[04] Elite: Mostly Harmless (3 page)

‘You have four messages.’

‘Play messages.’

The first was from The Slough Observers Wellbeing Centre, welcoming her back and offering a discounted rate on their range of anti-atrophy spa packages. The next was from her mother, presumably not long after she’d docked as her voice was bright and breezy, inviting Angel over for supper and reminding her about the reception the following night.

Angel winced. An Imperial delegation was visiting the space station and she was expected to roll out and play the dutiful daughter, to be sneered at by puffed up politicians and pompous plutocrats. Then there was Captain Riley, who would be doing more leering than sneering. The thought made her skin curl up at the edges.

The third message was Roland; apparently she’d made it back to the Zen Garden last night and owed him twenty creds for a shelf full of glasses smashed during an animated game of Flat Rabbit. Finally, there was another message from her mother; earlier this morning, this one brief and humourless:

‘I hope you’re enjoying your hangover and that you will leave it in the waste pipes with your stinking attitude for tonight’s reception. Andrew is bringing a dress over for you this afternoon. You’d better be wearing it. Seven o’clock at The Overlook. DON’T be late …’  there was a meaningful pause, ‘… or drunk.’

‘End of messages.’

* * *

Angel slipped onto the huge observation deck and skirted the edge of the growing throng; wealthy patrons, feds and investors, all dressed in their finest and positively glowing to be seen at such an exclusive affair in one of the system’s most decadent venues. She’d taken a shuttle pod over from the space station a couple of hours earlier rather than get caught up in the gravy train of executive shuttles organised for the guests. It had given her the chance to have a swim in one of the spas to wash off the dust and grime of the space station before stiffening her resolve with a Hullstripper or three in the Spinner’s Arms.

Even though such an ostentatious display of wealth went against Angel’s principles she had to admit the view from the Overlook’s main deck was impressive. The clear-vision panels in the outer hull were huge; at least two hundred metres across and running the entire circumference of the vast ringed-chamber so that the planet could be seen throughout a complete rotation of the coriolis. It coasted gracefully around and around along with everything else in space giving the impression that this vast luxury hangar was at the very centre of the universe. The Overlook occupied the upper ring of the Observer I’s main hub; the most exclusive of the three renovated generation ships that had brought their ancestors all the way from earth over a thousand years ago. The ships were beyond vast – you could fit a Federal Battle Cruiser into the central eco-dome and still have room to manoeuvre it above the vegetation that made up the living, biological heart of these deep-space civilisation boats. The dome spun with centripetal force to create the illusion of gravity that the plants needed to flourish, but fully adjustable depending on requirements. For tonight’s exclusive event the gravity in The Overlook was set at a refreshing 0.8-g, which caused sagging jowls to lift flatteringly and made dancing in heels a lot more comfortable.

A huge Imperial Cruiser coasted across Angel’s view trailing a swarm of angry-looking Vipers as passenger class cruisers queued to drop off more guests for the party. A serve-bot glided past bearing a tray of glasses full of bubbly golden liquid Angel took to be alcohol. She swiped two; one for her, and one for later, then started scanning the room for friendlies.

The guests were mostly Orbitals and visitors; predominantly Imperials by the look of the gaudy attire, though she recognised a few muted Federal colours in there as well. There was a spattering of token Spinners too, easily picked out by their short stocky frames; broad shoulders and thick foreheads evolved through several centuries of biological tailoring living down inside the planet. Far from being second-class citizens, Spinners had always been revered and highly valued; so-named because of the barbaric way their ancestors had been trained to survive Slough’s oppressive 1.5-g atmosphere. Today they still held a lot of sway, both politically and in business, but you didn’t often see them at a posh Orbital event like this on account of their reaction to booze – which invariably made things messy quite quickly as their over-achieving circulatory systems deployed the intoxication of alcohol with ruthless efficiency. It was one of the reasons that the clubs and bars on the less-exclusive Observer III were so popular with stag parties from down in the Stokes.

Angel spotted Stewart Forgie waving at her from over by the canapé belt. He was the press officer for Stoke Poges Industries – a lean and nervous looking man in his forties, with kind eyes and a slight stoop – and despite what you’d expect from his profession probably among the more genuine people here tonight. Angel raised a hand of acknowledgment as he flagged her frantically from across the room. She started weaving her way towards him.

Suddenly her momentum was halted by an arm thrust out from the throng to bar her way. She stopped abruptly and felt hot breath on her cheek.

‘Well, hello my Angel …’

The words slithered up the back of her neck and around her throat causing her breath to catch and her skin to try and crawl away from them. Captain Riley. She spun to face him as he captured her hips from behind, pressing through the crowd pelvis-first in an effort to get closer to her.

‘Good evening, Captain …’ Angel’s face burned under his scrutiny as she pressed her body away from his, hands flat against the crisp lapels of his naval uniform. She always felt like she’d forgotten to wear clothes when he looked at her.

‘You’re in a hurry. Stop and have a drink with me.’

He slid his hands from her hips and closed them about her wrists, squeezing a fraction too tight as she edged away from him towards the canapés.

‘Ah, sorry no can do,’ she said awkwardly, wishing she hadn’t agreed to wear a dress tonight as his eyes roamed down towards her cleavage, ‘need to catch up with PR; very important night, politically. Well, you don’t need me to tell you that of course.’

She nodded towards Stewart, who was making his way towards her with a look of concern etched onto his face. The navy man glanced dubiously at the lanky spin doctor, narrowing his eyes with suspicious annoyance. But he loosened his grip anyway and Angel slipped free.

‘I will see you later then,’ he said clicking his heels together and bowing formally as she was swallowed up by the crowd.

* * *

‘What was that about?’ Stewart asked once she had reached the safety of the canapé belt.

Angel eyed the little crystal boats filled with savoury treats as they trundled past down the ever-moving canal of canapés, the glistening liquid beneath the boats gently pulsing through the colours of the rainbow with the rhythm of soft music permeating the room. She had no idea what most of the dishes were, and was unnerved by a couple with eyes that seemed to glare at her as they glided past. But she hadn’t eaten anything since this morning and with the warm glow of alcohol already clouding her senses she felt she’d better at least make a token gesture.

‘Smarm-ahoy, nothing I can’t handle,’ Angel said, snatching up a snack that seemed least likely to try and bite her back. It looked a bit like a sausage but tasted disconcertingly of fish when she popped it in her mouth. ‘For some reason Captain Riley still thinks I should be impressed by his money and power – but who would want to be rich if you have to eat crap like this?’

Stewart winced.

‘Do you have to swear? There are some important people here tonight and just because power and influence don’t impress you personally, they are still a very significant part of your father’s work.’

Angel looked confused.

‘Was I swearing?’

He cocked a hand to his cheek and mouthed ‘
crap’
at her theatrically, checking left and right to see that no-one was watching.

‘Oh please. Are you serious? That’s a
fact
not a swear. It comes out of
all
our arses and some people’s mouths every day. If you want to hear swearing just get me a couple more drinks and ask me how my life is going.’

‘Yes, well I already heard from your mother how good you are at that, following your late-night excursion to her chambers last night.’

Angel was about to ask if he could fill in any of the blanks for her on that account when a flash of baby-pink in her peripheral vision caught her attention. She snapped her head around to see a line of eight obnoxious-looking children snaking around behind the chocolate fountain on the east terrace; all blonde, little girls of varying ages between toddler and teen.  They were all dressed in a distinctive baby-pink; jumpsuits and tabards all cut from the same flowing cloth.
Her
flowing cloth; her whole livelihood now transformed into Von Trap-style playwear for a flounce of spoilt Imperial princesses.

Chapter 3

‘No more alcohol,’ her mother hissed into Angel’s left ear at the banqueting table later that night.

She’d done a pretty good job of avoiding her parents so far, but once the sit-down meal had commenced there was no escape. Her mother rained false smiles down upon her gracious subjects as she reprimanded her daughter through the corner of her mouth. Her face was tight, but that was as likely to be the latest age-defying spa treatment as the tension of her relationship with her daughter.

Angel just sighed and took another sip of her drink.

‘Last one mother. I promise.’

Her mother glanced back to the conversation happening between her father and Arve Neville-Tutass, the pompous Imperial patron for whom all this extravagance had been organised. Evidently satisfied it was still on track she turned her attention back to Angel, who was trying very hard not to engage in conversation with Captain Riley, seated on her other side.

‘You look nice in that dress, doesn’t she Captain?’

The captain dabbed the corner of his mouth with a crisp white napkin as his gaze crawled over her like hungry spiders. She wanted to sink through her chair and slither off under the table as he placed the cloth slowly in his lap, licking his lips salaciously and pressing it down into his groin with inappropriate firmness.

‘Oh yes, my Lady Maugvahnna, she looks very fine indeed.’

Angel’s mother frowned then, reaching out to touch her clipped head as if to brush an imaginary lock of flowing golden hair tenderly back from her face. Angel twitched away.

‘I wish you’d let your hair grow though. Or wear a wig at least – the Agnew-weave actually knits itself to your own follicles you know? So it looks completely natural, even for someone with hair as tragic as yours.’

Angel made a face and started looking furtively about for the closest serve-bot. Her mother was obsessed with physical beauty and the illusion of youth and had had so much work done she looked the same age as Angel – or at least that’s what her dermal physician kept telling her. With sculpted blonde hair and skin pulled shiny-tight across her forehead and cheeks, she spent more time in the zero-g spas and hyper-gravity-cleansing booths than she did in her own quarters in a desperate attempt to defy time’s relentless assault on her complexion. Angel didn’t understand the superficiality of it all, and with her shaved head and makeup-free face was quite obviously a constant disappointment to the ‘Lady of the Station’ as Maugvahnna’s adoring minions liked to call her.

‘So,’ her mother continued after an awkward moment of silence, ‘what’s next for you? Are we to see you around the station a bit more for a while? Or are you running straight off to sell rocks in space again?’

Angel’s mood darkened and she scowled at her mother from under her eyebrows.

‘Well thanks to you giving my livelihood away to be made into pink romper-suits for chubby little monsters, I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do.’

Her mother looked nervously back at the business discussion beside her, gripping her daughter’s knee under the table and squeezing a vicious warning.

‘Ow!’

‘Lady Kimondo Hausenogger is a very important patron and her children are little cherubs,’ Maugvahnna said beaming at no-one-in-particular in case they had been overheard. ‘You would do well to remember the importance of collecting friends in high places young lady.’

‘Meanwhile, I don’t have any creds to buy new stock, so how exactly is that supposed to help me?’

This time her father did notice the raised voices and her mother pressed another clawed warning into her knee under the table. But Angel was on a roll now, the fire in her belly stoked nicely by the alcohol.

‘And by the way, since you’re so concerned about rank, you might be interested to learn they are going to drop me two reputation levels when they find out what that cloth went for. I’ll probably have to sell myself into slavery – I’m sure one of your lovely Imperial friends needs a floor scrubber?’

Her mother sighed dramatically, now so drawn into the conflict with her daughter that she forgot to maintain her composure.

‘Let’s all worry about your
trade
reputation,’ she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The word ‘trade’ slid out of her mouth through a sneer, as if she found it distasteful on her lips. ‘It was your choice to become a common hawker – don’t blame me because you’re a failure at it. Goodness knows I’ve given up enough for you. We’ve offered you the galaxy on a platter, your father and I; you could have married into any one of the most powerful courts in the Empire, or be sitting beside an officer at the heart of the Federation right now. But you have thrown every opportunity back in my face.’

The “Lady of the Station” put on her best tragic martyr expression and Angel felt her fight seeping away through the cracks of her hopeless situation. Her mother would never understand her need for independence; to stand on her own two feet so that she could happily look her reflection in the eye each morning. How could she, when her own journey to adulthood had been entirely about finding a rich and powerful man to support her? Angel sank back into her chair and reached despondently for another drink that was about to go gliding by courtesy of a serve-bot. Her mother tutted loudly, but sensing a degree of victory let it pass.