be grateful to Tod for poisoning me?’
‘If he’d explained the situation, you wouldn’t have believed him, would you?’
Abigail was silent.
‘It kept you out of trouble. Like Merrit. I expect Tod paid some Seccor cop to scoop him up at the first opportunity.’
‘Me!’ said Merrit, indignantly. ‘Bastard!’
‘Wise bastard. He knows you invariably behave like a total prick. If you’d been arrested properly – and you probably would have managed it – you’d have finished up being shipped out to Triton as a criminal.’
‘I don’t care what you say,’ said Abigail. ‘Foxe is the Devil and this is Hell!’
‘Well I don’t have any complaints,’ said Clytemnestra, studying her cybercard complacently. Her earning potential in the Outer Circles, she had discovered, could be quite astronomical.
Abigail looked at Clytemnestra in disbelief, as she fastidiously tucked her card back into the wired bosom of her basque.
David, who had sat through the angry drama without any response whatsoever, rose from his corner and sidled round to the doors, off down the corridor.
They watched him pad away.
‘I want to wake up,’ said Abigail. ‘Please let me wake up.’
Tod and Addo stood silently watching the streaming data on the command screen.
‘Yes,’ said Tod, at last. ‘All right.’
‘I think everyone’s got the message,’ said Addo.
‘The Bronco certainly has. How long shall we play with her?’
‘A bit longer. In a way it couldn’t have worked out better.’
From the far side of Flight Control, Siegfried ventured tentatively forward. ‘So everything’s okay?’
‘No thanks to you. Didn’t you notice them making off with the astrolabe?’
‘No! Look, you told me to stop Smith fucking with the Ultima. I did, didn’t I? Couldn’t keep an eye on all of them, all the time. It’s like herding fucking cats.’ He stopped as Tod turned malevolently towards him.
Then Tod laughed. ‘They’re not cats. Cats are intelligent. Tim!’
‘What?’ Tim appeared sullenly in the entrance of the Ultima annexe.
‘Still analysing the superbitch data?’
‘Yes.’
Yasmin turned in response to a summons. Smith came into range. An exchange of earnest views. Smith grabbed Yasmin’s arm as she turned away. She turned back. He spoke again.
‘We could do with sound,’ said Siegfried.
Tod smiled. ‘Never under-estimate the art of lip-reading.’
‘They were monitoring the Leviathan on the Ultima,’ said Smith. ‘Seriously monitoring it. You said he wouldn’t risk taking on a superbitch, so what’s he up to?’
‘How should I know?’ Yasmin pulled away. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Of course it matters. If someone’s going to endanger my life, I want to know about it. Don’t you? I can’t get at the Ultima now; he’s got Tim glued to it.’
‘So? Do something else. Go and steal the diamonds from the hold.’
‘Forget the diamonds. The only real treasure, out here or anywhere, is information. You can get it. Find out what they’ve got planned. Can’t you go and tickle the Tod? You seem to have the knack.’
‘Jo Jo. Are you asking for a slap?’
‘Slap away. As long as you find out what’s going on.’
‘Miss Gwynne.’ Tod looked down on Yasmin, as she sat cross-legged on the floor outside his cabin. ‘Too drunk to stand, this time?’
‘No. I thought if I adopted an attitude of submission, you might not hurl me across the corridor.’
‘Depends on whether you choose to be as stupid as Abigail and Merrit. I’m losing patience with them.’
‘Did you have to be quite so violent?’
‘Apparently yes. Would you say they’ve got it straight now? I think so.’ He opened his cabin door. ‘Want to risk the lion’s den?’
‘Is the lion still biting?’
‘Maybe a growl now and again.’
Yasmin followed him in, her glance immediately falling on a brass instrument, intricately etched discs. ‘Is that the astrolabe they stole from your office?’
Tod laughed. ‘Yes! I left a bag of diamond samples on the desk ready for them, and instead they make off with a piece of seventeenth century Flemish craftsmanship.’
‘You left diamonds? You knew what they were going to do?’
‘This is my fifth Triton trip, Yasmin. You think I don’t know how my passengers’ tiny minds work by now?’
Yasmin sat on the bed, examining the astrolabe. ‘And you invited them to steal from you?’
‘It got the good hard smack they both needed out of the way, for one thing.’
‘And? What other things? What’s your present plan of action?’
‘The plan. Ah yes.’ Tod opened a desk drawer, pulled out a marker pen. ‘Are you ready? Concentrate now.’ He started drawing on the cabin wall. ‘S97. Prior to our arrival, a Ragnox superbitch rendezvoused with a Ragnox freighter, the Tripoli, and passed over five acthridium cells, which are the OC equivalent of the crown jewels. The Tripoli left an hour before our arrival, in this direction. Meanwhile—’
‘You were monitoring them all before we even got there?’
‘Correct. Where was I? Ah yes. Pay attention, I’m going to test you at the end. Another independent, The Pelican, manned by complete novices, was docked, waiting for the superbitch to exit left, before setting off in pursuit of the Tripoli. They probably haven’t realised that the superbitch will have dispatched a fighter to guard the freighter. The Pelican set off minutes after we docked. Not even feinting. Got that?’ He added an arrow in the opposite direction. ‘And here is the Bronco. Her captain did business with Abigail and Merrit, and now he, like everyone on S97, thinks we’re chasing him, to get our goods back, which is why he’s running for his life.’
‘What will you do when you catch him?’
‘We have no intention of catching him. We did a little negotiating at the station to retrieve the astrolabe, but he’s welcome to the rest. We’ll let him lose us in a while.’
‘So it’s all a feint until the superbitch is far away, and then you turn back to the Tripoli.’
‘Very good, Miss Gwynne! Have a gold star.’
‘What about the Pelican?’
‘They’re ill-equipped and inexperienced. It will probably take them days to track down the Tripoli. With luck, they’ll distract the escort fighter for us. I’m guessing they’ll turn and run at the first sign of trouble, with the fighter in hot pursuit. There. There are so many more refinements, but that’s the basics. Have you got it?’ Tod put his pen away. ‘Or would you like me to print it out, so Mr Smith can peruse it at his leisure?’
Yasmin stood up to study the spider’s web of lines now criss-crossing the wall. ‘No, I think I’ve got it. Will that wash off?’
‘It usually does.’
‘Ragnox will demand the acthridium cells back.’
‘And they’ll get them, at a price. Too dangerously valuable to hang onto them for long, so we’ll offload then asap onto one of the middlemen who operate out here. From Ragnox’s point of view, it will be cheaper and quicker to do a deal with them than waste time hunting us down for immediate retribution. Retribution may come later, of course.’
‘You mean if Pascal realises you’re stealing his treasures, while you’re delivering his cargo?’
‘He takes it for granted. He uses independents for all manner of business; lets them take all the risks. Lets them kill and lets them die. No sentiment involved.’ Tod took the astrolabe from her, wrapping it carefully in a cloth, and placing it in his closet.
He perused the closet door for a moment, before shutting it. ‘Shall I tell you a story, how Pascal works out here?’
‘I know how Pascal works, so I suppose it will be a horror story.’
‘You weren’t expecting a romance, were you? So, once upon a time, Astromarina was working on some new technology. Pascal let it be known that he’d pay for any information about it. Blueprints, samples, anything. Significant parts were being ferried by an Astro carrier, so a couple of independents, the Caron brothers, set out to claim Pascal’s reward. Their ships, the Vlad and the Tarquin work in tandem. Very effective.’
‘By effective, you mean ruthless.’
‘That is what effective generally means out here. They tracked the carrier. By sheer chance a Ragnox Lynx, the Mayflower, was in the vicinity. Nothing at all to do with the Astromarina carrier, but it just happened to be in scanner range, ferrying Ragnox personnel to S2. Standard Caron tactics include expunging any potential rival first, so the Vlad and the Tarquin destroyed the Lynx, before moving in on the Astromarina ship.’
‘They destroyed a Ragnox Lynx?’
‘Ah, but they got the parts Pascal wanted. He paid up without a qualm and offered them further commissions. The loss of a few dozen Ragnox personnel on the Mayflower was a minor inconvenience. None of them were vital to any of Pascal’s projects. They were expendable. Collateral damage.’ Tod shrugged, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘That’s business, OC style. Pascal style.’
‘Don’t worry, I understand. Wasn’t I up to my neck in his logic? The man who could wipe out U11 to enforce contractual obligations. The personification of the deregulated zone: unrestrained free enterprise. Profit rules all. Survival of the fittest. Hunt or be hunted.’
‘You have it.’
‘So I know that any sensible man would get out of here. I just don’t understand why you choose to stay.’
‘“Where eldest Night and Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal Anarchy.” A very elemental place, the Outer Circles. You don’t live long out here, but while you live, you are deeply conscious of it. It gets to be addictive.’ He lit his cigarette. ‘All addictions are fatal in the end. Doesn’t stop the addict thoug
h.’
‘But are you all addicts? Is Tim Faber?’
‘He thinks he is.’
‘Tod, he’s a child. Does he understand the risks in merely being out here?’
Tod winced. ‘I know, I know. I should have packed him off after the first trip. His parents had this idea that it would frighten him into college, like a good boy. It was a short voyage, a few fireworks but no serious situations, and unfortunately, he loved it, couldn’t wait to come again. I’m hoping the long haul out to Triton will do the trick. He’ll have had a hefty dose of scares before the end, and we can work round his inexperience.’
‘I see.’ She smiled. ‘This is Tod’s Academy of Life for the crew as well as your cargo. And a joint stock company, I gather. You, the engineer and the major.’
‘A collective in which we each play to our strengths. Addo’s a pilot, Tucker’s an engineer, and I like fancy dress.’
‘Ha ha.’ She considered him shrewdly. ‘Why the Triton run? Honestly. Don’t tell me it’s for the 25,000 a head. I think you’d go to the ends of the universe to disoblige Pascal, but here you are, bent on obliging him.’
‘You think?’ Tod inhaled, then smiled. ‘Seven years. That’s what Pascal asks of you. I don’t suppose any of you read the very small print of your contract. Being a frustrated office manager, I read it for you, while you were all too busy gloating over that lovely row of noughts promised at the end of the term. The end of the term, note. After exactly seven years, you come home to a guaranteed three and a half million, plus maybe the same again in bonuses.’
‘Yes. I suppose so. I wasn’t really looking that far ahead.’
‘Everyone else was. Ragnox pays your next of kin nothing if you die in the first year, 50,000 if you die thereafter – minus the credit you’ll have run up in the duration. I get 25,000 a head to ship you out. So you could each cost Pascal 75,000 in all. He’ll get that much work out of you in the first month. But if you die, or quit, or fail for whatever reason to fulfil your seven-year contract to the day, to the very last hour, Pascal saves the Corporation four or five million IMU. He doesn’t want you to survive.’