The Hyperspace Trap

by Christopher Nuttall

  “I understand it won’t be easy,” her mother said. “It wasn’t easy for me either.”

  “You married Father,” Angela said stiffly.

  “He was practically a stranger to me,” her mother pointed out. “We didn’t know each other.”

  “And now you’re still married,” Angela said.

  “Yes,” her mother agreed. She took a long breath. “You and Finley need to have a mature conversation about your marriage. Your children will have to be his, of course, but there is a great deal of leeway outside childbirth. You don’t have to live together, as long as there are children and you’re formally wed. Angela . . . this is not the end of the world.”

  “It is for me,” Angela said.

  Her mother sighed loudly. “You’re your father’s daughter, all right. You have his sense of drama.”

  She went on before Angela could think of a comeback. “This is a three-month cruise,” she said. “You and Finley will have plenty of time to get to know one another”—she winked in a manner that made Angela cringe—“and hold a mature discussion about how you’re going to organize your marriage. I dare say he will be tolerant if you are tolerant too. You do have power in this relationship.”

  Not much, Angela thought. How long would she need to stay married to give her father a chance to rebuild the family finances? And once we have children, Finley and I will always be connected.

  She looked down at the table. She did have some advantages, but not that many. She could easily imagine the marriage contract including a list of clear terms for everything, from having children to permanent separation. She and Finley would be expected to have the first child as quickly as possible, then the second . . .

  “Fuck,” she said.

  “Language,” her mother said sternly. “We are in this together, Angela. I want to help you.”

  “I already know how babies are made,” Angela said, just to see if she could provoke a reaction. “I learned that in school.”

  “There’s more that goes into making a marriage work than just having sex all the time,” her mother said. Her lips twitched. “Although most men would probably be happy if they got sex every day or so.”

  Angela flushed. She didn’t want to think about her parents . . . doing it.

  “I’m marrying him for the family,” she said. “Not for Finley . . .”

  “Then you need to make sure he knows it,” her mother said. She pointed at the cakes. “Eat one or two, Angela. You’ll need to build up your energy.”

  Angela eyed her suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Because Finley is going to propose marriage to you in a couple of hours,” her mother said placidly. “You’ll need energy to accept his proposal. You can’t look as if you’re on the verge of fainting on the promenade.”

  “Oh,” Angela said. The fix was in, wasn’t it? No doubt the marriage contract had already been signed, sealed, and delivered. Did she have to sign the contract herself? Did Finley have to sign it? Their respective parents would have done the dickering well before either of them knew they were going to get married. “And what if I refuse?”

  Her mother pointed her fork at Angela. “If you never listen to any advice I give you ever again, listen to this now,” she said. “Do not . . . ever . . . humiliate your husband in public.”

  Angela bit down several sharp retorts, starting with an observation that Finley wasn’t her husband yet. “Why?”

  “Because it makes it harder for the poor dears to think straight,” her mother said. She smiled rather coldly. “Men are quite limited creatures in so many ways. They cannot handle two different aspects of life colliding. They present one face to you, one face to their best friends, one face to their superiors, and yet another to their inferiors.”

  “No multitasking,” Angela said.

  “Exactly,” her mother said. She picked up a cupcake and bit into it with full evidence of enjoyment. “A man might know how to talk to his wife, or to his friends, but he can’t do both at once. The feat gives him headaches.” Her smile widened slightly. “Which is why you see men who kiss up to the boss while stamping on everyone below them.”

  “I’ve known women who act like that,” Angela said.

  “Quite,” her mother agreed. She looked down at the table for a long moment. “Men are smart when their emotions aren’t getting in the way,” she said. “They say the same about us, of course.”

  “Of course,” Angela said. She reluctantly took a bite of a cupcake. The treat tasted like ashes in her mouth. “How do you know all this?”

  “When I was your age, darling, my mother knew nothing,” her mother said. “Ten years later . . . by golly, how smart that woman had become!”

  Angela felt a moment of sympathy for her mother. Her maternal grandmother had been a proud and overbearing woman, endlessly pushing her children to excel. It was hard to imagine Halle Cavendish resisting her mother’s advice.

  Her mother reached out and patted Angela’s shoulder. “I am here for you,” she said. “And if you need advice, I will give it.”

  “And you’ll tell Father,” Angela said.

  “No,” her mother said. She paused. “Not without asking you first.”

  She clapped her hands. The door opened, revealing Marie. “Take Angela to her bedroom and get her ready,” she ordered. “She must look her best.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Marie said.

  Angela barely had any time to think over the next hour or so. Marie was ruthless, scrubbing every inch of her body and then combing through her hair until it shone. Angela would have resisted if she hadn’t been lost in her own thoughts. The fix was definitely in. Finley was going to propose to her in front of hundreds of people, all of whom were wealthy and powerful . . . apart from the ship’s crew, she supposed. But they didn’t really count.

  “I hope you’re planning to give me underwear,” she jibed as Marie laid out the dress, a soft blue design, elegant and understated. “I’m not walking through the ship without panties.”

  She half hoped to provoke an argument—a shouting match might have made her feel better—but Marie didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she opened a small box and passed it to Angela. A small pair of panties waited for her, clearly designed not to be visible under the dress. And probably expensive as hell . . . she looked at the jewels on the table and shook her head in disbelief. She hadn’t seen them before, which meant they were probably new. God alone knew how much money her father had spent on her proposal dress . . .

  Mother must have crammed them into her bags, she thought. She wondered, suddenly, just how much money her father had spent on her wedding. He’d have to make it look good, even if it was on a cruise liner. Perhaps we could save enough money to avoid bankruptcy if we canceled the wedding.

  Of course not, her own thoughts replied. Do you really think your wedding will cost trillions of crowns?

  “You look lovely,” Marie said. “Don’t you just?”

  Angela eyed herself in the mirror. The blue dress suited her, she admitted crossly. It flattered her figure without revealing much and brushed against the deck . . . she was tempted to wonder if she could go barefoot. Gold Deck was carpeted everywhere, and no one would notice, but she knew it wasn’t possible.

  “I look like I’m going to my own funeral,” Angela said.

  “Then put a smile on your face,” Marie said. “You’ll feel better.”

  Angela didn’t feel better, not when she met Nancy outside or when her mother escorted her out of the compartment. A handful of others met them as they walked, her father’s cronies or her mother’s hangers-on. Angela felt bitter, grimly aware that she would have no opportunity to protest or escape.

  And Finley’s proposal is about as spontaneous as . . . as this trip, she thought sourly, as they turned onto the promenade. The lights of hyperspace winked at her. Angela suddenly understood why so many people believed that life existed in hyperspace, even though nothing had ever been proved. This is a farce.

&n
bsp; Finley was waiting midway down the corridor, escorted by three young men. His family or cronies, Angela assumed. Or maybe his governor . . . did Finley have a governor or governess of his own? He was certainly old enough to refuse if one was offered. But a bodyguard would make perfect sense. Angela hadn’t been allowed to leave the estate, even to go to shop, without an escort. Thanks to the war, there had been times when she hadn’t been allowed to go at all.

  Her mother touched her arm lightly, warning her to stop. Angela forced herself to paste a smile on her face as Finley knelt in front of her, moving with a surprising awkwardness for a man of his size. She wondered, sourly, if he’d made full use of the bodyshops . . . or if he was as nervous as she was. Perhaps he hadn’t been consulted before the deal had been done either. His family would be pissed if he screwed the union up before everything was sorted out.

  “Angela,” Finley said. His voice was quiet, too quiet. He had to clear his throat and start again. “Angela, I ask that you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage.”

  Angela couldn’t move. The world seemed to be graying out around her. He opened a box, revealing a ring . . . it would be perfect, of course. A simple gold band, topped with a diamond . . . exactly what she’d wanted back when she’d been a little girl. She hadn’t understood what marriage meant until she’d grown older . . .

  She was trapped. She couldn’t refuse. She was trapped.

  Carefully, very carefully, she took the ring from the box. A mad impulse struck her, a desire to throw the ring down the promenade, but she knew she couldn’t. Her family and millions of others were depending on her. Their human sacrifice.

  “I accept,” she said. She slid the ring onto her finger, even though she knew the gesture was meant to be his job. A flicker crossed his face, so quickly that she barely registered the expression before it was gone. “Thank you.”

  Gritting her teeth, she took his arm, helped him to his feet, and leaned in for a kiss. His lips were warm, but she felt nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “You do realize you’re being silly,” Carla said. “There is no way she was yours.”

  Matt scowled at her as they walked down the crew corridor. Four days had passed since the captain had announced the engagement of Finley Mackintosh and Angela Cavendish, and the datanet was buzzing with gossip. The hearts she’d broken . . . everyone was twittering about how beautiful she was and his handsomeness. Matt felt sick, even though he knew Carla was right. Angela had never been his.

  He looked around the corridor, unwilling to meet his colleague’s amused gaze. The crew corridors were bare, so bare that the absence of paintings and carpeted floors was all too clear. He could see patches of dust in places no passengers would ever see, while the passageways on the far side of the bulkheads were swept every day—one hell of a dance for the cleaning crews, who weren’t supposed to be seen, and one hell of a sign that Angela and he came from very different worlds. He was, most definitely, being silly.

  “Bah,” he said finally.

  Carla poked him, none too gently. “If you walk around some of the lower decks with a boyish smile, I’m sure someone will lure you into their cabin,” she said. “And if you’re careful, you probably won’t even miss your shift!”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Matt said. He gave her a sharp look. “And how many guests have you slept with?”

  “Enough,” Carla said tightly.

  Matt looked away, embarrassed. The old sweats hadn’t made any bones about it. Being ogled—or worse—was just part of the job. He didn’t think he’d mind too much if a middle-aged woman dragged him into her cabin for a few hours of bedroom gymnastics, but Carla might feel differently. She probably did feel differently. Matt found it hard to imagine having a fat middle-aged man riding him . . .

  He swallowed, hard. Carla was young and stunningly pretty. She’d attract attention, and some of her admirers wouldn’t be gentle. Nor would they be shy about pressuring her into their bed. And, he told himself again and again, there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it without losing their job. As long as there was a fig leaf of consent, Corporate would look the other way.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  Carla sighed. “It’s part of the job,” she said. “But I’ll be handing in my notice when we return home.”

  Matt winced. “I’ll miss you.”

  “You’ll miss the chance to ogle me at night,” Carla teased. “Or did you think you were being subtle?”

  “. . . No,” Matt said. His face was as red as her hair. “I’m sorry.”

  “Keep it in your pants,” Carla advised. She held up a hand as they reached the service hatch and keyed the access panel. “You’ll get into less trouble that way.”

  The hatch opened, revealing a half-hidden entrance to the passenger deck. Matt followed her through quickly—Corporate demanded that the entrances were to be kept as secret as possible—and closed the hatch behind them. A handful of young men were marching down the corridor, arms interlocked as they bawled out a bawdy song about a girl who had a different boyfriend for every day of the week.

  His earpiece bleeped. “France, you are summoned to Cabin Gold-17,” the dispatcher said. “Evans, you are ordered to check the observation blister.”

  Matt and Carla exchanged glances. “The observation blister, sir?”

  “The intruder alarm sounded,” the dispatcher said. “Security is standing by, if you need them.”

  “Joy,” Matt muttered. Carla was going in entirely the wrong direction. The observation blister was supposed to be sealed. Whoever had managed to get inside might not like being caught. “I’m on my way.”

  “It’s probably someone making love under the stars,” Carla said reassuringly. “You’ll be fine.”

  Matt jabbed a finger towards the bulkhead. “There are no stars out there.”

  “You know what I mean,” Carla said. “Good luck.”

  Matt watched her go, then walked slowly towards the access hatch. Technically, the observation blister was part of Gold Deck, but . . . the guests weren’t meant to get inside without permission. There was no need for them to get inside. If they wanted to see the stars, or hyperspace, they could just walk into the promenade. Dozens of rich guests were doing just that, taking their exercise under hyperspace. He didn’t care to understand what they thought they were doing.

  Probably just making it clear that they’re actually here, he thought as he passed a handful of older men going in the other direction. Just being able to take a cruise with us is a sign of vast wealth.

  He tensed as he reached the access hatch and checked the panel. A light was silently burning, warning him that someone was inside. A happy couple, making love? Or someone who merely wanted privacy? Or . . . he wished, suddenly, that he had a weapon. If he was about to interrupt someone planning to sabotage Supreme, he was probably about to die. All the horror stories of guests who smuggled WMDs onboard suddenly seemed very plausible.

  The hatch hissed open, revealing a tiny bubble peering out into hyperspace. It was completely bare, save for a single bench in the exact center of the tiny room. A girl was sitting on the bench, her back to him. Matt allowed himself a moment of relief—at least he hadn’t interrupted people making out—and then cleared his throat. The girl started, then turned around.

  “Nancy Cavendish,” Matt said. He frowned as he took in her appearance. Her eyes were so pale that they were almost gray. She was chewing on a strand of hair, meditatively. He wondered, just for a moment, if he should take her to Sickbay. She didn’t look well. “What . . . how did you get in here?”

  Nancy smiled. “The security panel is easy to twist, if you try,” she said. “It needs to be unlocked from the main system first.”

  Which is probably what set off the alarm, Matt thought. Nancy was very lucky a security team hadn’t come crashing in to find out what had happened. She disabled the lock, but not the moni
toring circuit.

  “This place is off-limits,” he said as gently as possible. “Why are you here?”

  Nancy jabbed a finger towards the transparent blister. Outside, hyperspace flashed and flared around the giant starship. “I like hyperspace,” she said. “Feels like coming home.”

  Matt lifted his eyebrows. “Because you were born here?”

  “Perhaps,” Nancy said. “Sometimes I hear voices out there.”

  “Voices?” Matt repeated. “What do they say?”

  “I don’t know,” Nancy said. “I can hear them, but . . . but it’s like they’re talking so quietly that I can’t make out the words.”

  Matt had no idea what to make of it. He’d heard the stories . . . alien sightings, unknown starships, incidents that defied rational explanations . . . but none had ever come with hard proof. They were just stories, the kind spacers told groundpounders when they wanted to mess with their heads. He didn’t believe that anything could actually live in hyperspace.

  “The universe is a big place,” he said instead. “There could be anything out there.”

  Nancy glanced at him. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  Matt hesitated. The honest answer was no, but that might upset her. And if she complained to her father . . .

  “No one does,” Nancy said. “They say it’s just my imagination.” She smiled. “Unless they’re saying that I belong in hyperspace.”

  “Perhaps you do,” Matt said.

  He shrugged to hide his confusion. He’d looked up the regulations governing pregnant women in hyperspace and discovered a puzzling mystery. There didn’t seem to be any legitimate reason for insisting that pregnant women travel in stasis, although most women wouldn’t be offered a choice. Trying to sneak a pregnant woman onto a ship when most passengers received a medical check before they boarded was grounds for having one’s travel permit revoked. Nancy was nearly unique—completely unique, if one believed her family’s publicity department—for good reason.