by Thorne Moore
Merrit shrugged nonchalantly. He wasn’t sure if their tone throughout had been reassuring or sarcastic. ‘Hell, anyone can do sutures.’ After all, he’d done thirteen now. An old hand.
‘So where did you train?’ The other paramedic was carefully unwrapping a chocolate bar. ‘Mosey’s?’
‘Er – Earth,’ said Merrit vaguely. He added, for more conviction. ‘Seccor fixed my training.’
‘No shit!’
‘I didn’t stick with them.’
‘Not an agent then?’
Merrit grinned. ‘I went independent.’
‘Sure.’ They both grinned in return.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Clytemnestra appeared at the door. ‘You’re to get ready. Commander Foxe is returning and you’re to leave as soon as your shuttle is prepared.’
The response was silence. The paramedics were mesmerised by the pneumatic swellings of the red basque.
‘If you stand there with your mouths open, you’ll catch flies,’ said Clytemnestra, primly. ‘You are supposed to be preparing the patient for transfer. How long shall I tell Major Addo you’ll be?’
‘Five minutes?’ suggested one of the paramedics, stretching his eyes and diverting them with an effort to the matter in hand.
Clytemnestra watched suspiciously, unimpressed by their Bugs Bunny t-shirts. ‘I’ll tell him you’re coming, then.’
‘You got many more like that on board?’ asked one of the paramedics, when she’d gone.
‘Just the one,’ said Merrit.
‘Eee. Not sure I could cope.’
‘Oh, I can handle her,’ drawled Merrit, then glanced out furtively to make sure she wasn’t in hearing. He followed them as they neatly manoeuvred the laden trolley out into the corridor and along to Flight Control.
Yasmin stood up as David’s cabin door slid open.
Tod was there, a body bag in his hands. He looked at David. ‘How has he been?’
‘Fine. He’s been humming. I don’t know if he’s aware of me or not. You did a deal, then?’
‘Yes, it’s arranged.’ Tod produced a syringe from his pocket. ‘I give him this. It will knock him out for an hour. Time to hand over an apparent corpse.’ He looked doubtfully at the needle. ‘I don’t want to give him any more drugs.’
‘You want me to do it?’ asked Yasmin, uneasily.
Tod smiled. ‘Would you know how?’
‘Haven’t the first idea.’
‘That’s what I thought. Well now, Davey.’ He stepped towards the bed, needle in hand and immediately David’s huge eyes focussed on him, identifying the enemy, expressive at last, sick fear and loathing. Tod stopped short.
‘Wait,’ said Yasmin. She stepped in front of Tod. ‘David. David, look at me.’ His gaze moved but lost its focus. He wasn’t really seeing her. Still she persisted. ‘David, you can go to another ship. To escape. To go somewhere where you can be free, somewhere no one will hurt you.’
There was nothing to suggest that he heard or understood.
‘A place where there are others like you, David. People born out here. The other ship is waiting, David. It’s a Pan ship and Benedict Darke, who’s in charge of Pan, is a...’ Yasmin stopped. The change was sudden, though difficult to pinpoint. David had switched on. What the magic word had been, she couldn’t tell, but he was listening now, waiting, eyes fixed.
‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘Benedict Darke wants you to come to them and the Pan ship will take you, but we must pretend that you’re dead. That’s what this drug will do.’ She turned back to Tod, with a hopeless sigh. ‘How can I explain this to David?’
Tod looked past her, eyebrows raised. ‘Maybe you don’t have to.’
She turned again. David had laid himself down on the bed, composed into a corpse-like attitude, quite lifeless.
Alarmed, she stepped closer, looking, listening. If she hadn’t seen him alive and well a second before, she’d have been convinced. She felt for a pulse.
‘He hasn’t managed to will himself dead, has he?’ Tod was equally bemused.
‘I think – a faint pulse. Can you see him breathing?’
‘No.’ They looked at each other. ‘Forget the needle.’ Tod dropped the syringe in the bin. ‘I’d sooner rely on David. He’s nearly managed to convince me, so he’ll convince the others as we pass through Flight Control and that’s all that’s needed. No one can suspect we’re transferring him to the Panache. This is Tim’s body. David can ‘die’ later. That way, no chance of Pascal accidentally learning the truth.’
Yasmin nodded, opening the body bag as Tod heaved David’s shoulders round.
‘He certainly feels like a dead weight. Lucky there’s so little flesh on him.’
They zipped David in and transferred him to the waiting trolley. In Flight Control, anxious eyes turned on them. Abigail stepped forward and then back again.
‘Is it...?’
‘Tim Faber,’ said Tod solemnly. ‘The Panache will see he gets a proper funeral.’
‘Oh.’ Abigail looked confused. They all did, searching for some meaningful gesture of farewell. Flowers to strew? Hats to remove? She struggled to say something, then gave up, watching in silence, tears pricking her eyes, as Tod pushed the trolley through the end doors of Flight Control into the shuttle bay. She glanced around at Merrit, who was wincing; at Clytemnestra, who’d busied herself suddenly with a catch in her tiger-skin; at Yasmin, who was gazing sadly after the commander; at Smith, who was frowning thoughtfully.
Smith sensed Abigail’s gaze and raised an eyebrow. ‘So long, Tim.’ He composed his features to look funereal.
Tod didn’t bother to note their reactions. He passed his burden into the care of the waiting paramedics and watched the lifeless corpse being secured in the Panache shuttle. Tucker was already installed, surrounded by hi-tech medical equipment. His controlled coma was more like a deep restorative sleep now.
‘How is he?’
The attendant paramedic checked the monitor quickly. ‘Fine. We’ve got a general medical unit on board and a surgeon ready to do a full craniotomy if he thinks it necessary. Anything more specialist needed, we’ll hand him over to the Panacea. She’d got the works. Don’t worry, he’ll be okay.’
‘He’d better be,’ said Tod, giving a quick farewell salute to his erstwhile partner. Then he stepped back into Flight Control, and the bay doors slid shut. He watched on the monitor as the outer hatches opened. ‘One shuttle on its way. Mission accomplished. That’s it. We move on.’
Merrit dipped the surgical instruments, one by one, into sterilising solution, and set them to dry. He took his time. There was little tidying up to be done, and he didn’t want it over too soon. He couldn’t have explained his reluctance to leave, but outside this cramped little infirmary there was a huge expanse of nothing.
He folded a blanket. As he did so, without turning, he became conscious of being watched. No sound. Someone must have been there for some time. Careful not to appear startled, he glanced casually over his shoulder.
Tod was propping up the door jamb, amused but weary.
‘How’s the shoulder?’ asked Merrit.
‘Aching, but I’ll get by.’
‘Do you want some more pain killers?’
‘Any that would deal with a pounding headache at the same time?’
‘These would do it.’ Merrit pulled a packet from the cupboard. ‘Sleep would be even better.’
‘Well, who knows? We’re on our way again and the major’s just checking the repairs. Perhaps we can all get some rest.’
‘Great. Do you want me to take another look at that wound?’
Tod smiled. ‘Why not?’ He perched on the bed, easing his sleeve away from the bandages to let Merrit examine his earlier work.
Merrit looked pleased.
Tod regarded him thoughtfully. ‘So what went wrong, Merrit? This could have been your profession. What screwed things up in prison?’
Merrit flinched, his confidence disintegrating in an instant.
‘What do you mean? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Sit down.’ Tod pulled the chair round.
Nervously, Merrit sat.
‘You were given hospital duties,’ said Tod. ‘I’ve read the records. You took to it. The doctor was impressed by your aptitude. Keen to learn, and you had the touch. Not just the theoretical side. You were good with the patients.’
The compliment made Merrit sick. He’d spent a year trying to escape from this.
‘You were recommended for paramedical training. The doctor thought you might even go on to study medicine properly. Then it all went wrong. Suddenly you were no longer his golden promise. You were sullen, you were caught stealing drugs, and you were excluded from the hospital wing.’
Merrit’s face was flushed, his eyes gleaming. He struggled to find his voice and eventually did so, hoarse with the effort. ‘Yeah well. Stupid fucker. What did he expect? Christ, there was a gold mine in those medical stores. You know what that means, in a place like that? I wasn’t going to pass over a chance to make a killing just because some old fart wanted me back in kindergarten.’ His tirade petered out under Tod’s steady gaze. ‘You don’t know...’
Tod waited, but there was no more. ‘I don’t know, but I can guess. Plenty of brutal thugs in that prison. And you were a good-looking boy.’
Merrit turned white, floundering, fighting back tears.
‘And once they’d chosen you, you had no choice but to do whatever they ordered.’
Merrit gave an imperceptible nod.
Tod waited.
Merrit began to explain. ‘It was Hardt. From A-wing. Had a knife wound in his gut. Wouldn’t let me go.’ Having started, Merrit couldn’t stop, despite the increasing flow of tears. ‘Called me Little Nursey. Said they’d all like that. Said he’d get me—’ Merrit hugged himself, ‘—a cap and stockings, ’cause that’s what turned them on. He must have got word to them, the rest of them in A-wing, because they started looking out for me, and then – I couldn’t...’
‘All you could do was try and buy them off.’
‘That’s what they wanted. The drugs.’
‘Of course.’ Tod waited for the sobs to subside. ‘So you learned how to deal with them. Emulate them.’
Merrit nodded miserably.
Tod sighed. ‘Trouble is, Merrit, it’s not the way to deal with Triton. The tough guy act is the last thing you’ll need. Tough guys are two a penny out there.’
Merrit looked up, puzzled. ‘Yeah? So—’
‘Triton is swarming with pea-brained gangsters like your A-wing mob. Where’s the point in playing them at their own game? One more brawny thug among a whole tribe of brawny thugs, and there’ll always be someone bigger and stronger than you. You’re no good at this game, Merrit. You don’t have a chance. Get yourself fit, fine, learn to deal with trouble if it comes at you, yes, but forget the hard act, and for God’s sake lay off the steroids.’
Merrit flushed.
‘You’ve got a far more effective passport to survival if you have the wits to use it. Out here, medical skill is gold dust. It’ll earn you the nearest thing to respect you’ll get. Doctors don’t volunteer for Triton duty, and Pascal doesn’t go to the expense of providing them. The most elementary first aid knowledge will give you added value. And added value is what survival on Triton is about. Make yourself essential.’
Merrit stared at him, his face contorting through a dozen grotesque expressions as he struggled to get a mastery of himself. ‘I didn’t do it though, did I? I didn’t train. I don’t have any qualifications.’
‘Merrit, we’ve got a library and you’ve got six months. Use them and learn.’
‘Nessy, anything in sight?’
Clytemnestra rechecked her monitor. ‘It’s all clear, Major.’
Addo confirmed on his own console and nodded. ‘Repairs all holding. Everything functioning normally.’ He eyed Abigail and Selden as they stood side by side, looking tired but content. ‘You’ve done a good job. Okay, Siegfried can manage down there for now, so stand down. We’ll probably be calling on you again, until we pick up a replacement engineer at U19.’
‘Do you really need a replacement? We can manage everything.’ Abigail glanced at Selden. ‘Can’t we?’
He smiled. ‘Sure.’
Addo nodded. ‘I don’t doubt it. You’d manage fine, as far as Triton. Then we’ll lose you. And I don’t sign up vital crew on Pascal’s territory – especially not on this run. But don’t worry.’ He laughed at Abigail’s anxiety. ‘D-Deck isn’t out of bounds. Now go and get some rest. Admit it, girl; you’re exhausted.’
Abigail heaved a deep sigh. ‘All right, yes I am. I think I could sleep for a week. And I ache in every joint and muscle.’
‘Oh, I’ll give you a massage to fix that,’ said Clytemnestra, in a business-like tone. She met their amused glances indignantly. ‘I am trained, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes of course.’
Abigail eased her stiff neck. ‘That’s exactly what I need. A hot bath and a massage. Nessy, I love you.’
Tiger Nurse Clytemnestra flexed her fingers, turning to Selden. ‘You too, if you like.’
Selden gaped, eyebrows raised.
‘Take the offer, man,’ said Addo. ‘It’s too good to miss.’
‘I’ve got a bit of a stiff elbow,’ said Smith, hopefully.
‘I’m not doing you!’ Clytemnestra glared at him.
Addo laughed. ‘It’s your brain that needs to recover from its strenuous efforts, Jo Jo, not your muscles. You’ve been at that Ultima far too long.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Yes, far too fine. Run along and take a twelve-hour break. If you don’t want to sleep, cook a meal. I think everyone deserves one.’
Smith considered. ‘Maybe the occasion does call for something better than NDP tuna paste. If I can face it. I don’t suppose anyone has done the washing up from the last meal?’
‘No.’ Clytemnestra confronted them, sternly. ‘And that’s something we should talk about. The place is disgusting, and I think it’s time someone sorted things out. So, I’ve drawn up a roster.’ She produced a sheaf of notes from the console where she’d been working and started to hand them around. ‘Cleaning duties, for all the public areas. Laundry. Cooking. Well, someone has to think of these things.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Abigail studied her list, prepared to be outraged, but somehow she couldn’t be. Clytemnestra was right; the place was a pigsty and, no matter how long she waited, cleaning staff were not going to materialise. ‘I suppose.’
Selden shrugged at his own list. ‘I can live with this.’
‘Scrub the galley,’ read Smith. ‘I think that’s very unfair. How can I be creative if I have to clear up too? And what is this about garlic?’
‘You use too much,’ announced Clytemnestra. ‘I don’t like it. Please use less in future.’
‘Well, there you are, people,’ said Addo, restraining himself with difficulty. ‘Just what this ship needs. A touch of discipline. Off you go.’
‘There is going to be something to eat at the end of all this, is there?’ asked Tod, watching Smith tip empty packets into a bin.
Smith grinned. ‘I figured if I actually cleaned this place up, I might get back into Nessy’s good books.’
‘No chance of a massage. You had your quota of sensual pleasures from Clytemnestra. You never paid up. She won’t forget that.’
‘Oh well, I never believe in paying. So, dinner…’ Smith looked at the tins and packets he’d assembled on the counter. ‘What shall it be? We’ve got a pretty challenging mix. Who chose this lot?’
Tod laughed. ‘Siegfried. He goes for quantity, loaded by the ton. I don’t think he bothers reading the labels.’
‘That would explain the cat biscuits. Never mind, I’ll think of something.’
‘I’ll tell the major that the long-awaited culinary poem is being composed.’
‘Send him a bott
le of Chablis, keep him going while we negotiate.’
‘Are we negotiating?’
‘I think so,’ said Smith, sharpening a knife.
‘In that case.’ Tod took out a notepad. ‘First of all, let’s establish what we’re negotiating about.’
‘You mean I need to spell it out? I want out of Triton. I want passage back to civilisation, where decent criminals rely on intelligence and nerve, not brute force and gutting knives. Where there are things worth buying.’
‘I see. Yes, that sounds reasonable. And what do you suppose I want?’
‘I think you want the Tarquin.’
Tod said nothing.
‘Maybe I can increase your chances of getting her. She’s got a fully modified Ultima 430.’
‘Like us, she’s always seeking to improve.’
‘I guessed it was an arms race. She’s got the same model as you now, so you’ve lost your advantage. Except that you’ve also got me. For the moment. And I know the Ultima better than anyone in the System. I know what it can do, how to use it in ways you’ve never dreamed.’
‘No time for modesty, I see.’
‘Can I help being a genius? I’ve got the Tarquin’s signature, I’ve read her settings, I can pinpoint her weaknesses and worm through all her defences. And I can re-programme your own defences, so she’ll be back to square one.’
Tod was doodling. ‘That might be an offer worth considering. As an opening gambit. And then I could suggest my own price.’
‘Go on.’
‘I believe you once suggested money could buy anything.’
‘You want money?’
‘Well you have it, don’t you, Jo Jo? Nineteen million. Not much use to you out here.’
Smith turned a tin round, chewing his lip as he contemplated its label.
‘Yes, of course you’ve mastered the Ultima, none better,’ continued Tod. ‘Your acting skills and chutzpah let you waltz right into the heart of Seccor H.Q. and once you’d concocted a totally spurious agent identity, you had access to the ultimate Ultima, which you used to remove nineteen million IMU from a corporation already under investigation. How am I doing?’