Bodyguard

17

“The captain and crew request your attendance at the Jupiter Ball. Please RSVP.”

From the invitation sent to passengers aboard the Solar Queen

A lot of people would like to take the grand tour, but few can afford it. Those who can choose between two great ships, the Solar Queen and the Solar Princess, both owned and operated by the Regis Line, one of the few companies to go head-to-head with Trans-Solar and emerge at least even, if not slightly ahead. And that’s why Sasha and I felt reasonably safe boarding the Queen. Trans-Solar might have agents aboard, but we could count on Regis security to keep them in check. Or so we hoped.

Once we were aboard, the ship would become part of a journey that had started on Earth, paused off Mars, and stopped in the belt on the way to Jupiter and Europa Station. The very place we wanted to go.

Like the Princess, the Queen had been designed to meet the rigorous demands of the extremely wealthy, none of whom were anywhere near the C Deck lock, through which lowlies like ourselves passed. The line was fairly long and consisted of robots, zombies, and freelancers.

One of them, a woman with blonde hair, blue eyes, and bright red lips, caught my attention. She was one person ahead of me in line and stood out from the rest. Maybe it was the way she held herself, the carefully coordinated clothes, or the expensive perfume that floated back to tease my nostrils.

Whatever it was caught and held my attention. She seemed to sense my interest, turned, and smiled. I felt a sudden sense of warmth and smiled back. But months of running had made me wary. Yes, she could be attracted to my obvious charm and rugged good looks, but there were other possibilities as well. What if she was a killer in nice-lady drag? An assassin android? Or a carefully disguised bomb? Still, she looked innocent enough, and my libido said she was the greatest thing since sliced bread. I was getting ready to say or do something stupid when the line jerked forward and took her with it.

I turned and saw Sasha frown. She had monitored the interchange and didn’t approve. Well, too bad. Gone were the days when she gave orders and I obeyed. I had my own reasons for going to Europa Station now, reasons that went beyond the fifty K they had used for bait, and it didn’t matter if Sasha came along or not. I appreciated the fact that she had stolen enough money to pay her fare, and would cover my back if it came to a firefight, but could get along without her too. And she knew it. So the silence was complete as we stepped through the hatch, waited for the lock to cycle open, and entered the Queen’s opulent interior.

Everything was spotless, even on C Deck, which was a far cry from the glory found on A and B. In space there is nothing so rare and frivolous as genuine wood, and that’s what the ship’s architects had used to cover the standard durasteel bulkheads. Everywhere I looked I saw highly polished wood, brass fittings, and deep pile carpets. It made quite a contrast to life on the barge.

Sasha had suggested that we share a stateroom in order to reduce expenses and enhance security, but I said no. The less I saw of the traitorous little minx the better, and besides, some privacy would be nice for a change.

Though smaller than the cabin I had occupied aboard the Red Trader, my stateroom managed to be a good deal more luxurious. The plumbing worked, for one thing, never a surety aboard the Trader, and there were lots of extras too, like a high-quality virtual reality entertainment console, a fully stocked minibar, a toaster-sized automaid that nearly went crazy trying to pick up after me, plus rotating storage lockers that could accommodate a large, but in my case nonexistent, wardrobe.

So, doing my best to get into the spirit of the thing and enjoy the many amenities, I took a long, wasteful shower, left the thick terrycloth towel for the automaid to tow away, donned my most presentable set of clothes, and set out to explore the rest of my temporary home. Joy wasn’t too happy about being left behind, but I figured I was noticeable enough without a miniature android perched on my shoulder. The hatch closed on her protests.

I set out for the far reaches of C Deck, knowing that while A and B Decks might have been more interesting, the denizens of C Deck weren’t allowed to visit their betters without a specific invitation to do so.

The corridor curved gently to the right. Almost everyone I encountered, children excepted, managed to ignore my chrome-plated scalp and smile at me. It was as if my head had been magically transformed from the grotesque to the merely eccentric.

The change puzzled me at first. What the heck was going on? Were these people especially nice? Or was there a more believable explanation? After giving the matter some thought, I decided that I was the accidental beneficiary of “situational niceness.”

The logic went like this: Special people rode the ship, Max rode the ship, ergo, Max was a special person and would be treated as such. If, on the other hand, the same people encountered me in a dimly lit alley, they would perceive me as a seven-foot-two-inch-tall chrome-headed homicidal maniac, and run like hell. Ah, well, it was pleasant to be accepted by other human beings even if the pleasure was only transitory.

An airtight door slid out of the way and I entered a large multi-purpose lounge. There was a bar against the far bulkhead, an open area where people stood about in conversational clumps, and semicircular tiers of acceleration couches that dropped away to a vast expanse of transparent duraplast. Sunlight glazed Deep Port’s rocky surface, and stars twinkled as light generated millions and even billions of years before hit my retinas and was recorded by what was left of my brain.

I had no more than entered the area when an artificially sweet voice said, “Welcome to the Solar Queen. The ship will depart in fifteen, I repeat, fifteen minutes. The captain requests that those passengers still in their cabins lie down and strap themselves in.

“Those passengers presently located in the public areas may proceed to their cabins or make use of the acceleration couches available in each of our lounges. Please check to ensure that your restraint system has been activated. Children must be accompanied by an adult or a Class IV android. Autostewards are available to answer your questions. Welcome to the Solar Queen…”

The voice droned on in the background as I wandered down the center aisle, descended five or six tiers, and turned towards the center seats. Some were occupied but many were still available. I selected one, lay back, and activated the restraint system. Servos whined as heavily padded arms wrapped themselves around me. The couch came equipped with a variety of accessories. I was still in the process of investigating them when a voice came from my left. “Hi, it seems we’re neighbors.”

I turned and was pleased to find that the voice belonged to the same woman I had salivated over in line. She wore a bright red pants outfit that most women would have avoided like the plague. It looked great on her. I gave her what I hoped was my most charming smile.

“So it seems. My name’s Max. Max Smith. What’s yours?”

She smiled. Her teeth were wonderfully white. “Linda Gibson. Please to meet you, Max.”

Her outstretched hand bridged half the distance between us. It felt small and warm. I was in the process of shaking it when Sasha appeared in the distance. Her eyepatch seemed out of place, or was it me? Our fellow passengers seemed as oblivious to the patch as they had been to my chrome-plated head. Same deal, probably. She treated me to one of her characteristic frowns and sat where she could watch. Alerted by the loss of eye contact, Linda turned and looked over her shoulder. “Am I missing something?”

I shook my head. “No, an old acquaintance, that’s all.” I plastered a phony smile on my face and waved. Sasha glowered in response.

I turned my attention to the lovely Linda. She had pale blue eyes, and they fastened on me as though I was the only man in the world. Her voice was soft and confidential. “Can I tell you a secret?”

I nodded earnestly. “Please do.”

“I sat here on purpose.”

Blood roared in my ears. She liked me! The only woman who had liked me prior to this time had been paid to do so. Had I been equipped with a tail, I would’ve wagged it. Now to say something clever. “Really? Well, I’m glad you did.”

“Me too,” she said sweetly. “Have you chosen a costume yet?”

“Costume?” I asked stupidly. “For what?”

“Why, the ball, silly,” Linda said lightly. “It will be held on A Deck, and everyone’s invited. I hoped you’d be my escort.”

A storm of conflicting thoughts and emotions whirled through my head. Pleasure at being asked, fear of having to dance, and a sense of confusion. “Why no, I mean yes, I’d love to go. When is it?”

“2000 hours day after tomorrow,” Linda answered smoothly. “I’m coming as an eighteenth-century noblewoman. You’d make a marvelous pirate.”

“And so I would,” I replied in my best pirate cackle. “Hoist the mainsail and belay the hatches!”

Linda giggled, I felt a rush of pleasure, and the ship broke contact with the asteroid known as Deep Port.

If the Jupiter Ball had been invented to keep the passengers busy, it did an excellent job. The next twenty-four hours were a whirl of preliminary fittings, intermediate fittings, and final fittings, all under the rather autocratic supervision of an android named Perkins.

It was Perkins who adjusted the plume on my hat just so, dictated that Joy would be dressed in an outfit identical to that worn by Linda, and helped rehearse our entrance. An entrance that would be judged against all others for one of three prizes. Prizes that meant nothing to me, but seemed important to Linda.

And we were typical. All the people around us were caught up in an absolute fever of preparation. And, just to make sure that everyone got involved, the ship’s staff did everything they could to hype the occasion by running stories on the internal news system, holding pre-party parties, and peppering us with invitations, gifts, and special meals.

Though somewhat stiff at first, I found myself becoming more and more involved in the pre-party activities, until I actually worried about the color of my waist sash, the fit of my vest, and the edge of my aluminum cutlass.

Which is why I was exhausted by the time that Linda and I parted company and welcomed the opportunity to sleep. It came quickly, floating upwards to wrap me in its arms, then holding me in its dark embrace. What followed was similar to the dreams I had experienced in the past and was clearly related.

My first impression was of lying on my back watching ceiling tiles pass overhead. My thoughts were slow, ponderous things, weighed down by the drugs the medicos had given me, and wholly unfocused. The ceiling tiles were interspersed with glow panels. I felt sure that someone wanted me to count them, to make an exact record of how many glow panels I had seen, but the numbers had a slippery, eellike quality and eluded my grasp. People walked to either side of my gurney. One, a woman with swept-back hair, a long straight nose, and a white lab coat, glanced at me but addressed her comments to the balding man on my left. “You’re sure this will work.”

“No, I’m not,” the man replied calmly. “Bio-storage is a fledgling science. I believe it will work but make no guarantees.”

It was as if the woman hadn’t even heard him. “A zombie would be too obvious. The trick is to stash the research in his head, yet leave him functional. The unionists are almost sure to discover it otherwise.”

“I’m aware of that threat,” the man said dryly. “I’ll do the best I can.”

The woman wanted to say more but gave a short, jerky nod instead.

The autogurney turned a corner, I lost count of the glow panels, and felt a desperate need for water. My mouth felt dry, terribly dry, and I croaked pitifully. The woman glanced in my direction but made no effort to learn what the problem was.

An airtight hatch came and went. The ceiling panels disappeared and were replaced by a seamless surface. It was translucent, and light seeped through.

The gurney stopped under a vent. Cool air caressed my face. The smell of disinfectants stabbed my nostrils. I caught a glimpse of OR greens. An operating room! They were taking me into an operating room! But I wasn’t sick…was I? I struggled against my restraints, and feeble though the movements were, the woman noticed them. She frowned and turned towards the person behind me. “The pre-meds are wearing off…take him down.”

“But not too far,” the bald man cautioned. “I need access to his reactions.”

I fought to free myself, gave up, and floated on an ocean of light. I heard voices, felt the gurney move, and knew we had entered the operating room when the large circular lights came into view. Metal clanked as the side rails were released. Hands felt along my sides, took hold of the sheet beneath me, and a voice said, “On three. One…two…three.”

I felt myself lifted into the air and lowered to the surface of the operating table. A distant part of my mind told me to do something, but I was unable to respond.

Time passed. There was talk of “local anesthetics,” “head preps,” and “neural interfaces.” None of which meant anything to me. Then it started, the general sense of inflow, of words and numbers that tumbled around me to build vast informational structures so large and complex that they could be compared with cities, except that try as I might I was unable to comprehend them in their entirety, to back away far enough to see and understand their function and purpose.

But I did notice that as the city grew larger and larger, I became smaller and smaller, until it towered over and around me. The air grew thick with words and numbers until I choked and couldn’t breathe. It was then that I decided to escape, to leave the whole affair behind, and exist somewhere else.

And no sooner had the thought occurred to me than I was gone, drifting up to hover under the ceiling, while the bald man and his staff shouted to each other and struggled to bring me back. I saw my body jump as they passed electricity through my heart and watched as drugs were injected into my veins. The light grew even brighter, and seemed to beckon me onwards, but I hung there unsure of what to do. And then, like fishermen pulling in their catch, the medics reeled me in. My head was full. So full I thought it would explode. I screamed…

…and was still screaming when I awoke to find myself in bed, the sheets soaked with sweat.

It was a terrible dream, made all the more horrible by the certain knowledge that it or something like it had actually happened, leaving me forever crippled. I was afraid to sleep and spent the rest of the cycle staring at the ruby-red light over my head. It belonged to the smoke detector, and blinked on and off with machinelike patience.

The first day of my relationship with Linda Gibson had passed without much in the way of serious conversation. By the afternoon of the second day, I wanted to know more about her. Perkins had approved our costumes, the ball was hours away, and Linda had agreed to a drink.

The Constellation Room consisted of a clear duraplast bubble accessed through a pipelike structure that connected it to the hull. The place was half full. Glasses clinked and conversation hummed. Linda was beautiful. Stars decorated her hair, diamonds twinkled at her ears, and her perfume made my head spin. I raised my glass. “To us.”

Linda smiled and did likewise. “To us.”

We took a sip and placed our glasses on the table. “So, tell me about Linda Gibson. Where she’s from, and where she’s going. Besides Europa Station, that is.”

Linda laughed. “There isn’t much to tell. Mom and Dad were high-priced freelancers, the kind who get lots of work, but aren’t willing to make the sacrifices required of lifers.”

“Were freelancers?”

A cloud passed over Linda’s eyes. “They were killed when the Mundo-Tech fusion plant went critical and destroyed Caracas.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “Don’t be. It was one of those crappy this-is-the-real-world kind of things, that’s all.”

I nodded. “Then what?”

Her eyes went out of focus. She seemed to see through me and into another time. “I was in college. There was some money, enough to finish my degree, and I did. Then the war started and I graduated just in time to get drafted by General Electric. I did fairly well and wound up as a captain.”

I nodded respectfully. “GE has some tough troops…what outfit were you in?”

Linda smiled. “Logistics…I spent the whole war using a computer to shuffle supplies from one place to another. How ‘bout you? How did you spend the war?”

I used my drink to buy time. The wine felt cool as it trickled down my throat. How honest should I be? Semi-honest seemed best. “I was a Mishimuto Marine, or so they tell me. I don’t remember much after being hit in the head.”

She smiled and gestured with her glass. “Which explains the rather unusual hairstyle.”

“Exactly.”

Linda leaned forward. Her cleavage made a wonderful canyon. A hand touched the side of my head. I fancied I could feel it there, warm through an eighth-inch of polished steel, accepting the thing that kept me apart. Nothing could have meant more to me, and I was sorry when the hand was withdrawn. She nodded as if satisfied. “I like the skull plate. It makes you look dangerous.”

“You like dangerous men?”

“No,” Linda answered thoughtfully, “I like men who look dangerous. There’s a difference.”

Word games are not my strongest suit. Not with a gazillion megabytes of god knows what occupying a significant portion of my brain. I let it drop.

“So, what did the logistics expert do after the war?”

One carefully plucked eyebrow rose higher than the other. She smiled. “Logistics…what else? GE liked my work and hired me as a freelancer.”

“This is a business trip, then?”

Linda laughed. “Of course. I could never afford this. My boss is up on A Deck, where she can hobnob with her peers. You’ll meet her at the ball. How ‘bout you? What’s an ex-Mishimuto Marine doing on his way to Jupiter?”

I delivered what I hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “I won the northwest regional lotto. Haven’t had a vacation in years. Thought it would be fun.”

If Linda thought the story was far-fetched, she gave no sign of it. She hoisted her glass. “To fun!”

Crystal clinked as our glasses touched and the conversation turned toward less dangerous ground. Time passed, and the ball neared. We stood. I bent slightly, felt her lips brush mine, and wallowed in her perfume. Bright blue eyes searched my face. “I’ll expect you at 1945 hours. You won’t be late?”

“Pirates are punctual.”

“Well, noblewomen aren’t, but I’ll do my best. Our entrance is scheduled for 2017. Perkins would be most annoyed if we missed it.”

“God forbid.”

I escorted Linda through the access tube and watched her walk away. And what a walk it was. I turned, and was headed for my stateroom, when Sasha appeared at my side. She had lain in wait. Her voice was determined. “We need to talk.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Your friend, if that’s what she is, lied to you.”

I stopped and turned to face her. The other pedestrians looked annoyed and walked around us. “Oh, really? And how do you know that?”

Sasha looked serious, and something else as well. Sympathetic? Sad? No, those were human emotions of the sort that her mother would never countenance. “I know because she’s a greenie.”

I frowned. “Says who?”

“Says all the propaganda lying around her stateroom.”

My jaw dropped. “You searched her quarters?”

“No,” Sasha said evenly, “Joy did. The air-conditioning ducts are like a highway for someone her size. The woman is not only a greenie, she’s Trask’s boss, and here to take you out.”

Part of it was true, anyway. With no orders to the contrary, Joy would do whatever Sasha asked. And, given her rather unusual programing, surveillance work was well within her abilities. I felt resentment, fear, and rage all at the same time. “You’re lying!”

Sasha spoke as if to a child. “No, I’m not. Believe what you will about my motivations, but I’m telling the truth.”

I didn’t know what to think, what to believe, so I turned and walked away. I was still confused by the time I ordered my door to open and stepped inside. Joy was dressed as a miniature noblewoman, and Perkins had left my costume on the bed. It was time to dress, and I allowed inertia to carry me along.

Before I knew it I was dressed in a wide-brimmed hat with plume, a snow-white shirt, a black vest, scarlet waist sash, black breeches, knee-high boots, a brace of flintlock pistols, and my aluminum sword. Even I, something of a cynic when it comes to my own appearance, was impressed when I looked in the mirror.

And Joy, cheerful as always, looked wonderful on my shoulder, her hair done up in a beehive, her petticoats arranged just so, and a tiny parasol tilted over one shoulder. She giggled happily. “We look great, boss…A prize is in the bag.”

But if we looked good, Linda looked even better. She was nearly ready when we arrived. She wore her hair piled high, like Joy’s, and a dress so daring it barely covered her nipples. I must have stared because she laughed and pointed over a shoulder. “Would you be so kind as to zip me up?”

I moved behind her and found in place of the buttons or hooks that would’ve been part of a real noblewoman’s gown, this one had been equipped with a most sensible zipper. A wonderful invention that reduces the amount of time it takes women to dress and undress. The second being more important than the first.

But as I zipped Linda’s dress, and looked over her shoulder I scanned the compartment looking for the evidence that Joy had allegedly uncovered, but saw no sign of it. That being the case, I decided to wait and see what happened.

We stepped out of Linda’s stateroom and into something verging on a traffic jam. Everyone but everyone was going to the ball, and the corridor was jammed with people wearing a fantastic assortment of costumes, all in a festive mood. Cheers welcomed us into the crowd, and every man within ten feet maneuvered for a chance to look down Linda’s dress. Being closest, I had the best view.

The line jerked forward by fits and starts, passed through a lounge where we were sorted and rearranged according to our entrance times, and sent into the lift tubes in proper order. The ride to A Deck took about fifteen seconds. The doors slid open, a uniformed crew member gestured to the left, and we obeyed.

The flow steadied as guests were funneled into the ballroom. The drill was to listen for your name, take three steps forward, strike a pose, and proceed across the open floor to the other side. That gave the residents of A and B Decks time to look at the costumes, compare them to the others they’d seen, and record their votes via small hand-held boxes. Each had thirty votes and could assign them in any way they chose. Winning meant absolutely nothing, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen the empty feeling in my gut, or slow the beating of my heart. Linda’s hand felt damp through my sleeve, and I knew the tension had affected her as well.

A voice called, “Frank Stanton and Mary Tomari,” in loud stentorian tones, and the couple in front of us, a somewhat portly sultan accompanied by a willowy dancing girl, stepped out into the ballroom. The music segued, and the sultan stood with arms crossed while his more athletic companion treated the crowd to a passable belly dance. The applause was light but sustained. Then, long before I was ready, it was our turn. The voice announced our names: “Max Smith and Linda Gibson.”

Linda, her fingertips resting on my arm, looked up and smiled. I took three steps forward, pulled the sword, and used it like a cane. Joy, already on her feet, curtseyed at the same exact moment that Linda did. No small trick while standing on someone’s shoulder. The two of them, dressed exactly alike, earned a roar of approval. We were already in motion when the next names were called.

I heaved a giant sigh of relief when we reached the other side of the ballroom, checked to make sure no one was looking, and wiped my forehead with a sleeve. “Thank god it’s over.”

Linda fluttered her eyelashes and looked over the top of her fan.

“Over, my lord? Whatever do you mean? The dancing has yet to begin!”

A rock fell into the bottom of my stomach. Assuming that I’d known how to dance once, the knowledge had been obliterated along with the rest of my memories. Sweat trickled down my temples.

The next two hours were pure torture. I stepped on Linda’s toes at least five times, tripped on my sword, and dumped Joy on the floor. Nor did the humiliation end there. I danced Linda into a collision with another couple, spilled wine on her boss’s dress, and delivered five seconds’ worth of mathematical gibberish to the ship’s captain.

But, just when I was about to declare the evening a total loss, a miracle occurred. The winners were announced, and we copped third place, right behind the juggling Rinaldo sisters, and the barbershop androids. Linda was thrilled, and hurried to collect our prize, a rather handsome chunk of plastic. It seemed that all my sins were forgiven. So, borne along on high spirits, and fueled by alcohol, we dropped Joy at my stateroom and headed for Linda’s.

Even a pirate wouldn’t go into the details of what happened next, but suffice it to say that it took Linda less time to get out of the gown than it took to get into it, and I did what I could to assist. And while I would have been happy to join her in the buff, she liked the pirate costume, and insisted that I continue to wear most of it, minus the hat and the unwieldy sword.

I enjoyed the next hour or so, and got the distinct impression that Linda did too. She had wonderful breasts, and I liked the way they moved when she handed me a drink. “I had a wonderful time, Max. Thank you.”

I took a sip and smiled. “No, it is I who should thank you. Especially your feet…which paid a high price indeed.”

She laughed, but it was a halfhearted laugh, as if her mind was on something else. Something that made her sad. I took another sip and felt my head swim. I tried to move and found that I couldn’t. Something, a drug of some kind, held me in a paralytic grip. I could see, hear, and to some extent think, though the process was slow and somewhat ponderous. I tried to speak but croaked instead. Linda nodded understandingly.

“I’m sorry, Max, I really am, but we lack the means to erase whatever Dr. Casad stored in your brain without destroying the rest of you as well. Yes, our operatives had a long and somewhat unpleasant conversation with Curt. We learned all sorts of things, including the fact that while Trans-Solar doesn’t know what the good doctor stashed in your gray matter, they know it’s worth billions, and would sacrifice anything to get their hands on it. But there’s enough techno-evil in the world already without creating more. Think about it, Max; think about the things they did to your brain, the Urboplex where you used to live, the condition of our home planet. It has to stop.”

I struggled against the chemical bonds. My limbs twitched ineffectually. I felt drool slide down my chin.

Linda shook her head sadly. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I wish there was some way to help you, some way to restore what they took, but there isn’t. And by the way, no one told me to make love to you. I wanted to.”

It was a nice compliment, the nicest I’d had in some time, but didn’t make up for the plan to murder me. Linda left me to drool, donned a robe, made a com call, and went about restoring the few items of clothing that I’d been allowed to remove. She had foresight, you had to grant her that. The skin-tight breeches offered the most difficult challenge, but by dint of such tugging, swearing, and lifting Linda got them on.

The door announced visitors, and she ordered it open. My old friend Nigel Trask entered and stood over the bed. Philip Bey, the guy I had met aboard Staros-3, was right behind him. Both wore nondescript costumes. No wonder Linda wanted to party with someone more colorful. I ordered my limbs to move, and they twitched spasmodically. Trask shook his head sympathetically.

“Sorry, Mr. Maxon…nothing personal. If only you had agreed to work with instead of against us. But it’s too late for that, I’m afraid. Philip, give me a hand.”

Philip pitched in, and between them they managed to get me into a slump-shouldered standing position. I’m heavy, so it was no small task to drag me across the cabin to the hatch. Linda spoke, and it disappeared. I wanted to see her face, to see if she cared, but my head refused to turn.

I thought they were crazy at first, dragging me out in the hall like that, but I was wrong. Passengers, most of whom were still in costume, and about three sheets to the wind, roamed the corridors in groups, and found the sight of a drunken pirate most amusing. Which is why the greenies were able to drag me through a lounge while the rabble laughed, and yelled things like “Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum.”

The crowd thinned as we made our way down a series of little-used passageways. I hoped for a crew person. Someone who would question our presence and demand an explanation. The corridors were empty. Or so I assumed, since my view was restricted to beige carpet, followed by high-gloss decking, followed by unadorned steel.

Coping as they do with zero-gee conditions, spacers have a tendency to print directional signs on every available surface, including the deck. The Regis company was no exception. The words “EMERGENCY LOCK,” and an arrow pointed toward the right, disappeared under my toes as they dragged me around the corner. A lock! They planned to eject me from a lock! I could imagine the investigation and perfunctory report. “…And so, with no evidence to suggest foul play, and no history of mental instability, we conclude that passenger Smith was inebriated, wandered into the lock, and cycled himself into the void…” A tragic but understandable mistake.

Both men were panting by now, tired from lugging my dead weight a quarter-mile or so, and eager to be rid of their burden. “There is it,” Trask said, “at the end of the corridor. Come on.”

Philip renewed his grip around my waist and helped drag me towards my death. I imagined what it would be like to hear the hatch close, to feel the vibration as the pumps started, to gulp air in a desperate attempt to prolong life, to know it was hopeless, to feel my lungs start to burst, to see the outer hatch start to open, and to catch a glimpse of the stars before the vacuum sucked me out. I screamed, but nothing came.

That’s when three sets of boots appeared in front of me and I heard Sasha say, “I think you took a wrong turn, gentlemen. The lounge is thataway.”