An Invitation
Ragnox Inc.
First Across the System
Tired of a humdrum job?
Undervalued at work?
Life passing you by?
Are you looking for Excitement?
Challenge?
Money!!!
Ready for life in the Deregulated Zone?
Then Ragnox Inc. is looking for YOU.
Director Jordan Pascal invites you to sign up now for a stimulating and lucrative seven-year contract at N1 Research Station on Triton, the nerve centre of Ragnox Inc’s Outer Circles operations.
Take the challenge
Learn to live
Come home a millionaire!
Contact us now!
Terms and conditions apply.
Chapter 1
NEWTONIA Relay Station 1, 300 kilometres above Earth.
A thin beam of light from the security sensor traced its way across docking bay 73, catching here and there an antenna, a hatch, a solar panel, a rib, a strut. The ship slumbered, indifferent to the caress, waiting…
At last the dock lights glowed into life, revealing the rust-red curves of the ship’s massive cargo hold, the patches and scorches, the faded markings. The passengers about to board would see none of that. They would see only the illusions within, conjured for their entertainment.
Attention Ragnox Travel passengers. Will premium, economy and contract passengers for flight EGT490 to Ganymede Alpha and Triton make their way to Gate 73, where boarding is now commencing. Gate 73 for flight EGT 490.
The crowds milling around Newtonia’s departure concourse paused their chatter to catch the latest announcement. For 129 of them, their moment had come.
The ISF Heloise was a veteran trader. Freight was her principal business but a modest section was adapted for human cargo, which was why she had been chartered by Ragnox Travel, to offer a leisurely cruising experience, at relatively inexpensive cost, to the furthest reaches of the Inner Circles – to Ganymede, largest moon of Jupiter, a tourist destination of glitzy appeal for the undiscriminating.
The flight crew of three took up their stations on the impressively technical flight deck. They belonged to the ship, but their peppermint uniforms trimmed with immaculate white, were a subtle compliment to the emerald green of Ragnox Travel, their current paymasters.
Chief Officer Addo, elderly but dapper, took his seat at the command console with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Formalities done. Everything A1?’
Hefty Second Officer Luciani, generally known as Siegfried, strolled up to his station, checked the settings and nodded. ‘All go.’
‘And you, Tim?’
‘Yeah!’ Junior Officer Tim Faber was still young enough to feel excitement at the thought of departure from Newtonia. Even a trip to the moon would be more appealing than the college his parents were arranging for him, but this voyage promised far, far better. ‘Let’s go!’
Addo shook his head with a smile. ‘How about we wait for the passengers to board?’
‘Oh yeah. Sorry.’
Siegfried wrinkled his nose. ‘Three months entertaining a bunch of middle-aged tourists, before things hot up, Tim.’
‘Yeah, yeah, okay’ Tim glanced up at the banks of screens monitoring the ship, as they came to life. Channels clicked into place, lights came up, chandeliers emerged out of the gloom, shutters sprang up on the bars, trolleys rattled, smartly uniformed Ragnox Travel staff took up their stations.
Ragnox Travel understood its clientele. The passengers boarding the Heloise were not the movers and shakers of the corporate world, excited by the surge of advances that had made rapid expansion out to the furthest reaches of the solar system a possibility. They were of a more nervous generation that regarded the future with alarm and the past with longing, so Ragnox Travel offered them the past. It was a fictional past, mixing touches of Art Deco, Rococo and Imperial Rome. On their three-month voyage to Ganymede, they would be pampered, for a reasonable cost, by seventy-eight stewards, cooks, croupiers, cleaners and insurance agents.
Until the Heloise reached Ganymede, the flight crew had only one duty: to look reassuringly smart and efficient at their stations. It was after Ganymede, once Ragnox Travel had relinquished them, and they had crossed the Protocol Line into the Outer Circles, that their real work would begin. Because ultimately the Heloise was bound for Triton Station, far, far out at distant Neptune, with just a handful of contract passengers youthful and daring enough to be heading that way.
Tim scanned the crowd bustling on board, dismissing most of them as he tried to identify the ones that mattered. There was one, a bully boy, mid-twenties, snarling at the fat lady next to him – odds on, he’d be for Triton. Tim singled out another one, a girl, slinky as a prowling Siamese cat, pushing her way with arrogant indifference through the crowd. Seriously hot.
‘Yes! Oh yes.’
‘Hands off the livestock, ship’s boy.’
Tim swivelled round to find Commander Foxe looking down on him. Commander Foxe looked down on everyone. In his white braided dress uniform, he looked at least three metres tall.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Tim, standing to attention.
‘Did you call your parents?’
‘Yeah, yeah… I mean, yes, sir.’
‘Are you going to do up those buttons?’
‘Yes. Right. Absolutely.’ Tim fumbled with them.
The doors hissed and silky, silver-haired Brian McBride, Passenger Welfare Co-ordinator for Ragnox Travel, sauntered in breezily.
‘All geared to go?’
Commander Foxe glanced at the last phalanx of passengers shuffling onto the ship. ‘All right, Bridey. Tell me the worst. Any nuns?’
‘No nuns. Tarts are another matter. I’ve been commissioned to arrange secret assignations with you for Señora Consuelo, Mrs Simpson-Travis-Parker and Mrs Clunes. Don’t look at me like that. You’ve no idea what they’ve paid for the privilege.’
‘I can guess. Come on, what else is on the list?’
‘Just the average mob. Twenty-nine First Class, ninety-four also-rans. And your Triton babes, of course. Six of them this trip.’
‘I’m aware of that, thank you. I have their contracts. Tell me something I don’t know about them. You usually manage to extract blood in the thirty seconds it takes to check their passes. Did they give names?’
‘Most of them. Not necessarily their real ones, of course. A pretty average Triton bunch, in my opinion.’ McBride stepped up to join the commander as he conjured up six faces on the nearest monitor. ‘Let’s see. That one, calls himself Merrit Burnand, foul-mouthed muscles with attitude – give him a kicking. She’s a mouse, yawn. Very keen to tell me her name, Maggy Jole, so it must be an alias. That one’s Christie Steen, I think, though she was rather incoherent. An alco – can’t stay upright. Peter Selden: well, isn’t it obvious? He’s a complete psycho. Look at his eyes. Now, she’s a twenty-four carat bitch…’ McBride studied the slinky Siamese cat’s face complacently. ‘I did ask her name, but she brushed me aside as a lackey of the lower orders. If you want someone to spank her, I’m your man.’
‘Thank you, Bridey, but I think I can cope. And what about him?’
‘Ah yes. Him.’ McBride sniffed at a long, blank face, eyes magnified by thick spectacles. ‘Yes, all right, that one’s definitely out of the ordinary. His name – it is his real name, by the way – is David Rabiotti.’
‘Any connection to Michael Rabiotti?’
‘Son of, no less.’
‘Why would a Rabiotti be travelling to Triton on the Heloise?’
‘Yes, a mystery, isn’t it? Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘No, mine, as ever, will be better. Yes. Interesting.’ The commander perused the screen for a couple more seconds, then switched it off. ‘But the Triton contingent is my business. Time you were off to chivvy your own passengers, Bridey. You’ve only got three months to milk them dry.’
‘It’s all in hand.’ McBride did a quick survey of the monitors. The casino on A-Deck had its first customers. Passengers were already gathering in the B-Deck observation lounge, where the great screen had nothing to show more exciting than a parade of orange gantries, but the bar was up and running, doing healthy business. McBride rubbed his hands.
‘In that case, get out from under my feet.’ The commander consulted the departure schedule screen, then glanced round at his crew. ‘Gentlemen, time to go.’
Tim’s fingertips tingled in anticipation. There would be no great roar, no whoosh, as they trundled out on automatic guidance to sling round the Moon, but this was the start. Onwards and outwards. How could college possibly compare?
Commander Foxe tapped a button. ‘E1 Newtonia Control, this is flight EGT 490 requesting clearance for departure to EAP guidance.’
‘EGT 490, your departure is cleared for EAP guidance channel 9.’
Thorne Moore 