Master of Starlight

by Keith Short

  ‘I need to return you to your own quarters. I’m not sure what their attitude would be if they knew I’d brought you to see . . .’

  Might even find a way up there and climb out of a window.

  As soon as Sergei left her alone in her quarters, Magda powered up her computer. There had to be many emergency exits in this vast complex but, so far, her predictive model hadn’t determined the boundary profile. Her plan was a simple one. Select the preferred exit, memorise the routes towards it and wait for the opportunity to make a run for it. In those few seconds before Sergei realised what was happening, she could be round the first corner and out of sight. With nervous anticipation, she hit the return key.

  The modelling routine was doing its job. She rotated the 3-D image on her monitor screen. New rooms, corridors and elevator shafts appeared in red – the result of her programme’s probabilistic predictions. The extrapolation was working and the data from Sergei’s wafer seemed to be crucial. But there should be more than this. The new appendages on the diagram were far fewer than she’d expected and there was so much empty space in the image. That could only mean one thing – Sergei only used this particular wafer when he was with her. He uses another wafer when he moves about the place alone or when he leaves the main complex – if he ever leaves the complex. For the first time, Magda realised she would have to abandon her scheme. After all this, her current escape plan was a long shot – wishful thinking, something to occupy her mind and keep her mental capacity in shape until she could think of a credible escape plan. She already had such a plan. The thought of it twisted her guts but she’d have to go for it the next time she saw Sergei – that meant tomorrow.

  Sergei was more brawn than brain. His physique reminded Magda of Leon, but Leon’s beautiful mind shone so brightly against Sergei’s dull intellect. She played Sergei like an old Joanna that thought it was a Steinway and even persuaded him that regular visits to his quarters provided her with the psychological therapy she needed as a long-term inmate. Their discussions were becoming more open and Sergei was willing to answer more of her questions, but she had to be careful not to push him too far.

  ‘Tell me more about your time in the navy, my handsome sailor boy. Were the nuclear subs challenging in the technical sense?’

  ‘The technology is old but it wouldn’t be feasible to upgrade it. Modern computer installations require years of validation and everything has to be failsafe. This meant we were operating with equipment that was becoming obsolete and we had serious problems regarding spares.’

  How boring. Yet what he was telling her showed she was gaining his trust. He clearly had no qualms about divulging his state’s secrets to her.

  ‘What about living conditions on board?’

  ‘Cramped and foul-smelling. You only find out how bad the smell really is when you breathe the sea air after docking and when you see the maintenance technicians come on board pinching their noses.’

  ‘You never see a woman for months at a time. Did you have dirty pictures pinned up around the place?’

  ‘No glossy pictures allowed. The interior is covered in wall charts showing system diagrams and instruction sets.’

  Magda wanted to laugh at his dryness. ‘But all those hot-blooded men must feel randy at times.’

  ‘No time for that. Regular drills and exercises, constant inspection and testing of equipment – at the end of a shift, you just want to return to your bunk. And it’s often been slept in by another filthy sailor. Sex is the last thing on your mind.’

  ‘This place must seem like heaven after that. I can see why you were willing to come here to work. Do you have job satisfaction, Sergei?’

  ‘I had job satisfaction on the submarines. I was serving my country, making life safer for our citizens. But this job is also pleasurable. I love sport and physical fitness, I take pride in my achievements with . . .’ He looked sullen.

  ‘With me?’ She rested her hand on his thigh. ‘Don’t worry, Sergei, it’s normal. We get on well, don’t you think?’ She stroked his leg and observed the bulge she was creating in his tracksuit bottoms. ‘We could have a proper relationship, you know. But I couldn’t give myself to any man who wasn’t devoted to me. It would just be lustful animal sex. On the other hand, if we were both free people, outside . . . who knows what would happen?’

  ‘I think we need to end this conversation, Ana. I’ll take you back to your rooms.’

  They made the journey back to her living quarters in silence. Following the familiar routine, Sergei conducted her inside and said his farewells; she smirked to herself as he checked the pocket at the back of his joggers. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, lingering so he’d feel its warmth, and watched with a smile as he backed his way through the door. The seed was planted. Now she had to nurture it so his passion would grow into a love that would drive him to do anything she wanted. She sloped off into the bedroom and sat on the end of the bed. ‘Sorry, Leon, I have to do this,’ she said, as the tears ran down her face. ‘It’s for you, my love.’ She curled up on her bed and cried herself to sleep.

  For Magda, the most sensuous part of making love was the afterglow. Lying motionless on her back, under the single sheet on Sergei’s bed, she was aware of him watching her, studying her. But she didn’t look back at him. She covered her eyes with her forearm, hoping he wouldn’t notice the single tear she could feel running down the side of her cheek. She gave a long soft sigh, hoping he wouldn’t sense its falsity. With deep sadness, her thoughts drifted back to the first time she made love with Leon. It was the first time for both of them. Once again, she heard the tumbling piano notes of the Rachmaninov Rhapsody playing in the background.

  Leon’s new apartment was warm and welcoming that cold winter night ten years ago. The music faded, the lights dimmed and Leon stroked her hair. ‘I don’t need you any more, Magda.’

  ‘I know you don’t. You have me forever now.’

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘Is that another question for the Melomet?’

  He laughed.

  ‘Yes, Leon. When you become free.’

  ‘You sure you’ll turn up?’

  ‘I’ll ride to the church in a golden carriage, driven by angels.’

  ‘I thought you might do that.’ His kiss was soft on her cheek. ‘What we have between us is beautiful.’

  ‘You mean you still love me?’

  ‘Like the arrow of time.’

  ‘That means since before you were born.’

  She basked in the glow. Twin spirits back in the womb, she sensed the matching intensity of his feelings coming together with hers like a single strong beat.

  And now, for the first time in her life, she’d been fucked. She’d felt the brute strength of the man lying at her side, done her best to move to the rhythm of his pumping torso and let him lure her on to the rocks with his manly pheromones as his long deep thrusts powered them both to a climax within minutes. She was surprised at how they achieved orgasm at the same time, but it pleased her and she was sure he hadn’t detected the exaggeration in her orgasmic throes. He’d be happy about his conquest and she’d achieved her first objective.

  But he wasn’t Leon. Despite the physical satisfaction, the sex left her emotionally flat. Now she must continue to cultivate his love while she sank inexorably into a trough of guilt. The encounter reassured her about her ability to ensnare him, yet she was beset by nagging doubts. Will all this be worthwhile?

  Magda sprawled on the couch in Sergei’s quarters. Her waxed legs protruded from under the silk robe and Sergei was stroking her pedicured feet. She’d been cooped up in this underworld for the best part of six months and when she thought of the amount of time she’d spent honing and pampering her body instead of her mind, she cursed herself. But the cerebral route to freedom was never going to work. She had to continue her seduction of Sergei.

  ‘Tell me a
bout Alexei Rodin.’

  ‘Nothing much to say. We may cross paths once a month, if that.’

  ‘But is he hands on, if you’ll excuse the pun . . . the business, I mean? Or does he just leave you guys to get on with the day-to-day running of this place?’

  ‘Rodin has a considerable say in what goes on, if that’s what you’re asking. Why are you interested?’

  ‘Just idle thoughts. You took me to meet him, remember? Not a profitable meeting for me, I hasten to add. He’s going to get his comeuppance one day.’

  Sergei sat up. She could feel the whole of his body stiffening at the remark. Rodin must have a strong hold over them all.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. He told me that any attempt to escape would be met with severe punishment. He was referring to my loved ones, the bastard.’

  ‘I suggest you don’t worry about it,’ he said tersely. ‘Put your feet back up, relax. I could tell you were enjoying that.’

  She lay back and let Sergei continue the foot massage. He was responsive tonight; they’d just had sex and until she raised the subject of Rodin, he was as relaxed as she’d ever seen him.

  ‘How many other girls work here, Sergei?’

  ‘Other girls? You don’t consider yourself as one of the workers, do you?’

  He was priding himself on his wit. But she could see through his delusion and it gave her the confidence to continue.

  ‘This complex is a huge place, but I rarely see anyone during my daily routine. I was just interested to know how many girls lived here. Do you know them all and which teams they belong to? Are they happy and well trained for what they do?’

  It was her mention of physical training that captured his interest. Once more, she had him on the hook. He gave her an enthusiastic account of the organisational structure, explaining yet again how the girls were well looked after. They were pampered like royalty – at least, in his eyes they were.

  ‘But how much do you know about them? Do you know where they come from? Do you monitor their performance?’

  ‘There is a database. It doesn’t tell you much but at least they’re all accounted for.’

  That was what she needed to hear. There could be some vital clues in that database. She pressed on with her line of questioning – squeezing gently so it soothed rather than agitated. According to Sergei, they didn’t have much information on her fellow inmates and the records were of variable quality. But from what he told her, it was clear that he had full personal access to this database.

  ‘I’d love to see that, at some stage,’ she said, trying to appear indifferent. ‘The whole thing fascinates me.’ She turned away from him and faked a yawn. ‘I’m so tired. Can you take me back to my apartment?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She was going to get what she wanted but she’d have to wait until the time was right. Don’t lose him now.

  The opportunity to access the database came within the next week – sooner than she’d hoped. Sergei’s computer was so sophisticated compared with the one Jakob had provided. ‘I’d forgotten what it’s like to use a modern system,’ she said, ‘yet they don’t let you use voice control.’

  ‘I’ve never used voice control, Ana. The computers on the subs were already fifteen years out of date by the time I joined the navy. They still had keyboards and you scanned with a mouse.’

  ‘What! You’re telling me you’ve never had a Melomet voice signature – at your age?’

  ‘That’s right. I suppose it’s also why I’m a bit slow on this modern equipment – as you’ve no doubt noticed.’

  Was that the blush of embarrassment she could see? ‘You’re happy for me to go ahead with this?’

  ‘I can’t see any harm. I’ll log in and leave you to it while I go and shower.’ He manipulated the touch screen. ‘There we are,’ he said as he handed her the control wafer.

  She took a deep breath. OK, let’s see what we can find. She scanned through Sergei’s directories – sports science, first aid, physiotherapy . . . of little value to her. She dug down a couple of levels – plyometrics, creatine phosphate energy systems . . . nothing of interest there. After five more fruitless minutes, she found what she was looking for. The folder was entitled Trainee Database – what else?

  Sergei startled her. ‘How are you getting on?’ Dressed in a towelling robe, his hair wet from the shower, she could smell the masculine peppery odour of his body wash. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. ‘Have you found anything of interest?’

  ‘This database,’ she said, pointing to the screen, ‘it’s password protected.’

  ‘Just for you . . .’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘There we are. I’ll go and make some coffee.’

  The database comprised a set of personnel records, grouped under the names of PTIs. To her disappointment, she couldn’t find Sergei’s name among them. What’s this? A separate directory under the name of Rodin requiring another password – damn it! Devoid of any other idea, she entered the name Alexei. It worked. Can’t contain anything of a confidential nature. The seven sub-directories in Alexei Rodin’s personal directory had alphanumeric names and were password protected. She’d seen this subterfuge before in her undergraduate days. She laughed to herself. No doubt Rodin imagined this to be tamper proof, whereas all that was required was a bit of manual decryption – simple for her.

  Sergei returned, glanced at the screen and placed her coffee on the desk. Clearly taking no interest in what she was doing, he drifted over to the armchair, out of sight of the computer.

  The sub-directories contained detailed records for individuals; perhaps these were the naughty girls, those who caused them trouble? The team they wanted me to manage? She cracked the encrypted code of the final directory. There was a rush of adrenalin. This one was about her. But why did it have two folders? She opened the first. The records revealed that her real name was Magda Tomala and that she was from Krakow in Poland. It provided a copy of her academic CV, but that would have been easy to obtain. There was little else. The second folder contained an old-fashioned portable data file – some kind of report, but its date succeeded her incarceration here. What’s this? She was a competent speed reader but as she scrolled through the report, she found herself slowing down and felt the blood draining from her face. She glanced across the room at Sergei; he was dozing. Just as well – if he looked at her now, he’d probably call for a doctor. She stared again at the screen.

  Oh, my God!

  PART 3 – 2020

  Falling Stars

  CHAPTER 26

  The sun cleared the last of the early morning Monaco mist and bathed the magnificent vessel in light. Oleg Malkin shielded his eyes from the glare and looked up from the quayside towards the white-uniformed figure on the yacht’s main deck. Surprised to find he could get this far without encountering security, it wasn’t until the commissar was halfway down the gangway that he realised he was about to be welcomed to Vladimir Chekhov’s home by a lone woman.

  ‘Bienvenue, Monsieur Malkin,’ she said, before switching to English. ‘I hope you had a pleasant journey.’ Her French and English sounded perfect, but Malkin wasn’t deceived – she was Russian.

  ‘Yes, thank you. The TGV is a most comfortable mode of transport.’ Slavic would already be on board, he imagined, flown in by private jet and helicoptered to the yacht. There’s no way I’m ever going to fly again.

  ‘If you could just hold your Fusion pass up to the scanner please . . . Thank you. Welcome to Glasnost.’

  The irony of the luxury yacht’s name amused him but did nothing to quell his nervousness as he followed the commissar through the upper decks. At every junction, a security officer bowed his head in respect yet followed him with his eyes as if some horrendous fate awaited at the end of the journey. Would this gauntlet ever end? The commissar finally invited him into an empty elevator. As the ele
vator descended, he leaned back against the side and gave a huge sigh of relief.

  The commissar smiled. ‘Almost there now, Mr Malkin. Don’t worry, most of Mr Chekhov’s visitors find his security staff intimidating. Between you and me, he does it deliberately.’

  They stepped out into a dimly lit lobby on the lower deck. ‘This is where you are to hold your meeting,’ the commissar said as she punched in the code to open the cabin door. ‘Please go in. Mr Chekhov will be along in a moment.’

  The tiny white LCDs scattered around the place were not enough to reveal the room’s contents and the silence unnerved him. A movement caught his eye. What was that?

  ‘Let me enlighten you,’ Vladimir Chekhov said as he appeared from nowhere with Roman Slavic. ‘Lights on!’

  ‘Lights on, Mr Chekhov,’ replied the Melomet.

  Malkin threw his hand over his mouth and gasped with shock. ‘Sharks!’

  They were everywhere; tiger sharks ranging between six and eight feet in length, their gills and mouths opening and closing in slow graceful rhythms as they glided past – circling him.

  ‘Ah, I see it now. The gap between the annular aquarium’s inner and outer walls isn’t wide enough to allow them to turn.’

  Chekhov laughed. ‘Yes, you are correct. Do you like them?’

  ‘It’s cruel, isn’t it?’

  ‘They don’t know that. They have a short-term memory, seconds only, and they act purely on instinct.’ Chekhov walked slowly around the room’s perimeter. He stopped and held his palm flat against the glass as the big fish squeezed by, its predatory black eye staring menacingly towards him. ‘Beautiful, aren’t they? A perpetual unidirectional roundabout of predators.’

  ‘This is a remarkable place,’ said Malkin.

  ‘This is my thinking room. It reminds me that I have enemies and that I must always know who and where they are. They stalk me day and night but my protection is impenetrable and, even if it could be breached, it would mean certain death for them. That is why I don’t fear them. But don’t panic, gentlemen,’ Chekhov said, smiling, ‘I’m not going to feed you to the sharks. Now, to business.’