Matt stared. “You’re fucking with me.”
“I swear,” Carla said. She giggled. “They’d messed up the settings, somehow. They were trapped, barely able to move their hands and feet . . . it was lucky they could reach the emergency button. There I was, expecting a medical emergency, a medical team already on the way, and . . . well, there they were.”
“Fuck,” Matt said. “What happened?”
“I released them, of course,” she said. “They gave me a massive tip. I think they were too embarrassed to do anything afterwards . . . I never saw them again, even during disembarking. God alone knows what they thought I’d said to my superiors.”
Matt eyed her. “What did you say?”
“The truth,” Carla said. She snorted. “There are times when you just have to be a little blind, Matt. And times when you have to swallow your embarrassment and help someone.”
“I know,” Matt said. He smiled as he pictured the scene. He’d never played with a bondage net, but he’d heard rumors. “Did it ever happen again?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Carla said. They reached the dining hall and walked inside. “But you never know.”
“No,” Matt agreed. “You don’t.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
If he were forced to be honest, Paul had always considered Supreme’s bridge to be faintly ridiculous. Whoever had designed it had clearly been more inspired by fantastical entertainment shows than by anything else. The bridge was bright, elegant, and far too inefficient for his peace of mind. He’d actually suggested moving operations to the secondary bridge, which was more efficient, as the guests wouldn’t be expected to visit, but Corporate had overruled him. All they’d allowed him to do was establish his XO on the secondary bridge, just in case.
And if we really do run into problems, he thought as he looked towards the porthole overhead, we’ll have no time to move operations before it’s too late.
He sat in his sinfully comfortable armchair and glanced from station to station. The bridge resembled a luxurious office with a handful of workstations scattered around the compartment. Only the hatch and giant hologram detracted from the illusion. If nothing else, his crew could easily look busy, which would keep guests from filing complaints with Corporate about staff doing nothing while manning their stations.
Shaking his head, he glanced towards the operations officer. “Commander?”
“All planet-bound shuttles have departed,” Commander Tidal Macpherson reported. She was young for her role but did have genuine military experience and rarely had to interact with the guests. “External hatches are closed and locked. Cross-checks have been completed.”
“Internal security systems online,” Slater added from his station. “All guests are within the guest sections.”
Paul nodded, relieved. He’d hoped they wouldn’t have any incidents before they departed, but he’d been unlucky. Three guests had been caught trying to sneak into the engine rooms, although security had collared them before they managed to get inside. They were teenagers rather than potential saboteurs, but he couldn’t help feeling that their attempt was a bad omen.
“Better check that no one removed their telltales,” Jeanette said. Her face hung in the center of the holographic display. “Someone’s bound to think of that, sooner or later.”
“So far, no one has flagged the alarm,” Slater assured her. “And they couldn’t get out of their section without a telltale.”
“I hope so,” Jeanette said.
Paul tapped his armrest, meaningfully. Jeanette had a point—every security system could be spoofed, with enough planning and effort—but they’d covered as many bases as they could. There was no reason to think that passengers were trying to evade their telltales, let alone leave the guest compartments. He’d made it clear, via shipboard announcement, that no one was to leave during departure.
“Communications, check with System Command,” he ordered. “Are we cleared to depart?”
There was a pause. “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Stuart Hazelwood said. “They’ve cleared us to open a vortex as planned. Hawk and Fisher are standing by to escort us.”
Paul nodded, relieved. Corporate had finally managed to convince the Royal Navy to assign Supreme escorts, at least as far as Williamson’s World. It wasn’t much, but as long as the two destroyers stayed with the starship, she’d be relatively safe. Very few pirates would willingly tangle with a warship, even one seemingly weaker than their ship. He’d never heard of a pirate crew prepared to put their lives on the line, whatever the payout.
“Inform them that we will be departing in ten minutes,” he said. He keyed his console. “Engineering?”
“Drive systems online, Captain,” Chief Engineer Conrad Roeder said. He had a strong Rosina accent, but Paul had no trouble understanding him. “All systems are at full efficiency, sir—ready and raring to go. All drive nodes are powered, all power curves normal.”
“Good,” Paul said.
He concealed his relief. He wasn’t sure Corporate would understand any further delays. And yet if there had been a problem, he wouldn’t have had any choice. The military might risk flying a starship that had lost one or two of its drive nodes, but the civilian world didn’t have that luxury. Supreme would have had to hold position and wait for a replacement to arrive and be installed, which would not have gone down well with stockholders.
And there may be problems, he thought. Robert Cavendish hadn’t been very clear, but, reading between the lines, Paul was fairly sure something was wrong. Corporate had certainly been very insistent that Supreme departed on schedule. We cannot afford to delay any further.
He took one last look at the status display. Green, right across the board. He couldn’t help finding it impressive. Supreme had so many redundancies built into her hull and internal systems that she could still fly with half her systems out, although Corporate would never allow it. They’d over-engineered the starship, he thought. So many of the safety measures built into her hull were designed for possibilities that even the red teams—those charged with coming up with worst-case scenarios—had trouble putting them into words. He had difficulty imagining a scenario where Supreme had to land on a planetary surface yet was still intact enough to survive the descent.
“Alert all stations,” he ordered. “We will depart on schedule.”
“Aye, Captain,” Tidal said.
Paul leaned back in his command chair. The near-space display was clear save for the two destroyers holding station near Supreme. He felt a flicker of envy for their commanding officers, mingled with grim awareness that he would probably feel differently if he were in their shoes. The military life was simpler in many ways, and yet didn’t bring challenges like a cruise liner . . .
Problems that can’t be resolved by shooting at them, he thought. Or even just waving our weapons in their general direction.
“Helm, begin nodal ignition series,” he ordered. “Stand by to open a gateway.”
“Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant Rani Jackson said. Her fingers danced over her console as a low thrumming echoed through the ship. “Gateway sequence keyed, ready to go.”
Paul felt . . . nervous. He knew it was absurd, yet he still felt nervous. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken Supreme into hyperspace; their shakedown cruise had been almost painfully exhaustive, with the drives and internal systems pushed right to their limits. But it was the first time his ship had been crammed with passengers. Four thousand guests . . . they’d be watching through the portholes or the internal displays as the ship slipped into hyperspace . . .
We’d better not screw up, then, he thought.
“Open the gateway,” he ordered. “Take us out.”
He leaned back in his chair as the gateway, a spiraling vortex of golden light, blossomed to life in front of his ship. Cold logic and experience told him he shouldn’t feel anything, but cold logic meant nothing. Paul had a sense, a very vague sense, of falling as Supreme moved forward into the gateway. And th
en a low quiver ran through the ship as she entered hyperspace.
“Transit complete, Captain,” Rani informed him.
“The two destroyers have followed us in,” Tidal added. “Local space is clear in all directions.”
Insofar as that proves anything, Paul thought. Supreme had the best sensors money could buy, but they were still a stage or two below mil-grade. Even Corporate hadn’t been able to convince the Royal Navy to share its latest designs. Someone might just have a lock on us from a distance.
“Helm, set a course to Williamson’s World,” Paul ordered. “And take us out.”
“Aye, Captain,” Rani said. The course flashed up on the main display almost as soon as Paul had finished speaking. Rani would have worked their route out while the ship was making the final preparations to depart, then uploaded it to the navigation computers. Supreme thrummed, again, as the drive systems engaged. “We are under way.”
Paul let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He hadn’t expected anything to go wrong, but he had enough experience to know just how quickly things could move from stable to disastrous. The two destroyers were clearly visible on the display, and a handful of other icons had popped up, now that Supreme had begun to move, but no one seemed to be taking any particular interest in her.
“Continue to update the course if necessary,” he ordered. “And hold us steady.”
“Aye, Captain,” Rani said.
“And we made it into hyperspace,” the DJ boomed. “Anyone who bet we wouldn’t make it into hyperspace is screwed!”
Laughter ran around the casino. Matt felt his head start to throb. Casino duty was supposed to be lucrative, as he’d had quite a few credit chips and coins shoved into his hands, but he was tempted to see if he could get off the casino roster entirely. Crowds of half-drunk people looming over gaming tables, betting on everything from a successful transfer into hyperspace to the date Supreme returned to Tyre . . . the scene was loud, brash, and thoroughly annoying. The noise alone was getting to him.
“That’s five people, ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ added. “Five people bet we wouldn’t get into hyperspace. I don’t know how they planned to collect!”
Matt used his implants to keep his face expressionless as he moved around the rear of the giant compartment, doing his best to avoid the crowd. He had no idea how the gamblers had planned to collect either unless they’d assumed that an unsuccessful transit would dump Supreme back into realspace. They might have been right, he conceded, but the odds were against them. The entire starship would have far more likely been ripped to shreds.
A cheer went up from the nearest table. A young man was raking in the chips, grinning from ear to ear. The dealer, a woman wearing a colorful uniform that made her look like a walking parfait, whispered sweet nothings in his ear. Matt watched, torn between envy and pity. The lucky winner would be seduced back to the gaming table soon, Matt was sure, and all his earnings would vanish into thin air. Carla had told him that the games weren’t precisely rigged, but they were tilted in the house’s favor. In the long run, all the money would flow to the house . . .
His terminal bleeped an alert. Matt glanced down at it and swore, then hurried around the edge of the room. An emergency, a medical emergency. He was allowed to run for that, thankfully. The crowd was already falling back from an elderly man who’d collapsed, another man kneeling beside him. Matt pushed his way through the throng and keyed his wristcom.
“Medical emergency,” he said. He pressed the wristcom against the victim’s telltale. The medics would be automatically updated on any preexisting conditions. “One emergency . . .”
“He just fainted,” the other man said. “He looked pale and fainted.”
The medics arrived, three of them. One checked the victim while the other two assembled the portable medical kit and stretcher. “Looks like a case of delayed hyperspace shock,” the first said. He pressed a tab against the victim’s neck and triggered it. “We’d better get him to Sickbay.”
“I’ll come too,” his companion said. “Steve needs me.”
“I’ll take you,” Matt said. The medics would get Steve to Sickbay via the intership cars. “Come with me?”
“Steve’s always been so strong,” the man said. He sounded pained. “I’d say to him, you’ll go on forever. And he’d say . . . don’t be silly, Bernie. I’ll be dead before you.”
“Hyperspace shock is rarely fatal,” Matt said. Steve wouldn’t have been allowed to board if he’d had a health condition that would have made it fatal. The preboarding medical checks would have seen to that. “He’ll survive.”
Bernie grasped his arm. “What if he can’t survive?”
Matt gritted his teeth. Bernie was stronger than he seemed. “The medics will handle him,” he said with more assurance than he felt. “If they can’t help him, they’ll pop him into a stasis pod and leave him there until we return home.”
“Hah,” Bernie said. “They won’t turn the ship around?”
“Probably not,” Matt said. There was no point in lying. Supreme wouldn’t reverse course unless someone far more important than Steve—Robert Cavendish, perhaps—was in serious danger. The costs involved would be staggering. “But he’ll be safe in the stasis pod.”
They walked down the corridor and into an inter-ship car. Matt half expected Bernie to keep talking, but instead, he remained quiet as the car made its way through the ship and came to a stop outside Sickbay. Matt used his telltale to clear the way into the department, then looked around for the receptionist. She was sitting just inside the door, studying a datapad. Matt cleared his throat, trying to decide what to say. There hadn’t been any time for a formal briefing.
“Where is he?” Bernie demanded. “Where’s Stevie?”
“Mr. Garston is currently recovering,” the receptionist said. Her eyes alighted on Bernie and stayed there. “The doctors may wish to speak to you about his condition.”
Bernie’s eyebrows raised sharply. “His condition?”
“The doctors will discuss it with you,” the receptionist said. She looked at Matt. “You’re dismissed.”
“Understood,” Matt said. He wasn’t sure if the receptionist had any power over him, but her superiors definitely did. “Please inform Steward Falcon if you need to speak with me later.”
“Thank you, young man,” Bernie said. He reached into his pocket and produced a coin. Matt took it with practiced ease. “You may have saved Steve’s life.”
Matt nodded. He hoped that was true.
He keyed his wristcom as he hurried back to the casino. The dispatcher would have noticed him leaving and sent one of the reserve stewards to take his place. As Matt expected, there was an update in his inbox, ordering him to go to the reserve himself. He smiled, relieved. He wouldn’t have to go back to the casino.
Not for a while anyway, Matt thought.
Paul looked down at the report in disbelief. “Mr. Garston concealed a health condition?”
“Yes, Captain,” Dr. Joan Mackey said. She sounded cross. Her face, designed to suggest endless care and compassion for her patients, looked angry. “He was lucky to survive his bout with hyperspace shock. There’s no way he should have been cleared for hyperspace travel, not outside a stasis pod. The doctors could not have missed this.”
“I see,” Paul said. He resisted the urge to swear. “What . . . precisely . . . was wrong with him?”
“Is wrong with him,” Joan corrected. “In layman’s terms, he has a very weak heart and a major genetic disorder. Standard rejuvenation and regeneration techniques appear to be useless. His body would probably reject a clone transplant. I’ve checked the medical records he did give us, but . . .” She slapped the table in frustration. “There is no way he didn’t bribe someone to get clearance. I just hope he paid them enough to make up for losing their license.”
“I doubt it,” Paul said. Corporate would litigate to recover damages, such as they were. A good lawyer could probably p
arley the whole affair into a major suit. God alone knew how many people could reasonably claim to have been traumatized by watching Steve Garston’s collapse. “I don’t think there’s enough money in the universe to make up for criminal charges and civil suits.” He took a final look at the report. “Can you do anything for him?”
“Not immediately,” Joan said. “Under normal circumstances, I’d recommend replacing his heart with an artificial one. I do have a couple in storage, but Mr. Garston would probably require one specifically tailored to his requirements. We might be able to alter one of the ones we’ve got in the machine shop . . . that said, I’d prefer to put him in stasis and hand him over to a specialized clinic once we get home.”
“Understood,” Paul said. Dr. Mackey had a solid record of dealing with medical problems on cruise ships. If she thought that trying to perform the procedure was risky, he trusted her judgment. “He can wait until we return home.”
“I must also inform you that I will be filing an official report with the General Medical Council,” Joan added. She sounded as though she expected Paul to argue. “Whatever his motives, Mr. Garston forged a medical certificate. I have a duty to report it to the authorities. The people who certified him were, at best, grossly negligent. There’s no way this condition should have escaped detection.”
“You can file a report once we reach the StarCom at Williamson’s World,” Paul said. He’d heard of portable StarComs, but Supreme didn’t carry one. “Make sure you send me a copy. I’ll ensure that Corporate knows you have my full support.”
Joan appeared to be relieved. Paul didn’t blame her. Corporate would be tempted, very tempted, to sweep the whole affair under the rug. Garston’s collapse wouldn’t look good, no matter how they spun it. But Joan would face sanctions of her own if it were ever discovered that she’d played a role in covering the affair up. If nothing else, the truth had to be dragged into the light before the rumors got out of control.
The Hyperspace Trap Page 7
