Inside Out

by Thorne Moore

  He gave Tod a laconic salute and turned back to the scanner as Addo rose and stretched.

  ‘Anything I should know?’ asked Tod.

  Addo shook his head. ‘We’re fixed on course for Beta 14. Nothing to do but cruise.’

  ‘We’ve got a couple of fighters closing in,’ said Freddie.

  ‘Normal,’ said Tod. ‘Probably not our escort yet. Just checking us out.’

  Freddie laughed. ‘Can’t believe I’m doing this. Triton! Dear God.’

  ‘I won’t tell them you’re with Pan if you don’t,’ promised Tod. ‘Okay, Major, off you go. Where’s your ship’s boy? He didn’t skive off early, did he?’

  Addo gestured to the Ultima alcove, on his way out. ‘Hasn’t moved from there. And I haven’t heard a peep out of him for two hours, so maybe you should check to see if he’s still alive.’

  ‘Soaking up all Triton’s signals?’ asked Tod, strolling over to have a look. ‘Make the most of it. We’ll have to switch the Ultima off before the final beacon. Triton’s defences have a hair trigger.’

  Six months and the prospect of seven years on Triton had given Smith a desperate veneer, but in general his indomitably misplaced humour hadn’t faltered. It was rare to see him so intensely engrossed that he couldn’t find time for a tasteless quip.

  ‘Still determined to figure out that means of escape?’ Tod smiled.

  Smith looked up. ‘What do you know about Project Minotaur?’

  ‘Minotaur? It’s something way out in the Kuiper belt, but that’s all I know about it. What have you found?’

  Smith’s confident smile broke out at last. ‘What I have found is the answer.’

  ‘And what’s your bright idea this time?’

  ‘Oh no, I’ll refine the details before I explain. You have such a negative outlook, always seeing the problems.’

  ‘Problems like the inevitability of being hunted down by pursuit squadrons if anything is suspected. Be grateful that I’ll be just as negative with this one.’

  ‘You’re so sure you’ll find a flaw.’

  ‘Experience, chick. Have you given any thought to your career options when–if–your grand scheme doesn’t work out? After all that creative effort you’ve put in for the others, you haven’t neglected your own, I hope. I’m sure Pascal could use an expert forger.’

  ‘I won’t need any fake references for myself, because I am going to escape.’

  ‘Yes of course you are. Meanwhile, I hope the Ultima is attending to our needs, as well as yours.’

  ‘The two are mutually compatible.’ Smith patted the console. ‘Don’t worry, she’s reading, filtering and analysing everything that comes through. Not quite a match for the queen bee at Seccor HQ, but not bad for an insignificant, rusty little privateer.’

  ‘My ship is neither rusty nor insignificant,’ said Tod, ‘And you can leave it for the next few hours. I want to check the signals for myself.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Smith cheerfully. ‘I can do my research in the library. Carry on, men.’

  ‘Do you reckon he’s found a way?’ asked Freddie, when Smith had departed.

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Tod. ‘No one escapes from Pascal. Jo Jo’s got three days left to come to terms with it. I’d despair if he weren’t such a chameleon. Look how he coped with the Resurrected Elect of Albi on U306. He’ll adapt to any situation, even Triton, when he finally calculates the odds.’

  Cabin B5 was still a modest haven of chaotic untidiness. Clytemnestra’s iron discipline had made no inroads here. Yasmin was sitting at her desk, writing, but she turned in her chair when Tod opened the door.

  ‘Poetry?’

  ‘Prose. Just polishing this last rewrite. I wanted to get it right. Here. All yours.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘An account of David Rabiotti’s death. Convincing, I hope, interesting, intriguing, but vague in all the right places.’

  Tod took it from her and read in silence.

  She swept a pile of clothes from the chair. ‘Sit down,’ she said.

  He sat, still reading. ‘Very good,’ he said at last. ‘You haven’t lost your touch then.’

  ‘Surprisingly, no.’

  ‘It works. The suggestion that an increased dosage leads to less, not more focussed control. Something for Pascal to chew on. He won’t know I’m throwing him a rubber bone.’

  ‘I wanted to offer some evidence that the whole experiment is flawed, but I daren’t risk the consequences. His ET guinea-pigs would be doomed if he thought they were a waste of time.’

  ‘And I can guess the response that would provoke from Pan. Yes, let’s not start a mega-conflict.’ He put the notepad down. ‘Unless that’s what you’re hoping to do.’

  ‘A little extreme, even for me.’

  ‘I’m not sure anything was too extreme for you a year ago.’

  ‘No? Well... a year ago was a different age.’

  He looked at her. ‘We’ve all moved on. So has the ship. We’re well inside the Triton control zone now.’

  ‘I know,’ she said calmly. ‘I saw it on the screen in the mess. They’re monitoring us, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh yes. We follow instructions from now on. In another twenty hours we’ll have a fighter escort and be on automatic guidance for the final approach. Pascal doesn’t like independents free-wheeling round his territory. No risk of desperate suicide attacks.’

  ‘Very wise precautions. How many suicide attacks have there been?’

  ‘None that got close. You’re not still thinking along those lines, I hope.’

  ‘No. I’m so wedded to the notion of survival that I’m hoping to ignore his existence altogether. And pray that he ignores mine.’

  Tod said nothing.

  Yasmin smiled. ‘Not very probable, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah well, it might be possible. I’m just a number. He might not even remember me.’

  Tod stood up abruptly and cupped her face in his hands. ‘Yasmin Gwynne, head of Ragnox Publicity, the woman who’s been his chief weapon for tormenting and destroying his opponents. Of course he’ll remember you. One glance, maybe not. Two and he’ll know you.’

  ‘Well.’ She tried to laugh it off. ‘If he doesn’t glance at all, I’ll be okay. I don’t suppose he has much use for a publicity department on Triton.’

  ‘Your remit wasn’t publicity; it was the obliteration of his opponents. He’ll have a use for that, never fear.’

  ‘That’s a pity, because it’s not something I intend to be a party to anymore. I have at least come that far.’

  ‘He won’t give you the choice.’

  ‘There’s always a choice.’

  ‘To obey or to die? I thought you were over the suicide stage. I thought you wanted to survive?’

  ‘I do.’ Yasmin shrugged. ‘I want to survive. Maybe, for me to survive, I have to say no to Pascal, and if he kills me, so be it.’

  ‘So be it! Yasmin—’ Tod seized her arms.

  ‘No!’ She raised her hands, fending him off. ‘Tod, please. Don’t undermine me now. Face the reality. I’m going to Triton. There’s nothing either of us can do about it. You have a safer future awaiting you, under Pan’s aegis, new campaigns, maybe even life after Tarquin. And I have seven years to get through, if I can do it without selling my soul. I signed up for it, I go through with it. Maybe I will come through.’

  ‘Yes.’ He stepped back, collecting himself. ‘Of course you’ll be fine. You can handle Pascal.’

  ‘Of course I can,’ she said steadily.

  He opened her wardrobe, rummaging through the chaotic clothes till he found the gipsy dress in which she’d tangoed. ‘I forgot to mention. It’s party time. The graduation ball.’

  ‘Tod. You know, Tod, I really want to say, I mean, really, I do...’ Merrit’s eyes shone with tears of sincerity.

  ‘Merrit.’ With difficulty, Tod unwound Merrit’s arm from around his neck. ‘Firstly, do you have any idea how drunk you are? And secondly
, how can I play with you pinning me down?’

  ‘That was it!’ Merrit groggily focussed on the saxophone. ‘Yes, I was going to say, why don’t you play...’ He dissolved in giggles. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Make it a duet,’ suggested Yasmin, guiding Merrit to a chair. ‘Tod on the sax and Jo Jo on the fiddle.’

  ‘Or better still,’ Smith loosened his collar and took a deep breath, ‘duet with Tod and Clytemnestra. Come on, Nessy! Do one of those numbers you did on U19. Wow us!’

  ‘I’m busy,’ said Clytemnestra, wrapped round Freddie. While the saxophone had been playing, their movements might have passed for dancing, in a very slow, desultory sort of way.

  ‘Put her down, Freddie,’ demanded Abigail, performing a private ballet of her own. ‘I want to hear her sing again.’

  ‘Yes, come on, Nessy!’ Selden sprawled back onto a sofa, stamping a foot.

  The demands were persistent enough to persuade Clytemnestra. ‘What do you want me to sing?’

  Tod thought about it, swaying precariously, then started to play. Clytemnestra listened for a few bars and then began, in feline tones, to assure them that she had them under her skin. She had occasional hiccups and Tod’s playing was unusually erratic, but the audience had very little discernment at this stage.

  The silence that followed was prolonged, poignant. A dangerous risk of reflection.

  ‘Party surprise,’ said Smith in the nick of time, producing a large platter of cocktail nibbles from behind the bar.

  There were determined squeals of surprise. ‘Great! Where did you get them? These are fantastic!’

  Pastry titbits, flavoured variously with parmesan, sesame seed, sardines, mixed herbs and chopped prunes. ‘I had to improvise,’ said Smith. ‘There’s not a lot left in the store cupboard.’

  ‘I bet they’ve got another crate hidden away,’ said Abigail, her mouth full. ‘Keeping it for the voyage home, when we won’t be there to share it.’

  The suggestion created an almost tangible wave of panic, which they rushed to dispel with hasty comments, jokes and insults.

  ‘A toast,’ said Tod, raising a glass. ‘To the highlights of an interesting voyage.’ He thought about it. ‘Our surprise rendezvous with the Lotus Princess.’

  ‘Our run-in with the Ragnox convoy?’ suggested Freddie. ‘That was enormous fun.’

  ‘I got us out of it, didn’t I?’

  ‘The Julie Anne!’

  ‘No! That time when Nessy entertained the troops on U19 while Jo Jo siphoned off their petty cash.’

  Smith opened his eyes. ‘Our safe delivery of 150 tonnes of sodium chloride. You never did explain why you called common salt PhS34.’

  Tod smiled in an unsteady sphinx-like manner. ‘NaCl is the code most ships use to conceal really valuable cargo. So, if you carry the real thing, you call it something else.’

  Smith shook his head sadly. ‘Such a wicked world. Well, here’s to all of it.’

  They drank, in contemplative silence.

  ‘Here’s to Tim,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Tim.’

  ‘And David,’ added Yasmin softly.

  They looked at her, perplexed how to respond, then they shrugged. ‘David.’

  ‘And us.’

  ‘To us.’

  Tod began to play again, eyes shut, I’ll Be Seeing You, the wandering notes soothing them into a drowsy stupor that they embraced as a temporary escape. Abigail collapsed next to Selden, whose foot continued to thump occasionally although he had fallen asleep. Merrit was unsteadily picking out notes on the battered piano with missing strings that they’d picked up on U19. He was crooning quietly in competition with Clytemnestra, who continued stalwartly to sing, although the words had lapsed into nonsensical gibberish. Smith, perched on a bar stool, assumed a buddha-esque air of concentration, challenging himself to remain upright. Freddie was lying happily on the floor, waving an arm to the rhythm of the music.

  Babs, their replacement engineer, a burly grey-haired woman, was hard at work. Their imminent arrival at Triton meant nothing to her, but the sardine nibbles meant a great deal. When they had commandeered her three months before, from the Lotus Princess, it was the promise of real food that persuaded her to jump ship. Now she cornered the tray and concentrated vigorously on the task of eating.

  But even Babs, with a bottle clasped under one arm, was comfortable drunk, just like the others. It was Yasmin, professional alcoholic, who was totally sober, though her eyes drooped, and she stretched somnolently on a sofa, apparently lost to the world. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She knew that once she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop, and that was a destructive self-indulgence she could no longer afford. She would have to be sober and sane and in control when they arrived at Triton, and then... For the brief respite of the party, that could be forgotten. She could push it to one side with a pretence of carefree inebriation. Was the drunkenness of the others, she wondered, any more genuine than her own? Perhaps, but born of the same desperation.

  Thirty-six hours to Nemesis.

  Chapter 28

  No actual dawn on the Heloise, but there was a sense of it in the silence pervading the ship. The sense of a new day breaking and of sleep groggily giving way to the full morning glory of unspeakable hangovers. Tod, alone in Flight Control, had not expected anyone to struggle up for another few hours. The hiss of the doors startled him.

  Smith looked fragile but determined.

  ‘Why aren’t you lying in bed groaning, like any civilised person?’ asked Tod.

  ‘Couldn’t waste time sleeping. I’ve been in the library.’ Smith paused, wincing. ‘Any coffee?’

  ‘In the pot.’

  Smith poured himself a mug. ‘No headache yourself then.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. But it’s my watch, and I’ve got plenty to think about.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got some more for you. It’s only fair you should be the first to know.’ Smith smiled triumphantly, while tenderly rubbing his temple. ‘I’ve done it. Fixed up my escape route.’

  Tod smiled indulgently. ‘This is something to do with Project Minotaur? All right, let’s hear it.’

  ‘Prepare to be amazed.’ Smith sank into a chair and handed a notepad to Tod. ‘Full details. Every little thing worked out, so don’t waste time looking for flaws.’

  ‘And you seriously ask me to believe there’ll be no risk to the Heloise?’

  ‘None.’ Smith let his head sink to rest on the scanner, while Tod read. Eventually he sat up again. Still Tod read.

  Smith got up, prowled round the chamber, checked the various consoles, topped up his coffee. Tod continued to read. Reread.

  Finally Smith leaned over him, demanding his attention. ‘Well? It works, doesn’t it?’

  Tod’s eyebrow shot up. ‘You call this fool-proof? When every stage is an if, depending on chance and good luck?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Smith stepped back to rub his hands. ‘The first stages maybe. All right, they depend on me being able to seize chances when offered and play the part convincingly. But give me credit, that’s what I do. And where there are risks in those early stages, they’re mine, not yours. It won’t affect the Heloise if I get caught out on Triton. If I don’t get the posting I need, it’s my problem. You simply pass the rendezvous, I’m not there, you proceed on your way. But if I am there...’ Smith was unusually earnest. ‘You do see, there’ll be no risk, nothing to raise any suspicion.’

  ‘If you can rig the networks.’

  ‘Of course I can rig the networks. That’s the beauty of it. Admit it, it works.’

  ‘Just hold your tongue, brat. I’m not admitting anything yet. Let me read it through again.’

  Smith waited, tossing his stylus from one hand to another, while he gauged Tod’s frown.

  Tod reached out and snatched the stylus from him. ‘You know how to irritate.’

  Smith laughed. ‘And I know what really irritates you right now. You made a deal with me because you were so s
ure I’d never find a way. But I have. And the deal still stands.’

  ‘Ah. The deal. I receive eighteen million IMU, is that right?’

  Smith hesitated fractionally. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘That was the deal.’

  ‘Yes, okay.’

  ‘So you give me the security details of your funds...’

  ‘No way! If and when I’m safely back on board, then I give you the details.’

  ‘Better than that, you can transfer the funds into my name.’

  Smith grimaced. ‘Yes, I suppose I could.’

  ‘Eighteen million.’ Tod sat back, considering Smith. Then he rose, paced round Flight Control, hands behind his back, frowning down on the various stations as if subjecting them to a military inspection.

  Smith watched, with the barest hint, not of anxiety but of impatience. His scheme was too perfect to be faulted.

  Tod faced him at last. ‘All right.’

  ‘Yes!’

  Tod held up a hand. ‘Wait. All right, the scheme works. Whatever you say, there is still a risk to the Heloise, but I am prepared to take it. Now here’s the deal. You have 19.73 million safely invested, and you can keep the lot.’

  ‘I can?’

  ‘Yes, and when you add your earnings and bonuses, you’ll be a seriously wealthy man.’

  ‘Wait. Earnings?’

  ‘Wealthy not only in money but in knowledge, which, as you know so well, is an even more valuable currency.’

  ‘Earnings?’ repeated Smith, with rising alarm.

  Tod clapped his hands firmly on Smith’s shoulders. ‘Yes, Jo Jo. We go by your scheme. The necessary posting, the rendezvous with the Heloise at the beacons, the “accident.” The whole thing. Except. Except that the one we’ll be picking up will be Yasmin, not you.’

  Smith stood uncomprehending for a moment, waiting for the punch line to this unamusing joke. ‘You are kidding,’ he said faintly.

  ‘No.’

  Smith began to laugh.

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Tod.

  ‘Ha! Yes! Brilliant! I spend six months working on a scheme to save my neck and you propose that I hand it over, on a plate, to your moll. No! No way!’