The Last Cruise Ship Sample

R Max Tillsley

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations, locations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

SAMPLE (CHAPTERS 1-3)

The Last Cruise Ship

Copyright © 2017 by R Max Tillsley

All rights reserved.

Revision 2

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Edited by Dionne Lister

Cover design by Angie Arland

Published by Black Sky Books

Magill, Australia

www.blackskybooks.com

ISBN 978-0-6481350-1-2

For every reader who has gone to work on a Monday morning wishing it was a Friday afternoon.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 1

“Where’s the DHI Aries sector report?”

Jeff Mahala, the ogre. A boss as indistinct as Matt’s last and, without doubt, peeled from the same mould as his next. The Commonwealth Revenue Bureau was full of tin-pot dictators like him, each trying to climb the pay-scale ladder, standing on the last rung, lips straining to kiss the arse of the boss above.

“Matthew, are you listening? It should have been on my drive yesterday.” Mahala stood over Matt like a warden.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I found a discrepancy in the silicon composite classification for customs. I’m still trying to track down which side the error is on.” Matt dared not look away from the large display filled with multiple CRB data sources. It was a total lie, of course. Not the discrepancy; that was true. With so many isolated data networks, it was easy for errors to compound. After all, thousands of corporations shifted goods and data into and out of Commonwealth space. However, he’d spent much of yesterday cruising the sheets until he’d run out of anything new. Don’t call me on it.

“I expect it before you go home. You know, if you spent less time daydreaming, you would get more work done. I mean, geez, how long have you been in that same damn chair? Two years? Three, four? Look at me. Twelve months and I’m a supervisor.”

“Sorry, I’ll have it finished soon.” Couldn’t Mahala just go away? It was a dead-end job, Matt was going nowhere and didn’t need el-capitan, only half a grade above, hassling him. What he did need was the job, so he let fear overwhelm his frustration.

“You better,” Mahala began, tapping on his own pad, “or there…”

Feeling a little dribble of sweat slipping down the back of his neck, Matt turned round. Mahala was staring down the corridor—at Lena Tai, a mousy woman who did some sort of art in her spare time. Matt turned back guiltily to the CRB screen, knocking the comparison pad with Delerian Heavy Industries data off his desk.

“Pull yourself together,” Mahala said. “Get the damn report done.”

Reaching down to grab the pad, Matt saw Mahala shaking his head as he left. At least Mahala was after someone else for a change. The prick was always on his back about the smallest things. Thankfully, it was Lena’s turn to suffer the wrath of the impotent—not that she deserved it any more than Matt.

Sudden guilt sent him mentally backtracking. It was wrong to wish Mahala on anyone. There had to be some solidarity among the downtrodden.

Could he buy her some time? “Mahala?”

Too little, too late. The walking douchebag had already begun on Lena. There was nothing Matt could do.

Guilt. A gnawing discomfort pressed against his pocket where a chip held his remaining funds. A glitch in the reimbursement forms had tripled the credits for his transport allowance. He’d eventually filed a request to fix it despite the temptation to let it slide. Without those credits, he barely had enough to update his personal pad during lunch. Getting sheets from across the sector could get expensive if you wanted the most recent shows, and living through others was better than living his shit life. A few credits here or there was nothing to the governmental behemoth.

They would never have noticed.

Probably.

But a voice in the core of his being refused the rationalisation for the crap that it was. The fact he’d even been tempted only added to his self-loathing.

He sighed. Better get some work done. If he were honest with himself—a state he was careful with—the error jarred in a way that almost piqued his interest. Almost. DHI was the biggest conglomerate on the capital planet, Aries. Which made them the biggest in the Commonwealth. They had fingers in practically everything, but were known for their heavy freighters. Matt neither knew nor cared why.

Half the time, he didn’t even check all the figures. He knew which ones didn’t really matter. Most of the variations were trivial, and no one noticed—a few thousand Chipped Credits either way. It would all come out in the wash. His corrections were pointless. Big numbers were strange that way. Where he struggled with every credit, an entire year’s wage was a mere rounding error to corporations.

Silicon composites, used in photonic processors, were dull in themselves. Everything had them. The input material was the thing. The linked shipments started as ultra-pure tin and bismuth. If Simon (a true guru in the world of shirking) hadn’t been on holiday, Matt would never have seen the logs. If he hadn’t run out of distractions, he’d never have looked. But there it was: highly taxed materials entering a small chip printer out in the Mantis system’s manufacturing belt, but only low-grade output reaching the DHI shipyard orbiting Aries III. They weren’t saving money. They’d missed transfer credits. He frowned. Were they diverting product elsewhere, trying to dodge export controls?

Matt wanted no part of that. Attention was bad. Luck was bad, and anything that looked otherwise was just trying to suck him in. Such as when he’d won a free entry to that ‘Race Like a Pro’ training course back in his college days—and crashed the damn thing. In space, empty gods forsaken space, he’d hit a micrometeoroid after accidentally dropping the deflector nodes. No one let him live it down. The video was shared to every single person in the system, copied from chip to chip in an esteem-crushing baton relay. Relief had only come in hiding, avoiding lectures, staying away from ‘friends’ and letting obscurity grow. Lesson one in life: keep your head down. Every time he forgot it, disaster ensued. Which meant it was best to un-see the error.

Except he already said something to Mahala.

Shit.

Coffee beckoned. He patted his chip and took a circuitous route through the beige foam forest, a prison of dullness compounded by monotony and topped with irrelevance. The cubicle walls absorbed sound, deadening any sense of camaraderie, building isolation. At least, they did so for him. Matt the loser. Matt the slacker. Matt the nobody. Matt, the guy by himself, despite the nearby graceful towers filled with thousands on a planet with over three-billion souls. Three-hundred floors up and he might as well have been in a ditch.

The vending machine was out of order.

“Balls.”

“Pardon?” It was a guy wearing a grey suit with the twisted silver piping of the pretentious.

“Nothing.”

He took a g-shaft down a few levels. At least on two-eighty-five, he was invisible to everyone, Mahala included.

insufficient funds

Insufficient income. Insufficient Matt. Why did he spend it so fast? He changed the order to a small, and the machine spat out a steaming cup. Out of money again. If he’d gotten a job with a corporation, they’d give away coffee. But he’d bombed in every face-to-face interview. And now he was fantasising about coffee. Could it get any worse?

Mahala was at the top of the g-shaft when he returned.

Balls. It could get worse.

“Kander? What are you doing? Is the report finished?”

Matt shrugged. “Sorry. I’ll get it done soon.”

“You’re pathetic, Kander. Is your life completely worthless? You don’t do any work, you dress like a slob and you’re going nowhere. I can’t wait until reviews. Career progression? Downwards. We’ll break the HR system trying to put that in.”

“Sorry. I’ll get it done now.” Matt lowered his eyes. He couldn’t stand seeing that smarmy haircut, slicked down, not a molecule out of place.

“You better.”

He had to do something now. It was hard to be fired from the government, but it was possible. The idea of having to get another job filled him with fear. Interviews again. Having to sit in front of people like Mahala and tell them why he was so great for a position he wouldn’t give a crap about—no one would believe that bullshit. Bombs away.

Chips. He looked up the standard ratios and did a quick calculation. It seemed fine. They had merely mislabelled the output. A check further along the supply chain revealed it was never picked up. A little unusual, but it didn’t really matter. Auditors were there to make sure the government got its due, not to hand money back. However, it needed to be a little sexier than that or Mahala would have him. No, not sexy, just more. Starting at the DHI shipyard manifests, Matt looked at other materials, switching to the CRB interface.

Leaning back, his gaze wandered to the ornamental crystal at his side. There had been a plant once. When it died, someone gave him the crystal, figuring it was the only growing thing he couldn’t kill. The input trays were dry, and it sat as fixed as him, as stuck as him.

The error was everywhere. No, that was an exaggeration. Some logs were fine. Prefab pools, exterior tinting sprays. The pools were confusing until he remembered something about cruise ships being the next big thing. Still, the damn glitch spread across categories from high-performance ceramics to W Boson concentrators, whatever they were. He didn’t need all that. Keep it simple.

Putting in a little effort, he built the report, running a few scripts that automated the bulk of his work. If anyone ever found his code on the duty network, he’d never repay the fine. All code needed to be verified, ensuring the networks remained dumb. It was another indiscretion to feel guilty about, but he was careful. It couldn’t do any harm. Two things: the composites, and something else that didn’t really matter. Yes, safety restraints. Who cares about them? This time, a bit of a manual touch was needed: garnish the report with a sprig of mealy-mouthed drivel.

It was eight before he dropped the report on Mahala’s drive and scurried out.

At least his transport pass still held trips, he noted with relief as he stepped onto the train. With a jolt, it slid from the station into free air and dropped further down, taking him away from the heart of the city, past where he grew up and out to the dilapidated fibrocrete towers. They were already talking about demolishing the lot to allow Sudeilia City room to expand. Jewel of the Commonwealth, it was called. What did that make him? The polishing grit left over at the end?

The train came to a halt depressingly far from his complex. Outside, it was cool. He climbed down ten flights, past the graffiti-stained paths and worn-out signs. His world had reset. Mahala had nothing on him. Tomorrow, he’d rinse and repeat. There would be new reports to file and pointless variances to ignore. His pad was still loaded with content. That was promising. However, a concern niggled at the back of his mind. The errors were almost systematic. He chided himself. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his problem. No one would care.

Would they?

Chapter 2

The train was crowded, leaving Matt no option but to stand and be knocked around every time it hit a station. Humanity spanned hundreds of systems, and they couldn’t make a train smooth? He was pretty sure it was deliberate—a way to keep the masses in their place. Or an underhanded plot to reduce the market for milkshakes. Outside, rain poured down the windows, blurring towers and green space alike. Dampness muted the stains on his worn navy suit, while rain-slicked hair sent drips down his spine. Mahala would be proud.

The carriage jolted at Wellago, throwing a smartly dressed woman against him. She was tall with frizzy hair, wore crosshatched pants, a tight blouse and too much perfume. Her jacket hung over one arm, and for an instant she rested a free hand on his chest. Naturally, his traitorous heart chose that moment to beat like a teenager’s.

“Sorry,” he said automatically as she moved away.

She gave a little smile. “No, it was my fault. These trains are terrible. I’m sure they’re getting worse.”

“Uh, yeah,” he responded with his throat closing up and his mouth drying. He looked down, away.

“Call me Kelly,” she said.

“Oh, uh, Matt.” Why is she talking to me? This is terrible. She doesn’t know anything about me. Don’t get your damn hopes up. He glanced around the carriage nervously. No one was looking his way. The guy to his right was reading some local sheets on a pad. Rebels strike again, or some other dull headline. Media loved to dress up the status quo and conceal the harsh reality: nothing ever changed.

“Are you alright?” She asked. “You look a little pale.”

He flicked a look up at her rich brown hair, cut in jagged steps, and her deep grey-green eyes. “I’m fine, really.” He added a weak smile.

“I usually try to get to work early, to avoid the crowds.” She changed her grip on one of the pale-blue poles that reached from floor to ceiling. “But I was slow getting up today. You know how it is. By Friday, who has any energy left? I apologise. I must sound so full of myself, rabbiting on about me. What do you do, Matt?”

Seriously, he thought, kill me now. You’re going to crash and burn, Matt Kander.

“I—I work for the CRB, the government,” he said lamely.

“Sounds interesting. What do you do there?” she shouted as the train stopped again and the noise of the storm crashed inside.

“It isn’t. I just work with numbers, checking things.” He reached for a railing near the ceiling and squeezed tightly.

She said something, but he couldn’t hear over the din. She leaned a little closer, wafting her perfume.

“I said, it sounds important, much more than my job. What sort of things do you check?”

Oh gods, he thought and peered at the train’s display hologram. Three more stops. His hand slipped along the railing, lubricated by nervous sweat. He willed his heart to calm, but it capriciously refused.

“I just audit customs. You know, when companies import and export goods, when they fly stuff around.”

“Oh.” She sounded about as disappointed as it was possible to be.

He shrugged. “That’s how I feel too.”

“This is my stop. See you round.”

The train halted, the doors swished open and she swished away. Matt slid his hands into his pockets and stared at his feet. Long ago, he built a wall around himself, a protective layer of insulation. Every time a crack formed, the world was ready to kick him in the guts.

Finally, his stop arrived. People shoved their way on as Matt squeezed and squirmed past. A man with a heavy jacket knelt right in front, sending Matt off balance as his shin connected.

“Sorry,” Matt said after a few lurching steps.

“No, no, it was my fault. I dropped my pad. Scratch free, and yes, no cracks.” The man turned it over and came smoothly to his feet.

Piercing green eyes caught Matt, and when the man put out a callused hand, he automatically took it. “Pascall Theroe. Pleased to meet you.”

“Uh, Matthew Kander.” What was it with people introducing themselves?

“How about a coffee or a tea? I do owe you for the inconvenience.” He put a hand on Matt’s shoulder.

Matt slipped away. “Ah, no thanks. I’m late. I’ve got to go, sorry.”

The man caught up as Matt started along the walkway. Further down, an offshoot connected to the hundredth floor.

“Oh, come on. You can spare a minute. I feel obligated. Or what about lunch on me? I don’t work far from here, and I am guessing you don’t either.”

Seriously? Matt railed inwardly. “I’m busy all day, sorry. Look, my work is over there. I really have to go.”

Matt picked up his pace and refused to look back. Some people couldn’t take a hint.

* * *

An untouched glass of water sat next to the crystal on his desk. No money for coffee, he’d misplaced his personal pad and he’d made a complete fool out of himself in the morning. And he’d turned down a coffee. He couldn’t wait for the day to be over. Mercifully, the office was quiet. Mahala was still catching up after a few days away for training, and the audit sets had been reshuffled. Nothing in Matt’s queue was assigned a due date earlier than next week. Shipments of linen and frozen protein could wait—coffee could not. Maybe he could mooch some.

He stood up and looked around. The level was busy. Tops of heads faced displays, some with headsets making calls and looking unreasonably focused. Stepping out of his cubicle, he looked back, automatically reaching for his pad. Stupid thing. Where could he have left it? A sit down in the lunchroom was exactly what he needed.

“Hey, Matt. I thought I saw you. Can I borrow you for a sec?” It was a kid, Tim, Tom or something like that. “I’m working on a claim against the spoiling of a shipment, modified starches I think. It was flagged as suspicious over on Glennoch, but I can’t see why.”

Matt sighed. Did they even teach the new recruits the basics these days? Tim-Tom had somehow decided Matt was the expert, and if Matt waved him off, the kid would come back to have his work checked again and again. Some people just couldn’t take a hint.

“Look, it’s obvious. Compare the compartment dimensions and enviro regulators against the DCB database. Identify all loading points, and see if contamination was registered. I think I remember something about a slump in ag prices, which means they could be dumping a loss. Cross-reference the freighter, the holding company, the buyer and seller for previous rebate claims. I’m guessing they’re not insured, but look at that too. Oh, and don’t forget to check the director registration and deed poll notifications. If they’re not Commonwealth based, you have to be careful.”

That should keep him busy.

“Thanks, Matt, you’re a life saver.” Tim-Tom headed back to his cubicle like a good little drone.

“Yeah, sure.”

At least the kid would be busy for a while, and Matt could have a moment of peace.

The world spun as a blow stole his balance. Arms out in a universal instinct, the floor rushed close. His wrists stung from the sudden impact channelled up through his numb palms. He squeezed his eyes shut then dared a glance. The carpet was motionless. A queasy sensation retreated.

“Oh, dear. Are you okay?” Lena asked, putting out a hand to help him up. In the other, she held a cup from which brown rivulets dripped enticingly. It wasn’t enough to stop him from adding a third tally mark to his ‘randomly getting knocked about’ scorecard.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He pulled himself up on the cubicle wall and rubbed a couple of damp patches. “It’s all good.”

“I’m really sorry, anyway. I have a migraine; you know how it plays hell with my vision. If you see Mahala, can you let him know I’ve gone home?”

Like he was going to voluntarily do that….

“Uh, sure,” he lied.

“I don’t suppose you want this coffee? I think I’m too dangerous walking round with it.” She raised the cup. Matt resisted for a good two seconds.

“Sure. I wouldn’t want a brew to go to waste.” He accepted it.

“See you round.”

He watched her go to the g-shaft, sipping on his free coffee. The best kind. The kind where he didn’t have to make small talk with a random stranger. It was a little too sweet overall, but he detected the exciting tang of acidity and smiled as it slid down, a molten silk warming from within. Perhaps he would let Mahala know. Sending a message couldn’t hurt.

“There he is,” Mahala called out.

Matt turned round. Balls. The boss was pointing to him while two stiff-necked strangers in dark suits came down the aisle. They walked in a complementary rhythm, eyes sweeping the level as though memorising every last grain of dust. The first was a man, solid build with no wrinkles and cropped blonde hair. The woman behind was visibly older, rounder and held a pad with a rugged cover. A shiver took away the warmth the coffee brought. It couldn’t be good news.

His mind raced through the series of shortcuts, mistakes and moral failures that formed his life. The urge to run sent adrenaline spiking his veins, but that was just silly. Keep calm and bungle your way out of it, he thought. What else could he do?

“Matthew William Kander?” His name sounded like an accusation.

“Yeah. Uh.”

“Come with us, please.”

It was no request. Somehow, he found himself between the two of them, taken up the aisle. Mahala wore a satisfied sneer like a dog relieving itself. Co-workers, whose names he’d never bothered to remember, glanced as he passed.

“Do you have a private office?” The man asked Mahala.

“Oh. No, I don’t, yet. We have meeting rooms, if that helps.”

“It will do.”

Mahala led them across the northern side to a clear plastic-walled space with a large, cheap, pseudo-wood table and mismatched chairs. The carpet was threadbare in patches and possessed a permanent smell of sweat. Matt hated meetings. Everyone sat around, looking at each other. You couldn’t be in the back row. He swallowed. No back row this time for sure.

“It clouds up when you press this.” Mahala pointed to a switch inside.

“Indeed,” said the woman dismissively and shut the door. Matt could see Mahala standing there for a second or two before he walked away. At least the prick wouldn’t be gloating. Well, he probably would be, but not in Matt’s face.

“Sit down,” the woman said while the man flicked the privacy switch. Matt took the closest seat, thought better of it, but didn’t want to shift away. The moulded shape pressed uncomfortably and his mind followed a dark path. His breath came in shallow bursts as imaginary ties bound his arms against the rests. A loud beep made him jump. He looked over his shoulder. The man (the cop?) was sweeping a device round the room as though searching for something with a duster.

“Look this way, Matthew.” The woman was seated across from him. She’d moved silently, a panther stalking its prey. The cover of her pad was open and placed perfectly square to the table. Her eyes bored into him as an awkward pause drew onward. Finally, the man seemed satisfied and placed a different device on the table. It was metal, a deep grey, and when activated, issued a series of chirps before a red light shifted to green.

The woman leaned forward and trapped his gaze. “Matthew William Kander. Born 632 ST on Mersius Minor in the ‘Democratic’ Empire of Ardon, our most powerful and how should I say it? Yes, challenging neighbour. Parents, Sarah Hamilton Douglass, deceased; Lucy Jessica Bawdon, deceased. Emigrated to the Commonwealth 633 ST, forty-seven days before the accident. Raised by distant relatives until 640 ST, then turned over to a government crèche.”

What was she doing? They had to be cops, but why didn’t they just arrest him or whatever? Sweat dampened his hands, and he shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Couldn’t they just get to the point?

She showed no signs of rushing. “Completed schooling stages one through fourteen without making a mark. Most common teacher review comment: could do better if tried harder.”

Geez, they’d read his damn school reports? Crazy.

“What is this about? Who are you?” he asked.

“Completed college with a reasonable average and went straight into a government job,” she continued, ignoring his questions.

“Why did you choose to work for the government, Matthew?”

Because no one else would hire me. Because I’m lazy. Because I needed the money.

“I don’t know. It was just a job.” Keep the panic hidden. He’d seen it in the sheets all the time. The suspect would crack, start talking about anything and everything, giving away information that only got them deeper in trouble.

“It is hardly a high-paying role. Even with those results, you could have achieved more.”

What could he say?

“Since then, you have completed the CRB graduate program—barely and stayed here, invisible and unassuming for four years.”

A tingle of annoyance intruded on his fear. It wasn’t a crime to have a shit job. Re-education centres would span the globe.

“Tell me, what precisely is your job?”

“I just audit to make sure companies are paying the right fees. I don’t do inspections or anything. It’s really basic stuff, you know? I don’t change anything. I don’t do much. I write reports. That’s all.”

“And yet an analysis of your work clearly shows you choose not to report many inconsistencies.” She shifted the pad round and revealed a screen filled with dot points. Each named a company, a date, a product.

“So, I miss a couple of things,” he hedged. Oh gods. Now it was all coming back to bite him. Why hadn’t he been more careful?

“Over the past three months, you missed practically everything, Matthew. Practically everything except for Delerion Heavy Industries. I have your report here. This inconsistency you did catch, despite it being allocated to another staff member. Why did this little perturbation appeal to you?”

‘I don’t kn-know.”

“That answer is not acceptable. Why did it catch your attention?”

“The codes were wrong. It was just luck. It’s—it’s all in the report. It was a mismatch, right. The more pure or processed a raw material is, the higher the tariff. It’s not like they were doing anything wrong; they just lost out some money. I didn’t like, send them a letter or anything telling them to ask for credits back.” Oh gods, shut up, Matt!

She flicked the pad back to her and made a show of looking through documents. Her eyes rose again, and he wondered what she was going to hammer him with now.

“System logs reveal you examined a whole range of ‘stuff’ with inconsistencies, yet you failed to report them. Why?”

Matt skin prickled, instinctively aware of the imposing presence of the silent man just over his shoulder. He was falling down a rabbit hole, but the Queen’s guards already had him.

“Why, Matthew?”

“Geez, I didn’t want to make a fuss, you know? It wasn’t costing us money and I’d—I’d already mentioned it to my boss. I wrote something up. If it mattered, someone up the chain could look into it more. I didn’t want to touch it.”

She gave a weary sigh, the first sign of humanity.

“You have no family, Matthew, no friends. Each day, you go to work and do nothing, go home and do nothing.”

“Is that a crime?” This was ridiculous.

“I will leave potential collusion on duty fraud aside. As well, the fraudulent acquisition of government funds so recently brought to my attention.”

He opened his mouth to protest—after all, he’d already tried to fix that—but she never gave him the chance.

“Oh, my, there really is a deep well to draw from. How about placing unauthorised programs onto government systems. That is a crime.”

Oh gods. Nausea twisted his stomach. Sweat steamed on his flushed skin. This was it. The pin dropped. This was what it was all about. They’d found the damn scripts he’d written. They were nothing. Anyone who read the code would see it. It was just a little automation, that’s all. Except, it wasn’t going to be. Not when it all came together. She made it all sound so sinister.

“However, you are in luck, Matthew. We like to keep stuff quiet. Faith in the government is very important for the smooth operation of the Commonwealth. You have a choice. A choice very few get to make, so listen carefully. We can walk you out of here in restraints. You will be put on trial for multiple crimes and will have a significant stay at a re-education centre only to come out a new you. Or. Or there is another option where you go free.”

“Yes?” Blood drained from his face as vertigo fizzed in his mind.

“Or you can resign. You can pack your desk and leave now. You can sign this document and leave a free man.”

She pushed the pad towards him.

At the top was a seal he didn’t recognise, a stylised horse made of flame. But the writing required no familiarity:

commonwealth special intelligence

He stared. His hands began to tremble. Yep, he was in real deep shit.

“Read it,” she commanded.

Stated in a surprisingly short number of words, it was an agreement to be covered under the official secrets act. If he spoke, wrote, transmitted or in any way communicated official secrets, he would be guilty of treason.

“I just sign this and I can go?”

“We live in a free society, unlike some of our neighbours—The Empire, for example. That is all you need to do.”

“What shouldn’t I say? The code, the reports? I don’t know what secret you’re talking about.”

“You don’t need to, Matthew. It would be sensible, safe, to say nothing. That way, you cannot go wrong.”

It was a free pass. He couldn’t ask for anything else. Screw the job. He’d survive somehow. It was a way out. He’d sign anything. He lifted the pad, placed his hand on the screen and let the cameras scrutinise his face.

“I agree.”

“Good.” She took the pad from his hands. “Then we're done here.”

She stood. He went to follow, but the man pushed him back down, his hands a heavy weight on Matt’s shoulders.

“You do know the punishment for treason, don’t you Matthew?”

“Uh…”

“Summary execution. Do bear that in mind.”

Chapter 3

Wind whistled along the dirt where poorly kept paths lay under tiger-striped shadow. Matt squeezed the credit chip in his pocket and pulled his long jacket in tight. A week ago, he’d sold the little heater he bought after his apartment tower cut back on shared heating. All but a few of those credits went on the bland nutrition pouches that fed him until yesterday or was it the day before? At least he’d die of hypothermia before starvation.

Seven damn weeks, and he’d got nothing. He scratched his short scraggly beard. Every single job application he submitted was rejected and rejected quickly. He had to be at the top of the pile for being put at the bottom of the pile.

He sighed. If he had the money, he’d sit around drowning his sorrows and checking the sheets. As it was, he could do neither. His damn pad had never turned up, and he would have had to sell it even if it had. Power had already been cut off. Rent was long overdue. No doubt the landlord was stalking him, watching from corners, ready to pounce. The feeling was certainly there. The beginnings of paranoia expanded like a toxic cloud, causing every passer-by to take on a malign tint.

He looked up as traffic sped by above. People going about their business, probably never looking down. They weren’t against him; they didn’t even notice his existence. Would that woman, Kelly, be up there? Smelling sweet, going about her day, falling against someone else. Oh gods, he was turning into a mopey, disgruntled fool. Soon enough, he’d be shouting at strangers and not showering for months. When had he last showered?

The flash of a terminal caught his eye. The abused metal and poorly synchronised 3D display was identical to thousands throughout the city. Most people thought of them as an emergency device, a way to call for help if mugged, but they also acted as a basic pad—for a fee. He could check for more rejections, tag more applications for a few credits. He hadn’t looked for three days, conserving the last of his money. There wasn’t any point. Better off with a brew now. It would keep him warm, hold back the hunger.

A chip! It wasn’t the terminal that caught his eye. Some idiot had left a chip in the slot, and it was still active. He scurried over, then looked round to see if anyone was coming back. Clear. He checked the balance. 5032 CC. Another check. It was unlocked and hadn’t been linked to anyone. People were so lazy about security. Luck was with him. It stood to reason that the poor sod who lost it would no doubt have credits to spare. Anyone who really needed money would hardly be so careless.

His shaky hand hovered over the terminal. What if it was the last of someone else’s credits? What if they couldn’t eat?

What if he never ate again? Taking the chip would be wrong. The warring thoughts clashed, but he was so hungry—his stomach burned while his skin froze. The need was a grip squeezing his very essence. He huffed, the breath a billowing cloud of white. If he stood still any longer, he’d be a dead philosopher, and he wasn’t ready to die this day.

Blinking away a stray tear—the wind was stinging his eyes—he bought an access session and pulled his mail onto the chip. He didn’t want to read it now. That would be a downer, and he wanted to feel good. It had been so long since he felt good. He’d buy a new pad and go somewhere warm, comfort cushioning the inevitable rejection.

* * *

“Thanks,” Matt said as a waiter slid the coffee onto the booth’s table. He ignored the wrinkled nose, just as he’d ignored the distaste of the woman who sold him the fancy pad. They were happy to take his credits though. A thousand already gone. He hadn’t meant to spend so much, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was for a good cause. The soul needed feeding as well as the body, and his soul existed on a diet of shows.

The thoughts of indulgence let him relax and soak up the cafe atmosphere; it was clean, warm and mostly empty. A suit rocked up. Matt knew the sort: plastic road warriors who treated cafes as mobile offices. As soon as another clone turned up, they’d be loud, trying to impress each other with earnest claims and bravado. Like Mahala, they’d have matching hair, silver-edged suits and cheap company-supplied pads.

After a good slug of caffeine, he plugged the new chip into his pad and transferred the mail. Seven messages. Thank you, but you suck. This is an automated response to tell you we couldn’t even be bothered telling you how much you suck. You are not good enough. Sucking does not begin to describe you. You…

His mouth fell open and he jerked the pad out to arms length. No way. Hands shaking, he put the pad down. He picked it up and then put it back down. No. It couldn’t be! The words were still there.

interview schedule

The subject line was almost too much. His eyes were unexpectedly moist. He needed this. Needed it so much, it was almost painful. It could be a mistake, accidentally addressed to him as another cruel twist of fate. He feverishly read the message.

Dear Mr Kander,

Thank you for your application. You have been selected to interview for the role of Assistant Data Records Clerk at Synaplink ETG. Please note that neither the interview nor shuttle can be rescheduled. A ticket has been purchased in your name. We look forward to seeing you.

Shuttle:

OF431

Wellago Terminal, Sudeilia City, AP

13:51 47 Springstart, 663

Interview:

Alex Sydney (panel coordinator)

Deck 81, Section EE

DHI Cassini Docks

10:15 49 Springstart, 663

Disclaimer: A request to interview is not a guarantee of employment.

It couldn’t be. Geez, DHI? It was life mocking him again. A job in the construction belt—run by the people who were the damn cause of his fall from an admittedly low starting point. Or was the true trigger his labour-saving code? It was the classic chicken and egg problem, except maybe it was more like a flechette-gun and ammo problem. There were so many indiscretions Matt spread around; one or another were bound to skewer him.

That day with the spooks had twisted and reassembled in his mind so many times over the past weeks that events were smeared, like looking through a heat haze. Would attending the interview get him in trouble? Summary execution. That had to be a scare tactic. Still, he needed to look into this Synaplink lot. Maybe they were completely unrelated, only renting out space. As desperate as he was, perhaps it was time to be cautious. At least he wouldn’t have to buy his own ticket if he did go. 47 Springstart. He checked the date. Today. It was today. What was the time? 12:39. His mind raced. No way. He’d have to run, and even then… No time to play it safe. Adrenaline spiked his blood with nervous energy. The poisoned chalice of hope wet his lips. Did he try?

The door slid shut behind him as he ran out of the cafe, pad under his arm. The nearest station would be towards the city hub. His feet slapped the ground. His jacket flapped in the breeze as he threw himself down the path. Finally, there really was nothing to lose. At worst, he’d have a few free meals and a holiday. He was just going for a job. That had to be safe. He wouldn’t say anything about his last job, or he’d make it up. Those spooks couldn’t be upset with that, right?

He reached the bottom of the train station. The g-shaft was functioning, but the capsule was at the top. Stairs. He climbed stair after stair, legs aching, breath wheezing. He didn’t even have a timetable. It could already be too late, and yet, a sliver of hope hung before him. He circled round the tall fibrocrete pole, up and up. A few people walked over from connecting bridges, peevishly moving out of the way as he brushed past.

Finally, the station concourse came into view. Floor to ceiling windows fronted onto public space and cut into a neighbouring tower. The grey weather sucked colour from the greenery, but it didn’t matter. Matt didn’t have time to waste. Panting, he reached the gates and felt for his train pass. It had run out. Panic gripped him.

“Wait,” he said. “You idiot.”

He grabbed his newfound chip and stuck it into the payment slot. What did he care for the inflated cost of a single journey? For the moment, he had money to burn. A gate swung open, and he looked at the boards. A minute until the next train.

He was off again, throwing himself onto the train as the doors whisked closed on his jacket. He yanked it free and took a seat.

The unfamiliar activity had morphed his shinbones into shards of broken glass that ached with any load. Grimacing, he rubbed them while looking at the pad of the guy next to him. He couldn’t hear the audio over his own laboured breathing, but it was easy to see it was some sort of news sheet. Flashy graphics and rolling headlines tried to make the interminably dull exciting. The annexation of some backwater single-planet system, rebel piracy, the Pax Galactic Song Contest. Who cared? In the real world, nothing changed.

“Do you mind?”

Matt looked away. Idly noting the dull cityscape out the window, he frequently checked his pad for the time, only pausing to change trains. The journey passed both painfully slowly and immeasurably fast. Now he’d actually committed to going, missing the shuttle would be a final kick in the balls. It was an unknown, going somewhere completely different with no way to tell what was going to happen. Off-planet was in his set of places to not go. It was where everything went wrong. Space wanted to kill Matt. Or at least turn his life into crap.

When the train finally reached Wellago, he hesitated before merging with the push of commuters. A large ornate clocking hanging down from the double-height ceiling announced 13:35. A quick check showed which tunnel led to the terminal.

A steward in red-and-orange stepped back with a wrinkled nose when Matt collapsed against the departure services desk.

“Sorry, I have a flight,” he said.

“You can check in here, sir.” The ‘sir’ sounded uncertain, as though it was hard to tell if Matt could be classified as a member of the human species. He wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead and used it to smooth down his hair. He could hardly blame the man.

Matt shoved his hand on the reader. A sonorous tone quickly confirmed his identity. It was a slick, black device with a small nozzle. The moment he was clear, a mist of cleaning fluid sprayed the surface. Standard hygiene, but today it felt personal.

The steward’s attitude shifted. “You’re lucky, sir. OF431 has been delayed. Boarding was meant to close ten minutes ago. Your luggage has already been placed on board. I’ll notify the cabin crew.”

Luggage? They must have messed things up. It didn’t matter—he’d made it.

“Thanks.”

He breathed deeply and took in the terminal. A soft glow from the ceiling illuminated the neat, clean space. Displays wrapped round decorative columns, advertising fragrances and a particularly flashy aircar. He was dirty and dishevelled, yet the atmosphere lent him a sense of purpose. He was a man on a journey.

“That way, please. They are waiting for you.”

“Oh, sorry.” Matt followed the route to the shuttle, where a steward checked his ticket.

The cabin was nice. Not as large as his apartment, but for a shuttle, it was fantastic. The bed could be extended, a wall screen glowed enticingly, a plush launch chair glistened—his eyes darted from feature to feature—a drinks cabinet and a separate shower. Together, they offered the ultimate comfort. The poor schmucks in cattle class would only have chairs that extended into beds and a shared common space. These Synaplink people sure knew how to treat someone. A thought nagged at his mind. It had to be a mistake. He wasn’t worth this.

“The doors remain open automatically for take off. I’ll come by to check your restraints in a moment; do you know how to tighten them? Wonderful. Refreshments will be served once we’ve left the atmosphere. And, ah, a laundry service is available; just press here for attention. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

Matt stared at the cabin steward. The chair was comfortable and firm as he awkwardly reached for the restraints. He had made it. Worrying was just borrowing trouble. He had a cabin to himself. People were being polite to him. It felt good.

“I’m fine. Thanks.”

Although, fine was a relative term. As the hum of the engines shook the floor, Matt couldn’t help but wonder if the rattling sensation coursing through his bones had another origin. He’d rolled the dice. He’d shouted to the gods, and invited them to smite him for his temerity. An interview? What had he been thinking?

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The Last Cruise Ship