Dying For Space

by S. J. Higbee

Pull out of your funk right now – before this medi babbles it about that you were one of Romeo’s prod-bunnies. Jessica was right. Blast her.

  I blotted the tears with my sleeve. “We were training team-mates.” I swung round to face him. Anything’s easier on the eyes than Romeo, just now. “Which probably makes us closer than if we’d been lovers.” I tried for one of Norman’s glares. “Which we weren’t.”

  It was a petty satisfaction seeing the man wilt. “My pardon, Miss. But he’s had a constant stream of female visitors, who’ve all been flushed out’ve the airlock at the sight of him.”

  I steeled myself to gaze at his poor body, once more. “Small wonder. Don’t think I’ve ever seen Romeo so still.” Recalling his cheerful offers of sex, his gutsy determination and unswerving loyalty filled me with despairing numbness. “How’d this happen?”

  The tech hesitated, chewing on his lower lip.

  “As this is a valued friend of mine, the General is surely going to want to know the details.”

  I struggled not to lean away as he did his sidling act, again. “Word is, Officer Dain got in the way of someone’s weapon. So, no one’s asking too many questions. Of course.”

  Because?

  Because if it is friendly fire, then the P’s is liable for any long-term damage. And… Jessica faltered …there’s bound to be long-term damage. Face it, Lizzy. You don’t bounce back all shiny and new from this sort of injury.

  I babbled to drown Jessica out, “Thank you – I appreciate your candour...”

  “Meditech Greensmith.” The tech smiled.

  “Pleased to meet you, Meditech Greensmith.” The pleasantries fell out of my mouth while my insides churned with grief. I shook his hand and stumbled from the room.

  I’d planned to visit the three blokes who’d rescued Lester and me and see how they were settling in, given their unit was still off-base. And maybe pop in to check on the child, too. However after seeing Romeo, everything changed. Shaking with the effort of not bawling like some fresh-smacked toddler, I forced myself to keep marching down the corridor, following the exit-sig, as if everything was normal. As if images of Wynn weren’t shuttering through my head. As if my own chest wasn’t a ball of pure pain.

  Pull it together, Lizzy! You can’t go walking around this place sobbing like some love-struck zilcher.

  Wishing Jessica further, I dug my nails into my palms which helped me focus.

  Friendly fire incidents are a fact of military life, I knew that. Mostly happening to newbies who didn’t know to stay out’ve the way. When mentioning FF’s, Sergeant Gently had scowled. “And if you sorry lot are wet-brained enough to get yourself shot by one of our own, I’ll wait till they patch you up and then give your sorry hide the biggest kicking you’ve ever had.”

  I’ll bet that Romeo was busy cosying up to some stim-looking girl instead of paying attention. I wiped my eyes and managed a grin at the thought, while fervently hoping that Sarge would be kicking some sense into Romeo very soon.

  *

  The two-chime trilled just as I was settling down to complete the compulsory daily diary of my Liveaction experience. It was a chore that needed doing, though given that I was going to become some flooding button-prodder, there didn’t seem much point. Except that it stopped me thinking about Romeo. And Wynn.

  I opened the door and Fina Giftstar swept into my room in a cloud of expensive perfume and elegance. She kissed the air just above my cheek so her perfectly painted lips remained unsmudged. “Hallo, my dear. Welcome back from the front line. I hear you’ve been up to all sorts of adventures.”

  “Lovely to see you, Fina.”

  Her smile slipped into a concerned frown. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  Please don’t be nice to me! I bit the inside of my mouth till I tasted blood. “A training companion is hurt.” I hoped my smile looked better than it felt. “Something I should get used to.”

  Her arm around me felt as nice as she smelt. “I’m so sorry, Elizabeth. I know that William still worries whenever anyone he cares about is on active duty. He was all but tearing his hair out when you were away.” She sighed. “It’s never easy.”

  It was an effort to pull away. But I was desperate to change the subject before I puddled into a sobbing heap before this beautiful woman. “Did you want anything, Fina?”

  “I had this little speech all planned, you know. It was going to sound so reasonable. But now I’m here, it seems really crass.” As she patted my arm, I noticed her nails matched her outfit. “I hope you realise that it’s meant in the best way. I majorly don’t want to upset you—ˮ

  What dross is she about to pull down on my head? “You’ll have to tell me now, after a lead-up like that.” I shifted, aware I’d sounded far too abrupt.

  It was a relief that she didn’t appear to take offence when she continued, “Thing is – that debacle at the last banquet. We can’t have that again. Appearances – they matter to William. More than they should, truth be known. And… William explained your upbringing. That your mother was a soldier.”

  An officer.

  She added quickly, “He said she was one of the best tacticians he’s ever commanded. But that she didn’t do dressing up and cosmetics. I want to help.” Fina sounded pleading. “You’ve been trained to fight, but here at Restormel there are other kinds of battles. Skirmishes that will be decided before you open your mouth. In what you wear, the way you walk into a room and pick up a drink.”

  I stared into her beautiful green eyes, searching for any sign of contempt and found none.

  She’s right. I haven’t the faintest notion of how to look trendedge. And if I don’t tick all the boxes as his beautiful daughter, Norman will lose patience fast. If he hasn’t already. Otherwise, why would Fina be here?

  “Thank you, Fina. I’d be grateful for any assistance.” And while knee-deep in dresses and shades of lip-shimmer, I won’t be thinking of Wynn. Or Romeo.

  So despite my best intentions to avoid it at all costs, Fina and me visited the shopping mall. I was surprised at the number of fancy gowns on display. But, as Fina pointed out, many women accompanying their husbands suddenly discovered they needed formal evening wear for Norman’s banquets. She also mentioned that Elsbeth had been a good customer, spending thousands of creds a year on clothes.

  I hadn’t expected to enjoy the outing, but Fina’s sense of humour made it fun. She was also a firm favourite with all the saleswomen serving us in the shops. Having these well-dressed ladies assisting us made me realise how much I’d missed Aunty Oksana and Aunty Sosha, with their kind gentleness and gift of fixing things just so. Fina’s unerring good taste and advice on what to wear had me pleasantly surprised at the reflection gazing back at me. In the end, we bought five evening dresses, complete with wigs and make-up. Or rather, Fina did, using Norman’s account codes. She was highly amused when I tabbed her recommendations on what colours suited me best and photo’d other dresses she suggested I might want to consider in future. She also introduced me to her own seamstress, who regularly altered her older gowns.

  I was actually looking forward to the evening as I started getting ready. And while concentrating on applying a stencilled butterfly wing onto my cheek, I wasn’t grieving over Romeo. Or Wynn.

  *

  The big downside of being early for the banquet was that I had to do the meet and greet, smiling at a bunch of strangers till my face felt fit to fall off.

  The General’s arm around my shoulders felt heavy as he hefted me towards him. “Allow me the pleasure of introducing my daughter, Elizabeth. She’s just finished her Officer Training.” His hug tightened.

  I struggled not to spill my drink.

  “She’s taking to our life here faster than a tachy-probe,” Norman’s baritone boomed around the room.

  I continued grimacing at the soft-handed, paunchy man, whose name slid past me, while I was busy trying to relax against Norman’s bulk and mentally blessing Fina’s insistence that I wear flat-soled slippe
rs till I got used to dragging around in these long skirts.

  “Delighted to meet you, Elizabeth. So, you’ve served with your father’s troops, have you?” His lips peeled into a smile-shape, but there wasn’t a hint of friendliness in his eyes.

  He’s a predator. “That’s right.”

  Norman suddenly leaned away from me, as David, looking strained, mumbled in his ear.

  “My apologies. It appears that I’m needed elsewhere.” He nodded at the bloke and kissed me on the cheek. “Look after our guests, sweetheart.” And with that, he was gone.

  Leaving me stranded with this chap, as cosy as a butterfly in a black hole. I’d better not mess this up. Norman might figure I’m a social liability and shunt me off to some fancy school where they teach stuff like how to host these sorts of banquets and which knife to eat off.

  “So.” He eyed me up and down. “You’re Elsbeth’s replacement, eh? And where did the old man dig you up from, then?”

  I blinked. Whatever they thought, people usually didn’t speak of Norman in such terms and certainly not when a guest at his table. My wariness of this man spiked into dislike. “I’m what is known in polite circles as a love-child.” I gave him my version of Norman’s lethal grin. “But doubtless, you’d call me a bastard.”

  “I was going to enquire whether your daddy had bothered with a full DNA screening, but I now see the family resemblance.” He sniggered. “You going to put as many kinks in his airhose as your dear, departed sister, then?”

  What kinks? He only ever talks about her with tears in his eyes. I sipped my drink to cover my confusion. “Fathers and daughters, you know how it is. Have you any children?”

  “I’m delighted to say – no.” Distaste crawled across his face.

  The words I’d heard a thousand times growing up in an English ship-trading family leapt to my lips. “What a tragedy to be the last of your genetic line.”

  His high-pitched bray had others looking round. “And there was me thinking I was going to be sent comatose listening to the babblings of a vac-brained teen.”

  Don’t know why – I’m twenty-one.

  He tittered once more, before adding, “My, my. Does William know what a sharp-edged piece of work he’s dragged into his orbit, I wonder?”

  As he didn’t appear to expect an answer, I took another mouthful of wine.

  “Ah, there you are, Harold. Delighted you could make it.”

  I spun round to face an immaculately dressed gentleman. Rick Kelbee. I’d only spoken a few times to him as our paths hadn’t crossed while I’d been training. But he was the most important man at Restormel, behind Norman and George and the last time we’d met was at that first, disastrous banquet.

  He shook Harold’s hand, before turning to me and kissing me on the cheek. “Hallo, my dear,” Rick managed to sound as if we were lifelong friends. “May I say how beautiful you’re looking this evening? I look forward to catching up on all your exploits over dinner.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” I mumbled and slurped another mouthful of wine, wishing I was anywhere else in the galaxy just now.

  Rick sighed. “Sadly, I have to scoop Mr Gadenson away. Business, you know how it is. I’ll bring him back as quickly as I can.” He herded Gadenson towards the entrance, his tone impersonally polite, “General Norman has a truly impressive garden here in the grounds. I understand that you’re…” his voice faded into the background chatter.

  I looked around, suddenly conscious of my duties as hostess. However, Fina was surrounded by a cluster of admiring men who were rocking with laughter, so she clearly had it all under control. The only two not orbiting her presence were huddled together, busy comparing tabware. Or swapping porn, perhaps. Whatever they were up to, they didn’t appear to need me crashing in on their conversation.

  “Evening, Elizabeth. Welcome back.” Turning towards him, I felt a rush of gladness that George had arrived.

  Why? Don’t know Norman’s Number Two particularly well. I couldn’t shake the sense that now he’d turned up, everything would be easier, though. “Good evening.”

  His smile faded as he tracked Rick Kelbee and Harold disappearing through the French doors into the garden. “I wonder what Rick and Harold Gadenson have to say to each other that couldn’t be discussed in here?”

  “Business, apparently,” I said, taking another large swallow of wine. And then woke up. “Harold Gadenson. Are we talking ‘Stay Safe with Gadenson’s Shields’?” I sang the jingle, which tinkled every time their combat suits were unwrapped. Before they were disabled with a laser butt. Or a boot. Or any available hard object. It had to be the most irritating noise in the universe. And now, I couldn’t get the tune out of my head.

  “Wondered if you’d pick that one up.” George’s approving grin warmed me as he gestured towards the door. “Shall we find out whether Harold is really a rose lover?” With a formal bow, he offered me his arm and escorted me out of the banqueting hall and down the corridor to his study. George swiped the lock and performed an eyeball, palm and spit scan, then ushered me inside as the door hissed open.

  I s’pose my expectations had been shaped by the Cap’s stripped functional den. But this… the desk was littered with all sorts of knick-knacks that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Aunty Sosha’s cluttered cabin, while the walls were a montage of parchpics, holos and vids. There didn’t seem to be any order. Formal images of the Corps were alongside off-duty, family scenes, which mingled with Norman and/or George posing alongside presidents and heads of state.

  Queasy at the seething mass of movement, I sank into the nearest chair. “This is homely.” How in holed heavens does he work amongst this muddle?

  George grinned, clearly pleased at my comment. “I spend large chunks of time in here, so I like it cosy.” He crossed the room, his fingers dancing across the securilock and a screen sprouted out from behind the heaving images.

  I watched the two dots coalesce into human figures. Number Two grunted in satisfaction as he toggled with the handheld and Rick’s smooth voice rolled out into the room, “…particularly fine scent, especially on a summer’s evening. Sadly, of course, our somewhat damp climate here doesn’t especially agree with this rose, but if you cut it—”

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. It was alright. Gadenson is a sour slimer who one day will probably poison himself with that venomous tongue of his but—

  “Lose the plant cant, why don’t you?” his drawl cut through Kelbee’s patter like a laser through spongeweed.

  Rick’s voice got louder. “Whereas, this…” I nearly missed his muttered undertone, “What d’you think you’re doing?”

  “I was invited. How about you?”

  “Stale the sappy comments for someone who cares, you clone-head.” Even Kelbee’s abuse was elegant.

  “And if I hadn’t turned up? How would that have looked? Or hadn’t you got as far as considering that one?” Gadenson did contempt very well – it certainly got to Rick Kelbee.

  “Except you turn up clearly mashed, and start jabbering at her.”

  That’s me he’s talking about.

  “Whereas he might play the part of a thug-brained space chimp, but he’s sharp.”

  And that’s Norman.

  “And if we—”

  White noise sizzled through the study.

  As he killed the sound, George looked across at me, eyebrows raised. “Now, why d’you think they needed to continue that little chat with an activated scrambler?”

  I shook my head, wishing I hadn’t drunk those two glasses of red wine quite so quickly.

  “Gadenson supplies our Corp with suit shields. Rick Kelbee – in charge of Procurement and the P’s Number Three – is foaming at the sight of him.”

  Is George suggesting that Kelbee is raking a slice off the Procurement budget? I felt winded. While not naïve enough to believe that everyone at Restormel was one big happy family, the ethos of teamwork and co-operation hammered into us
during our training led me to assume that the management here were leastways pulling in the same direction.

  “Thing is, my cojones are in a vice of my own making.” George sank into a facing chair and shook his head. “Me and Rick – we’ve never seen the world through the same lens. And your father...” His grin wasn’t a success. “He likes to keep the people around him slightly off-balance.”

  That’s the understatement of the galaxy. I recalled how Norman had bounced the Cap around, completely undermining his authority with Star’s crew.

  “He reckons it keeps his subordinates sharper. So he’s been happy to let our mutual dislike fester. Which didn’t impact on the Corps – other than make the lives of our underlings more difficult – till the General’s family died. And then.” George made a helpless gesture. “It was a mess.”

  Hope you’re paying attention to this, Lizzy. Never mind about putting them in a vice – this bloke is putting his cojones fairly and squarely in your hands, by letting drop this info nugget. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

  I struggled to zone Jessica out, wishing I was haunted by the normal sort of ghost who moaned and rattled chains in my ear at midnight.

  It was, indeed, the first time anyone had spoken of this tragedy in anything other than hushed tones. But I knew that after his family were wiped out in a shuttle accident, Norman had spent the next year locked in his room. And I was willing to bet a year’s pay that he’d be furious if he knew his Number Two was discussing this business with me.

  “In fairness to Rick, tucked away down in Procurement, it’s simple. Profit. Make the men fight as cheaply as possible, while charging top prices.” George continued, “Whereas most of my life I’ve been fighting alongside the men, or deploying them and I want them properly protected. Besides, we won’t get the best of the best by providing scuzzy gear and economy packaged med-care.”

  This sounds like an argument you’ve made far too many times.

  “And since Homespace forces retreated, we surely need the best. Because right now we’re stretched way too thin and history shows only too clearly what happens to fighting forces who become badly over-extended.” He sighed. “We’ve known for a while Rick skims a slice of the profits. That’s not the issue, here. What’s jabbing me, is I’ve a hunch that he’s suddenly upped his margins and, maybe, some of our equipment isn’t as trendedge as it should be.” George leaned across the crowded desk, his face grim. “And if that’s the case and word gets out, the P’s won’t last a week. No matter what the General says.”