Dying For Space

by S. J. Higbee

  His face purpled as he howled, “That isn’t the same at all! How dare you twist everything around!”

  It was an effort, but I kept my voice low, “You’re right. It isn’t the same. You gave me those dresses as a gift—”

  “To prodding wear! Not go selling off for your own shoddy gain!” Spittle flew out of his mouth as he roared.

  “And how was I to know that? You didn’t tell me! They surely didn’t fit or remotely suit me. As far as I was concerned, they were silting up cupboard space I could fill with something better.” As Norman’s eyes bulged and he opened his mouth, I continued, in a gabble to get my point across before he started bellowing, again, “If I’d known you treasured them, I’d never have sold them on. But you…” Wrapping my arms around myself, I turned away. “You knew how much that statue meant to me. And you broke it, anyway.”

  “Prod it, Elizabeth! Pull yourself out of this mood!” His heavy hand slammed down onto my shoulder and he spun me around. “I’m sick of seeing your moping face gazing back at me! There are many girls who would be overjoyed to be in your place. And what do I have to put up with? Your constant misery and ingratitude!” He gave me a little push – as if he was sick of the sight of me.

  But I was sick, too. Sick of dregging fathers telling me how much they preferred another kind of daughter. “Know what? Take those wretched dresses, anyway. I hate them. Always have. Your other daughter did dresses – I don’t. Get over it.”

  Norman drew breath, but I wasn’t finished. My voice hammered around the room. “I’m sick to my soul that instead of being locked away as he deserves, Eddy is sliming around a couple of floors beneath us as we speak, busy torturing any lacklucked bod you see fit to fling to him.”

  Norman and George exchanged a look.

  “I’m sick that my colleagues and myself are slogging ourselves to a standstill down in Procurement and you can’t even be bothered to come down and thank these fine, loyal people who are keeping the P’s functioning. So before you start frothing about ingratitude, just know it runs in the family.”

  George made a sound, somewhere between a snort and a cough.

  “I’m sick of you calling me a thief. Yes, I sold the dresses and spent a bunch of the creds on Romeo’s heart. Which wasn’t wasted, by the way. The man who has it now is mending just fine, the medicentre tell me.”

  Norman seemed frozen, watching me through slitted eyes – never a good sign.

  I continued, anyway, “And, I’m sick of tippy-toeing amongst Elsbeth’s life.” I waved my hand. “It’s a fine room with many wonderful things, but they are not mine. The one I loved the most…” I gestured to poor Fido. “…got broke. You seem to make a habit of that. The rest of these things – they’re my sister’s, not mine. So I’m moving back to my old room, once it’s been fitted with a workdesk like this one. And a BalanceJoust unit.”

  Wheehoo! That’s telling the sliming bully. You go for it, Lizzy.

  Norman fumbled in his pocket for a cigar. “You finished?”

  I nodded, swallowing.

  “How long have you known about Eddy, Elizabeth?” asked George.

  “Since the night before Bernal was shot. I visited him and he said Eddy sent his compliments.”

  Both exchanged another glance.

  Norman growled, “The double-crossing slimer was under strictest instructions to keep hidden.”

  My laughter was verging on hysterical. “You don’t get it, do you? Eddy doesn’t follow instructions. Ever!”

  “It’s a sad fact that an organisation like ours needs individuals like Eddy, Elizabeth. And keeping him so close means we also keep an eye on him,” Number Two managed to make it sound so reasonable.

  I gritted my teeth, trying not to think of poor little Luke and what he’d endured at Eddy’s hands. “Let’s hope that you have at least two eyes on the scumsac. He has a gift for turning up where he isn’t wanted.” Recalling how he’d broken into the house, past all the security Mum had installed, I shivered.

  Norman lit his cigar, so I couldn’t see his face behind the sudden plume of blue smoke. “So, all this time you knew of your brother’s presence. And you said nothing.”

  “What would be the point? I want him gone, but you already know that. Or you would’ve told me that he was here.”

  “Can you imagine Elsbeth hugging something like that to herself for more than a nanosec before rushing headlong into a major confrontation with you?” George asked Norman, as if I wasn’t there.

  I held my breath, waiting for the General to explode. He didn’t. Just continued puffing on his stinking cigar.

  George hadn’t finished. “She’s also right about Procurement. It needs attention, William, as I keep mentioning. Several key people are on the edge of buckling.”

  “Diana won’t struggle on much longer. And I can’t manage without her,” I added.

  Norman flicked his ash on the floor. “Then let’s make her Director and you Deputy-Director. You’ll both need assistants, of course.”

  What! I nodded. “Fine. That’ll work. But we’re still short-staffed.”

  Norman’s brows beetled together, so I added quickly, “Rick knew more about every single supplier than I’ll learn in a long light year. Between us, me and Diana are barely managing to keep on top of Rick’s workload – and he was grooming Bernal to be his successor. That’s another big loss to the Department.”

  Norman’s lips twisted. “Could you manage to keep it limping along with – say – three more staff?”

  This is where I’m s’posed to be ashamed and stutter that we’d cope with two people, instead. “That might be sufficient. If we need more, I’ll let you know.”

  George didn’t bother to hide his chuckle. “She’s her Daddy’s daughter, for sure.”

  “Of course she is. Come here, sweetheart.” Norman opened up his arms.

  You need to go to him, Lizzy. Scuzzer though he is. You don’t – he’ll continue waging war on you.

  So despite his destruction of Wynn’s statue, despite the poor mindless girl, despite our horrible quarrel – I submitted to his hug.

  “You sure about turning down this fine statue, Lizbeth?” he rumbled into my hair.

  I sighed, breathing in the scent of his soap and tobacco. “Yes.”

  “Are you sure about not wearing dresses? Or was that anger talking?”

  I looked up at his face, trying to gauge his mood. “I hate them. Every time I walk into a room wearing one, I feel a fraud.”

  “Hm. Fina said as much.”

  I tensed, shocked that he’d mentioned her.

  “Another regret. I believe our time together was ending, anyway. But it shouldn’t have finished the way it did.” He sighed. “This temper of mine. It’s a curse.”

  But you don’t really think that. Part of you is pleased that you can frighten people into getting your own way. “I miss her very much.”

  “I know,” he breathed. And for an instant, I glimpsed hole in his life left by her absence.

  “I’ll be on my way. It’s good to see the two of you on the same side.” George grinned, clearly delighted. “Same stiff-necked pride… same strong opinions… same ability to knife through the flotsam and deal with what matters… No wonder you sometimes clash. Pair of you are so alike, it’s outright scary,” he babbled, before leaving.

  Norman’s grin was rueful after he finally released me.

  I pulled off an answering smile. But inside, I was frozen in horror. Flaming Mercury, no! I can’t be… Please – I’m not like my father. I’m not!

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  The morning when my bruising had completely faded and I was fit to be seen, the General with his entourage trailing in his wake, arrived to escort me to breakfast, all beaming smiles and hearty hugs. “Lizbeth, I’m so glad that you have recovered from your ʼflu. Everyone has missed you.” He formally offered me his arm.

  “It’s stimming to see you too, Father.” Some devil prompted me to add, “And tha
nk you so much for my lovely chocolates.” Which were non-existent. The General hadn’t seen fit to send me so much as a chewed sweet to aid my recovery, other than that wretched statue.

  His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “It was nothing, sweetheart. Think nothing of it.”

  I returned his grin. “I shan’t.”

  His bellowing laugh bounced around the corridor as he increased his pace, so I was nearly running to keep up.

  As we entered the lift, David stepped forward. “Main reception.” I took a breath, focusing on staying relaxed. With my arm tucked under his, Norman would feel the slightest tension. Therefore I spent the short journey busy not thinking about this unexpected change in our routine, as we chattered about the latest shoddy performance of the New Birmingham Bulldogs, Norman’s favourite Zippo team, while avoiding the topic of breakfast and why we weren’t heading anywhere I recognised to eat it.

  As we rounded the junction to the unexpectedly crowded main corridor, Norman’s burning gaze scoured my face. “Aren’t you the slightest bit curious about where we are going?”

  “It’s enough that I’m feeling better and with you. I know you’ll keep me safe.” Won’t you?

  He’d always awed and slightly frightened me, from the time I was a small child watching my parents scuttle to fulfil his every wish. But at the same time, I’d found comfort in his bulk, also enjoying the buzz his presence always generated. No longer. While hanging on his arm, I discovered I didn’t want him anywhere near me. This man had cloned a child – and when the experiment had gone wrong, kept her imprisoned in the bowels of Restormel. I stumbled, clumsy with shock, while trying to think of something else.

  Norman, of course, immediately picked up that something was wrong. His grip tightened. “You prone, sweetheart?”

  “C-could we walk a bit more slowly?”

  “Of course. I keep forgetting that you’re not speed-aug’d.” His gaze swept over me. “Maybe we should consider it, once you’ve got a bit more weight on you.”

  Holed heavens – no! “Diana is liable to buckle if I take more time off.”

  “Hm. We’ll discuss it, later.”

  Not if I have anything to do with it – you can shove your augs into a supermassive hole.

  We swung around the corner, where the corridor turned into the grandly appointed main reception. All polished marble flooring and wood-panelled walls cluttered with holopics of the P’s in various battle scenes, or stiffly to attention in medal presentation ceremonies with a huge painting of General Norman in full dress uniform looming over the whole space. It was normally an echoing, empty place designed to overpower and impress. Not today. Today it was jammed with people. Many were faces I recognised. There were also a posse of journos and the air hummed as auto-cams zeroed in on the General and me.

  I stopped.

  But Norman kept right on, forcing me to follow. The crowd opened around us, as auto cams swooped around my face, blocking my view. People were patting my shoulders, reaching out and calling my name. Riona, bright-faced and beaming, gave me the P’s victory sig. Restraining the urge to swat one particularly annoying cam buzzing inches from my nose, I let out a breath. If Riona was so excited, nothing bad was likely to happen. Space suddenly appeared in front of me. When I registered what I was seeing, my jaw grazed the ground.

  To the right of the highly decorated, armoured door that usually stood open during the day, was Norman’s mechie-crafted marble bust of me standing on a plinth, engraved with some inscription. Not that I could read it. The plinth and the statue were smothered with flowers. Some in ribboned bunches dangling from the outstretched arms; some were large, elaborate bouquets and some garlanded the neck of the marble girl. There were boxes of chocolates stacked around the bottom of the statue, and teddies. Lots of them. Some had messages hanging from their necks and arms. There were a number with children’s drawings accompanying them.

  “What do you think, sweetheart?” Norman’s voice rumbled in my ear.

  I was suddenly aware that it had grown quiet and everyone was watching me. “I… um… don’t know. What…?” Why is this vile statue parked in the main reception, anyway? And why is it covered in all this stuff? Someone must have heard my thoughts.

  A tall bloke in P’s uniform stepped forward, crackling with energy and charisma. I was aware that I knew his face from somewhere, but where? “We were all worried to hear that you were ill, miss,” his voice bounced off the hard surfaces, easily audible in the hush. “But, the worst for us was, that you were stuck in your room while they fiddled around trying to work out what blixed you. No visitors, they said.” He stepped towards me, his gaze stroking my face. “You. Who always visited those of us hurt and alone in the meat-suite.”

  An answering murmur rippled through the crowd.

  “You, who’d bring us uploads and favourite holos. No fuss or journos trailing in your wake. Half the time us patients didn’t even know who you were, till after, when the medics told us.”

  I now recalled him – Trevor Cooke. He’d been badly injured when he got in the way of a grenade blast. And been bored and angry with the world when I’d started popping in to visit him. He’d acquired a tan and bulked up since I’d last seen him.

  “You were stuck in your room alone. So we started bringing stuff for you, too. Put it by the statue. To let you know that you weren’t forgotten, just like you never forgot us.”

  I shifted. I’m not good or kind – I just couldn’t face Romeo, so got into the habit of visiting bods who were able to talk back. And chatting to patients mostly cheers me up after a hard stint in Procurement.

  He hadn’t finished, “It’s hard to keep secrets in this place. We get to hear things. Like you getting grief for selling your fancy dresses to buy a training mate a heart.” He shot an unfriendly look at Norman.

  I sucked in a breath. Please, slam it shut!

  “While those of us who know you reckon that it’s just the sort’ve thing you’d do.” His sparking blue eyes grazed the audience. “The high-ups here aren’t a bad lot. Many’ve us have served under a lot worse…”

  Several voices called out in agreement and I breathed more freely, hoping the General wouldn’t look upon this as a PR disaster.

  “But they’re high-ups when all’s said and done. Only concerned about getting the job done. And if some of us get zedded in the process, that’s the way it goes.” He swung back to me, face blazing with a complicated mix of hope and anger. “But, you… you care. And when we see this statue that some bod carved to thank you for saving his skin – well, it’s just what you do, isn’t it?”

  “Wahoo! Yeah – way to go, Lizzy!” Riona’s voice swooped over the hubbub.

  This is a bad dream. Please… let me wake up. Right now.

  “Three cheers for our Lizzy!” Trevor’s voice rang round the vaulted area.

  My smile felt stiff as the audience erupted into a deafening response. I didn’t need the calls for a speech to prod me into saying something. Whatever Norman had figured this occasion was going to be, it clearly had spun beyond anything he’d find remotely acceptable. I needed to try and fix this and fast. Anyone capable of cloning his daughter wouldn’t hesitate to sort out a flap-lipped trooper so his mouth was permanently sealed.

  I took a breath, hoping that inspiration would strike. I’d been listening to rallying speeches since forever, as the Cap was more than fond of his own voice. Whatever blix-up I make, it can’t be worse than some of the pompous babble the Cap used to spout.

  “Friends. This is… so unexpected.” I gestured towards the statue. “I’m… thank you. It almost makes getting ill worth it.”

  Loud laughter at this limp attempt at humour gave me courage to continue, “There is much talk of families, these days. Family doesn’t mean that you always get on.” I turned to Norman. “Often family means you fight like a cornered rat. But when crud happens it’s family you turn to…”

  Unless you walk away from them, and they disappear off to Earth.
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  I raised my voice, “And family isn’t always flesh and blood. Family can also become those who are united by bonds of shared experiences, good and bad.”

  Cept when some scuzzer takes it into his head to grow daughters like beans from a pod…

  “The P’s are such a family. There’s fights and arguments, often enough. But when we lose one of our own, or they are hurt, we try to help. Always. There’s been some bad times, recently. Maybe some of that caring hasn’t been in place.”

  Like when a loyal officer gets shot by one of his own for sweet-talking the Pees’ Princess…

  I took a breath, wishing Jessica would ziplock it. “But with those bad times behind us, our enemies better know that the P’s are still here. Still fighting to keep Sector Two safe. Still a family that cares for its own.”

  The answering roar shivered the air, while I found myself hoisted on the shoulders of a couple of brawny mercs. In between laughing with sheer nervous disbelief and trying to keep my balance while a squadron of auto-cams zipped around my head, I managed to glance at Norman. He was clapping and smiling with the rest.

  I heard snatches of his replies to the journo’s questions, “Oh of course… very proud… fine example of modern womanhood… Grandchildren?”

  As luck would have it, my bearers chose that moment to carry me closer to the statue, so I never got to hear the General’s answer. A shame. I was panting to know his thoughts on that subject. Maybe he’ll try for another clone.

  *

  He might not have shown it in front of the crowds, but Norman was majorly aggravated. As I discovered at brekkie.

  “How does it feel to care?” He attacked the slab of meat on his plate as if it was trying to fight back.

  Conversation around the table abruptly stopped.

  My spoon was halfway to my mouth. I put it down and met his glare. Oh, get over yourself. I’m not taking the blame for this one. You were the one who put the statue in Reception. You were the one that called the journos in. “You tell me, Father. You’ve been caring for the P’s for most of your life.”