The Hyperspace Trap
Professionally Published Books by Christopher G. Nuttall
Angel in the Whirlwind
The Oncoming Storm
Falcone Strike
Cursed Command
Desperate Fire
ELSEWHEN PRESS
The Royal Sorceress
The Royal Sorceress (Book I)
The Great Game (Book II)
Necropolis (Book III)
Sons of Liberty (Book IV)
Bookworm
Bookworm
Bookworm II: The Very Ugly Duckling
Bookworm III: The Best Laid Plans
Bookworm IV: Full Circle
Inverse Shadows
Sufficiently Advanced Technology
Stand-Alone
A Life Less Ordinary
The Mind’s Eye
TWILIGHT TIMES BOOKS
Schooled in Magic
Schooled in Magic (Book I)
Lessons in Etiquette (Book II)
Study in Slaughter (Book III)
Work Experience (Book IV)
The School of Hard Knocks (Book V)
Love’s Labor’s Won (Book VI)
Trial By Fire (Book VII)
Wedding Hells (Book VIII)
Infinite Regress (Book IX)
Past Tense (Book X)
The Sergeant’s Apprentice (Book XI)
Fists of Justice (Book XII)
The Decline and Fall of the Galactic Empire
Barbarians at the Gates (Book I)
The Shadow of Cincinnatus (Book II)
The Barbarian Bride (Book III)
HENCHMEN PRESS
First Strike

THE HYPERSPACE TRAP
Christopher G. Nuttall

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Christopher G. Nuttall
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503949096
ISBN-10: 1503949095
Cover design by Mike Heath | Magnus Creative
Printed in the United States of America
Author’s Note
The Hyperspace Trap is set in the Angel in the Whirlwind universe—and takes place after Desperate Fire—but is designed to be completely stand-alone. Kat Falcone and her comrades will return in the next story arc.

Prologue
It was hard, so hard, to think.
The drain was all-consuming, tearing at his mind as if they wanted to pluck his thoughts from his brain-sac. Tash could barely extend his eyes, let alone rise and crawl forward on his tentacles. The deck felt odd beneath him, as if on the verge of coming apart. His eyesight was flickering and flaring, fading in and out of existence. He had to focus on each motion just to move . . . his body was betraying him. They were draining him too.
Focus, he told himself. His claws and tentacles lashed the deck, frantically, as he struggled to get to his feet. It should have hurt, but it didn’t. His tentacles were numb. Get to Engineering.
His mind blurred, just for a second. Or was it longer? He didn’t know. Perhaps he was dead and in the seven hells, or perhaps he’d died . . . perhaps they’d all died. Maybe the others had suffered enough to be released from their sins, to go onwards . . . he wanted to believe it, even though he knew it was nonsense. He was a rationalist. The seven hells didn’t exist. They existed. He knew they existed, but they were not demons. They were . . .
He stumbled over a body and nearly fell. For a moment, he thought the body had reached out to grab him before realizing that his tentacles were spasming. Shame gripped him as he stumbled backward, an embarrassment that tore at his soul. He hadn’t lost control of himself like that since he’d been a child, dozens of solar cycles ago. Oddly, the shame gave him an opportunity to focus his mind.
He had to go on.
The body lay there, mocking him. An egg-layer, drained of life. Her tentacles were splayed out, suggesting utter hopelessness. Tash forced himself to look away and crawl onwards despite the looming sense that it was futile. The ship had been trapped long enough for him to lose all hope that they would escape. They were watching. He could hear them mocking him as he crawled . . .
. . . or was it his imagination? It was hard to be sure.
Time blurred as he moved down the long corridor. The ship was silent, the emergency alarms gone. He’d darted along the corridors until he knew them as well as he knew his own nest, but now they’d taken on a nightmarish aspect, as if he were walking through a dream. The lights rose to blinding levels, then faded until they were so dim he could barely see. Bodies were everywhere, lying where they’d fallen. The entire crew could be dead.
It felt like years before he finally made it to the engineering compartment, decades before he forced the hatch open and crawled inside. Other bodies lay on the deck, unmoving. Tash flinched, despite himself, as his eyes found the engineer. The egg-bearer had been strong in life, respected and feared by the crew. Now his body seemed shrunken, his tentacles spread out in silent supplication. It hadn’t saved him from them.
Tash’s mind ached. He thought he heard someone howling. The sound tore at him as he moved over to the nearest console and pressed his tentacles against the reader. There was a long pause, just long enough for him to start fearing that the power was too far gone for the neural link to engage, and then the system opened up to him. A status report blinked into his mind, confirming his worst fears. There were no other survivors. He was alone.
The howling grew louder, mocking him. His thoughts threatened to fragment, either into their domain or utter madness. Or both . . . he couldn’t tell if they were real or nothing more than a figment of his imagination. Others had heard them, hadn’t they? He couldn’t swear to it. The madness that had gripped the crew, as soon as they found themselves in this cursed place, made it impossible to trust his own mind. He had no idea why he’d survived.
He forced his mind into the computers. They opened, recognizing his authority as the last surviving crewman. It would have been a heady thought—command at his age—if the situation hadn’t been so serious. Tash knew it would not be long before he too was dead.
The computers felt sluggish, the neural link popping up constant warnings. A power glitch while his mind was within the computers might kill him, or worse. Tash ignored his fears as he surveyed the command network, tracking the power drain. It was growing worse. The computers, thrown back on their own resources, were trying to compensate, but the maneuver wasn’t helping. They were draining the ship dry.
That’s what they wanted, he told himself. His thoughts were starting to fade. He blanked out, then awoke. They wanted the power.
He probed the network, locating the antimatter storage pods. They glimmered in his mind like poisonous jewels, a harsh reminder that their power came with a price. If the containment fields failed, the entire ship would be vaporized. They would be pleased. He forced his mind onwards, isolating the storage pods from the rest of the power grid. It might just be enough to safeguard their cargo from them. There was certainly no evidence that they could just reach out and take the antimatter.
The howling grew even louder. Tash flicked his tentacles in satisfaction, disengaging his mind from the computers and slumping to the deck. They were angry. His vision was starting to blur again, the world fading to darkness . . . this time, he doubted he’d recover. His entire body felt sluggish, unable to move. He would join the rest of his comrades in death, but . . . but at least he’d spited them. His mind remained his own. They couldn’t touch him. Whatever they were, they couldn’t touch him . . .
. . . and then the darkness reached out and swallowed him.
Chapter One
“Well,” Captain Paul VanGundy said, “that was a good dinner.”
“The cooks are practicing,” Commander Jeanette Haverford said. “They’ll be passing anything that’s less than perfect to us, once we get under way.”
“Compared to marine rations,” Security Chief Raymond Slater offered dryly, “this is heaven.”
Paul smiled in genuine amusement. The three of them sat together in his stateroom, finishing a dinner that had been put together by Supreme’s cooks. Paul couldn’t have named half the dishes at the table before he’d left the Royal Tyre Navy and signed up with the Cavendish Corporation, but he had to admit they were very good. The dinner hadn’t been something he could have afforded off duty. Going to a ten-star restaurant cost as much as he made in a month.
They made an odd trio, he thought as he surveyed his two subordinates. Jeanette radiated calm authority, her short brown hair framing a dark face that betrayed no hint of vulnerability. Her clothes were designed to diminish her form, hiding the shape of her body behind a tailored blue uniform. Beside her, Raymond Slater looked very much like the spark plug he’d been before leaving the Marine Corps. His rugged face had a certain unkempt charm—he’d been ordered to have his scars removed when he’d signed up with the corporation—but he’d never win any beauty awards. Instead, he looked like a man no one would want to mess with. That, Paul knew, was a very good thing.
Paul himself looked older than his sixty years. Older men commonly had themselves rejuvenated until they looked to be in their midtwenties, but the corporation’s image experts had insisted that Paul had to look wise and dignified. They’d designed him a look—graying hair, gray beard, blue eyes, strong jaw—and convinced his superiors that he should wear it. Paul had a feeling he’d been lucky to keep his muscle tone. The captain of a cruise liner couldn’t go around looking like a bodybuilder, let alone someone who had their muscles touched up every month in a bodyshop.
Blasted image experts, he thought sourly. It wasn’t something he’d had to endure in the military. They’d been far more concerned with beating back the Theocracy and carrying the war to Ahura Mazda. They’ll put style over substance any day.
He cleared his throat. “We’ll probably be glad to get ration bars when we’re under way,” he said. “Right now, we have different problems.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeanette said.
Paul tapped a switch. A holographic image of Supreme materialized in front of them, hovering over the table. As always, the giant cruise liner, a kilometer from prow to stern, took his breath away. The vessel had none of the crude bluntness that characterized military starships, none of the brutal efficiency he recalled from the navy. Instead, there was an understated elegance that made him smile. Supreme was no warship. She was practically a work of art.
He leaned forward, drinking in her lines. The starship was a flattened cylinder, studded with giant portholes . . . practically windows. Two green blisters, each one easily larger than a naval destroyer, marked the upper gardens; a third blister, blue instead of green, marked the swimming pool. The bridge, a blister on top of the massive starship, made him smile. It looked good, but he knew it was horrendously vulnerable. A military starship could not have such a vital installation in an exposed position.
“We’ve all written our final reports,” he said slowly. He felt nervous, even though he was damned if he’d admit it to anyone. “Is there anything you didn’t bother to mention?”
“I believe I listed all of my concerns,” Jeanette said. “The crew is well trained, but far too many of them are inexperienced. I’d prefer to swap some of them out with more experienced crewers.”
“HQ says there aren’t many experienced personnel to spare,” Paul said. He ground his teeth in frustration. The military drawdown was well under way, despite the chaos pervading the Ahura Mazda Sector. There was no reason the corporation couldn’t hire a few hundred experienced spacers. “We’re getting some newcomers, but . . .”
He shrugged expressively. A cruise liner was not a military starship. He had to keep reminding himself of that. There were just too many differences in everything from purpose to training for him to rest comfortably. The months he’d spent learning the ropes had convinced him that all newcomers required training before they could take up posts on a cruise liner. Perversely, someone who hadn’t been in the military had less to unlearn.
And most of the hosting staff don’t need military experience, he thought. They’re civilians through and through.
Jeanette pointed at the hologram. “I’ve got the crew working their way through a series of drills with all the usual actors, sir,” she said. “However . . . there’s a difference between training and reality. Most of our junior crewers will still be on probation until the end of the voyage.”
“Some of them didn’t quite take the training seriously,” Slater rumbled. “It wasn’t real.”
Paul nodded. He’d graduated from the naval academy at Piker’s Peak—and Slater had passed through boot camp—but Jeanette and the other crewmen had gone through their own intensive training course. The operations crew were as well trained as many of their naval counterparts, while the host crews had gone through a whole series of simulations and exercises. Indeed, they had endured a surprising amount of cross-training. He could put half the host crew to work on operations if necessary.
He’d been astonished, upon being given access to the corporation’s files, to discover just how much trouble civilian crews had to handle. Passengers—some of whom were extremely wealthy and powerful—just didn’t know how to behave. The crew had to cope with everything from drunken fights to outright misbehavior, behavior that would have earned a military officer a spell in the brig followed by a dishonorable discharge. He’d watched some of the exercises and come away with a new sense of appreciation for his crew. It took a strong person to remain calm in the face of massive provocation.
“They’ll lose that attitude soon enough,” Paul predicted. The trainers might not have been able to chew out recruits—he’d never met anyone who could outshout a drill instructor—but they had other ways to deal with wayward students. “Real life will see to that.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeanette said. She held out a datachip. “Overall, our reaction times to everything from medical emergency to shipboard crisis are well within acceptable parameters. I’ve ensured that all cross-trained personnel are ready to switch jobs at a moment’s notice, just in case we need them.”
“Quite right,” Paul said. The Royal Navy had taught him that disaster could strike at any moment. Supreme might not have had to worry about going into battle, but she did have her own challenges. “Are there any staffing problems I should keep in mind?”
“I don’t believe there’s anything significant,” Jeanette said. Her lips twisted. “Some of our guests will be bringing their own bodyguards and servants, of course. They may need some additional training of their own.”
Paul kept his face expressionless. “Make sure they get it,” he said. “And make sure we have a record of their training. We may need to put them to use somewhere else.”
Slater snorted. “Their employers will hate that, sir.”
“If we need to borrow their servants, we’ll be past caring,” Paul countered. Supreme had over two hundred crewmen with medical training. A crisis they couldn’t handle would pose a severe threat to the entire ship. “Check their firearms licenses too, just in case.”
“Yes, sir,” Slater said.
Paul looked up at the display for a long moment. “Do you see any security threats?”
Slater took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Internally, no. The basic vetting process didn’t turn up any red flags. A handful of yellow flags—a few passengers were marked down for bad behavior on earlier cruises—but nothing else. I don’t see any reason to worry about our passengers.”
“One of them could be an impostor,” Jeanette commented.
“Perhaps.” Slater snorted again. “We’ll be running basic security checks, of course.”
“Of course,” Paul agreed.
He kept his thoughts to himself. The corporation ran security checks on everyone, from its senior officers and starship crews to third-class passengers. He’d glimpsed enough of the vetting process when he was being hired to know that it was almost as comprehensive as anything demanded by the government’s intelligence services. Passengers who might be a problem would be required to spend the trip in a stasis pod, if they were allowed to board at all. Far more likely, they would simply be denied passage. Lower-grade passenger starships were plying the spacelanes, after all.
“I’ve also run my security teams through a series of exercises,” Slater continued. “If necessary, we can isolate compartments or entire decks and then clear them by force. We’ll be as gentle as possible, of course, but by that point we might be far beyond any gentle solution. At worst, we can dump knockout gas into any compartment and then pick up the sleeping beauties.”
“Which will probably get us all fired,” Jeanette said. “Out the nearest airlock . . .”
“Probably,” Slater said. “I should remind you, at this point, that we do not have comprehensive surveillance of the entire ship.”
“The passengers would pitch a fit,” Jeanette commented.
“Yes,” Paul said.
He shook his head in wry amusement. Supreme wasn’t just a passenger ship. Travel on her was an experience. She had everything from a casino to a brothel, just to make sure that her passengers traveled in luxury. Even the third-class passengers, the ones who’d be crammed into tiny cabins on the lower decks, would have access to the entertainments. The thought of being recorded, even for security purposes, would horrify them. They’d be worried about blackmail or worse.
“I am aware of the issues,” Slater said stiffly. “It is also my duty to make you aware of the implications. We may not be able to react to a crisis until it is already out of hand.”
“I know,” Paul said.
Slater didn’t look mollified. “A number of our passengers are also prime targets for kidnap,” he added. “While I have no reason to suspect internal trouble, I have to warn you that there is a prospect of being intercepted. I’d be much happier if we had an escort.”
“So would I,” Paul admitted. Supreme wasn’t defenseless, but she was no warship. A destroyer could take her out if a captain had the nerve to close with the target. “I believe that Corporate is still trying to organize one.”
“There have been no reports of pirate activity,” Jeanette added. “We’re not going to fly through the Ahura Mazda Sector.”
“A good thing too,” Slater said. He looked at Paul. “Captain, I strongly advise you to ensure that we stay well away from any hyperspace storms. Who knows what they’re hiding?”
“We will,” Paul said. Pirates were a threat. The Royal Navy had driven them out of Commonwealth space before the war, but they’d been on the rise when the navy’s attention had been diverted. It might take some time for the navy to resume its patrol routes and drive the pirates back out. “If nothing else, we can probably outrun any pirate ship.”
“I wouldn’t take that for granted,” Slater said. “Robert Cavendish alone is worth a stupid amount of money.”
Paul fought hard to keep his face expressionless. Robert Cavendish was one of the richest men on Tyre, perhaps the richest. Only the king and a handful of other aristocrats came close. He should have been a duke, and would have been if he hadn’t been more interested in building his empire. And he was Paul’s ultimate boss. It was a recipe for trouble.
“True,” Jeanette agreed. She shot Paul a sympathetic look. “Doesn’t he have his own personal yacht?”
“I imagine so,” Paul said. Cavendish was rich enough to own and operate a starship the size of a superdreadnought. Hell, he didn’t really need one. A smaller ship could offer as much comfort as a full-sized liner without having to employ over a thousand crewmen. “But there’s nothing to be gained by debating it.”
“No, sir,” Slater agreed. “I suspect there is more to this cruise than simply traveling from place to place.”
Jeanette gave him an odd look. “What makes you say that?”
“I read the passenger manifest,” Slater said. “It isn’t just Robert Cavendish. It’s his close family and a number of cronies and hangers-on. And a number of smaller businessmen and nobility, enough to occupy an entire deck. I suspect they’re preparing a private planning session in between spending most of their time in the casino.”
“Joy,” Paul said. He rubbed his forehead. Slater was right. Supreme would be a magnet for pirates, insurgents, and everyone else with an axe to grind. He’d even raised the issue with Corporate, only to be told to shut up and soldier. Reading between the lines, he’d come to the conclusion that Corporate wasn’t happy either. “Keep a close eye on the situation.”
“Yes, sir,” Slater said.
He took control of the display, adjusting the hologram to show off the weapons emplacements. Paul couldn’t help feeling that Supreme, for all of her elegance, looked faintly ridiculous. Her design was just too inefficient. But then a full-sized superdreadnought wouldn’t win any beauty awards. All that mattered was smashing her enemies as quickly as possible before they smashed her.
“The weaponry crews are still drilling on the latest tactical simulations,” Slater said. “I believe we could hold our own long enough to escape a pirate ship. A regular military ship, however, would eat us for breakfast. Far better to avoid contact.”
“And we will,” Paul said. “They’ll have some problems intercepting us.”
“Unless they’re trailing us at a safe distance,” Slater said. He flipped the display to show a star chart. “And they do know where we’re going.”
Paul exchanged glances with Jeanette. He had some leeway—he could alter course, once they were in hyperspace—but he had to take Supreme to her listed destinations. He couldn’t refuse to go to a particular world unless he had a very good reason. Corporate would be very annoyed with him, even if he could prove the world was under siege. If there was one thing corporations and the military had in common, there was always someone flying a desk who thought he knew better than the man on the spot.
“If we can get an escort, we’ll be safe,” he said firmly. “And if we can’t, we’ll fly an evasive course. No one is expecting us to arrive on a precise date.”
Jeanette smiled. “How lucky for us.”
“Quite,” Paul agreed.
He glanced from Jeanette to Slater. “Are there any other matters that need to be addressed?”
Jeanette smiled mischievously. “Mr. Cavendish and his family will be expecting a formal welcome, sir,” she said. “You’ll have to dress up for it.”
Paul tried not to groan. The regular uniform was bad enough—whoever had designed their attire clearly didn’t have to wear them—but the dress uniforms were worse. His outfit was covered in so much gold braid that he looked like an admiral from a comic opera navy, while the midshipmen and stewards resembled military captains and commanders. He’d never been able to shake the feeling that people were laughing at him behind his back whenever he wore the dress uniform.
“Select a handful of junior officers and stewards to join the reception,” he said. The order was mean of him, but he might as well spread the misery around. Besides, he’d never met Robert Cavendish. The man might take offense if only a couple of people greeted him. “How many others do I have to meet and greet?”
Jeanette made a show of consulting her terminal, as if she didn’t already have the information locked away in her mind. “There are three other passengers of sufficient status to warrant a personal greeting from you,” she said. “It would also build goodwill if you were to spend some time in each of the lounges.”
“I’m sure it would,” Paul said. He told himself not to take it too personally. Kissing hands and buttocks—hopefully metaphorically—was part of his job now. Besides, he did have a good crew. Jeanette could handle anything that might reasonably be expected to happen while they were in orbit. “Is there anything else?”
“Mr. Cavendish might demand your personal attention, sir,” Slater said. “We had a number of high-ranking guests on Capricorn. They seemed to believe that Captain Hammond was their personal attendant.”
“And he does pay the bills,” Paul said. “Do we have anything on his previous conduct?”
“No,” Jeanette said. She met his eyes. “In his case, sir, that might be meaningless.”
Paul nodded stiffly. The host crews kept files on their guests, files that were shared with other host crews. He’d heard they were even shared between corporations, although it was technically against corporate guidelines. An unpleasant passenger would discover that his reputation had preceded him.
And a good passenger would have the same experience, he mused. It wasn’t something he wanted to discourage. But in a better way.
“It might,” he agreed.
He pressed his hands together, tiredly. It was probably a good sign. He’d seen some of the files. A number of people, powerful people, had been marked as everything from being lousy tippers to having wandering hands. Robert Cavendish wouldn’t have been spared.
“I think we can hope for the best,” he said. “Are there any other matters?”
“We may run out of special ultra-expensive Scotch,” Jeanette said. Logistics was her responsibility. “The shipment from Nova Scotia was delayed apparently.”
Paul smiled. “Let’s hope that’s the worst problem we face,” he said. “They’ll have to drink expensive Scotch instead.”
“Disaster,” Slater said, deadpan. “The end of the world.”
“I’m sure some of them will feel that way,” Jeanette agreed.
Chapter Two
“Wake up, you lazy bastard,” a female voice said. “You’re late!”
Junior Steward Matt Evans sat upright, confused. Where was he? He’d been out late last night on Downunder Station, barely managing to catch the departing shuttle back to Supreme. His head felt as though someone had opened his skull and crammed it with cotton. Several minutes passed before he remembered that he’d made it back to the ship and his bunk before collapsing into blessed sleep. He’d been lucky. A few minutes longer in the pleasure bars would probably have cost him his career.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “What time is it?”
“Oh-eight-thirty,” Carla France said. She was stripping off her nightclothes as she spoke. “The others are already on their way to breakfast.”
“Fuck,” Matt said again. He’d stuffed a handful of ration bars in his locker, a precaution he’d learned from one of the old hands, but they tasted of cardboard. Not that it really mattered, he told himself as he reached for his water bottle. There was no time to go for a proper breakfast before he was expected on duty. He would just have to make do. “I need a shower.”
“And a shave,” Carla told him bluntly. “What were you drinking last night?”
Matt couldn’t remember. The stewards had been granted leave following an endless series of emergency drills, which had started to blur together in his mind, and he’d spent the day in the pleasure bars. Wine, women, and song . . . more of the wine than anything else, if his pounding head could be trusted. Carla passed him a sober-up without comment. Matt took the tab and pressed it against his neck, wishing she’d thought to wake him earlier. But he’d only have felt worse.
Carla turned and headed for the washroom. Matt watched her go, silently admiring her nude body. Like him, she’d been to the bodyshop. Corporate insisted on a specific image for its stewards, and neither of them was in any position to object. Carla was twenty-two, the same age as Matt, but her long brown hair, heart-shaped face, and hourglass figure made her look nineteen. Matt felt his cock stir and flushed, embarrassed. Corporate also had very strict rules against stewards winding up in bed together, which had been drilled into him after he’d signed up for the job.
Down boy, he told himself. He wasn’t used to casual nudity. His homeworld had been a place where men and women were expected to cover themselves from head to toe. The old hands, those who had sailed on Supreme and other interstellar cruise liners, had sworn the younger hands would get used to it, but Matt found that hard to believe. It wasn’t easy to separate the tall tales from the bullshit. One of the very old hands had claimed, with a straight face, that he’d had a threesome with two very rich girls on Queen of Space. Matt hadn’t believed a word, although he did have to admit the story sounded more convincing than the incident with the female swimming team . . .
He stood and opened his locker, silently blessing his superior for insisting that he have everything sorted out before he left the ship. The ration bars were where he’d left them, their brightly colored wrappings silently mocking him. Rumor had it that decent-tasting ration bars existed, but he’d never met them. He unwrapped one and ate it slowly, taking a sip of water with each bite to help it go down. The bar tasted worse than cardboard.
Carla stepped out of the washroom. Matt caught a glimpse of her breasts and looked away, hastily. He didn’t have time to get distracted. He kept his eyes on the unoccupied bunks as Carla moved past him, then hurried into the washroom himself. It was a tiny compartment, barely large enough for a single man. He’d been told that the space had been deliberately kept small to limit the chances for hanky-panky, but he suspected a more reasonable explanation was that the corporation wanted to save money. Outfitting Gold Deck alone had probably cost more than the GPP of a stage-two colony world.
The corporation has money to burn, he told himself as he stepped into the shower and turned on the water. Thankfully the cruise liner didn’t have to ration water. He’d been told that military starships did ration water, although he didn’t believe it. There was no reason why water couldn’t be recycled or, if worse came to worst, harvested from a passing comet. They can afford a few minor luxuries.
He wanted to spend longer in the shower, but he knew he didn’t have the time. The drying field tickled over his skin as soon as he turned off the water, flicking droplets all over the compartment. Matt couldn’t recall who was on cleaning duty this week—the stewards were expected to keep their own compartments as neat and tidy as they could—but he hoped it wasn’t him. He’d been too busy over the last few weeks to keep track of the rota.
“Hurry,” Carla snapped from outside. She banged the washroom door. “You do not want to be late.”
Matt nodded and stepped out of the compartment, as naked as the day he was born. Carla paid no attention to him, for which he was grateful. She was already dressed and applying makeup, as if she needed it. He reached for his uniform and donned it, slowly and carefully. Senior Steward Dominic Falcon wouldn’t be pleased if his shirt wasn’t tucked in and his jacket brushed clean.
“Don’t forget your cap,” Carla reminded him. “We’re on greeting duty this morning, remember?”
“Yeah,” Matt said. He reached for his cap and placed it on his head. “Just give me a moment to check myself.”
He inspected himself in the mirror, feeling faintly out of place in his own body. The bodyshop hadn’t changed that much, but they’d done enough to make him feel as though a stranger was looking back at him. His short blond hair, blue eyes, smooth face, and muscular body were, according to the focus groups, just right for a young male steward. Matt wasn’t so sure—the body was a little too perfect—but Corporate wasn’t interested in his opinions. If the passengers wanted to be surrounded by beautiful people, male and female, the corporation would ensure that was what they got.
The white uniform clung to him, practically glowing under the light. He had enough gold braid to pass for a military officer or member of the command crew, even though he was a mere steward. He had little prospect of climbing any further than senior steward, he’d been warned. Matt didn’t mind too much, if he were honest. A few years on Supreme would be enough to set him up for life, particularly if he saved his wages or made sure to get a good reference from the corporation. There wasn’t that much demand for trained stewards outside the cruise liners, but he could take his skills to a hotel on Tyre if he wished.
“Looking good,” Carla said. She inspected him. “You’ve got muscles on your muscles.”
Matt did his best to ignore her. Whoever had designed the uniforms was a sadist. Comfort had been sacrificed for sex appeal. Neither of them was walking around naked, but they didn’t have to. A person with a little imagination could easily fill in the blanks.
We’re lucky we’re all reasonably handsome, he told himself. And we get to keep the look afterwards, if we like it.
He smiled. Toying with truth, the old sweats had claimed that Corporate had wanted to make sure all the male stewards were as ugly as sin, just so they couldn’t compete with the passengers when it came to attracting female attention. Or male attention, if the passengers swung that way. Matt was tempted to believe them. Corporate had inflicted other indignities on its stewards and the rest of the crew. At times he felt that his wages weren’t worth having to bow and scrape in front of people who obviously didn’t give a damn.
“You too,” he said as he reached for his wristcom and put it on. The device bleeped a moment later as it interfaced with his implants, then linked automatically to the shipboard datanet. He’d been warned, in no uncertain terms, not to leave his quarters without it. The wristcom wasn’t just for communicating; it gave him access to much of the ship. “Shall we go?”
Carla nodded and opened the hatch. Matt took one last look at the compartment—their superiors might decide to inspect the space at any moment—and then followed her down the starship’s bare corridor. The passengers . . . the guests, he reminded himself . . . never saw this part of the ship, unsurprisingly. Corporate had decided to save money by ensuring that crew passageways were left barren. The only decor was the corporate logo, visible on every hatch. Matt rolled his eyes in amused disbelief. There was no reason to believe that anyone had forgotten just who had designed and built the giant ship. Matt didn’t think there was anything, from the fittings in the staterooms to the gifts in the shop, that hadn’t come from the Cavendish Corporation.
A hatch hissed open in front of them, revealing the briefing room. Senior Steward Dominic Falcon was standing at the front, looking down at a datapad. He’d been luckier than his younger subordinates, Matt thought. The bodyshops had given him a more dignified appearance—gray hair, kindly eyes, commanding face—even though they had also made him look remarkably frail. Falcon couldn’t be much older than Matt himself, but he looked as if a strong gust of wind would blow him over. He’d been sailing on cruise liners for the last decade.
Matt followed Carla over to join the other stewards, nodding politely to a few of his friends and bunkmates. He hadn’t found much time to get to know his new crewmates as they’d spent the last two months either drilling or sleeping, but none seemed to be bad apples. Besides, they’d all been warned to keep their disagreements to themselves. No one would give a damn if a steward spent some time in the brig and then was unceremoniously dismissed when the starship reached the next port of call.
There was little chatter. Matt surveyed the chamber, feeling a chill running down his spine. The stewards didn’t look precisely identical—that would have been too creepy, even for Corporate—but they all had the same general appearance. Boyish good looks for the men, blatant sex appeal for the women. Focus groups insisted that they looked attractive to everyone, whatever their orientation. The old sweats hadn’t said much about that, on the record, but off the record, the new stewards had had quite a few warnings. It was astonishing what some guests wanted, apparently. And very few of the guests were used to hearing anyone say no.
Even the third-class passengers spent more on this cruise than I can earn in a year, Matt reminded himself. Corporate considers them more important than me.
Falcon cleared his throat as soon as the last couple of stewards hurried into the compartment. Matt allowed himself a sigh of relief. Traditionally, the unwanted jobs went to the latecomers . . . even though they’d technically arrived on time. The last thing he wanted was to get noticed. Meet-and-greet duty was bad, but there were worse tasks.
“Three minor updates,” Falcon said. He scowled at the newcomers as if they were personally to blame. “First, two of the casino staffers failed to return to the ship. They have not yet been located, but I’ve been informed that I may have to provide two replacements. This is not a good thing.”
Matt kept his face expressionless. The casino staff were technically separate from the rest of the crew for reasons he was sure made sense to someone in Corporate, but they’d had some cross-training. He didn’t envy whoever was picked to work in the casino. The tips were high, but so was the prospect of an unlucky gambler turning violent. He wasn’t looking forward to having to remove an unruly guest. The exercises had clearly indicated that he could do everything right and still get blamed. Corporate would sooner dismiss a steward, hopefully with a decent severance package, than fight a lawsuit in the courts. The bad publicity would override any sense of obligation to their employees.
“Second, the remaining cabins have been sold and the updated guest manifest has been uploaded,” Falcon continued. “Take a moment to inspect it. If you have any concerns, please feel free to mention them to me. As always, all reports will be treated in strict confidence.”
A flicker of disquiet seemed to echo through the compartment. Matt wasn’t surprised. This was his first cruise, but he’d heard the rumors. In theory, reports were private; in practice, the process didn’t always work that way. A prospective guest who’d been blacklisted or put on a watch list might sue, particularly if no evidence beyond rumor was presented that he’d been reported for anything. Matt didn’t think that Falcon would set out to betray his subordinates—the man was fussy, but decent—yet he also knew that Corporate might not give the senior steward any choice.
“Third, the roster for Gold, Silver, and Bronze Decks has been updated,” Falcon added. Two dozen wristcoms bleeped in unison as the roster was downloaded into their tiny brains. “If you have any problems, make sure you let me know by the end of gamma shift. I’ll publish the final roster tomorrow.”
Matt nodded. Only a brave steward would ask to be transferred. He rather doubted anyone would, unless it was their last voyage. Falcon had had to balance a whole list of priorities when putting the roster together. The best interests of the stewards were right at the bottom. He made a mental note to check the roster as soon as he could, although he knew his diligence hardly mattered. Whatever came his way . . . well, he’d have to suck it up. He wasn’t wealthy enough to afford his own cabin on a cruise liner.
Falcon spoke briefly, assigning duty slots. The latecomers found themselves heading to the casino, not entirely to Matt’s surprise. Others were assigned to supervise cleaning crews and inspect cabins, make-work as much as anything else. Matt forced himself to memorize who went where, just in case he needed to find any of his crewmates in a hurry. Stewards weren’t encouraged to socialize outside their own little circles.
“Steve, Danielle, Matt, Carla . . . you’re still assigned to meet-and-greet,” Falcon finished. “It will be the captain in charge, not I. Reread your protocol briefings; then report to the main shuttlebay for 0930. Do not fuck up.”
Matt swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
The others didn’t look any happier, he thought, which didn’t bode well. Carla and Steve had served on other liners before transferring to Supreme. They’d presumably gone through the duty already. He exchanged a worried glance with Danielle, who was as green as Matt himself, and then looked down at his wristcom. He’d already reviewed the protocol, but he would make sure to do so again before reporting to the shuttlebay. Fucking up in front of the captain might just get him a one-way ticket out of an unsecured airlock. VanGundy had practically boundless authority on his ship.
Although Corporate would probably be pissed if he upset the guests, Matt thought as Falcon continued to rattle off assignments. That would get him fired . . .
He pushed the thought aside. Falcon had raised his voice.
“The next few days are going to be chaotic,” the senior steward informed them. “Those of you who have been on other liners will know this already, but it will be worse here. You’ll find yourselves worked to the bone. Please rest assured that things will settle down—a little—once we open the vortex and get under way. We’ll have time to catch up then.”
And go over everything we did wrong, Matt thought. The exercises had been bad. Falcon and the other supervisors, all the way up to the XO herself, had made sure everything that could go wrong did go wrong. Some of us might even be marked down for doing our duty at the wrong time.
“Report to your assigned stations,” Falcon concluded. “And make sure you have a moment to check the duty roster.”
Carla snagged Matt as he headed for the hatch. “You did read the alert note, didn’t you?”
“Of course,” Matt said. Steve and Danielle fell in beside them. “Prostrate ourselves in front of them, never taking our heads off the deck until they walk past—”
Steve elbowed him. “These aren’t regular guests,” he said. “They’re our great . . . uh . . . something bosses. A hair out of place could get us in real trouble.”
“They might tip well,” Carla added. “But . . . better to be very careful.”
Matt groaned. “Should I try to take a sick day?”
“Only if you want to spend the next few days in Sickbay,” Steve said. “Dr. Mackey isn’t kind to malingerers.”
“You’d have to take something poisonous to make it convincing,” Carla added. “You really don’t want a demerit on your record now.” She made an unconvincing sickly face. “But we’re nothing more than ants to them,” she said. “I doubt they’ll pay any real attention to us.”
“Oh,” Matt said, “I hope you’re right.”