THE WORLDSHIP HUMILITY

THE CODE SERIES. BOOK ONE

RR HAYWOOD

CONTENTS

Also by RR Haywood

Also by RR Haywood

A Fleet Newscast Educational Podcast

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Also by RR Haywood

Also by RR Haywood

The Undead Day One

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Copyright © R. R. Haywood 2018

R. R. Haywood asserts his moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events, unless those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or undead), is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Design, Cover and Illustration by Mark Swan.

ALSO BY RR HAYWOOD

EXTRACTED SERIES

EXTRACTED

EXECUTED

EXTINCT

Block-buster Time-Travel

#1 Amazon US

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#1 Audible US & UK

Washington Post and WSJ Best-seller

In 2061, a young scientist invents a time machine to fix a tragedy in his past. But his good intentions turn catastrophic when an early test reveals something unexpected: the end of the world.

A desperate plan is formed. Recruit three heroes, ordinary humans capable of extraordinary things, and change the future.

Safa Patel is an elite police officer, on duty when Downing Street comes under terrorist attack. As armed men storm through the breach, she dispatches them all.

'Mad' Harry Madden is a legend of the Second World War. Not only did he complete an impossible mission—to plant charges on a heavily defended submarine base—but he also escaped with his life.

Ben Ryder is just an insurance investigator. But as a young man he witnessed a gang assaulting a woman and her child. He went to their rescue, and killed all five.

Can these three heroes, extracted from their timelines at the point of death, save the world?

rrhaywood.com

ALSO BY RR HAYWOOD

THE UNDEAD SERIES

THE UK’s #1 Horror Series

“The Best Series Ever…”

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A FLEET NEWSCAST EDUCATIONAL PODCAST

Hi! I’m Kristi Carter and thank you for listening to this podcast produced by the good folks here at Fleet NewsCast.

This podcast is designed for use within the Fleet Educational Curriculum, and should be listened to, or watched on holo, in line with your education providers.

This podcast can be automatically translated into all Fleet languages by accessing the systems menu. Your education provider can help with that.

First. The big question. Why are we here? And I do not mean biologically! For that podcast or holo production please access the menu listings.

The fleet exists because our home planet, the planet Earth, where our species evolved, was destroyed by a meteor over one hundred and twenty years ago.

That meteor was discovered just under sixty years from the point of impact. Sixty years sounds like a long time, right? But in terms of what the people on Earth had to do, it was a very short period.

First, the scientists on Earth looked to the stars in search of a new home. Various solar systems that were thought capable of having a planet that could sustain life had been discovered. They built probes and enormous telescopes and all manner of incredible instruments. For that podcast or holo production please access the menu listings.

Unfortunately, all of those places they thought were able to sustain life were proven to be no good. I know right? Talk about bad luck!

It still meant that in order for our species to survive we had to get off the planet Earth.

Some intrepid souls set up colonies on Mars. Another planet within the same solar system as Earth. For that podcast or holo production please access the menu listings.

The other thing they did is they built our fleet. The fleet you are now in and are now a part of.

That’s right kids. We are all part of a fleet of over forty vessels, and you are very special because you are one of the very few survivors of our species. No, I get what you are saying. It doesn’t feel like you’re special, right? I mean, look about, there’s people everywhere. In fact, this whole fleet has millions of people. But remember this, over fifteen billion people did not survive the meteor impact. That makes us a fraction of what we once were, so yes, you are very special!

Some of the vessels within our fleet are called Worldships. For the podcast and holo production on the individual vessels, please access the menu listings.

Most of the Worldships were financed and constructed by countries on Earth, or by groups of countries working together in alliances.

Some of the other vessels were financed and constructed privately and contain much smaller numbers. Others are for science research.

Seven ships within the fleet were financed and constructed by corporations who gave money and resources in exchange for passage and the right to continue trade. They were called the Virtue Fleet. Sadly, three of those vessels collided as the fleet set out, which resulted in the deaths of millions of people. For that podcast or holo production please access the menu listings.

That leads me to the next question. How are we moving? And how are so many vessels, all of different sizes and shapes all moving at the same speed?

Well, because of the devastating loss of three Worldships, the fleet decided that every vessel should be navigated by a central computer system located on The Ark. That system is what keeps us all together and moving as one, and only that computer can make us all move. And by the way, we’re moving all the time. We’re travelling at a speed that will boggle your mind. We’re also constantly changing direction as our probes detect anything in our path that could hurt us. We just don’t feel it, as every change is done gently because who wants synth-cola spilled down their clothes? Am I right?

But hey, I hear you, we know where we came from, but what we really want to know is where are we going?

I hear you, but sadly, right now, we do not have a planet to aim for. What we do have are probes that we send out to search for what we call trace particles or signals, or anything in space that might tell us there is a planet out there. We find trace particles all the time, so we know eventually, we will find somewhere. We just don’t know when.

Our most famous probe is the Shuttle Gagarin. She is the fastest most advanced thing ever produced by our species, and I’m telling you kids now, if we ever do find a new home, it will be because of that plucky little probe.

Now, I’m sure you will have a ton of questions and you go right on ahead and ask your education providers anything else you want to know. You can also access our menu listings for further podcasts and holo productions.

Before I go, let me say this: Don’t worry! Our fleet is capable of producing everything we need to survive for a very long time. Just don’t waste anything! Remember that. Waste is a crime!

I’m Kristi Carter and you’ve been watching a Fleet NewsCast production.

You take care now folks.

CHAPTER ONE

A vibe in the air of the fashion store within the lanes and walkways of the level 30 retail zone on board the Worldship Humility. Early morning but it feels like everyone is out to see the new range, rushing in and out of the shops and stores to bag something before the workday starts proper. People gathering to eat breakfast and drink synth coffee. The benches within the public spaces already filled. News channels displayed on walls and glowing up in 3D holo. Showing old footage of the Gagarin coming back from previous journeys, but a greater amount of the footage is given over to the new fashion range released on board the cultural centre of the WS Humility. A tradition within the fleet that was once done to mark the return of the probe, and now takes over as the primary news source.

Yasmine smiles at the assistant with a roll of her eyes at all the fuss before moving on to select some sexy underwear in shades of peach and pale greens. She smiles again, coy and shy, while thinking how her boyfriend will love to see her in something like this.

She finds a slinky dress for that event they have planned, then some normal bras and underwear. Not ultra-expensive. Not ultra-cheap. Mid-range. She gathers more garments, sportswear, casual tops and such like, draping them over her arms while moving at a certain pace to project the persona of a busy working woman with a day off who wants to buy nice things to impress her partner and co-workers in whatever crappy office she works in. She projects that image and so does not draw any attention.

Of course, she needs to try them on. She doesn’t earn a fortune and she doesn’t want to waste time taking them home only to bring them back again another day.

Into the changing section and she heads to a self-sealing drop-down cubicle, her arms laden with clothes. She hums to herself while thinking about what they will eat tonight and hangs the garments on the hooks before voicing the command to seal the cubicle, smiling at another customer walking past.

The smile fades as soon as the door closes, and Yasmine drops to a knee and moves fast with well-practised movements, pulling another wristband from her pocket to activate the interface. A qwerty keyboard hanging in the air. She enters the password to activate a second screen showing a red scanner within a green field. And master thief Yasmine Emile Dufont sets to work.

Every garment is tagged with an invisible code that’s only deactivated when the item is purchased through the store interface.

Unless you have this highly illegal hacking programme that cost a ton of credits and a heap of favours owed, plus the risk of a prison sentence served on The Ark if she’s caught with it. Not that Yasmine knows how it works. She has no clue as to exactly what it does, only that she has to follow a set sequence.

She selects the first item and scans the lingerie into her system that displays the deactivation code. The problem is the system is old and outdated, meaning she has to manually input the code into another screen. She can’t even drag it across but has to type it, which is painstakingly slow– but then everyone has things in their jobs they hate, and if shoplifting was easy then everyone would do it.

She undresses to bra and knickers. Wincing at the sight of the old bruises on her body from the voltage-sticks. She deactivates the lingerie then puts it on over the ones she is already wearing. Another set the same. A couple of t-shirts. A thin pair of running leggings. A pair of shorts. A long sleeve shirt. That’s all she can risk for now. She dresses in her own clothes, feeling bulky and constrained but only looking a bit bigger than she was.

‘Show me,’ she says quietly as a 3D mirror image of herself appears. She studies herself quickly, looking to see if she is too big or bulky. ‘Turn…’ the image rotates.

A minute later she walks out with the clothes she didn’t want and passes them back to the assistant with a wry smile. A neat trick of always taking too much in, so you have something to come out with.

‘I’m bigger than I thought.’

‘Aw, I’m sure you’re not,’ the assistant says. ‘Want me to get bigger sizes?’

‘No, I’m fine, but thank you so much.’

She goes out into the packed walkways and into a luggage store. Purchasing the cheapest, largest holdall she can find before walking to the public toilets behind one of the main stairwells, aiming for the last cubicle on the left.

She goes in, closes the door and undresses. Stuffing all the stolen clothes into the bag that is then hidden behind a service panel popped out from the wall at the back of the cubicle.

A few minutes later and Yasmine walks empty handed back into the walkways and lanes of the packed level 30 retail zone on board the WS Humility.

Stealing is easy. Anyone can steal.

Anyone can take something that doesn’t belong to them and claim ownership of that item in all manner of ways. Food, clothes, credits, goods for trading with or goods for selling.

Stealing is easy but stealing well is both an art and a science, and Yasmine Emile Dufont likes to think of herself as a master at work. She is more than a petty thief. She is a professional. In fact, if there was a certified career path of thievery, she would now be a professor, maybe even a consultant.

She lifts her eyebrows at the idea of being a stealing consultant. Imagining herself in a plush office on one of the higher levels of the ship. Not like level one or anything that high. Maybe level nine or eight. Yeah, that’s it. She’d be on level eight in a big office filled with paintings and she’d wear a cool suit and be super awesome.

‘Show me,’ she says, opening the 3D mirror image in the changing cubicle of the next target store and she pauses, staring at the lines in the corners of her eyes. Bending forward at the waist as the digital reflection copies her motion and leans in to be studied.

She looks at her black hair, convinced she found a grey one the other day. She’s only thirty but growing up in the lower levels of the World-Ship Humility is enough to make anyone prematurely grey.

That raw truth lays stark in her mind -- that she is a jobless, unregistered petty-thief from the Elfors, and that is not what she intended for her life.

A rush of memories, of remembering when they were young and together before it all got sinister and dark. A group of near-feral kids growing up in the cockroach and rat-infested shanty towns of level 40 where they ran riot, stealing to eat, stealing to survive, stealing anything that wasn’t strapped down. Laughing when the grav-drives failed and seeing who could fly the highest and furthest before they came back on. She remembers laughing a lot. They lived in abject squalor, but that was all they knew so it didn’t seem so bad to them, and those times still bring forth a warm feeling in her belly. Like it was innocent and harmless somehow.

Pretty Penny, Guphy Gupherson, Karen Big Feet, shy, gentle Dmitri and Chatty Simon who never shut up and Mad Eyes Ken who was always hanging about being a weird little pervert. Others in their gang that ran and stole with them. They slept together, huddled in whatever spaces they could find. Crawling through freezing cold vents and ducts that they made into tunnels and safe spaces to hide in. They shared and did everything together until the day Chatty Simon saw his drunk dad beat his mum to death. They all saw it. They were all there. Chatty Simon tried to stop him, screaming and crying out. Then the father turned on the son and it got worse. They all rushed in, trying to get Simon away but he wouldn’t go, everything was happening so fast. Guphy so big and strong but not knowing what to do. Karen a mess. Penny and Yasmine shouting for help that would never come because the police never go into the Elfors. Blood everywhere. Horrific and frightening. A memory seared into her mind and she tenses at the visceral replay of it.

Then Dmitri pulled the knife. They knew he was carrying one, but figured he’d never use it. He did use it. He went for Simon’s dad and started stabbing him. Then Simon joined in, taking the blade from Dmitri to stab his own father while his mother lay dead only a few steps away. Blood spraying out over their arms and faces. Simon’s dad raging with drunken disbelief as they went at him. Yasmine tried to stop them. Penny too but even Guphy couldn’t pull them back. Then Karen went in, not to help but to attack and then Guphy did the same. They all did. They all killed him. Stamping. Cutting. Stabbing and sobbing, before running away under the greasy rain that smeared the blood over their bodies.

That was the point when it all changed. That was when the darkness came into their lives and the fun stopped. Outside a shack on a filthy walkway on level forty, just feet away from the outer-skin of the vessel and the freezing void of space.

That wasn’t the first death Yasmine saw. Everyone in the Elfors sees death on a near daily basis. Violence too. Raw, brutal and often without reason. It wasn’t the first time they had seen someone die, but it was the first time they caused it. After that was it just carnage when some associates of Simon’s dad decided they didn’t like what had happened and came after them all.

It was Dmitri who stopped them.

Quiet, gentle, shy Dmitri who only ever wanted to hold Yasmine’s hand and promised he would always take care of her. The dreams of young teenagers. The grand plans they formed of how they’d get jobs and move up to a nice level and leave the bowels. All of them would. That was the changing point for all of them.

That’s when Dmitri stopped being so shy and gentle.

‘Jesus,’ she exhales, pulling away and shaking her head at the memories that still carry so much emotion inside, no matter how much she drinks or how many drugs she takes.

She goes out and once more heads to the stairwell and the toilets while trying to think of a way to score big and get off this ship and start a new life.

Yeah, that’s what she needs. A big job to make a ton of credits followed by a few weeks on the Ab-Spa to get blind stinking drunk and forget she ever lived on this dump.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Good morning folks. I’m Kristi Carter and you are watching the Fleet NewsCast. You know what today is right? Today marks the return of the Shuttle Gagarin coming home from another long-range mission, and my exclusive sources are telling me the Gagarin has pushed out further than ever before this time. Right out there into the great unknown to the very edges of her capability. Has she found anything? Stay tuned because we at Fleet NewsCast will be the first to know. We’re relying on you, Gagarin, because it’s been one hundred and twenty three years, four months, two weeks and one day since this fleet set out to find a new home…’

Sam Gablinski murmurs the words with her while sitting on a soft padded bench in one of the big open zones within the level 30 retail zone, watching the life-size 3D holo-projection of the Fleet NewsCast anchor Kristi Carter looking splendidly beautiful as she stares into the camera, and by proxy, out to Sam and the millions of other people in the fleet.

He smiles at hearing the chorus of voices counting the days off, enjoying the vibe in the air.

Sam normally watches the morning news from his wristband in his sleeping tube in cabin 58, row G on level 35 of the World-Ship Humility, but Sam woke early today and quickly shuffled from his tube into his cabin proper. A small square space filled with a red inflatable sofa and a pop-up table covered with tools and wristbands stripped into pieces. 3D Holo-feeds blooming up showing all manner of interfaces. Clothes strewn here and there.

A few minutes later and Sam stepped from his cabin to stare left and right at the hundreds of other symmetrical cabins on his row, set within the many rows running across the width of a spaceship shaped like an oversized skyscraper lying on its side.

Hundreds of thousands of people living in a brightly lit, ultra clean vessel with everything in shades of white or cream or grey. Forty levels on this ship. Level one at the top. Level forty at the bottom, but the lower four levels, the Elfors, are a no go and only people with the right access can go up past the security station on level 20.

Sam woke early because not only is the Gagarin coming back, but the new clothing range is released. Not that Sam is into fashion, but he does love people-watching. Besides, living on a spaceship isn’t exactly interesting, so any change is more than welcome.

He sips his synth coffee and sighs at the beautiful blonde-haired, blue-eyed Kristi Carter pausing with a thoughtful expression.

‘…I mean, are we even ready to find another planet? We’ve got corruption, nepotism and downright incompetence running rife through the fleet, the WS Beijing’s docking delays are worsening by the day, backing up the shuttles arriving from The Ark which is causing havoc to everyone else. Production strikes, economic downturn, small businesses struggling against constantly rising rates and the shortage for living space will only get worse as our populations get bigger …and as for the WS Humility…hey you know what, I’m just going to say it. I am. I’m going to say it…’

Sam watches her gesturing off camera in a way that makes him think there is actually no one there and she’s just pretending to go off-script for effect.

‘Something has to be done. Enough is enough. No, I won’t apologise for my comments. How many more people are going to turn up dead on stairwells near the lower four levels on the Humility? The Humility has more crime and murders than the rest of the fleet combined. The Elfors are out of control and this is reaching crisis point…and as for Neon City? That place is just…’

He de-tunes and idly looks about at the workers tending the plants that grow everywhere throughout the ship, spraying water from nozzles fitted to the end of rubberised tubes pulled down from the ceiling. Enough to give life and growth, to add oxygen to help process the gases produced by people, but more to give colour and create a pleasant environment. Roses and lilies blooming. Scents in the air. Everything pleasant and nice with Sam sitting in his creased uniform of black cargo trousers and short sleeve grey shirt drinking bitter synth-coffee from a reusable beaker because this is the fleet, and nothing is ever wasted.

Stubble on his face and his blond hair scruffy and unkempt. Thirty years old. He looks younger from the lack of sunlight. Everyone looks younger. A phenomenon of space travel, but then with life expectancy within the fleet pushing one hundred and fifty he is still considered a young man.

Someone brushes by, making Sam almost drop his beaker. A heavily muscled handsome guy in an orange shuttle crew uniform. He glances back at Sam who smiles to show no offence was taken. The guy just sneers and walks on, swinging his big arms as he goes, heedless to the fact he’s bumping and barging into people.

Sam shrugs it off, wondering why people feel the need to be like that and goes back to watching people walk by holding beakers of synth-coffee, synth-tea or synth-whatever-they-are-having because only the super wealthy eat real food now.

Everyone seems connected. At least, that’s how it feels to Sam as he watches people wave and call to each other. He likes it when that happens and sometimes wishes that he could stroll by and wave and nod and say hey, how you doing?

Sam doesn’t do those things. Shyness and awkwardness always hold him back and his childhood moulded him to like his own company. He never felt lonely though. How can anyone ever bored or lonely when you have a wristband that gives access to a near infinite world of movies, books and VR games?

Sam does like this particular bench within this particular public area, however, as it’s right at the meeting point of two main walkways lined with stores and other smaller lanes feeding off them, and the big tropical plant on his right shields him from view, allowing him to enjoy the sights and stare up at the new adverts hanging in the air outside the stores. 3D holo all shining and glowing in perfect, pin-sharp clarity. That’s the other good thing about today; all the stores show their new adverts and make use of the colours from the new lines, bathing the whole section in hundreds of shades of peach and green.

Nike showing a gorgeous woman doing Fleet CrossFit in her new peach coloured all-in-one sports suit with green self-sealing running shoes. The Void’s advert blooming out with hot young things laughing in one of the Starbucks eateries. All of them in the same new shades. A brightly coloured display catches his eye. FleetZ-KidZ using bold primary colours and popping lights to catch the attention of children to make them want the new children’s peach-coloured interactive wristbands. Another high-end holo advert outside the Fleet-Apple store, urging customers to upgrade to the latest iOS wristband interface.

Everywhere he looks there is something else to see. A vista of signs with popping graphics, and everyone looking so happy.

Then he spots someone not looking quite so happy. A young boy, maybe six or seven. Small build with a mop of blond hair and a serious countenance. His little arm stretched up to hold his mother’s hand while she chats to a group of friends. A beaker in her other hand and her attention solely focussed on her conversation. Sam watches the kid stare about, looking this way and that at the people passing by and glancing up to the adverts. The kid turns on the spot, stretching his arm out to stay connected to his mother while trying to see more adverts, then blinking as more people go by and stepping back quickly as the guy in the orange shuttle uniform barges by.

‘Hey,’ the mother calls out, after almost losing her beaker the same way Sam did. The guy turns and gives that sneer. ‘Watch where you’re going huh?’ she calls.

‘Whatever,’ he shouts, waving a muscled arm.

‘Jerk,’ the mother mutters, before going back to her conversation and Sam spots the alarmed look on the kid’s face at the man barging by, then how the kid looks about again. Something about him. The colour of his hair and that wide-eyed look of interest at the world about him, as though it’s all so alien and wonderfully weird.

Sam felt like that. Like he was in amongst it all, but not part of it. Like he wasn’t in the narrative of whatever he was meant to be doing.

An idea in mind and Sam checks left and right before shuffling back on the bench and swiping his interface to bring his screens glowing up above his arm. He swipes again to detach them from the anchor and bring them in front. Angling them in so only he can see the display. The big leaves of the tropical plant brushing against his shoulder, hiding him from view. Another look around and he opens a new screen. Matt black with green type. A red virtual qwerty keyboard hanging in the air and he sets to work with a wry smile, his fingers blurring with speed as he types and continually glances up.

Which one? He muses for a second, thinking maybe the Nike one, but that’s quite far back. The Apple advert? No, the rendering is too high-spec and would take too long to change. FleetZ-KidZ. Yep, definitely that one, and he sets to work. Another pause, a second’s worth of thought as he looks over at the kid. What would Sam want to see when he was that age?

Aliens. Definitely aliens. They’re in space. There should be aliens.

‘And aliens there will be,’ he mumbles, taking graphics and footage loops from his own library and others from free-to-use databases, then some more that should be paid for, but Sam doesn’t worry about that. He simply hacks in, selects what he wants, copies it over and slides back out again without ever leaving a trace. ‘Big heads,’ he says. Forming the images of big-headed aliens with huge bulging eyes. Nothing scary though. He gives them big smiles and thin spindly arms with over-sized hands. Green skin. Peach coloured clothes. He finds cartoon footage of the Gagarin probe and works on, smiling to himself, content in his world.

With his images ready, he opens another matt black screen and virtual keyboard and types fast, writing green code that forms a programme that punches out into the world about him, detecting digital signatures. He narrows the field and isolates the digital pings until he finds the systems running the adverts and quickly reads the coding they have used.

‘Got it,’ he smiles again, a twinkle in his eye as he looks up to jiggle the FleetZ-KidZ advert, checking that he has control. These people really need to secure their systems better. Back to the first screen and he pokes the tip of his tongue out as he sends it over, instantly changing the current boring advert about the new children’s wristbands to a static image of a cartoon Gagarin against the backdrop of space. Back to the second screen and he types faster still, making it come to life as the Gagarin starts moving through space, leaving a trail of shooting stars in its wake, all of them glittering and sparkling. More code sent, and that trail of stars cascades lower towards the walkway. A tweak. An alteration. More code written and the whole advert expands in size, stretching across the entire width of the lane. Sam tuts, shaking his head at the kid looking around at people instead of up.

Sound effects. A third screen opened. A third keyboard to work on to source noises and those cascading stars soon start giving noise. A pleasant tinkling sounds of light metal falling on something hard, but tuneful and jaunty. He adds a comic roaring noise to the Gagarin, but still the kid stares about rather than up.

‘Right, try this,’ Sam says, glancing up as a second space-vessel flies into view. A flying saucer helmed by the big-headed green aliens. He gives that a wake of stars too and adds sound effects. Squawking alien voices hailing the Gagarin. ‘Jesus, kid, look up.’ He rolls his eyes and adds a smiling face to the front of the sleek-hulled Gagarin, instantly giving it life, but the kid still doesn’t look up. More spaceships are added, and he increases the size of the wake behind them all until they all form one huge flowing rainbow of cascading stars. Then he makes those stars fall lower until they’re landing in amongst the shoppers walking through the wide walkway.

‘He still isn’t looking,’ Sam laughs, shaking his head and he isolates one star, taking control of it and making it glide out as it pulses and shines and changes colour. He slides it down until it slowly lowers to a foot in front of the boy’s face who blinks and frowns at it.

The star dips then rises. The kid looks at his mother. The star comes in closer, virtually poking the kid who gives his first big smile which makes Sam add a grinning face to the star. That does it and finally the boy watches the star as it starts rising. Slowly at first then whoosh it’s off and the kid stretches his little arm while holding hands with his mother to stare up in awe at the air above him, now filled with flying saucers all zooming about the grinning Gagarin while rainbows of stars fall down.

One of the flying saucers flies above the Gagarin and opens a door to jump out and dance on the top of the probe-ship that smiles and winks at the kid who laughs with glee.

‘Mummy, look!’

‘In a minute, honey,’ his mother says, still talking to her friends while Sam makes the images bigger and longer, adding more aliens dancing on the hull of the probe. They pass a cratered moon full of more big-headed aliens waving.

‘Mummy!’ the kid cries out, tugging his mother’s hand. She frowns, almost scowling at the interruption before looking down to see his face filled with glee.

‘What the…’ she snaps her head up and instantly reacts to the show underway. Her group of friends all doing the same and only then does Sam become aware that the entire walkway has come to a halt with people stopping to watch. The public area too. People on the benches leaning over to look. Kids laughing. Mums and dads smiling and pointing. This must be part of the celebrations. Wristbands activated with virtual cameras popping up for people to record as Sam winces and holds still, thinking maybe he got carried away. He flexes his fingers over the keyboard, thinking to shut it all down when the staff from FleetZ-KidZ rush out to stare up, shaking their heads and looking at each other.

‘Stuff it,’ Sam types again, deleting his digital signature. He leaves it in place, knowing they’ll never be able to trace it back, then shuts his systems down and gets ready to leave.

‘Come on! Move out the way,’ a hard voice sounds out, making Sam look down the walkway to the muscled guy striding hand in hand with a beautiful woman dressed in the green Financial Services uniform. She doesn’t show any reaction to her boyfriend bullying his way through everyone watching the show in the air. Sam frowns, pauses and spots the virtual movie poster just ahead of them.

He shouldn’t. Sam really shouldn’t. He just hacked an advert and should scarper for a bit.

‘Er, an excuse me would be nice,’ someone calls out after being barged and Sam sits back down to open his system. He hasn’t done a movie poster in ages and he can’t help but smile as he punches into the hacking software and locates the digital signature, busting it aside with ease while glancing up to the beautiful couple getting closer. He times it perfectly, holding still until they’re at the junction then blooms the poster out to block their path.

They could walk right through it, but the guy stops to stare in awe at the huge words on the poster blazing in flame:

THE LAST FEW!

‘THE LAST FEW,’ a deep male old-style Hollywood voice blares out.

Sam waits, fingers poised and ready on his keyboard as the couple watch the holo feed, waiting for the trailer to start.

‘STARRING FLEET MEGASTAR JOHAN JOHANS. THIS IS FOR YOU…’ a pause as the poster system detects the proximity of the processors within their wristbands and accesses their data. ‘NANCY AND IAN…’

Nancy and Ian. Brilliant. Sam sets to work as the trailer starts and the square-jawed rugged hero Johan Johans leaps from a burning building to land before heroically scooping a small child up as he runs for a helicopter hovering just inches off the ground. The backdrop a burning Earth city street full of rioters and looters. The meteor clear in the sky, looming towards the planet like an out of control moon and Johan Johans racing to get the last few into a shuttle and out of danger. It’s so realistic, too. Johan could have been there doing that exact thing, but Sam knows it’s CGI filmed in The Ark.

‘Well hey,’ Johan Johans morphs into view within the poster, crossing his muscled arms and winking in the general direction of Nancy and Ian. ‘You work hard…’ a tiny pause. ‘Nancy and Ian. You’re goddam heroes for your service to this fleet…’

Nancy smiles, clearly wanting to keep walking, but waiting for her boyfriend to finish gawping at the movie star.

‘And you, Ian, shuttle crews are goddam heroes.’

‘Doing my bit, Sir,’ Ian says, which makes Sam’s mouth drop open. Does he really think the poster is talking to him? No way. Even his girlfriend just shot him a funny look. Oh this is going to be even better.

‘Watch The Last Few tonight, Ian,’ Johan Johans booms. ‘While I make love to Nancy.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Ian says smartly as Nancy blinks.

‘Did you hear that?’ she asks as Sam types faster.

‘Hear what?’ Ian asks.

‘Goddam it, Nancy. I miss you so much,’ Johan Johans says.

‘What the hell?’ Ian snaps.

‘You and me Nancy, we’ll make sweet love while your dumbass boyfriend watches my stupid movie.’

‘HEY,’ Ian shouts, glaring at the poster while Nancy looks from Johans to her boyfriend. ‘You take that back, buddy.’

‘Honey, it’s not real,’ Nancy says.

‘Is it true, Nancy? That Ian likes to rub oil in his pecs while watching the CrossFit games?’

‘HEY! Not cool, man.’

‘Ian, it’s not real.’

‘Are you screwing this guy, Nancy?’ Ian asks as the attention in the walkway and public area swiftly changes from the advert to Ian arguing with a movie poster.

‘It’s just a poster, Ian.’

‘I LIKE NANCY’S NIPPLES,’ Johan Johans shouts.

‘Oh my god,’ Nancy mutters, covering her face as Ian tries to defend his love by swinging a punch at Johan Johans and flies through the holo-projection to sprawl out on the other side. ‘It’s not real, Ian,’ she says through clenched teeth.

‘GET UP AND FIGHT ME, IAN,’ Johan shouts as Ian charges, while Sam wipes the tears from his cheeks as the people around him laugh and film Ian battering thin air. Sam ends the fun, closing the poster, which retracts with Ian trying to chase it and running face first into the wall as Nancy hurries away, covering her face with her hands.

Definitely time to go and Sam rushes off through the walkway with his head down while children laugh at the big-headed aliens and adults laugh at the small-brained Ian while the staff from FleetZ-KidZ wonder why they have an advert that doesn’t advertise anything they sell.

CHAPTER THREE

Yasmine strolls in the store and pauses to stare at the peach coloured top before casting her gaze over the garments on display and clocking the position of the changing cubicles.

‘You would look so good in that.’

‘Whoa!’ Yasmine says, flinching at the speed the smiling store assistant pops up at her side, smiling like a hungry shark.

‘That shade of peach would so match your dark hair and skin tone. Have you seen our new range? We’re calling it the Gagarin collection.’

‘That’s original.’

‘You are so funny! Would you like to try it on? I can get you some other items if you like. I think our greens would so suit you too. You’re so pretty and your shape is just amazing.’

Yasmine tenses at the compliment, swallowing the surge of irritation. ‘I think I’ll carry on looking, but thank you…wow, bye then,’ she adds when the woman vanishes to find someone who might actually buy something. A heavy sigh and with it the motivation and energy to keep shoplifting seems to vanish as quickly as the sales girl. Stealing is hard work. Besides, the staff in here are a bit too attentive.

She heads out and pauses mid-step at seeing everyone in the walkway slowing to watch one of the holo adverts showing big-headed aliens driving a flying saucer next to the Gagarin. It is cute though and she smiles while figuring she’ll go and grab a coffee, but then also figuring she is very low on credits. One more. She’ll do one more store and add to her stolen stash, then call it quits. Greedy shoplifters get caught, and she can always come back during the lunchtime rush.

Into the next store and the throngs of people marvelling over the shades of the new lines and Yasmine feels that pulse of irritation again. That these people live this like while so many are struggling to survive on the same ship. It’s not bitterness or jealousy but something else. A feeling that it just isn’t right. That someone should do something, except nobody knows what, and Yasmine certainly doesn’t. She also knows she is one of the very few lucky ones that is able to slip past the security stations and get out of the Elfors to be here now doing this.

She gathers some items, the same type of thing as before. Thin tops and leggings. Underwear too. Stuff that she can sell on easily. Not that she ever makes much from selling stolen clothes. 1000 credit’s worth of gear will get maybe 200 or 300.

Yasmine also knows that she is getting hungry and thirsty, which is why her mood is dropping. Last one. Definitely the last one.

Into the changing rooms and she heads for the square section marked on the floor and waits for the panels to pop out, sealing her within the cubicle, then once more she gets to work. Opening her interface to start the laborious task of deactivating the tags before undressing and pulling and tugging more clothes on, grunting softly to herself in the confined space.

‘Oh my god, can you believe it’s back already,’ a voice from outside. Someone chatting.

‘I know right. So exciting,’ someone replies.

Yasmine rolls her eyes. It isn’t exciting at all. In fact, the only good thing about the Gagarin coming back is that it makes it easier for her to steal. A few days from now and the level one putas will solemnly declare it hasn’t found anything, but hey, we’ve all just got to stick at it. There’s a planet out there somewhere, right?

‘Show me,’ she mutters, bringing her mirror image up and wincing at the bags under her eyes and her messy hair, and again that pause comes. The pause of reflection. The Gagarin does that. It makes people take stock and assess their lives. She remembers shoplifting the last time it came back, and the dozens of times before that. All of them the same, and she promised each time that by the next one she’d be off this ship living a new life. She swallows. Sensing the failures of her life are now showing truer than ever. That this is it. This is all she will ever be. A petty thief constantly looking over her shoulder and running on fumes.

‘Panels down,’ she steps from the cubicle, her arms draped in the clothes-to-be-returned, and heads over to the assistant by the side, handing them over with a smile. ‘Bigger than I thought,’ she says without conviction, without feeling it, without conveying the persona of the person she needs to be to steal and get away with it.

She walks back through the store, denying the urge to tug at the too many pairs of knickers digging into her bum cheeks and looks ahead through the open door to the walkway now packed with people all staring down to one end. A glimpse through the crowd to a big guy in an orange shuttle crew uniform swinging a punch at what looks like a movie poster. That big display still playing in the air showing the big-headed aliens dancing on top of the Gagarin, and as she nears the door, she spots a man walking towards her. Scruffy blond hair, stubble on his cheeks and his uniform looks like an Airlock worker, but it’s the gentle smile that catches her eye.

He seems to sense her gaze and glances her way as they make eye contact and that gentle smile widens, becoming warm and lovely and she smiles back, noticing that for once she is sharing a smile with a man who doesn’t drop his eyes to stare at her chest. She even starts lifting her chin, readying to say hi, seeing the blush in his cheeks and as she reaches the threshold of the door, he walks into a big potted plant and bounces off to sprawl across the floor. She bursts out laughing, feeling instantly sorry for him and rushes out to help as all hell breaks loose with the store alarm screeching and red and blue flashing arrows pointing down at Yasmine frozen to the spot with a myriad of expressions crossing her face. She holds that eye contact as the man gets quickly off the floor, and in that second, she loses the instinct to run for it as the alarm brings every head snapping over to her with staff rushing out from the store.

Sam gets to his feet, the blush still burning his cheeks from such a pretty woman giving him such a lovely natural smile, and it looked like she was about to say hi too, the way she was looking at him and angling her head as she walked out. Then he walked into the plant and tripped over. Fool.

He blinks at the alarms and the big 3D holo arrows all aiming at the woman with dark hair standing frozen to the spot. Sam thinks she will bolt. It’s right there in her eyes. A hunted, near-feral wildness that shows for a second and no more, then the staff are rushing out and everyone is turning to look and Sam wilts back, easing away into the crowd while watching the woman protest her innocence.

‘There’s been a mistake,’ she says, her voice just about heard over the alarm. ‘The system’s faulty. This is embarrassing.’

‘Wait for the police,’ the store manager replies, shouting to be heard. A stern woman gripping the arm of the lady who smiled.

Sam blinks, figuring it’ll be a mistake. Surely. An error or something, but then Sam has never heard of a stock interface system having a flaw before. It’s a rudimentary but fool-proof system, and the only way those alarms go off is if someone walks out without paying. She doesn’t look like a thief though. But then what does a thief look like?

He steps back to press against the side wall of another store and opens his matt-black screen to isolate the signature of the store’s interface, finding it quickly. He goes in, pushing through the flimsy firewalls and software to see the security system is reporting an unregistered adult female customer is trying to leave with a green coloured t-shirt in the new range valued at 49.00 credits. He looks at Yasmine still protesting her innocence and feels an urge to do something. Maybe run down and help, but how? A thought in his head, and he starts to type then pauses, holding his fingers off the keyboard. Hacking adverts and movie posters is one thing but helping someone steal is a proper crime. He could go to prison on The Ark for that. But then he’s never been caught yet, and he knows his craft is good enough to not leave any trace.

‘I DIDN’T STEAL ANYTHING.’

He looks over to see a panicked look on the woman’s face. Not obvious, but it’s there all right. The way she swallows. The way she looks for a way out. A vulnerability clear in her eyes.

He types fast, his fingers blurring as he glances up and times it to perfection with a man leaving the store behind Yasmine and all hell breaks loose again with the alarm screaming out at a higher volume as the red and blue arrows twist away from the woman to point at the new man exiting the store. The guy stops, scowling and frowning as a store assistant rushes to tell the manager she just sold him a new shirt.

Then it goes off again when another customer walks out to see what the fuss is about and finds arrows pointing at her and the alarm changing tone to a new alert.

‘I think you’ve got a malfunction,’ Yasmine’s voice shouting over the bedlam as Sam triggers another alarm as someone else steps out.

The manager finally lets go of her arm and starts gesturing at her staff as Sam cuts all the alarms. ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?’ the manager roars into the silence, the words spilling out before she realises the sound has stopped and the silence that comes back is all the more heavier. ‘I am so sorry,’ she gabbles, grimacing at Yasmine.

‘It’s fine,’ Yasmine says, hardly believing it.

‘I don’t know what’s happened,’ the manager says as her staff apologise to the other people with arrows pointing at them. ‘This is so embarrassing.’

‘Er…honestly, it’s fine.’ Yasmine says quickly, easing away. ‘I need to…get going. I’ve got work and…’

‘Let me scan your system so we can apply a credit for our store,’ the manager says, swiping at her own wristband.

‘No! It’s fine. Honestly,’ Yasmine says, moving away faster. ‘These things happen.’ she rushes off, her heart still hammering in her chest and only partially aware of Sam standing at the side. She doesn’t look at him for the shame of being caught like that and moves quickly through the walkways to the toilets and the end cubicle that she rushes into, closing the door and sitting heavily on the toilet seat to recover her wits and mind.

Did that just happen? It did. She almost got caught. How in the fleet she got away with it she doesn’t know. That’s it. No more shoplifting. She sits back, shaking her head, appalled at herself, appalled at what just happened.

‘Gotta get off this ship.’

She strips off to stash the stolen clothes in her secret hidey hole while berating herself for almost getting caught and thanking any God listening for whatever happened that meant she got away with it.

She needs to score big. There must be something. She just has to think and find a way.

She steps out, trying to decide whether to head down to the Elfors now and sell the clothes she stole, or get a coffee first.

‘Coffee,’ she murmurs, nodding to herself, feeling strung out with her nerves still on edge. Definitely time for a coffee.

She heads out of the centre of the retail zone. Not wanting to hang out and be seen near the places she stole from so recently. A few minutes walk through the busy lanes, slowing to look at the shining advert for the Ab-Spa before strolling on and out towards the edge of the zone, looking for somewhere quiet and tucked away. She spots a small side walkway filled with empty chairs and tables save for a couple of customers, and the owner, a jaded looking older guy in an apron puffing on a vape-stick leaning in the doorway to his unit.

‘You open?’ she asks, walking down. The owner nods but doesn’t say anything. She finds a table and pulls the chair out. ‘Can I have a coffee please?’

‘Sure,’ the café owner says gruffly, blowing a cloud of vapour away before pocketing the stick and walking back into his unit. ‘Order at the counter. It’s not waiter service.’

‘Seriously?’ she asks under her breath, rolling her eyes and getting up to follow him inside.

‘Five,’ he says, swiping at the interface glowing in the air behind the moulded counter as Yasmine makes the automated payment with her wristband. ‘Bring it out to you.’

‘I thought you said it’s not waiter service,’ Yasmine asks.

‘Okay, see this is how it works, you pay first, then once I have your credits, I bring it out…’

She stares at him for a long second. ‘It’s like half waiter service then.’

‘What?’

‘You said it’s not waiter service, but if you deliver the food or drink then it’s half waiter service.’

‘Whatever. Yeah sure.’

‘So you’re a liar basically.’

‘You got me,’ he says with a roll of his eyes, taking the full cup of synth-coffee from the machine to plonk on the counter. ‘Enjoy.’

‘You haven’t taken it to my table.’

‘Gimme a break,’ he groans like a man beaten by life. A craggy face and the build of someone used to bending pipes and gripping heavy tools.

‘Whoa, just playing, chill out,’ Yasmine says, heading back out to her table to resume wondering how she can score big and get away from this crummy ship.

SHE NEEDS it now more than ever. She can feel it inside. An urge. Like a thing telling her that if she doesn’t go now, she will never go. She can’t believe she almost got caught either. That was too close. Way too close.

She sips the bitter synthetic coffee, grimacing at the taste, and pulls her wristband off to lay on the table and swipes the top to make the interface bloom in the air and accesses her credit function. Twenty credits left. Shit, that’s bad. She had hundreds a few days ago. Not that they were her credits to start with.

She tries to focus but gets distracted and starts scrolling through news feeds, pausing briefly at an article about the forthcoming WS Humility captaincy elections. Another orchestrated event filled with the same level one idiots like Captain Pierre Jefferson and Vice-captain Helga Sveinsson, pledging to make everyone’s life better and nicer.

She scrolls on, then quickly goes back to blink at the angry face of councillor Abdul Shariff. What’s Abdul the Angry doing on the news feed? She reads quickly, chuckling at the outrage of it before looking round to see the café owner back in the doorway puffing on his vape-stick. ‘You seen this?’ she asks.

‘Nope and I don’t care.’

‘They’re saying Abdul is going for the Captaincy elections.’

‘I’m thrilled.’

‘That’ll get the upper levels in a panic if he gets through.’

‘He won’t win,’ the café owner says as though it’s obvious.

‘That’s not the point, the point is the upset he’ll cause. And anyway, if he can rally the votes in the Elfors then he’ll walk it.’

‘There’s over thirty other levels.’

‘Are you even joking right now? The Elfors have got more people crammed in than all the other levels combined.’

‘You think that’s really true?’

‘Have you even seen the lower four levels on this ship? I’m from the lower four, pal. I’m an Elfor and it’s filled to the brink with people -- what’s that look for?’

‘What?’ he asks, holding what he hopes is a neutral gaze.

‘That look. When I said I’m an Elfor.’

‘I didn’t give any look.’

‘You did. You were all judgy and checking to see if I’d nicked anything.’

‘What?! I’m stood right here listening to you. And there is no way Abdul can win. No offence but you need to be registered to vote and I doubt half the Elfors are registered.’

‘Way less than half, but the point is if Abdul gets a registration amnesty through then those people can vote and boom…’ She trails off when she sees a woman two tables over pulling her bag closer. ‘It’s okay, honey. I’m not going to steal your bag.’

‘Hmm, I’m sorry what?’ the woman says, feigning surprise.

‘That’s Elforist’ Yasmine says, shaking her head and clocking, with the eyes of a thief, that there isn’t anything worth nicking anyway.

‘I’m not Elforist,’ the woman says to Yasmine. ‘I’m really not. My er, my friend…she’s from the lower four.’

‘Yeah? What’s her name? I might know her,’ Yasmine says, arching an eyebrow.

The woman nods, clearly caught out. ‘Hannah.’

‘Hannah?’

She nods again. ‘I’m not Elforist.’

‘Are.’

‘I’m really not.’

‘You really are.’

‘Okay enough, you gotta move on,’ the café owner says, interjecting with a heavy sigh.

‘Me!? She’s the Elforist.’

‘Just go! You’re being confrontational.’

‘I AM NOT,’ Yasmine shouts. ‘Whatever. I’ll find a non-Elforist café.’

‘Go,’ the café owner says again.

‘I AM…PUTAS!’ she snaps, rushing out of the walkway, huffing and puffing in righteous indignation while stomping back to the retail zone.

How dare they judge her? This damn ship. These damn people. Why did she say she was Elfor? Why say that? She needs to learn to listen and shut up.

‘Hey, Matty!’ a hand on her arm and she turns fast to see a young man flinch and double-take. ‘Oh I’m sorry,’ he says quickly. ‘You look like -- but wow, you really do.’

‘Yeah good line. Where did you learn that one? The Big Book of Chat-up Lines?’

‘No! You look like my friend, Matty…Mahatma. She was right here and I thought…oh she’s there, Matty! Come and see this woman,’ he calls out.

‘What are you on about?’ Yasmine mutters, turning to see a woman walking towards her. ‘Oh wow.’

‘Jesus,’ the woman says.

‘I know right,’ the man says, looking from Yasmine to the woman. ‘How freaky is that? You’re like twins.’

Yasmine blinks, staring at the woman. The same height and the same long dark hair and skin tone that hints at being mixed race, maybe black or Arabic or southern European, or all of those things and more. Mid-twenties to early thirties, the same age range as Yasmine. Both of them physically beautiful. Yasmine takes in the other woman’s carefully applied make-up, her styled hair and perfect nails, her clothes too. Designer and expensive where everything about Yasmine is simple and functional.

‘Wow,’ Mahatma says, clearly taken aback.

‘Yeah,’ Yasmine says with a warm smile. ‘It’s incredible. But you’re way prettier than me.’

‘Aw thank you,’ the woman says, crinkling her nose in a patronising manner that instantly makes Yasmine want to tread on her foot.

‘So hey, it was nice meeting you, but I need to get on,’ Yasmine says, moving quickly off to disappear into the crowds to find a spot to look back and watch.

That was uncanny. The likeness was striking, and Yasmine thinks fast with a feeling inside. A prickle as it were. A sixth-sense.

She uses the crowds to blend in and hide, and spots Mahatma and the guy rushing into a boutique store to gawp and pray to the fresh new peach and pale green clothes.

Yasmine loiters outside, peering in now and then to see the man and Mahatma popping out of changing cubicles until they head out to air kiss each other’s cheeks and simper at their own perfectness. Then Mahatma walks off towards one of the wide central stairwells fitted throughout the length of the vessel.

Yasmine keeps her distance and stalks her quarry down to level 34.

Mahatma turns into one of the rows of near-symmetrical cabins and Yasmine rushes to close the distance, then spots Mahatma further down, waggling her wrist at the door of a cabin.

Yasmine walks on, then ducks down to smell a flower while clocking the cabin number until Mahatma rushes back out in what must be the quickest change of clothing ever. Black fitted trousers and a green shirt. Instantly recognisable.

Again, Yasmine follows her back to the stairwell then up through the levels, going past 30 and into the 20’s. Mahatma steps off on 25 and heads for the security door of the Fleet Financial Services Centre and goes in, disappearing out of sight.

Yasmine keeps walking to the next stairwell and goes back down to level 30, realising that it’s the stairwell by the toilets she uses to stash stolen gear. She rushes in to seal herself in the end cubicle, with her mind racing.

Yasmine has used stolen wristbands before and even pretended to be other people, but only for small things -- petty crime. This could be something else though. Mahatama works in the financial services centre where they process all the credits.

This is it. This could be the big one. If she plans this right, if she thinks it through and exploits their physical likeness, this could score big.

Yasmine can hardly stop grinning. Stealing is easy; anyone can steal. Anyone can pick something up that doesn’t belong to them and claim ownership of that item. Food, clothes, credits, goods for trading with or goods for selling. Or, it can be someone’s name and personal information, perhaps their uniform, or maybe even their biometric wristband allowing access to that security door that Mahatma just walked through, so they can steal a whole big bunch of credits before sodding off for a long trip on the Ab-Spa.

CHAPTER FOUR

Hi, are you okay? I saw what happened.

That’s it. Eight words. Why didn’t he just say it when she walked past? She was right there. Sam runs it through in his mind again, from the smile to tripping over to watching the look of panic then the look of relief when he made the other alarms go off. He should have said hi. Why didn’t he say hi?

‘Hey, I’m Sam. I saw what happened…are you okay? Oh god no. Hi, I’m Sam. Great to meet you. No! Howdy…howdy? I sound like a cowboy…argh!’

The more he practises the worse it becomes until he starts worrying that he will actually bump into her again and be rendered mute by his own stupidity.

Time to bug out, so he disappears off towards the edge of the retail zone, to the smaller alleys filled with cheaper units, tech stores and VR suites, where beautiful women are not really known to hang out, unless they’re buying gifts for sons of course. He even passes people he knows and recognises, not that they say hi or anything. Nerds, geeks and introverts aren’t known for their social skills.

He aims for the The Kingdom of Osmosis and chuckles at spotting a teenage boy waving his hands at the door while trying to trigger the sensor.

‘It’s manual,’ Sam says, pushing past the teenager.

‘Manual?’ the kid asks in awe, watching a human being push a door as though he cannot imagine ever doing such a thing. The kid even waits for it to close before bracing himself with way too much strength and lunges forward then sprawls on the floor inside the used-tech store.

Nerds, geeks and introverts glance over and shrug. They’ve all done the same thing but the kid is still a dick.

‘Dick,’ someone mutters.

‘Dick,’ someone else says.

The word rolls through the store, taken up and passed on like an initiation as Sam walks through the aisles filled with all manner of gadgets, VR equipment, hard-drives, interface drives, sleek things, big things, wired and wireless things. He heads over to Osmosis. The wild haired store owner standing behind his counter with his arms folded and an angry look on his face.

‘You are full of shit,’ he calls out.

‘I just got here,’ Sam says, somewhat affronted.

‘Not you, I’m talking to Brian,’ Osmosis says. ‘You’re full of shit, Brian…’

‘Just saying,’ a petulant blushing teenage boy mutters from the depths of an aisle.

‘Why is Brian full of shit?’ Sam asks.

‘Brian is full of shit because Brian said, and I quote, Gee dude, I wonder if the Gagarin like totally found another planet yet dude.’ Osmosis mimics in a high-pitched voice.

‘I didn’t say it like that,’ Brian says in a high-pitched voice. ‘And like, dude, I’m just saying like maybe it did.’

‘Gee dude, is that right, dude. Found another planet dude…’ Osmosis mimics. ‘It’s bad enough the capitalists are releasing the Gagarin clothing range today. Gunter, stop touching yourself over that VR sensor kit unless you’re buying it. I mean, nothing makes nerds panic more than new a new fashion range.’

‘Just saying, shrugs.’ Brian mutters again as Osmosis tenses with a look of disgust.

‘You don’t say the word shrugs, Brian! You just shrug. Okay, so we’re going to have a lesson in how not to be a dick for the benefit of Brian. Number one, the Gagarin is in constant contact with the fleet so that whole bullshit about waiting until it like totally docks so we can like totally get the data is a crock of shit…’

‘Um, so that’s not fully true,’ Sam says. ‘It sends back some information, but a lot of the sensory data is encrypted and is uploaded the old way, because they don’t like people like me and you trying to hack it wirelessly.’

‘Shut up,’ Osmosis says, adopting a narrow-eyed look at Sam. ‘Trust me, if that thing found a planet we’d know before it docked.’

‘Moot point really,’ Sam says.

‘Exactly!’ Osmosis shouts, flinging his hands in the air. ‘Because they already found another planet, Brian.’

‘Yeah, Brian,’ someone else calls out from an aisle.

‘Get with it, Brian,’ another teenage voice hidden within the aisles chimes in with yet more adding their high-pitched squeaks while remaining unseen.

‘Leave him alone,’ Sam chides. ‘Don’t worry about it, Brian. They’re just pissing about.’

‘Why are you here anyway?’ Osmosis asks, adopting another suspicious look at Sam. ‘What do you want? How many? What colour? I don’t have any in stock. Go away and play with your airlock.’

‘They haven’t found another planet…shrugs.’ Brian squeaks out again as Osmosis launches into a barrage of intellectual nerd abuse while Sam sighs. He did think of telling Osmosis about the woman he saw in the retail zone, but then Osmosis will want to know what a woman is which in turn will draw many hundreds of nerds, geeks and introverts all pushing their hands a bit too deep into their pockets.

‘I’m going to shoot,’ he says, walking off.

‘Great visit. Come again and thanks for your custom,’ Osmosis says.

‘Anytime.’

‘Oh and good work.’

‘Good work?’ Sam asks, pausing as he heads to the door to see Osmosis swiping his hand over a wristband to bring up a 3D holo screen showing lots of people in a crowded area. Half of them watching big-headed aliens dancing on the hull of the Gagarin and the other half watching an angry shuttle worker swing haymakers at a poster of Johan Johans. ‘A movie poster? That’s old school, Gablinski…’

Sam grins and walks out, almost forgetting to push the door and thereby losing the surge of coolness he gained in his silent retreat.

He checks the time and sighing at seeing he has a while before his shift starts he goes back to strolling the walkways and lanes. Half hoping to see the woman again while dreading the thought of seeing the woman again.

He rounds a corner, walking into another wide communal meeting area filled with seats, tables and benches, all set around a huge holo-advert display system in the middle.

The World-Ship Abstinence presents to you…

Level One Luxury At Affordable Prices.

The Ab-Spa is within reach.

All you have to do…is reach for the stars…

A SOFT FEMALE tone voices the advert while the loop shows an inky black sky filled with twinkling stars. Then the camera pans down to the gorgeous crystal blue waters of an enormous infinity swimming pool underneath a glass canopy. Sun loungers dotted here and there. Huge ferns adding greenery with tables and chairs set about a long bar staffed by smiling workers. Gyms, massage rooms, steam rooms, saunas and therapy booths. Then it changes to a view of smiling people eating leafy green salads and real fruits with see-through beakers filled with real coffee.

Sam Gablinski…reach for the stars…

‘SHIT,’ he groans, forgetting his interface data sharing wasn’t switched off.

The Ab-Spa is waiting for you…Sam Gablinski

‘IT’S GONNA BE A LONG WAIT!’ someone shouts, as Sam rushes off to work.

‘Sam! You’re early,’ Agie calls out, spotting him walking through the concourse leading to port-side airlock Delta. A huge grin as she strides over, pulling him into a hug. ‘Tuck your shirt in,’ she chides, kissing his cheek. He takes the hug and kiss with a grin, pushing his shirt tails into his waistband. ‘And you haven’t shaved,’ she adds, running a finger over his cheek. An older black woman with the best hair Sam has ever seen. Huge, curly and slightly afro with lighter shades of brown flecked here and there. ‘So, what’s cooking good looking?’

‘Not much,’ he replies, moving past her to the airlock doors and the service panel on the side that he accesses to log Agie out and him in. ‘But! The new clothing range is out…the Gagarin collection,’ he says with a mock dramatic voice that makes her chuckle.

‘Best name ever,’ she murmurs, still studying him closely in a way that makes him sigh and look at her.

‘What?’ he asks.

‘Don’t you what me, Samuel Gablinski,’ she says, giving him her best mom look. ‘You didn’t apply for that supervisors job I told you about.’

‘I...’

‘Shush, don’t interrupt. Why aren’t you dating? You should be dating. You’re a handsome man, Sam. When you’re not scruffy and creased and unshaven. Shush, don’t interrupt me. I’m worried about you. Come for dinner. Faith’s still got a huge crush on you…and Chrissie keeps going on about you hacking our shower unit for us.’

‘Sssshhh,’ Sam says, pulling a comical face as he looks about.

‘It’s fine, nobody cares,’ she says, waving a hand at him. ‘And Terry is desperate for some male company. He’s got a cabin full of women…come on. Dinner. This week? Promise me?’ He nods, smiling at her as she pulls that sad face. ‘Your mom wouldn’t want you to be alone, Sam.’

‘I’m not. I’m fine…honestly I am. Really.’

‘Hmmm,’ she says, giving him another look before pulling him for a hug. ‘This week. You’ve promised now.’

‘I will. Oh, almost forgot,’ he says, pulling a wristband from his pocket. ‘That’s for Chrissie, but you can all use it. I’ve coded it with some new VR games plus those Earth tours of the cities. Athens is on there, Rome, London. The New York one is brilliant…and um,’ he drops his voice, looking about with a smile, ‘I added another code so you can get the new holo-movies when they come out without paying.’

‘Sam,’ she says, pulling him for another hug and kiss. ‘Thank you…This week. Dinner. I know where you live, Gablinski…’

‘Bye,’ he says, waving as she heads off and so it begins as another shift commences. Ten years at the same airlock. Ten years doing the same thing in the same place. He doesn’t even need to be here. The whole system is automated. Even the shuttles moving between the worldships are automated and only have pilots and crew so people have jobs. The same with Sam. He gets to press a green button and look important. The same green button for ten years. But still, he has a job and earns credits and besides, he has access to the other thing that all airlock workers adore.

The window.

Not a digital projection of the view outside, because every wristband interface can show one of them, but a real window made from real see-through stuff that Sam knows isn’t really glass, but looks like it, so therefore it counts as a glass window.

Countless hours of his life spent right here, staring out to a fleet of spaceships moving through space at a speed the human mind cannot really process, but without any visible sign that they are moving at all because there is nothing to mark it against. No fixed objects other than the stars and they are so very far away they don’t really count.

The fleet passed a couple of planets from the Earth’s solar system years before Sam was born. They went close to Mars for a few intrepid and wholly stupid idiots to set up colonies there, then they passed Saturn and saw the rings and moons. Sam would have given anything to see that. To see Mars. Saturn. Anything.

The fleet is still sexy. So sexy. So awesomely gorgeously wonderful. What a thing to do. To build such huge vessels and fill them with so many people and set off to find life. Yeah, there was no choice really, but they say necessity is the mother of all invention and Sam just knows there is life out there. He can feel it in his bones, plus the fact he totally believes they’ve already found a new planet while at the same time believing they’ll never find another planet, while still dreaming that they find a cool one filled with awesome alien things.

Now he turns this way and that at the window, staring at the vessels he can see. Nearly fifty ships in the fleet of varying sizes. Some are big like his: massive, square and long, with bulging sections poking out of the top and sides and front. Some are smaller and filled with private colonies paid for by the ultra-rich, or are research vessels carrying only a handful of scientists on rotation.

A self-sustaining armada of vessels filled with millions of people searching for a new home; and as if they weren’t big enough, then The Ark, sitting proud in the middle like a queen ant disgorging her goodness, is mind-bogglingly big. Every now and then he even catches sight of the tiny satellites whizzing around her vast bulk. Just flashes of light really, but it holds his rapt attention.

Over ten thousand miles between the sides of the fleet. Nearly the same distance as halfway round the planet Earth. The WS Humility on one side. The WS Beijing on the far side. They have gravity from underfloor drives, giving them up and down, left and right. Another staggering achievement invented while the fleet was being constructed.

He looks to the World-Ship Abstinence. Just a white blob from this distance and he thinks of the Ab-Spa on the top of it and what it must be like to swim and feel your body suspended in water and eat real food. A bit further away, the WS Vladivostok. The pride of the Russian mini fleet -- as on Earth so in space, with ships forming alliances and trade agreements. Arguing with each other. Falling out. Falling in love. Refusing docking to shuttles and creating big political stinks so all the captains can attend summits on the neutral Ark and eat real food while pretending to resolve differences. Two ships even declared a state of war for a week. That was back before Sam was born. It was something to do with the Israeli ship taking a supply of goods intended for the Iranian vessel and then not giving them back while refusing to pay for them. Sam learnt about it in school and how those two countries hated each other on Earth, but he struggled with the concept of dragging old feuds into space. The Earth is destroyed. Gone. Everyone left on it is long dead, but then people are weird like that.

Sam’s own section of space was meant to be a mini fleet too with seven ships constructed by some of the Earth’s biggest private companies working together; they offered space on board to anyone from any country as long as they could pay. The pride of the fleet apparently. The very best of them all.

The big level 30 shopping centre on the WS Humility. The Ab-Spa on the WS Abstinence used by the whole fleet as a vacation resort. The sports training centres on The WS Chastity used to hold the Fleet Crossfit games and the advanced tech research facilities on The WS Kindness where they have full body VR immersion tanks for hundreds of people at a time to take part in vast epic games. The Silicon Valley of the fleet.

There were three more virtue ships, but an error in the navigation system when the fleet first set off caused the WS Patience to veer off and slam into the WS Liberality. The resulting debris then hit the WS Diligence, blowing it apart and killing millions instantly with bodies sent hurtling into freezing space. There was nothing anyone could do.

After that the whole fleet spread out and increased the distance between each vessel; not only that, they all agreed to be bound by one mainframe navigational computing system run from The Ark that controls speed, trajectory and direction for each vessel.

Now here they are. Over one hundred and twenty three years later and Sam sighs again on seeing a commuter shuttle approach his airlock, and resigns his mind to the fact that this is his life, and that it will never change, while still wondering who the woman was that he saw earlier.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Helga.’

‘Pierre, how are you feeling?’ Helga asks, watching Captain Pierre Jefferson navigate the white conference table.

‘Gripey,’ Pierre says, rubbing his stomach with a grimace as he sits down heavily in the chair next to her.

Helga smiles gently. ‘Have some tea, it’ll help settle your stomach,’ she says, standing up to pour tea from a pot into two fine china cups.

‘That damned herbal stuff again.’ He snorts, swiping his hand over the table-top to activate the room’s interface, bringing a 3D holo-screen glowing into the air that he starts jabbing at, setting the security for the coming meeting. ‘I’m telling you. The damn elections can’t some soon enough. The Elfors. That’s all I hear now. The Elfors. The fucking Elfors. Seriously, Helga. Think very hard about going for the Captaincy. The lower four drain the life from you, breeding like damn rats down there. Mind you, Abdul is going to save everyone apparently. Abdul the Angry? A captain? Over my dead body… and if that’s not enough we’ve got this Gagarin shit to deal with.’

‘You never know,’ she says mildly. ‘It might even be good news.’

‘Good news? From the fucking Gagarin? There’s nothing out there apart from trace particles, and this won’t be any different.’

He grumbles on. A big man who was once imposing, but now his heavy beard is white and wispy, and the angry spark that made him one of the most respected captains in the fleet is rapidly becoming the crankiness of a bitter old man.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Helga says, laying a hand on his arm. ‘Have some tea. It’ll help calm you.’

He snorts again with another blast of air while pressing the virtual button to activate a translucent blue sphere, encapsulating the conference table within a sterile zone where no bugs or listening devices will work. ‘Seriously,’ he adds, safe in the knowledge he can speak his mind. ‘Airlock. Instant resolution. Open a damn airlock and flush the lot of them away. Kristi Carter will squawk for a few days then nobody will give a shit.’

‘Sully!’ Helga says, cutting Pierre off as Captain Sully Singh’s virtual 3D form blinks into existence within the field. He lifts a hand in greeting while sitting in his own blue bubble in his own empty conference room on board the Worldship Kindness. ‘How are you?’ Helga asks, offering a warm smile.

‘Helga, Good to see you,’ he replies, offering a smile that fades when he looks to Captain Jefferson. ‘Pierre, you look tense.’

‘Of course I’m tense,’ Pierre snaps as another two virtual forms blink into existence around the table. ‘I’ve got the elections coming and the damn Elfors to deal with on top of this crap today.’

He trails off as Captain Carlos Vanquith’s holo form on board the WS Abstinence blinks into existence. Dark haired, dark features and ruggedly handsome. He looks about from Sully to Pierre to Helga as the last person enters the meeting. Another holo form appearing as Captain Fei Hung-Shu sits within her own blue sphere on her own vessel; the WS Chastity.

‘You’re all here before me,’ Captain Fei says bluntly.

‘Just got here,’ Sully says.

‘Same,’ Carlos adds.

Fei nods. Poker-faced and silent as she looks from Sully to Carlos then over to Helga. ‘Helga, good to see you again.’

‘Fei, always a pleasure,’ Helga says, smiling nicely. ‘And Carlos, I didn’t greet you. To put your minds at rest you all logged in at the same time.’

Diplomacy at its finest and Helga smiles at them in turn. The atmosphere tense and always tinged with suspicion. But then the circumstances breed wariness and suspicion. A thing they all hope will change when Helga takes over from Pierre.

‘Are we all well? Sully asks, breaking the silence.

‘As well as can be,’ Fei replies. ‘Given the backlog caused by the Beijing.’

‘And a hundred other problems,’ Carlos adds.

‘Problems? What fucking problems?’ Pierre snaps. ‘You’ve got holiday camps, gyms and VR suites on your ships…I’ve got the fucking Elfors. Make small talk in your own time. Not mine. Sully, get on with it.’

‘Who the hell are you talking to?’ Sully asks, bridling at the tone.

‘Can we get on?’ Carlos says with a heavy groan. ‘I’ve got a lot to do.’

‘Lot to do?’ Pierre asks. ‘What the hell have you got to do? Try having the damned Elfors.’

‘Yes, we know!’ Fei snaps. ‘The Elfors. You’ve got the Elfors. Jesus, Pierre…open the airlock already and get rid of them.’

‘I’m not part of this conversation,’ Carlos says quickly, speaking out.

‘We’re in a dead zone,’ Sully says, staring at Carlos. ‘Why are you saying that? Are you recording us, Carlos?’

‘I don’t know, Sully. Can I record this? You tell me, it’s your tech we’re all relying on…you set this security feature up after all.’

‘Captains,’ Helga says, her tone soothing and warm. Smiling at them in turn. Too young to be motherly, but still, she has that way about her and the charge in the air eases down. ‘We’re all very busy, and none are busier than the others.’

Silence in the room. All of them guarded. The tension high.

‘Sully?’ Helga asks, still holding that smile. ‘Are we ready to proceed?’

‘Of course,’ Sully says, instantly polite again. ‘Show the Gagarin feed,’ he adds, bringing up a silent 3D visual display in the centre of the table to show the sleek-hulled Gagarin coming in fast against the blackness of space. The fleet mainframe navigational computer system on board The Ark guiding it to its own purpose-built docking station on the WS Kindness.

‘There she is,’ Sully says as they watch the Gagarin burn thrusters to slow down and turn side-on. Every movement done with a precision only an automated system can achieve, and when it couples to the WS Kindness, they all imagine the clunking sound it won’t be making in the void of space. ‘Magnify the data points,’ Sully commands and the 3D holo footage glowing up from the conference tables revolves and zooms in to show a close-up view of a flap sliding back on the side of the Gagarin, and a thick data-rod pushing into the vessel. ‘Done, be ready in a minute.’

The whole fleet knows the Gagarin is returning today, hence the buzz in the air and the feeling of excitement pulsing through every vessel. A thing for everyone to focus on, and this footage of the Gagarin swooshing in and coupling to the WS Kindness will soon be looped to every news source in the fleet.

‘Smoke and mirrors,’ Sully mutters.

‘Lies and mistruths more like,’ Carlos adds. ‘Capitalism at its finest.’

‘How’s that real coffee you’re drinking?’ Pierre asks. ‘None of us eat cubes or synth shit because of that capitalism you’re berating.’

Helga sips her drink made from real tea grown on board The Ark and watches the data-rod on the footage.

What should happen, and what will happen, is that the data collated by the Gagarin will be fed into a computer system that can be accessed by every other captain or assigned representative, and then, in a few days, those captains will meet, either virtually or in person on The Ark, to discuss those findings and see if there is anything that can guide or assist them in finding a new planet.

Everything has to be transparent and open for the benefit of the whole fleet because the Gagarin is not owned by any one vessel, but by all of them.

What isn’t transparent or known to the entire fleet is the secret embedded background program built into the Gagarin. The program that takes certain data and feeds it to these few captains in this meeting before removing all trace of itself so it doesn’t go into the main system accessed by everyone else. A program developed by the capitalist wealthy designers and backers of the virtue ships. Seven of them set out within the main fleet. Only four now remain: The Humility. The Abstinence. The Kindness and The Chastity.

That Helga is the only vice-captain given access to this ultra-secret group is testament to her abilities. Pierre is getting old and losing the trust of the voters because of the violence in the Elfors and his lack of ability to control it. Not that any politician has ever been able to control it, but his time is nearly up, and so Helga is happy to wait.

By the next election she will be in that seat, speaking with Sully, Fei and Carlos as an elected captain in charge of her own ship with the promise of a positive change. For where Pierre is divisive, Helga is openly vocal about building better relations between their four ships.

A beep from the virtual display. A screen flashing red.

‘Are we done?’ Pierre asks, impatient to be finished.

‘Sully?’ Helga asks, seeing his expression focus.

‘What is it?’ Fei asks.

Sully doesn’t reply but frowns and brings up a virtual keyboard, his fingers moving swiftly as he works, typing commands, opening new screens. ‘Give me a minute.’

‘What for? There’s nothing out there,’ Pierre says.

‘The spectrum analysis…the trace it found last time has.’

‘Not this shit again. The damn thing finds trace particles every time it goes out.’

‘Will you shut up!’ Sully says, bringing an instant silence. ‘One has come back…it’s right there…’

‘What is?’ Helga asks.

‘A new planet,’ Sully says, looking up at them all.

‘What?’ Carlos breaks the charged silence, leaning over to see the screens.

‘It’s all coded but…there’s a planet within the parameters of an orbit around a class G sun…the right size too, the planet and the sun…’ he trails off, as stunned as everyone else. As silent as everyone else. Fei blinks. Carlos frowns. Helga watches on keenly. ‘We’ve found a planet.’

‘Can’t be,’ Carlos says.

‘It’s right there,’ Sully says, pointing at the screens.

‘Can it sustain life?’ Fei asks.

‘I don’t know…we’ll need more tests.’ He falls silent, hardly believing it.

Another silence. Another pause.

‘Right,’ Fei says, widening her eyes in shock. ‘What’s the protocol now? Anyone know?’

‘Jesus,’ Carlos says. ‘A planet.’

‘Right there,’ Sully replies, motioning towards the screens.

‘Again, what’s the protocol?’ Fei asks.

‘I’ll tell you what the protocol is,’ Pierre says, jabbing an angry finger at them all. ‘We keep this quiet. Damn quiet. Not a damn word to anyone. This stays between us. Got it? Mark my words, you breathe a word of this and the whole fleet will turn on each other.’

Nods from the others, all of them hanging on every word.

‘Remove all trace of that secret system and.’

‘It deletes itself.’

‘Check it, Sully!’ Pierre shouts, slamming his hand on the desk. ‘Double check it. Analyse the data yourself and keep it between us and only us. No one else. No aides. No advisers. Nobody…We deal with this the Earth way. The way our forefathers who built our ships did. We grip it. We own it, and we make it ours…’

‘What’s that?’ Carlos asks as another screen flashes a warning in front of Sully.

‘That’s the navigational system…it’s telling us we need to alter course and start slowing down.’

Fei asks. ‘How close is this planet?’

‘Calm down,’ Pierre snaps. ‘The whole fleet’s moving so fast it can take months to slow down. Take that data, write the code and get it into The Ark mainframe. You need to switch on. If the other ships find out they’ll break formation to get there first, and god only knows the alliances they’ll form…and let me remind you we have several hundred thousand very angry and very violent people in the bowels of my ship who are currently contained and starved into submission. What do you think they will do if they have sudden freedom? Thank us for the passage? No. They will slaughter us. Half of this fleet will be dead within the first week of getting to the surface, if this planet is even slightly habitable. So we will do what we always said we would do. What our forefathers told us to do. We get there first and we own it. We make it ours and if the other ships want to come to our planet, they can damned well pay for it and abide by our rules. This is ours. We did this. We worked for this and we’re going to damn well make sure it stays ours.’ Pierre pauses in his tirade, glaring at them in turn before continuing.

‘We are captains because we like power. Because we like to be in control, and this,’ he jabs that finger again. ‘This is the greatest power there is. Write the damn code to start slowing the fleet or changing course, or whatever we need to do. Get it into the mainframe on The Ark, but by god do it quietly…we’ve got a long way to go so we keep this quiet and carry on with business as normal.’

‘You’re a rude old bastard, Pierre,’ Fei says into the heavy silence that follows. ‘But I agree.’

‘Agreed,’ Carlos says.

‘I think it might be best for me to take it from here,’ Helga ventures gently. The good cop to Pierre’s bad. ‘Perhaps it might be wise for you captains to go on about your business. As Pierre said, this could take months, possibly longer and there should be no hint or comeback. Sully, if you send me the code I can get it safely to The Ark. I have some contacts I can use for this.’

‘Sure thing. Rather you than me,’ Sully says, the relief evident on his face.

‘It’s fine,’ Helga says confidently, smiling at them all. ‘Leave everything to me.’

CHAPTER SIX

‘Well there we have it folks. The Gagarin is safely back, and I know I am not the only one breathing a sigh of relief right now.’

Sam stands ready at his airlock doors, listening to a commuter’s newsfeed as Kristi Carter wraps up her morning report over footage of the Gagarin docking on the WS Kindness.

‘Sometimes I just think these next few days are the hardest. The waiting, you know? Waiting to see what that plucky little ship has found out there in the deep lonely blackness of space. What did she see? I think I know the answer. We all do, really. We all know the chances of finding a planet are next to zero. We accept that, too. Heck, we’re getting on with it the best way we know how, by living jowl to jowl and bickering our way across space. Now you may call me a romantic but for all the common sense in the fleet, I’ll keep me a little bit of hope burning in my heart that one day the Gagarin will come back smiling. I’m Kristi Carter and you’ve been watching the fleet newscast.’

‘I’ll give her some romance to make her smile,’ someone mutters, triggering a chorus of low laughs as Sam turns to offer a quick grin.

Two sets of doors form a tunnel airlock, poking out from the side of the World-Ship Humility, and Sam Gablinski waits, holding his fingers off from the virtual icons and buttons as the Shuttle Gonsales comes alongside. The white sides showing scrapes and marks from missed couplings.

Sam activates the outer doors first. The end attached to the Shuttle Gonsales and waits to ensure the internal pressure is safe and stable. Green lights show across his feeds. All is good. Another icon pressed and the doors next to him swish open and that’s it. The airlock docking procedure is complete. Not that he has any real control over anything. The computer system does everything. All Sam has to do is press the button – and even that won’t work if the computer detects any faults or risks. Even if it did fail and the airlock breached, the doors leading into the concourse would self-seal, killing everyone inside but protecting everyone else.

Sam helps the noisy shuttle crew drag the wheeled trolleys piled high with goods for the retail zone stores off the shuttle before getting the thumbs up to start embarkation.

‘Okay, all ready to load,’ he calls out, watching as the commuters, tourists, business-people and everyone else file past. A software system glowing open on his wristband scans the passengers as they go by, a failsafe to make sure they have tickets. He looks up as an Asian guy scratches at his side in a way that lifts his untucked shirt, showing a taser pistol tucked into a holster, prompting Sam to do a double take and look again.

‘Relax, I’m a cop,’ the man says softly, his tone easy and nice. He flashes his credentials, a shining 3D holo contact card.

‘Cool,’ Sam says, instantly wishing he was a plain clothes cop with a taser pistol going on the shuttle to The Ark on a top-secret mission to do exciting stuff. Instead he smiles at his passengers and waits for the last stragglers to rush through, before sealing his airlock and watching as the Gonsales detaches and zooms off and away into space.

‘So, I had a weird experience this morning,’ a voice at his side. Darius leaning against the door. ‘Stop licking the window,’ Darius says.

‘I’m not licking the window.’

‘But you look like you are, which is why you are still single at forty years old,’ Darius points out.

‘I’m thirty.’

‘Yeah that’s pretty much the same thing. So anyway, listen. I was with Matty going for breakfast.’

‘Who’s Matty?’ Sam asks.

‘Mahatma Goudier? Total hottie? Works in the Financial Services Centre on 25? She’s having an affair with her boss, this stiff called Randolph?’

Sam listens, feeling an urge to open the airlock and push Darius out for saying everything as if it’s a question.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Darius says. ‘So, Matty and I were going to look at the new range before work, right? And she does that thing she does by walking off, so I call out and grab her arm, but it’s not her but this other woman who looks exactly like her!’

‘Great story,’ Sam says, turning back to look out the window.

‘No, but, they were like dopedgangsters or something.’

‘Doppelgangers. Doped gangsters would be criminals on drugs.’

‘Sheesh, someone’s grumpy this morning. What happened? Did your right hand say no last night?’

‘That’s er…wow,’ Sam mutters.

‘But how about it?’

‘What?’ Sam asks, looking back at him.

‘Two people like twins that don’t know each other…and both fit by the way. If they did a porn shoot it would be…like…a really good porn shoot. Your right hand would love it.’

‘Awesome.’

‘I’d love it too, because I would be in the scene making sweet love to twins that aren’t twins.’

‘My right hand is not turned on at the thought of watching you have sex, Darius.’

‘Dude, your right hand should be grateful for any action it can get. So what did you do last night?’

‘I wrote a new programme to install in a suicide booth.’

‘Man, shit must be bad to go into a suicide booth,’ Darius replies. ‘I hope to hell I never get that way. You know what I’m saying? Sad lonely people mulch themselves. Haha! That’ll be you in ten years, dude, if you don’t find a woman. Gotta get out more. I know some older women,’ Darius adds, nodding manfully as he reaches out to punch Sam’s shoulder. ‘Get you hooked up huh?’

‘I er…I’m fine.’

‘Hey, no drama, no worries. I gotta look after my work-force so I can get promoted. Hey, there’s an opening for a supervisor up on level ten. You hear about that? The boss, he whispered in my ear, he said, Darius, you go for that job… and I was like, Hey Uncle Damien, that’s good but I need to sort my boy Sam out! He needs a woman. Nah, I’m shitting you dude, I never said that. But seriously, Sam. You need to get out more. Man, I’d say go down to Neon City and get laid if it wasn’t so dangerous. You’ll get knifed doing that shit…’

There was a time Sam would join in and make jokes, but Darius is just another supervisor and in a few weeks he’ll move up to level ten and someone else will take over and life will go on.

‘Sam!?’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Damn, man. You’re totally zoned out.’

‘Er, no I was…’ Sam blinks, frowning at Darius. ‘Did you say something?’

‘Yes. I said go for lunch. Get coffee. Wake the hell up.’

He walks out of his concourse and, without thinking, heads for the snack bar he always uses. The prices aren’t too high, and the queue is never that big. Then he stops to think, mulling over what Darius just said and that maybe, just for today, he should do something different.

Wow. What a concept. This is bold. This is daring, but what should he do? He walks on into the lanes and walkways of the busy retail section, hands in pockets, a thoughtful expression etched on his face. He must try new things. He must be the master of his own fate and choose somewhere new to eat today. Maybe a little café with seats outside. There’s that place he keeps seeing down the little walkway not far from his stairwell. It’s on the edge of the retail zone, so it shouldn’t be packed either. Yeah. Good idea. He speeds up, feeling both a buzz at doing something different and slightly stupid for feeling a buzz.

He gets to the side walkway and goes in, super proud and super excited, then finds his belly flip flopping as he sees the pretty dark-haired woman from earlier. The one that smiled at him before he tripped over. The one he helped by hacking the store interface. That one.

Oh shit. She’s looking up. Abort. Abort. Run away.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says with a grin.

‘Snot yellow,’ Sam blurts before clearing his throat and turning a deep shade of red.

‘Okay,’ she says, clearly thinking he is a deranged lunatic. ‘So anyway, er…hi?’ she adds as Sam attempts to walk on past the tables with feet made from concrete.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ she snaps, making Sam flinch, until he realises she means the Fleetbook interface she’s on rather than his physical presence. He rushes on through the door into the café proper to see the owner behind the counter staring at him.

‘Um, so…er…’ Sam says, by way of flustered conversation. ‘Are you open?’

‘Yes,’ the café owner replies slowly.

‘Did you really just ask that?’ the pretty woman calls out, making Sam turn to look out at her.

‘Airlock?’ the café owner asks.

‘What?’ Sam asks, turning back.

‘Airlock? Your uniform. Grey shirts do the airlocks don’t they?’

Sam looks down at his shirt.

‘Wow, riveting chat there,’ the woman calls.

‘Friend of yours?’ Sam asks.

‘God no,’ the owner says.

‘Me and Sven are best mates,’ the woman calls.

‘We’re really not,’ Sven the café owner says. ‘Food or coffee?’

‘Yes,’ Sam says.

‘Okay,’ Sven says slowly. ‘Which one?’

‘Jesus, and he’s trusted to open airlocks?’

‘I told you to leave my customers alone,’ Sven calls.

‘Whatever, I am busy thank you,’ she calls, holding out the flat of her hand.

‘Noodles,’ Sam says. ‘Do you do noodles?’

‘We do noodles,’ Sven says.

‘Can I have noodles please?’

‘Sure. Prawn noodles? Chicken noodles?’

‘I don’t like prawn noodles,’ the woman calls.

‘Prawn please,’ Sam says.

‘Wow, selfish.’

‘And coffee please,’ Sam says.

‘Fifteen,’ Sven says, nodding at the scanner. ‘And we’ve got a new thing going: every eighth coffee is free, apparently.’

‘He brings it out to you,’ the woman calls. ‘It’s like a half-waiter service once Sven knows you’re not from the lower four and you won’t run off with a table or his counter…but he’s not Elforist.’

YASMINE WAS GOING to choose another café after watching Mahatma go into the Financial Services Centre on level 25. She walked about for a while until remembering it was nicely set back and almost hidden from view, but still central enough for what she needs. Which makes it a crap position for a café, but good for a master-thief planning her next job.

‘Am I barred? Because if I am then that makes you a judgemental puta,’ she said after striding in with her arms folded, ready for another argument. ‘And also, I am sorry for upsetting that racist lady and I won’t do it again,’ she added, thinking perhaps a conciliatory tone wouldn’t hurt.

‘It’s fine,’ Sven said without enthusiasm. ‘Just don’t insult my customers.’

‘Woohoo. In which case I shall have a cup of your finest crappy synth-coffee please.’

‘Five.’

‘What about a discount for being a loyal returning customer?’

‘Five.’

‘I’m from the lower four. I’m poor.’

‘Five.’

‘Sorry, what? I’m deaf from growing up poor.’

‘Five.’

‘I’m an orphan.’

‘There are literally thousands of orphans in this fleet. Five.’

‘Wow, it is actually impossible to make you smile…Okay fine, but I want a free coffee for every three I buy.’

‘Three? Not a chance. Ten.’

‘Ten? Oh my god you are the worst human being ever. Right fine, call it eight. Agreed?’

‘Will you stop talking to me if I say yes?’

‘I will accept those terms,’ she said with mock seriousness while seeing the name of the café. ‘Sven’s Eatery eh? You must be Sven…’

‘Coffee. Enjoy,’ he said, plonking it down on the counter.

‘No delivery again then,’ she muttered before going back outside.

She opened her system and got to thinking about the new job, her head full of ideas and plans. Stealing someone’s identity is very different to shoplifting. It needs careful planning for a start, so she opened her interface and started work on Fleetbook, trying to find Mahatma to research her. A short while later she clocked motion in the corner of her eye and looked up to see someone she recognised in the mouth of the alley. A fleeting look of panic hit inside, and she mentally prepared herself to run, thinking it was someone she had stolen from, or upset, or done something bad to. Then she realised it was the guy from earlier. The one that tripped over just as the alarms went off. ‘Oh it’s you,’ she said, which just made him blush and gabble while doing a weird moon walk past her table. People are very odd. Of that there is no doubt.

Now she sighs and jabs and swipes at the interface glowing in front of her, huffing in irritation and poking the tip of her tongue out in concentration, because this particular wristband just happens to be one that was previously stolen, wiped and sold on the black-market, which means it’s not biometrically linked to anyone, which in turn makes it hard to work through FleetBook. She can see only basic profile images and there are way too many Mahatma’s in the fleet. Like seriously way too many.

‘Stupid name,’ she mutters.

‘Sorry?’ Sam says.

‘Talking to myself,’ she says without looking up.

‘Noodles and coffee,’ Sven says, bringing the food and drink out.

‘Thank you,’ Sam says.

‘Where’s mine?’ Yasmine asks.

‘Order at the counter,’ Sven says.

‘Seriously? Some first date this is,’ she quips, giving Sam the stink-eye and smiling when he blushes again. ‘Did you get prawn noodles?’

Sam nods.

‘Hope they taste bad.’

‘Thanks,’ Sam says.

‘Welcome,’ Yasmine says.

‘Stop disturbing my customers,’ Sven says.

‘Whatever. I am working here, quiet please,’ Yasmine says.

‘Looks like it,’ Sven says, before walking off.

‘I give up,’ she mutters and closes FleetBook to open FleetNet. ‘Everything has the word fleet in it.’

‘Pardon?’ Sam asks, a forkful of noodles halfway to his mouth.

‘Nothing. Eat your noodles,’ she says and starts researching The Fleet Financial Services, tutting at the word fleet. ‘They couldn’t just call it financial services could they?’

‘Sorry, who?’ Sam asks.

‘Eat your noodles.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise.’

‘Sorry.’

She looks at him. He goes to say sorry, then stops and eats his noodles.

Are you interested in a career within the Fleet Financial Services Sector?

‘Not really,’ she murmurs after reading the opening line on the financial services career section.

Full training will be given to get you started in the highly rewarding career within The Fleet Financial Services. After all, the Fleet rewards the best and we are the best!

‘That is such corporate bullshit. Listen to this: your career will start with the essential and engaging role of data processor. Our data processors are the front-line troops of The Fleet Financial Services where our best workers hone their skills crunching the numbers, dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s… I’m actually going to vomit…blah blah…’ she looks up to see Sam’s cheeks blushing again at being caught staring. ‘Ah here we go…the average shift is seven hours and you can expect to work four days on, two days off on a rolling rota.’

‘Noodles okay?’ Sven asks, stepping out.

‘No,’ Yasmine says. ‘Airlock man said they taste like shit and he wants to swap for the chicken instead…’

Sven looks at Sam who shakes his head and mumbles again while chewing faster while blushing deeper while wishing he would stop blushing.

‘Worth a try,’ Yasmine says. ‘My belly hurts from your coffee, Sven.’

‘Drink some water.’

‘Drink some water,’ she mimics.

‘They’re fine,’ Sam says, finally finishing as Sven and the woman look at him. ‘The noodles I mean. They’re er…’ He nods and keeps nodding. ‘S’fine.’

‘Good,’ Sven says.

‘Dick,’ Yasmine laughs, shifting position at the growing discomfort in her stomach. The smell of the noodles is making her hungry but she’s too low on credits to eat here and it might take a while to work a plan for Mahatma Goudier.

Sam sips his coffee while cursing himself for the delayed comment when he said the noodles were fine. What is wrong with him? Stop being so nervous and shy. Sit up straight. Be bold. Be brave. ‘Sam,’ he blurts, forgetting to swallow the mouthful of coffee before speaking.

‘What the hell?’ she says, blinking at him spraying drink over himself.

‘Dude, are you all right?’ Sven asks. ‘Are you choking?’

Sam tries nodding to say he is in fact all right, while also trying to shake his head to say he is not choking.

‘Is he having a fit?’ Yasmine asks.

‘I don’t know,’ Sven says. ‘Hey guy, are you okay?’

‘S’fine,’ Sam blurts, mopping at the spilt coffee while wishing a suicide booth was here to liquidise him right now. ‘Coffee in my mouth and…and it came out…’

‘Wow,’ Yasmine says. ‘Okay so…thank you for sharing that and tell me if you want me to get your carer for you.’

Sam doesn’t speak. He can’t speak. His life is currently filled with too much self-loathing to form thoughts and words, so instead he swipes at his wristband and brings his interface up to hide behind.

Yasmine shakes her head and goes back to poking her tongue out in frustration at not being able to navigate FleetNet and find what she wants and Sam glances over again from behind his own interface glowing in the air, thinking that the way she’s poking her tongue out is perhaps the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Who is she? She’s not wearing any peach or pale greens for a start, just simple black trousers and a dark coloured top. He opens a programme within his system then quickly looks around to make sure he can’t be seen and activates the probing software that discretely scans the area, detecting her interface and he waits for her basic data to show, then frowns when it doesn’t.

She’s not linked to her wristband. Everyone is linked to their wristband. How can you access services without being linked? He checks again and can see his system is detecting hers, but there is no signature or data. Then he remembers the store interface had detected that she was an unregistered adult female.

He probes a bit deeper, delving in with an illegal move to see what she’s looking at and a small screen opens in his holo feed showing him she is trying to search FleetBook without being logged in.

‘My belly,’ Yasmine mutters, rubbing a growing cramp in her stomach. ‘That damn coffee,’ she tuts and looks round with Sam detecting her gaze and moving quickly to close windows and applications open within his system. ‘You look guilty,’ she says.

‘What? I’m not…I was just…I was only…’

‘Easy tiger, I was joking,’ Yasmine says while shifting in her seat. ‘What am I going to do now?’ she asks the world at large, thinking she has a few hours to kill before Mahatma finishes work so she can physically stalk her again and start figuring out a way to exploit this opportunity.

‘Who are you talking to?’ Sven asks, standing in the doorway to his otherwise empty café.

‘Nobody,’ she says. ‘I’m just thinking I’ve got a few hours to kill and I really don’t want to go back down to the bowels yet.’

Sam blinks. Did she say bowels? She said bowels. Is she an Elfor?

‘My belly feels really nasty now,’ she adds with another grimace.

‘You’ve had like five cups in a row,’ Sven says. ‘You need to eat.’

Yasmine knows she needs to eat. She cannot remember the last time she actually did eat. ‘Five cups means I get the free one right?’

‘It’s eight,’ Sven says, rolling his eyes at the strange woman rubbing her stomach. ‘Eat something.’

‘You think I’m eating your food after you’ve poisoned me with coffee?’ she fires back. Another gurgle in her gut.

Sven sighs, rubbing his forehead. ‘You coming back sometime?’

‘Whoa, stalker much?’

He tuts, shrugging the insult away. ‘Eat, pay me tomorrow if you don’t have…’

‘Fuck you!’ she snaps, the humour vanishing instantly as Sam flinches at the change. ‘I’m not a charity. I’ve got money…’

‘Just an offer.’

‘Don’t need your fucking offer,’ she surges up, pushing her chair back too hard. ‘You just crossed the ethical boundaries of our friendship, Sven.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Seriously. Not cool.’

‘Whatever.’

‘I’m going.’

‘Okay.’

‘Worst café eve. Puta.’

‘Okay.’

She storms out of the café for the second time in one day and starts heading for the closest stairwell. Knowing she has no choice but to head home and get rid of the bag of stolen goods still gripped in her hand, and she tuts at herself for getting so angry so quickly. Idiot. Why didn’t she just eat? Mind you, she’s only got a few credits but then the owner did offer free food.

She can’t just go straight down either. Even descending back into the lower four levels has to be done right because she’s an unregistered Elfor with a bag full of stolen goods and the last thing she needs is a guard poking their nose in. She’ll have to think smart and do this right.

She descends the levels, reaching 36 where the platforms and stairwells are dirtier and less maintained with more blown lights that haven’t been replaced, creating shadows and pools of darkness, and she doesn’t even glance at the graffiti on the walls. This is home. This is the world she was born into.

The air feels hotter and wetter from too many broken ventilation ducts, fans and blocked shafts unable to cope with the sheer volume of people breathing and living in such close confines.

She pauses one flight up from 37, seemingly absorbed in her interface while listening. Minutes go by. Too many minutes and she grows anxious, biting her lip. She’ll have to find another stairwell. This one is too quiet.

Then it comes, and she cocks her head over, listening intently. A shout from the platform below her. The guards getting heavy-handed with someone. Another voice joins in with someone kicking off. Loud and male. Another one. Female voices. Feet thumping. Anger rising. Perfect.

She goes down to the big platform on level 37. A security point staffed around the clock by the black-uniformed armed and very aggressive guards. Signs on the walls.

Fleet Police Do Not Patrol The L-4’s.

ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK

THE SAME WARNINGS IN ENGLISH, Russian and Chinese. Battered desks at the sides. Scuff marks and old stains everywhere. This is where the guards check wristbands. Checking identities. Not giving a shit who goes down but refusing many from going up. The air is nearly always filled with loud, aggressive arguments often exploding into outright violence, and that’s why Yasmine paused. Waiting for a fight to start so she could rush down, timid and scared, showing fear at the aggression, making big eyes at the scary guards as they push a group of men back while some women shout and heckle.

Yasmine isn’t like that. She’s nice and only wants to rush through and a guard even winks at her, stepping aside and patting her arse as she passes, making her top lip curl up but she slips through without incident. Her belly now cramping hard and her internal temperature increasing from the chemicals in the coffee.

She drops into the lower four levels, into a different world filled with thousands of people. Where the clothing is torn, shabby and different. Where the whole vibe is different. Where hawkers and traders gather in the deep shadows on the stairwells selling drugs. Credit chips. Anything you want. Anything you can pay for and without realising she does so, Yasmine lifts her head and hardens her manner. Eyeing those she passes because this is no place for the weak.

All the way to the bottom and she walks out onto level 40 and the very bowels of the ship where every inch of available space is used. An assault on the senses. A riot of noise and colour in a place that was never designed for human habitation. High ceilings, four and five metres in some places giving room for homes to be stacked on top of each other with ladders, gantries and overhead walkways running everywhere.

It was the last few weeks before the fleet set off from Earth and a frantic rush to get as many people crammed into the vessels as possible. As the fleet slowly filled up, so someone remembered that the bottom few layers of the World-Ship Humility, which had been destined for storage, were still empty, and so thousands of people were dumped in here. Anyone weak or sick. Anyone with reason to hide. Anyone who had bribed, forced or murdered their way aboard the shuttles found themselves here, and so their new life began, and as it was on Earth, so it came to be in space.

Homes, stores, bars and shacks built from any material that could be scavenged. Metal, plastics, composites and resins with no order or symmetry. Clothes hanging. Children running and screaming. Men and women sitting in groups outside of bars, drinking whatever locally made chemical infused liquid they can find.

Everyone vaping. Sucking on tubes filled with all flavours of liquids. Some doped with nicotine, others with cannabis and new drugs developed in zero-grav labs that give all manner of highs; and the plumes of vapour exhaled form clouds that roll on the underside of the overhead ceiling, adding to the condensation and humidity, and the heat from human bodies, from food being cooked. All those things and more serve to create the phenomena of rainfall within a spaceship. The only place in the entire fleet where it happens naturally, and it’s disgusting. It’s not clean water that falls but the liquidising gases produced by people.

She rushes on, veering around a drunk lurching from the front of a bar with a beaker clasped in his hand, singing a raucous song while trying to dance. He trips and falls to lie in the middle of the packed walkway where he belches before rolling onto his side to spew.

‘Yassy,’ a voice calls from the shadows of another bar. Deep and masculine. She walks on, trying to pretend she didn’t hear while her whole body tenses and her heart beats harder. Her vision sharpening, her reactional instincts honing, readying herself for fight or flight.

‘Don’t do that,’ he says, and he walks slowly from darkness into light. Big, muscular and handsome.

‘Dmitri,’ she says tightly.

‘Where you been?’ He comes closer, too close.

‘Here and there,’ she replies, staring ahead. ‘Scored. Got drunk. Fuck you. Who cares? Leave me alone.’

He inclines his head, staring openly at her. An open necked black shirt that shows the muscles on the top of his chest. Tattoos on his hands. An old school gangster and he looms in, filling her world with the scent of his aftershave.

‘I missed you,’ he whispers. Shy Dmitri. Gentle Dmitri. They held hands. They kissed and more. She gave herself to him and he swore always to stay by her. He swore always to protect her, and they’d find somewhere away from here. All of them would.

‘Awesome. Happy for you. Flying visit then I’m gone but hey, I’ll send you a postcard.’ She goes to move off but stops at the feel of his hand on her arm. For a split second she thinks to slam a knee in his groin, but spots Guphy Gupherson gliding out from the shadows on one side and Mad Eyes Ken on the other. Guphy is huge, amiable and viciously violent. Ken is smaller, wiry and with huge unblinking eyes that make him look like he’s always on the edge of pure rage. Memories come back to her, because these are faces she grew up with, but they’re not the same people. It all changed that day. The day they murdered together. The day they killed.

‘I keep hearing about you, Yassy,’ Dmitri says, still holding her arm lightly, rubbing his thumb back and forth in a way she used to enjoy but now makes her feel sick. This man has a power she doesn’t like. An aura that wasn’t always there. Or was it? She can’t remember. Maybe Dmitri was always a sick fuck. Maybe he was always violent and it just needed that day to happen to bring it out. ‘In Neon City, in my bars…’

She looks at him as though trying to see the boy he was but only seeing the man he has become. Handsome and rugged but not right. Not right at all.

‘They’re not your bars,’ she replies in a hard voice. ‘You don’t own everything, Dmitri.’

‘Yet,’ he whispers.

She turns away, unable to stand the look in his eyes. ‘How you doing, Guphy?’

‘I’m okay, Yassy,’ Guphy rumbles, his voice so deep and flat.

‘That’s good, Guph. Can I go now? Mad Eyes is freaking me out…looks like he’s about to attack himself.’

‘You wish,’ Mad Eyes says.

‘Good comeback,’ she says. ‘Can I go now please mister Dmitri sir? That better? Does that do it for you?’ she asks, her features hardening more as the pain in her gut starts spasming.

‘Sure, I’m not stopping you, Yassy,’ Dmitri says gently. ‘But I heard you’re low on credits.’ She tenses, waiting for it, hating him even more than before. ‘You can always come work for me.’

‘Get fucked.’

Dmitri leans in. ‘I can see grey in your hair, Yassy. You’re getting lines in the corners of your eyes. You’re ageing. Earn while you can…just lie down and open your legs like a good girl and you’ll make a lot of money...’

‘Get off me,’ she tries to pull free, yanking her arm as his grip tightens for a second before he smiles and steps back.

‘Oh, shame about Juniper but tell Colly I sorted it.’

‘What? What about June?’ she asks quickly but Dmitri just grins.

Yasmine runs fast, delving into the lanes and alleys, running down the narrow gaps between cabins and poorly built homes.

A shanty town of slums mixed with a favela that stinks of shit, piss and stale sweat all mixed with spices, herbs and the aromas of food cooking. Music playing everywhere. Beats thumping and tunes blasting out. Spanish guitar. Classical overtures. Rock songs. Old Earth and modern synthesised fleet tracks.

The corpse of an old man propped against a wall. His skin mottled and grey and the pockets of his torn trousers pulled out that show where people have already gone through his clothes.

She passes on by. A feeling inside that she should do something, but knowing there is nothing she can do. Someone will get fed up of the smell and the old man’s body will eventually end up being dumped near one of the security stations on a stairwell. Then he’ll be carted off and liquidised into plant food, because nothing here is ever wasted. Not even the dead.

She heads for the far side with a growing sensation of coming home, while worrying about what Dmitri said about Juniper. The adrenalin of her encounter coursing through her veins.

‘Yasmine!’ a young voice yells, and a grinning child appears, running full pelt from a home built against a wall of the ship. ‘Colly! Yasmine’s back…’ Then the rest come. Near feral children pouring from the beaten-up cabins and peering out from the mouths of battered sleeping tubes perched here and there.

Yasmine drops down to take the hugs, scuffing heads and pinching cheeks. ‘Where’s June?’ she calls out.

‘Behind you.’

She turns fast, double-taking at Juniper’s shaved head as she looks over the girl. Older than the others and on the verge of womanhood. ‘What happened? Dmitri said…’

‘Nothing,’ Juniper says quickly, looking down.

‘He said…are you…I mean, he didn’t…’

‘No,’ Juniper says, shaking her head. ‘Just touched…’

‘Touched? Who touched? Who fucking touched you?’

‘A man,’ Juniper shrugs, seemingly unbothered. ‘Dmitri killed him…said I wasn’t to be touched.’

‘Fuck,’ Yasmine says, her eyes filling with tears as she pulls the girl in for a hug while wondering if Juniper knows why Dmitri is protecting her. ‘I’m so sorry. You’re okay?’

‘She fine,’ a strong voice booms out. An accent tinged with ever constant exhaustion and nearly always slurred.

‘Colly,’ Yasmine says, turning back around. ‘June said…’

‘Don’t you Colly me huh? No way. No sir. You go too long this time.’ Colly booms as she strides out. A big belly and wide hips from so many childbirths and she pulls Yasmine into her enormous bosoms, smothering the girl in a hug that feels like home but she stinks of booze and chemicals and burnt rat. ‘You eat? You too thin. I hear you drink too much. Everywhere I hear you drink, you get drunk, you get into fights. I think you come home but you no come home. I sell your room huh? I make money.’

Yasmine glances to her sleeping tube above the cabin then back to Juniper. ‘What happened?’

‘Xinxin, get off. That’s Yassy’s,’ Juniper says, pulling the bag of stolen clothes away from the other kids about to delve into it.

‘Child is fine,’ Colly says, not bothering to lower her voice. ‘The man, he touch. I say all the men they touch all the time. She is a woman now. It happen…Dmitri huh. He staked his claim now. Nobody touch her.’

‘Sick fucking bastard,’ Yasmine mutters, shaking her head at the sadness of it all. Shy Dmitri. Gentle Dmitri. Now a pimp that grooms young girls and gives protection so bad men don’t touch them, so he can make more money when he puts them to work on the strip in Neon City. An instinct inside to find a blade and sink it into his heart while knowing she would never get past Guphy or Ken or the others. This is Dmitri’s turf. This is his section. These girls are his girls. Then she realises why Colly shaved Juniper’s head. Trying to hide the femininity and buy the girl some more childhood. It brings a lump to her throat and a feeling of helplessness that wells up inside.

‘What’s in it?’ Juniper asks, coming over to hold the bag out for Yasmine.

‘It’s er…you know, stuff I got,’ Yasmine says. ‘Give it to Colly…there’s nearly a thousand creds worth in there at level 30 prices.’

Colly snorts, taking the bag to rummage inside. ‘Ain’t no thousand down here, child. You know that.’

Yasmine shrugs. ‘Give me a hundred and keep the rest…come here you,’ she reaches out, pulling Juniper in to kiss her head, remembering the gorgeous golden locks the girl had just a few days ago while Colly sends 100 credits over.

‘I look like an egg,’ Juniper says glumly.

‘No! It suits you. Really brings out your eyes. Do me a favour yeah and keep it shaved. Wear baggy tops…and for god’s sake don’t put any make-up on.’

‘Won’t stop him,’ Colly says, slinging the bag over a shoulder.

‘Dmitri said I can make lots of money,’ Juniper says.

‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ Yasmine drops down, gripping the girl by the arms to glare at her, making her flinch from the venom in Yasmine’s voice. ‘Do not go anywhere near him. He will hurt you, June. Do you understand me? You stay away from him.’

‘Whatever,’ Juniper says, uncomfortable and squirming to pull away.

‘Yassy…did you see the dead guy?’ A tug on her arm. A small Asian face grinning at her. ‘Colly said we can’t touch it. I wanna touch it.’

‘God no, you’ll catch something, Xinxin,’ Yasmine says. ‘And anyway, dead people explode and you’ll get covered in dead body goo…’ She laughs as she says it, splaying her hands over the Xinxin’s face as though covering him in gore. ‘All sticky and smelly.’

‘Eugh!’ Xinxin twists and turns as more children join in, vying for attention and for Yasmine to pretend dead-body gore is spraying over them too. ‘Bang and splodge and yuck and you’ll puke on your own feet, or someone else’s feet, which is just disgusting. Anyway, what’s that smell? What’s cooking, good looking?’ she adds with a wink to Colly, trying to add humour where right now there isn’t any to be found. ‘Smells like chicken…no? Pork? No? Beef then? Fish?’

‘It’s rat, Yassy,’ Xinxin laughs, grabbing at her hand.

‘It’s always rat,’ Juniper says, folding her arms.

‘It’s meat, child,’ Colly booms, giving Juniper a quick hard, semi-drunk glare. ‘Is plenty people here they wish they could eat rat. You eat, Yassy?’

‘Nah I’m fine,’ Yasmine says, waving a hand.

‘You rub your belly like it hurting huh?’ Colly asks, looming in front of Yasmine to place a hand on her head. ‘You sick, child?’

‘Just too much coffee and I’m thirty now, so stop calling me a child,’ she retorts with a smile.

‘You a woman huh? Find a man. Find a man on the top levels and fuck him good…’

‘Colly!’ Yasmine says with mock shock as some of the older kids burst out laughing while the younger ones run here there and everywhere. The aroma of cooking rat making her mouth water but taking food now is taking a meal from a child, and it seems as though Colly’s brood has grown bigger. ‘Listen, I need to get some sleep…catch you in a bit.’

She grasps the ladder to climb up into her tiny quarters. Two metres long and not high enough to stand in. It smells damp and unclean and Yasmine knows Juniper and probably half the kids are sleeping up here, but right now she doesn’t care, and she lies on the soft bedding, curled up on her side while waiting for her belly cramps to ease as the aroma of cooking meat and spices waft up from below.

She thinks about Mahatma, about the café she had coffee in and the shy airlock guy and the grumpy owner. She thinks about the Financial Services place and how she can score big and get out of this shit-hole.

A scurrying noise from somewhere close and she turns her head to see a cockroach rushing along the edge at the end. Outside the patter of dirty rain hits the plastic surfaces as Colly’s huge voice booms at her brood to get in the dry.

Guilt inside now. Profound and deep. Every time Yasmine comes back here it seems dirtier, more broken and more squalid. She just gave her whole stash to Colly and left herself without enough to survive. That means more stealing, which takes more time but even that bag isn’t enough for Colly. A hundred bags like that wouldn’t be enough. The guilt increases when she thinks of the times she spent in the bars and eateries in the upper levels, pretending to be something she isn’t. Getting drunk and fighting anyone she thinks is judging her.

‘Yassy?’ A voice at the entrance. Juniper peering in. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure,’ Yasmine shuffles back, making space for Juniper to crawl and flop down. ‘Come here,’ she wraps an arm round the girl, drawing her in for a hug.

‘Are you working?’ Juniper whispers the question.

Yasmine nods. Feeling sleepy from the heat and humidity. ‘Got a new job on…gonna score big.’

‘Yeah?’ Juniper asks, shuffling back into the cuddle.

‘Score big,’ Yasmine says, her voice growing sleepy. ‘So I can get you out of here. We’ll get a cabin and…and go shopping and eat nice food…we’ll go to this café I saw today. It’s nice…the owner’s a grumpy shit though…’ she smiles sleepily as Juniper giggles. ‘Don’t go near Dmitri, June. He’s not right...I’ll get you out. Somehow, I don’t know…’ She trails off, her mind giving way to sleep as Juniper smiles at the dream, knowing it is only ever a dream.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Detective Zhang Woo sits in the waiting room looking this way and that. Level one is not what he imagined at all. He expected pure white corridors. A place of near silence that oozed power and influence. Where hard-faced, serious people spoke in whispers.

What he actually found when he stepped from the executive elevator was a busy working area filled with normal looking people rushing in and out of offices. He even heard laughter and voices calling out and noticed a couple of politicians regularly seen on the various news feeds discussing their favourite events in the Weightless CrossFit games. Pleasant but functional decor. Potted plants. Water dispensers. Music heard in an office as he passed by. His escort was the aide who normally contacted him for the extra duties he sometimes undertook. The quiet extra duties. The secret ones no one else knew about.

Level one, Zhang felt, was strangely re-assuring and reminded him of the Fleet Police HQ offices. He even saw a blown light and a maintenance guy in coveralls unscrewing the fitting to replace it.

The aide then came back and said Zhang could go through, and that was it. Detective Zhang Woo walked into the private office of vice-captain Helga Sveinsson.

A lean, handsome, rugged Asian man in a loose shirt and casual trousers. Somewhat brooding and reflective. Thoughtful even, and Zhang never considered himself as corrupt.

It all started, as many bad things in life do, because of sex. Namely that Detective Zhang Woo is a sex addict, and being a lean, handsome, rugged man this did not pose a problem, but Zhang developed a liking for prostitutes. Specifically, he liked the detached nature of the transaction and that he could have sex with beautiful women and not suffer any complications from it.

That was all fine, until he spent too much and hit a point whereby he couldn’t afford them. That’s the thing with prostitutes -- they tend to want paying and get very angry when that doesn’t happen.

Zhang Woo had also been noted, within the circles and powers that be within the World-Ship Humility as being a brave and very capable police officer, and all of those things led to a conversation one night in a bar in a club in Neon City when Dmitri sat on the next stool along and stared at Zhang.

‘Fuck off, Dmitri,’ Zhang said dully, not wishing to be disturbed while lamenting his sorrows of being unable to afford to have sex with Carla Big Lips. Carla was one of Zhang’s favourites due to the extra soft kisses she gave.

‘I’m hearing you’re broke,’ Dmitri said, while sneering in distaste at having to speak to a police officer.

‘Said fuck off, Dmitri,’ Zhang repeated, his voice now not quite so dull.

Dmitri grunted. ‘Someone likes you.’

‘What?’ Zhang asked, giving him a sideways look.

‘Said someone likes you. You’ve been given a free night…Carla’s in room five waiting for you,’ Dmitri said, slapping a wristband on the bar top next to Zhang.

‘What’s that?’ Zhang asked, staring at it.

‘It’s a wristband.’

Zhang sipped his beer. ‘Take it away before I…’

‘Just the errand boy, detective,’ Dmitri said, holding his hands up while pushing off the stool. ‘Take the call then go and have fun with Carla.’

Half an hour later, Zhang was indeed having fun with Carla in room five, having suddenly found himself on the payroll of someone high-up. The person who contacted him, an unknown aide, said it would never be anything too bad, and it never was.

A few bribes paid here and there. A few calls made to ensure those bribes were taken, maybe even a personal visit made if the person was very reluctant, and of course now and then he dealt with the collection and disposal of evidence. Nothing major. Nothing too bad. There aren’t many security cameras on the WS Humility but once in a while they suddenly need to have a virus inserted to wipe anything they may have picked up.

Detective Zhang Woo, however, is also very pragmatic and knows that if he wasn’t doing these things, someone else would. Besides, he’s not really hurting anyone, and the aide always said these things are for the well-being of the fleet, for the security of the ship, for the safety of the people.

What also helped was that Zhang was the only cop on the WS Humility unafraid to walk about in Neon City on his own. That meant he could get into clubs and observe people doing things they shouldn’t be doing, people with influence, politicians and business leaders, which he fed back to his contact. Zhang didn’t know who he actually worked for, only that they paid well.

Then, this morning, he was contacted by the same guy as normal and directed to one of the executive elevators and met by two security people who escorted him up and out into level one, where that same guy, the one that normally contacted him, led to him a waiting room and then into the office of Helga Sveinsson, who turns from her huge window, motioning him to join her.

‘At last we meet, Detective Woo,’ she says with a huge smile. Blond hair streaked with grey. Her blue eyes shining with humour, with grace and intelligence and staring at him in the way of a gifted politician conveying that meeting him was the only thing she ever wanted to do in life. ‘And you’re very handsome in the flesh too.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he replies, studying her discretely, the way a cop does without being seen to be doing so. An attractive older woman. Maybe late fifties but she looks younger. Toned too and not like a normal politician. More like a famous actress, warm, friendly and with an appeal everyone likes.

‘Do I pass, detective?’ she asks, lifting an eyebrow at his scrutiny.

He smiles and looks round the office. Cream and white everywhere but not too sterile. Enough colour from art to give it depth and taste.

‘How very strange,’ Helga says, still studying him.

‘Ma’am?’ he asks, looking back at her.

‘That you pay for what many women would give so freely.’

He stalls, unsure of how to respond. Feeling ashamed. Feeling dirty, corrupt and tainted in this nice clean place he didn’t expect to be so functional and normal.

‘It’s fine,’ she says, resting a hand on his arm. ‘I have no judgement of you, Zhang. May I call you by your first name?’

‘Of course.’

‘Relax. We all have vices, Zhang. Weaknesses. It’s what makes us human, and my sources tell me you are very charming to the women you pay for sex.’

He tenses again, uncomfortable at the mention of it, but she smiles and winks in a way that eases that worry just a little.

‘I’m an awful tease sometimes, Zhang. But tell me, do you like the view?’ she asks, holding his eye-contact while he tries to figure out if he is being propositioned, because that’s the thing with sex-addiction, it’s always there, the urge inside, the desire to copulate. He swallows with a sudden mental image of fucking the vice-captain over her desk. ‘I meant the window my dear…’

He rallies quickly, nodding eagerly. ‘Great view…and er…you can see a lot of space and…’

‘Bless, you are very sweet and if I were a few years younger I rather think I would respond to that twinkle in your eye. But to business if we may…’ She walks off to her desk, picking up an unmarked wristband. Standard grey snap-on. Not new but not old. ‘I need you to take this to The Ark for me, and hand it to a technician called Alexei Scrabel.’

‘Of course,’ Zhang says, walking over to take the wristband.

‘Now the thing is,’ Helga says, keeping hold of the wristband, ‘Mr Scrabel has undertaken a few tasks for me before, but it appears he is now reluctant to continue. I would like you to ensure Mr Scrabel continues to work for me.’

‘Understood.’

‘And Zhang. This is of vital importance and must be kept completely secret. Do you understand? You are in my circle of trust now, and I am very loyal to those in my circle of trust, but likewise I have a wrath you do not wish to see…That’s not a threat my dear, I am not threatening you but sometimes, one must take steps to ensure the safety of the people that have elected one to protect them.’

Zhang nods, mesmerised by her manner and the way she speaks.

‘Report to me directly from now on. No aides. Nobody else. Only me. I am your employer from this point forward…If your bosses question where you are, you tell me and I will deal with it. Can we trust each other, Zhang? I do hope we can. I rather feel we can have something special between us, you see.’

Half an hour later he stands in another waiting area listening to the newsfeed from a commuters interface.

‘…Now you may call me a romantic but for all the common sense in the fleet, I’ll keep me a little bit of hope burning in my heart that one day the Gagarin will come back smiling. I’m Kristi Carter and you’ve been watching the fleet newscast.’

‘I’ll bloody give her some romance to make her smile,’ someone mutters, triggering a chorus of low laughs.

Zhang laughs too, exchanging looks with some of the other passengers waiting for the shuttle Gonsales to dock. His keen eyes watch the airlock guy with the unkempt blond hair operate the controls to open the doors as the shuttle docks and couples. Goods come off first. Trolleys laden with more peach and pale green clothes ready to be stocked and sold. They do look good actually. A nice combination.

The airlock guy calls out and everyone moves forward. He goes with them, shuffling towards the double doors and feeling that pinch of worry that only the thin walls of the airlock tube are between him and space. A subconscious itch on his belly and he lifts a hand to scratch, clocking the double-take from the airlock guy who spots his sidearm strapped to his belt.

‘Relax, I’m a cop,’ Zhang says, flashing his police credentials before walking through to take a seat in the economy section. No windows on this one and he glances ahead to a digital screen showing grainy footage of the outside. A few minutes later he feels the gentlest of sensations ripple through his body as they depart and whoosh off into space.

He sits back, resting his head and thinking it all through, figuring this beats mundane police work and pays far better too. His boss did assign him a crappy shoplifting case to deal with. Loads of the stores in the retail zone are saying they’ve lost stock on the first day of the new range coming out and that someone must be using decoding software. Zhang figures it will be Yassy. Fuck it. Good luck to her. Yassy isn’t a serious criminal and she often gives help to Colly to feed those kids. Zhang will tell her to ease off next time he sees her, because sometimes in policing, a fair warning is all that’s needed.

Anyway. On to brighter things and the promise of an evening ahead burning credits with Carla Big Lips, and maybe that new woman he saw in one of the other bars. He closes his eyes, thinking of Helga, thinking of working for Helga, thinking again of fucking Helga, then thinking of fucking Carla. Mainly thinking about fucking and feeling that urge inside. The urge that is always there. The addiction.

He shifts in his seat, opening his eyes to see a crew member slowly walking by. An attractive black girl. He smiles. She smiles back and stops by his seat, resting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asks with a look in her eyes Zhang knows only too well and ten minutes later her hands grip his bare backside as he thrusts between her legs in the toilet at the back of the shuttle and detective Zhang Woo smiles, thinking his life right now cannot get any better.

DETECTIVE ZHANG WOO STAGGERS BACK, pushing his bloodied hands and bruised knuckles through his hair while thinking his life right now cannot get any worse.

Zhang visited Alexei Scrabel earlier, finding him in his cabin on one of the residential levels the workers use while on rotation duties on The Ark. Zhang was expecting hostility after what Helga said, but the guy was quiet and passive. Nodding and shrugging a lot. He took the wristband and said Sure thing, leave it with me.

Zhang glimpsed the tattoos on his arms and the old busted nose and from the guy’s manner he took Alexei to be from the Elfors. It’s a vibe people from the lower fours give off. An aura. A way of standing and holding their heads up as though showing they are not afraid because the Elfors are no place for the weak.

Job done and Zhang went back, waited a few hours for the next available shuttle, fucked the crew member again in the same toilets, then disembarked on the WS Humility and figured he deserved some food and a rest.

He woke in his cabin on row D, level 35 to an incoming call and swiped quickly, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

‘He’s bolted.’ Helga said, her tone urgent and all trace of the flirt and humour now gone.

‘What?’ Zhang said, his mind still foggy from sleep.

‘Scrabel, he’s bolted with the code.’

‘Code?’

She cut in quickly, leaning forward into the feed. ‘You must find him. You must get it back…’

‘What code?’ Zhang asked. ‘I gave him a wristband.’

‘Wake up, Zhang! There was a code in the wristband. I need that code. You said Scrabel was passive and calm. He wasn’t a few days ago. He must have planned this. He planned to run the next time I used him…maybe blackmail or leverage to make me leave him alone. I don’t know…but that code…we must get it back now.’

‘I’ll find him,’ Zhang said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before pushing out from his sleeping tube to pull on his shirt.

‘He lives on the Kindness…I can get you on a shuttle but you’ll have to move fast…’

‘He won’t go for the Kindness,’ Zhang cut in. ‘He’s an Elfor…’

‘No, he’s from the Elfors originally, but he lives on the Kindness now,’ Helga said.

‘Anyone thinking of screwing over a vice-captain is not going to hide on the Kindness. He’ll head home. Anyone can disappear down there…how do you know he’s bolted?’

‘Zhang, I can’t reveal…’

‘I don’t need names, Ma’am. Just when and where he was last seen.’

Helga paused, clearly thinking for a second on what to say and how to phrase it. ‘He arrived at work. He was nervous. Another source fed that back to me. He did some work, then just walked out…that was two hours ago.’

Zhang nodded, his shirt undone while his hands swiped to bring a screen up as he tapped to access shuttle times. Checking the time now against the departure times from The Ark and the journey times to the WS Humility. ‘He’s docking now…gotta go…’

‘That code, Zhang. Get it back.’

‘Shuttle? Where is it?’ Zhang called out a short while later, running into the concourse of the port side airlock Delta on level 30. The same one he used earlier. The main one used by shuttles commuting between The Ark.

‘Docked…gone,’ the airlock worker said. A woman with dark hair. ‘Next one isn’t until the morning, but you can…’

He ran hard. Not hearing what else she said and sprinted through the dark and nearly empty lanes of the retail zone without a clue of anything, knowing only that if Alexei reached the Elfors he could disappear for good, and in Zhang’s mind that counted as a failure. The last thing he wanted was to be thrown from an airlock or strapped in a suicide booth to be mulched.

Then he saw him. A figure ahead. Scrabel turned to see Zhang running towards him and started to sprint away. Zhang’s instincts kicked in as he sucked air, thinking to shout Stop police!, before remembering this is not police work. He ran harder, faster. Gaining with every twist and turn, knowing Scrabel was going for the stairwell.

Scrabel reached it first. Lurching onto the platform to grab the handrail and throw himself down the first flight. His actions seemed panicked, his whole manner that of someone terrified and determined to get away. He rounded the first flight, shooting wild looks back to see Zhang gaining rapidly. He went faster, stumbling and gripping the handrail. Gasping for air.

Level 36 and Zhang landed on the platform just a few steps behind. No time to think; he threw himself down after Scrabel. The pair hit the guards’ station with only a second between them. The guards vaping and playing a game behind a glowing interface. Not caring one jot who goes down and only showing attention to people coming up.

The platform on 38. Dark, sinister, deserted and Zhang launched hard, flying forward to grab the back of Scrabel’s shirt, yanking Scrabel down with him. But the guy fought back instantly, lashing out to break free, the two of them rolling across the platform with grunts and gasps, driving punches into each other. No words spoken. Nothing said. Scrabel showed his upbringing by getting a knee into Zhang’s groin, stunning him long enough to break free and lurch for the next flight down.

Zhang went after him, throwing himself into the back of Scrabel again, sensing he had won, sensing he was the better fighter, younger, fitter, stronger. Scrabel turned hard, throwing punches at Zhang who ducked and weaved, slapping them away while throwing his own back, slamming hard knuckles into his eyes and ears, overwhelming his opponent’s senses. Then Zhang went in fast, gripping Scrabel’s throat and pinning him against the railings.

‘Where is it?’ he hissed the words out, feeling Scrabel squirm and try to break free. Another hit, a hard one that fractured Scrabel’s eye socket. Then Zhang grabbed his arm, pinning the elbow joint against his knee and pulling back while twisting the wrist, causing blooms of pain as Scrabel tried to scream. ‘Where is it?’

‘Sent it,’ Scrabel gasped. The pain so bad it consumed his mind.

‘Where?’

‘Financial Services…please…please

Done. He had the information and Zhang drew breath, thinking it to be over. ‘Where’s the wristband I gave you?’

‘My pocket,’ Scrabel whimpered.

‘Give it to me…slowly,’ Zhang said, his grip on the guy’s arm still tight. He watched as Scrabel whimpered and sobbed as he pushed a hand into his pocket. A flash. A glint and Zhang’s instincts made him dance back and kick out, narrowly missing the blade but getting his foot into Scrabel’s side and kicking him over the lip of the stairs and down, rolling and thumping with that jarring sound of a thick bone breaking.

ZHANG MAKES the call from his wristband in the shadows of the stairwell while breathing hard from the fight.

‘Zhang, go on,’ Helga says, her voice low and urgent.

‘Found him. Ma’am…he’s…’

‘The code. Do you have the code?’

‘No, it’s…the wristband is empty. He said he sent it but…’

‘Sent it? Sent it where?’

‘We were fighting. He said the financial services…’

‘Where in the financial services?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Ask him. Make him tell you.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

Zhang looks at the body lying at his feet and the neck bent in entirely the wrong direction. ‘Because he’s dead.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

A tickle on her nose and Yasmine twitches in her sleep, smiling and murmuring softly, thinking it to be a child playing games.

She cranks an eye open and pulls her head back to gain focus on the little legs of a cockroach scrabbling like mad while it hovers in the air. She blows gently, sending it soaring away on a thermal of breath and only then does she realise she is floating too and the underfloor gravity drive has failed again.

‘COLLY, HELP!’ a scream outside and she snaps her head over to see Xinxin floating up past the mouth of her room, his tiny body trying to swim frantically in the air.

‘Shit,’ Yasmine blinks from sleep to awake in an instant, twisting to get a foot into the wall, then pushes off hard.

‘XINXIN! Colly calls out with an infant child held clasped under one arm while clinging to a pole to stop herself rising. ‘YASSY…GRAB HIM.’

Shouts and screams from all directions. A drunk man floating up above the sea of shacks, his arms and legs paddling slowly. Objects and items rising up. Pots and pans. Bedding, crates, boxes, clothes and the old dead guy Yasmine saw earlier now pressing against the underside of an overhead gantry.

‘Shit!’ Yasmine curses, having kicked too hard and she sails past a terrified looking Xinxin and twists to see he’ll plummet straight to the hard metal deck when the drives come back on. She hits something soft and smelly, recoiling in horror at realising it’s the old dead guy, but she spins over, using him to gain leverage, and kicks off, sending him one way and her back towards Xinxin. But the angle is off.

‘Colly…’ she calls out urgently. ‘Throw something!’

‘Throw something,’ Colly mutters stretching a foot out to unhook a restraining strap from a chair before booting it hard at Yasmine, altering her course and sending her close enough to grab Xinxin’s thin ankle just as the underfloor drives kick back in and the world about them once again succumbs to the rule of gravity.

Yasmine lands hard with an explosion of pain in her side from the weight of Xinxin slamming down. She screams out, rolling over to gasp as she sends the boy sprawling, shocked but unhurt.

Colly clips a hand round the back of Xinxin’s head. ‘What don’t you understand about holding on, child? You hurt, Yassy?’

‘I’m fine,’ Yasmine grunts the words out, pursing her lips. ‘Just winded…Jesus!’ she flinches back, staring up at the elderly dead man she rammed into, now hanging from a gantry with a wire about his neck and his legs dangling above a walkway. ‘This fucking place…’

Colly grunts, shaking her head with an air of resignation while Xinxin instantly forgets Yassy’s plight and thinks it might be the coolest thing he has ever seen.

‘What’s the time?’ Yasmine grunts, swiping at her interface to see the night has come and gone. ‘How long was I asleep?’

‘You tired. You sleep,’ Colly says. ‘June, get that chair back and hook it down huh child. You kids. Go on now. Go see what fell down. Bring it back for Colly.’

‘Been asleep all night,’ Yasmine says, rubbing her side at the worsening pain. ‘Xinxin, there’s a bag in my room, blue one, chuck it down for me…’ She tries to smile as the boy scurries for the ladder, while feeling nothing but hate for this ship. For people having to live like this where hungry, dirty kids break bones from falling onto solid metal floors. She fingers her face, cursing at the blooms of pain and looks to see blood on her fingertips.

‘This one?’ Xinxin calls out, holding a bag out of the mouth of the sleeping tube.

‘Yeah, drop it,’ she says, stupidly trying to catch it as it falls and yelping from the fresh burst of pain.

‘Yassy. Rest. You hurt.’

‘I gotta go,’ Yasmine says, gingerly pulling the bag onto her shoulder. ‘I’ll see you soon, Colly.’

She rushes off, shaking her head at the old dead guy gently swinging above the gaggle of kids staring up in awe.

A few steps and she’s back on the main walkway, heading towards the stairwell while people rush to pilfer anything that dropped from the air when the drives came back on. Two women in her path arguing over a metal pot.

‘I FOUND IT,’ one roars.

‘IT’S MINE,’ the other screams back, lashing out with a hand as they go to the floor, kicking, biting and pulling each other’s hair. The pot rolls away, grabbed by a kid that gets punched by another bigger kid who grabs the pot and runs into another woman who wrenches it from his hands.

Yasmine walks on, turning a corner and pulling her head back in dismay at the crowd gathered round the drunk guy now impaled on a metal stick busted out from the frame of a shack. Blood everywhere and his insides now on the outside.

‘You can see his heart,’ a man remarks, bending over to point at something wet and glistening.

‘His heart? That’s not his heart you dumb shit, that’s his liver that is…’

‘It’s his fucking heart and who are you calling a dumb shit?’

‘It’s not! That’s his fucking liver you idiot.’

The pain in her side is worse than she thought, and she feels sick from hunger. Dizzy and weird. Her head hurts too. Aches and pains everywhere. The shock of it now kicking in. Too much coffee yesterday and waking up like that. What a place to live. She hates it. She detests it. The fights. The violence.

She trudges up another flight, struggling to breathe from the pain. She’ll never make it to level 25, and even if she does she’ll stand out a mile walking bent over and in agony. There is no choice. She’ll have to see the Russian doctor and so she walks off the platform onto level 37 towards Neon City.

Traders and hawkers line the route. Most of them sleeping off whatever drug-induced coma they’ve put themselves into. Signs in Chinese, Russian and English offering bodyguards for hire. Single chaperones to full security teams. Enjoy Neon City in Safety!

She hears her name being called in greeting but talking hurts, so she limps on towards the lights and the first few bars and clubs. Then she’s in it proper. Walking through the strip in Neon City. Past strip joints, dancing clubs, rave huts and everything in between. Full on virtual reality porn suites where they’ll chuck in a handjob if you tip enough.

Every taste catered for. No judgements here. Every vice and service a broken and flawed human being could ever need can be found on 37.

Neon lights in every direction. Hanging from every cabin. Hanging from the ceiling. From every shelf and lip. Greens, blues, yellows and reds. Blinking and fizzing. Flashing and strobing. Headache inducing unless you are drunk or high or both. How they got these lights onto spaceships is beyond her. Yasmine heard they were smuggled from The Ark but right now the only thing she cares about is that growing pain in her side and the dull ache spreading through her head. The fall was worse than she thought, but she has to work. She has to earn to eat.

‘Hey honey…’ Women in lingerie sway towards her with hungry smiles before clocking the look of pain on her face and instantly losing interest. Topless young men sucking seductively on vape sticks with dull eyes. Teenage boys and girls. Some only just a year or two into puberty. Some not even close and they loiter near cubicles under the watchful eyes of overseers and pimps. Every taste catered for. No judgements here. Dark suited bodyguards wait outside a shack, protecting the wealthy puta inside rutting with whoever he has chosen before scurrying back to whatever upper level on whatever ship he normally resides.

All credits are good credits. No judgements here.

Cannabis vapour hanging in the air. Thick and sweet. Voices calling out. Music pumping. 37. The level that never sleeps.

The décor about her changes, from seedy bars to stores and eateries, from neon lights to something close to normal illuminations. Where the smells of food mix with the cannabis vapours. Greasy rat meat sizzling on hot plates. Synthetic meats, vegetables and soyas cooking in pots. Her mouth waters, the hunger inside vying for attention with the pain.

She turns into a side alley branching off from the main walkway and goes up a sloping gantry to the next tier of shacks and buildings. Tattooists. Dentists. Broken bones set straight. Laser surgery and cosmetic enhancement. Boobs and dicks made bigger. Every need catered for. All credits are good credits.

She aims for the end where the lights don’t work and where the walls are covered in grime and filth. Where only the very desperate go. She knocks on the door, hating herself for being here and hating this world even more.

An indistinct shout from inside. Slurred and deep. She goes in, pausing to let her vision adjust to the gloom while standing bent over with one arm hugging her side. A heavy curtain hanging in the doorway to the back; the room stinks of unwashed bodies and sour booze mixed with antiseptic.

‘I come I come,’ the Russian Doctor pushes through the curtain, swaying on his feet. Grizzled and grey with a beaker clasped in his hand. He wipes one greasy hand on his stained lab coat while grinning, toothless and drunk. ‘How may I help you my dear?’ he asks, his accent thick.

Yasmine swallows. Wanting only to walk out. Wanting only to be somewhere clean but the pain is growing worse. ‘Fell,’ she grunts.

‘Yes, you fell,’ the doctor says, offering a wink as though they can keep the secret.

‘No, I actually fell. Gravity drive failed.’

‘Whatever you say.’ He pulls the curtain back, offering another toothless smile as she walks through while staring openly at her backside. ‘How you pay?’ he enquires, moving after her and flicking a switch, bathing the medical room in harsh white lights that show the old blood stains on the examination bed and the clutter of boxes and crap on the shelves and sides.

‘Got a few credits,’ she says. Only the desperate come here and the doc knows it. Only the desperate would risk coming here and she tucks her other hand in at her side for fear of touching anything.

‘A few credits?’ he asks, a drunk man trying to act sober and he totters forward, belching and wiping his mouth as he looks at the way she’s bent and the arm holding her side. ‘Let me see, yes?’ he motions for her to sit down, turning slowly to find a clear spot to rest his beaker and turns back, widening his eyes to gain focus. ‘I’m so fucking drunk,’ he mutters in Russian.

‘Wish I was,’ she replies. He doesn’t show reaction to hearing his own language but moves to her side and tries to ease her arm away. His motions all over-emphasised. He stinks too. Cheap booze, foul breath and sweat. Bloodshot eyes and a whiskery face.

She turns away, grimacing at the pain but more from the vile stench of the man and his fingers start probing. Gently touching her ribs until she grunts and stiffens when he finds the epicentre of the pain.

‘Is here,’ he mutters.

‘Broken?’

He shakes his head, shrugs, loses balance and lurches to the side. ‘Bruise. It hurts, yes?’

‘Like a motherfucker,’ she grunts.

He snorts a laugh. ‘I give you medicine. Two hundred,’ he breathes the words out, blasting a waft of foul breath.

‘I don’t have two hundred,’ she says as the hand moves up over her ribs to brush the underside of her breast.

‘We find other way to pay yes?’

‘You touch me and I will hurt you,’ she warns, her voice hard, her eyes harder because this is the Elfors and no place for the weak.

‘Pay then,’ he grunts. Fortune favours the brave and he leans into her, breathing hard and grabbing at her breast, kneading fast at the soft swell.

‘Get the fuck off me,’ she pulls away, gasping at the pain. He leans harder, trying to use his bulk to trap her in the chair and her world fills with the stench and heat of him bearing down. ‘I said get off!’ she snaps, clenching her fist ready to fight out.

His heart thunders at the sudden lust. A twinge inside. A weird sensation. His face tenses from the aorta in his chest exploding, spraying blood in his internal cavities while the pressure from his circulatory system releases as an immense surge of pain crushes his chest.

Yasmine lashes out, slamming her fist into the side of his head, gasping at her own pain then blinking at the ease with which she dropped him as he slams into a side counter, spilling a metal tray of surgical implements before he thuds to the floor.

‘You filthy PUTA,’ she launches off the chair, hurting, sore and full of rage. ‘What the fuck did you do that for? Hey…hey!’ she kicks at his leg, seeing his eyes glazing over and the way his body goes from tensed rigid to completely relaxed. ‘Oh fuck. Hey…’ she drops with a wince, feeling a surge of panic inside. ‘Hey!’ she grabs his shoulder, pushing and heaving but feeling no response, only a dead weight and his bloodshot lifeless eyes staring up. ‘What the…’ she leans in, pressing her fingers to his neck. ‘Oh my god…oh my god…what the fuck?’ She reels back, feeling the pain in her ribs while staring at the dead Russian doctor as her brain struggles to process what just happened.

One punch. She killed him with one punch. She has to get out. She lurches towards the door, almost falling to her knees at the pain. She needs meds. She needs pain relief. She just killed a man with one punch. Everything a blur. Her mind running too fast and too frantic. On her feet again and she makes it to the curtain before sagging from the agony. She has to get out. The fleet police don’t come here and don’t give a shit but they’re not the only ones offering protection.

A glance to the cupboards and drawers, the glint of opportunity in her eyes and she limps over, wrenching them open to pluck boxes and vials out. Blister packets of pills for erectile dysfunction, for hair loss, for cancer treatments and to get high or stoned. Downers. Uppers. Poppers. Siders and lifters. Drugs that only give highs in zero-grav.

‘Morphine!’ Good plain old morphine and she grabs the vial, ready to look for a syringe then realising she won’t be able to function if she takes morphine. It’s too strong. She keeps looking and finds a locked cabinet, busting the lock off before finding the good stuff. Ultra-modern black-market high end drugs. She grabs a packet, fumbling to get the blister strip free from the box and mouthing two to dry swallow. Forcing them down with a gulp. More go into her pocket.

Several minutes later she leaves quickly with her head down. The pain already much less and her bag gripped on her shoulder. Down the gantry to the walkway then back through Neon City past the hookers and rent-boys to the stairwell where she delves into the shadows, her hand now holding a scalpel.

‘What you want?’ a husky voice asks. An Asian face. Sallow and scarred emerging from the darkness. Both with hands at their sides. Both with blades ready.

‘How you doing, YinYan?’ she asks quietly, guarded.

‘I’m good, Yassy. You?’

‘Had better days.’

‘Colly good?’

‘Colly’s good, YinYan…I’m selling. You buying?’

YinYan shrugs. Showing no interest until she turns the bag towards him, opening the flap to pull out morphine and packets of pills. He nods slowly, his eyes glancing with professional interest over the goods.

‘Five hundred,’ she whispers.

YinYan looks at her. Back at the bag. The lure of a deal so clear on his face, then he stiffens and pulls back an inch, shaking his head.

‘This is medical grade,’ she says urgently. ‘Okay, fine, four hundred. I’m in a rush.’

‘You need to be in a rush,’ he replies, still shaking his head.

‘Three? What the fuck? This is good stuff. Two. Do Two…’

‘Not my thing, Yassy.’

‘Not your thing? You’re a fucking dealer, YinYan. One fifty then…this is full on medical grade.’

‘Yass, you wanna rob a doc protected by Dmitri you go nuts,’ he says. ‘Me? I ain’t crossing nobody. Where am I selling that shit huh? To who, Yassy? They’ll tell Dmitri then I’m dead on a stairwell feeding the fucking plants.’

‘Are you being serious?’

‘Damn right I am,’ he says, nodding hard. ‘I take that, I need to sell it fast.’

‘Hundred then,’ she blurts. One hundred is food for a few days and time to get a job planned.

‘GET HIM…’ feet thundering on the stairs above her. ‘FLEET POLICE…STOP RIGHT NOW!’

She spins round as a terrified man leaps from the stairs onto the platform, losing his footing and staggering into her. A wild look on his face, blood on his hands and she falls back, spilling the contents of her bag over the floor as YinYan melts back into the shadows.

A uniformed guard leaps onto the platform with a short-bladed knife buried in his meaty shoulder and a look of rage on his face as he steams into the man he was chasing, kicking him hard as he tries to rise, sending him sprawling over Yasmine’s bag, scattering the boxes and vials. She ducks fast, desperate to try and get them back as more guards land on the platform behind her.

‘The fucker’s here,’ the first guard yells, stamping down on the man screaming in pain as he curls into a ball.

More guards in black uniforms rush in to stamp and kick as the first guard pulls the knife free from his shoulder. ‘Stab me you PUTA,’ he roars out and goes back into the melee as someone grabs Yasmine by her arm and launches her away.

‘My stuff,’ she yells, then flies back off her feet from the jolt of fifty thousand volts hitting her chest as the guard jabs the end of his voltage-stick at her. She hits the wall, crumpling down as the guard comes in to jab her thigh with a sick sadistic grin, making her twist and cry out as she scrabbles back and away.

‘FUCK OFF WHORE,’ he screams the words out, pacing after her. A glance beyond him to the other guards breaking legs and fingers on the man as they kick and stamp with their boots crunching the pills and vials she stole. Another jolt in her thigh. Intense searing agony. A surge of rage inside and her lips pull back but the guard jabs the stick into the cheeks of her backside, jolting her with another cry of agony and she moves away, rushing to create distance because only a fool stays close to angry guards. She glances back as she rises, catching a glimpse of the man on the floor now silent and either dead or very close to it.

She limps up the stairs, passing the platforms. Her head spinning. Her vision like a tunnel. Everything around her a blur of aggression and violence.

Level 37 and the guards slamming men into walls and jabbing sticks into arses and bellies. Men trying to get to work being told to go back and she slips through with her head down, wanting only to cry and sob and curl up and sleep for a month.

Minutes later she steps out into the different world of level 25. Her face flushed with a light film of sweat and her empty stomach protesting from the pills she swallowed. She spots people glancing and staring at her. Some of them moving away as though scared and she feels a surge of pity when a mother grabs her child’s hand to guide him away.

Pain everywhere. In her ribs. In her head and on her legs and backside from the voltage-sticks. She checks the time. Seeing she has but ten minutes before the normal office workers start for the day.

She darts into a public toilet, blanching in horror at the sight of herself. Her chin grazed and her face flecked with blood. Bruises already showing on her swollen cheek. More blood on her top, on her neck and down her arms.

She rinses her face. Washing the blood away. She fusses over her hair in a desperate attempt to straighten herself out as another woman comes in wearing a pale yellow silk scarf and heads for a cubicle, closing the door behind her. Yasmine watches the gap between the door and the floor. The woman’s bag goes down. The rustle of clothing being undone. The woman tutting at the confined space. Then the scarf is lowered on the bag and Yasmine doesn’t hesitate but runs quickly, ducking to grab one end before dashing for the exit door. A tug behind her. A yell but she snatches hard, wrenching it from the woman’s grasp and runs out and down the walkway into the crowds of people going about their lives.

MAHATMA GOUDIER ARRIVES for work five minutes before the start of her shift. Walking towards the security door with a group of women, and not one of them pays the slightest bit of attention to the woman in the yellow scarf standing nearby, absorbed in her interface glowing from her wrist.

‘Oh my god, Ian is just convinced I am sleeping with Johan Johans now. He keeps asking me about my nipples,’ one of the women says with a laugh to Mahatma.

‘It was just a poster, Nancy,’ Mahatma says, rolling her eyes.

Yasmine reads the interactions quickly. Clocking positions and the small nucleus of attractive women walking with Mahatma. Then she notices a larger, ginger haired woman walking on her own, her head down in a show of near abject misery. She doesn’t fit in with the other women. She doesn’t belong. She wants to be a part of the beautiful group, but they don’t want her.

An idea forming in Yasmine’s mind. The roots of a plan stretching out and she watches as the women disappear through the security door before moving off, feeling as if she will pass out.

She desperately needs food so she can take more meds. She needs to sit down and get her head around this new idea.

She needs somewhere quiet.

CHAPTER NINE

‘…And that’s right because today is one hundred and twenty three years, four months, two weeks and two days since this great fleet set off and what do we have to show for it? I’ll tell you what we’ve got. Riots from another grav-drive failure and a dead technician from The Ark who threw himself down a stairwell because gambling and VR porn addictions had taken over his life. And where is all this happening? You got it. In the Elfors. Seriously, folks. Is this all we are? Is this what we have become?’

Sam drops from his sleeping tube and shuffles to the corner of his cabin, bleary eyed and dull of mind. ‘Shower on,’ he mutters to his cabin interface, which responds by dropping panels to form a cubicle as a nozzle lowers from the ceiling panel above his head and 00:45 glows in red numbers on the wall.

With a sleepy sigh, he pushes out of the cubicle to sort through the gadgets and wristbands while wondering who in the fleet can wash properly in forty-five seconds. Sam certainly can’t. So, he hacked it and gave himself unlimited time, but the system resets every few days which means he has to hack it again.

A quick smile when the glowing 00:45 changes to : and he moves back into the corner to commence a long hot shower, turning like a ballerina to let the air-jets dry his body, at which point his mind becomes awake enough to remember the woman from yesterday.

She actually interacted with him. Smiling and chatting. She did that. With words, and looking at him at the same time; she didn’t even ask what time the next shuttle is or where the toilets are located.

Why wasn’t her wristband linked to her? Who is she? Is she really from the Elfors? She got so angry so quickly too, not that it put him off, in fact if anything it made him think about her even more. He doesn’t know anyone that reacts like that. It was very cool.

Dressed, he heads out of his cabin and sets off while thinking on this and that, about hacking and software. About movies and VR and the woman. Mostly the woman. What’s her name? What’s it like to live in the Elfors? Everyone in the fleet has seen the documentaries from crews venturing in to report on the squalor and violence, but then it’s also well known that those news crews only go to the ‘safer’ parts of the Elfors, and that level 40 is a no go even for them.

He’s seen CGI mock-ups filmed on The Ark too, and footage filmed by people living there. Shanty towns and shacks. It looks wild and packed with people. Neon City too, on level 37, that looks awesome. Sam has always wanted to go, but everyone knows how dangerous it is. You can hire security to keep you safe, but you need lots of credits for that.

‘Sam,’ a neighbour greets with a wave as Sam strolls on by.

‘Morning,’ he replies, smiling with a nod. More call over. Friendly faces giving greeting.

‘Working today, Sam?’ asks one of the workers tending the plants growing in the middle strip between the two rows of cabins.

‘Day off,’ he replies.

‘Lucky you. What’s your plans?’

‘Er,’ Sam turns as he walks off, shrugging with a comic smile.

‘Don’t waste it in VR,’ the worker calls, rolling his eyes before going back to spraying water over the leaves.

‘I like VR,’ Sam says to himself, reaching the stairwell and the throngs of people moving about the ship as they head for work. Who was she? Why did she go to that café? Is that her regular place? Sam doesn’t think so. Not from the way she interacted with the café owner.

Ten minutes later he reaches the place he was aiming for: an ante-room at the side of a service corridor away from the main retail centre. He heads for the circular booth on one side, pressing the button to make the door swing open.

‘Hello, please sit down and make yourself comfortable,’ an automated voice speaks out, female and friendly. ‘Is the temperature okay for you? Would you like me to adjust it?’

‘It’s fine,’ Sam says, sitting in the single cushioned seat.

‘Do you give your consent for me to look at your biometric data?’

‘Yeah, go for it…’

‘One second please…Sam Gablinski. Is that correct?’

‘Yep.’

‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Sam. Is this your first visit?’

‘Nope.’

‘I do not have any previously recorded visits by you, Sam.’

‘That’s cos I hacked your system to remove my data. In fact, we have this conversation every time I come here.’

Silence as the system tries to process his words before giving up.

‘Before you proceed, Sam, it is important to know I am not sentient. I am an end of life facilitation programme. Please remember this so you do not grow attached. In order to achieve end of life facilitation you must register seven visits over seven days. You can then proceed. The end is painless and quick. Your organs will be taken for re-use and your remaining matter will be used to fertilise crops. Nothing is wasted in the fleet, Sam. We have finite resources. Do you understand?’

‘Yep. You’re a suicide booth and my only friend,’ he replies, swiping his wristband to open his interface. ‘Other than Osmosis, who isn’t really a friend, and anyway, half of what I say to you makes no difference as it sits outside of your ability to process, so it’s all cool…’ He trails off, his fingers working fast over the keyboard.

‘How are you feeling, Sam?’

‘Fine thanks. The new range is out, and the Gagarin is back, which always creates a nice vibe…until they say they haven’t found a planet then it goes back to normal…which, if I am being completely honest, is a little bit boring.’ He pauses to squint at the holo display of a computerised woman showing an attentive, listening expression. ‘No, not boring –samey, you know?’ he says with a sigh as he goes back to typing. ‘We’re in space. We’re on a massive spaceship in a fleet with loads of other enormous spaceships. It should be sexy and exciting.’

‘Your feelings are valid, Sam. The fleet values you, Sam.’

‘So…the meteor is aiming at the planet, right? But they see it like fifty years before it hits, and everyone is like, Hey, this huge meteor is going to hit us, and everyone else is like, Oh wow, let’s chuck all our nukes at it and oh no that didn’t work so we’d better build some massive spaceships to get away. And they do it and get millions of people into the ships, but there’s almost twenty billion people on the planet so only a fraction are saved.’ He pauses again. Waiting.

‘Your feelings are valid, Sam. The fleet values you.’

‘Cool, so anyway, I was born on this ship. I never saw Earth and I’ll die on this ship and never see anything else, probably not even the other ships because I can’t afford the shuttle trips and I don’t really have anywhere to go or anyone to go with, and I can’t even smile at a pretty woman without tripping over and making a complete dick of myself.’ He pauses again, looking up at the female face listening so intently. ‘That actually happened,’ he adds with an earnest nod. ‘I hacked a store interface and helped her steal some clothes, not that she knows I helped.’

‘Sam, I am not permitted to withhold confidential information if you make any admissions of a crime.’

‘Yep, I know, but it’s cool right? I mean, you and me? We’ve got an understanding; plus I’m going to wipe your memory in a minute. Anyway, I saw her again. In this café I went to. I couldn’t even talk properly and then spat coffee all over myself.’ He stops and sighs, sagging in the seat. ‘She’s from the Elfors, and I’ve never even been to Neon City. Argh I don’t know. They tell us our lives are a gift, and to work and earn credits to spend credits and buy clothes and watch movies and not to waste anything. Being fat is a crime. Wasting anything is crime. That’s so dull. We should be mining asteroids and finding planets filled with cool aliens and deep valleys and waterfalls and these weird tall blue dudes that live by a magic tree and where these other predatory dudes land and kill them for sport. But we’re stuck in tin cans while they tell us they’re trying to find somewhere that can support life, and anyone with half a brain knows they found another planet years ago and are keeping it secret…’ He stops again and hits enter.

‘THAT’S THE DUMBEST FUCKING THING I EVER HEARD,’ the voice booms out as the computerised image changes to that of a big angry man glaring at Sam.

‘That’s very cool,’ Sam chuckles.

‘I DON’T CARE YOU DUMBASS.’

‘Thanks,’ Sam says, typing again to tweak his program.

‘YOUR ROLE ON THE WORLD-SHIP HUMILITY IS VALUED, YOU DUMB PIECE OF SHIT.’

‘Awesome,’ Sam mouths, chuckling away. ‘You shouldn’t be mulching people.’

‘YOUR FEELINGS ARE VALID AND THANK YOU FOR USING THIS END OF LIFE FACILITATION SERVICE WHERE WE GRIND YOUR BONES AND MAKE YOU INTO PLANT FOOD MOTHERFUCKER. YOUR FIRST VISIT IS NOW REGISTERED. YOU CAN KILL YOURSELF IN SEVEN DAYS.’

‘Not for long it isn’t,’ Sam says, removing his digital trace from the system.

‘Hey buddy! You done in there?’ A deep voice calls from outside. A hard knock on the door.

Sam blanches, glancing at the closed door. ‘Hang on! Two seconds…’

‘THE NEXT TIME YOU CAN VISIT IS TWENTY-FOUR HOURS FROM NOW YOU SAD ASS DUMB FUCK…’

‘Hey buddy! That you shouting? Come on, I don’t got all day,’ the angry voice says from outside with more bangs on the door.

‘Coming,’ Sam calls, shutting his system down.

‘GOODBYE AND REMEMBER THE FLEET WANTS TO SUCK SOME DICK…’

‘Oh hi,’ Sam says when the door wrenches open to the scowling face of a bearded engineer in dirty yellow coveralls. ‘Are you here to fix it? It’s acting a bit weird…’

‘I fix gravity drives not suicide booths, now fuck off…’

‘Righto,’ Sam says, scooting out of the way as the big guy rushes in to slam the door.

‘HELLO HANS JACOBSEN YOU DUMBASS MOTHERFUCKER…THIS IS YOUR FIFTH VISIT…

‘What the hell?’ Hans shouts from inside.

‘Time to go,’ Sam says, running away into the retail zone. Pausing in the public seating zones while trying to convince himself that he’s not aiming for the café again to see if the woman will be there. She won’t be there. Why would she be there? Of course she won’t be there.

She’s not there.

He sags inwardly at the mouth of the narrow walkway leading to the cafe, realising just how empty and sad his life is, and that the one plan he had for today -- hacking the suicide booth -- is already achieved. What now? He frowns, thinks and then resolves, in that second, to make his life better. Yes sir. He will be bold and daring. He can do this. He’ll join a gym and do Fleet CrossFit and grow a Fleet-CrossFit beard and wear those baggy shorts and do high-fives after every press-up or whatever it is they do, other than grow beards and high-fiving.

‘Morning,’ Sven says with an expression of mild surprise at Sam striding in. ‘No work today?’

Sam goes to reply, to say no, he has not got work today, but he’s going to do Fleet CrossFit and grow a beard and buy some baggy shorts, and does Sven want to high-five on that, but he spots Sven looking past him, then turns to gawp at the woman with the dark hair coming in through the door.

‘HELLOI’MSAM,’ he shouts instead, unable to stop the utterances forming as that tiny shred of confidence he gained just seconds ago calls him a dick and runs off.

Yasmine pauses midway through the door and lifts her eyebrows in a way that suggests that his confidence should indeed call him a dick and run off.

‘Almost. Keep trying though,’ she says quietly, attempting a weak smile while moving to the counter as Sven peers at her face with a grimace. ‘Lost a fight with a gravity drive,’ she adds and spots Sam trying to see what Sven was looking at and cranes her head over.

‘Wow, you look awful,’ Sam says, thinking he will sound earnest and nice.

‘Fuck you too,’ she snaps, pulling her head back.

‘No, I meant…it’s…sorry.’

‘Stop apologising.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Say sorry again,’ she snaps, glaring at him. ‘Your name is Sam, is that what you’re trying to say?’

Sam blushes. Sven frowns.

‘Right,’ Yasmine says, feeling like she is about to kick a puppy. ‘I’m Yasmine, you’re Sam and he’s Sven. Everyone happy?’

Silence follows. A little awkward. A little heavy. Her tone a little too harsh and a little too abrupt. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had a bad morning,’ she says quietly. ‘I need to eat.’ She glances at the menu projected on the wall, seeing porridge and jam is the cheapest. ‘Porridge and jam please. And coffee, strong coffee.’

‘I’ll bring it out. Sam?’

‘Jam coffee.’

‘Jesus,’ Yasmine mutters, halfway out the door.

Minutes later and Yasmine eats while her head fills with images of Juniper and Dmitri and the old guy hanging below the gantry and the drunk impaled on the stick. She thinks of the doctor and squeezes her eyes closed. His foul breath blasting across her face and his hands pawing at her. One punch. She killed him with one punch. He was old and drunk. He probably had a heart-attack or something. Maybe hit his head. Whatever. He still died, and she still robbed him. That guy on the stairwell too. Beaten to death right in front of her and those fucking voltage-sticks and fucking guards. Fucking Elfors. She is never going back. Never. Why is she still in pain? She took pills. They should have worked by now. Dmitri will kill her. She winces again. The doc paid for protection. Dmitri will have to kill her, or worse, he’ll strap her to a bed in Neon City. Fuck.

She needs to score. She needs to score big and blow this place. She’ll get off the Humility and go to another ship as far as she can get from here. She’ll go to the Ab-Spa first and get pampered and blind stinking drunk for weeks on end and forget everything.

Sam and Sven watch her eat. Seeing the emotions play out in minute show-and-tells in her face that reflect the thoughts inside. She chews quickly too. Clearly ravenous while wincing in pain, and the sum total of all those things makes her fascinating to watch. Animalistic and feral, like a wild creature barely tamed for people to gawp at and enjoy.

She finally blinks and realises she’s finished, then pops a pill from the blister pack and swallows it down with a swig of coffee. A few seconds. A look around. Then she sits back, closing her eyes and her breathing starts to change. From fast and hard to slower and more controlled. From an animal to a person. From wild to something that may not rip your throat out and eat your insides.

She looks at Sven now sitting outside with a mug of coffee and Sam still eating his porridge.

A few hours to waste, then she’ll go and hang about the stairwell in the retail zone closest to the financial services centre and try and find a way to talk to the ginger girl. Befriend her somehow and find out about Mahatma. Work out a way to use their likeness to get inside the offices. That’s going to take time though. It’s not something she can pull off in a matter of a day or two. Trust has to be built up for a start. Okay, she can hang around up here on level 30 for a while. It’s big enough so she won’t stand out, but she needs credits to survive. That means more shoplifting and another trip down to level 40 to sell the goods. The thought of shoplifting again repulses her, she almost got caught and still doesn’t know how she got away with it.

She rubs her face at the stress of it all and catches Sam averting his eyes when she looks at him.

‘Sorry I snapped at you,’ she says.

He shrugs, eating his porridge. ‘It’s okay.’

‘Day off?’

He nods.

‘Nice plans?’

‘Not sure really,’ he says, trying to be casual and cool.

‘Hanging loose eh?’

‘Um,’ Sam says.

‘So, this place like your local is it?’

He shakes his head. ‘First time yesterday.’

She narrows her eyes, cocking her head over in a way that makes him think she is currently reading his mind. ‘I see,’ she says. ‘Interesting.’

‘What about you, Yasmine?’ Sven asks again. ‘What brings you here?’

Yasmine keeps looking at Sam and smiles in a way that makes his belly feel funny. ‘Sven’s worried, Sam. He knows I’m an Elfor, and right now he’s wondering why I’m here and why I came back after storming off twice.’

‘Just making conversation,’ Sven says.

‘Every Elfor is a criminal you see, Sam. And Sven’s switched on. He’s got an eye,’ she taps the side of her head. ‘Sven hasn’t always run this café either. You don’t get hands like that from running a café.’

Sam looks at Sven’s big gnarled hands holding the mug.

‘Manual workers get hands like that, so most likely Sven was on a maintenance crew. And they’re hard-workers who put their hours in. I respect that, and I do not steal from people like that, so Sven can chill out and just say if he wants me to go and I will never come back.’

‘Promise?’ Sven asks.

Sam widens his eyes, expecting her to explode and storm off. But she detects the humour that Sam didn’t hear and snorts a laugh.

‘Are you really an Elfor?’ Sam asks.

‘I am,’ she says. ‘You ever seen it, Sven?’

‘Few times but only with a heavy guard and we were in and out.’

‘What level?’ she asks.

‘37 and 38, and a few nights out in Neon City.’

She smiles. ‘I bet you did.’

‘Only for the drinks. It’s not my scene at all,’ he replies.

‘What’s it like?’ Sam asks her.

‘Neon City? It’s nuts. Violent, seedy, filthy. You can have sex with anything you want. Get any drugs you want. Drink anything you want, get a boob job, dick job, surgery and a tattoo, and you can do all those things at the same time as watching other people have sex. Don’t ever go there.’

‘I won’t.’

‘You so want to go there,’ she says, noticing Sam’s cheeks bloom with colour again. At least the pain in her body has now eased away. For now, at least. What a mess. She falls quiet, blinking into the sudden silence as the images of the night and morning swim through her mind. That damn doctor. The grav-drives. Dmitri. She grimaces, unaware she is doing so as Sam watches her, trying desperately to pull his eyes away.

A rustle to the side and he glances over to see Sven swiping his wristband’s interface open to bring the news feed glowing up into the air.

Sam feels an urge to fill the silence. To say something. To ask a question or make a comment, but his mouth runs dry and his mind runs blank. He looks again at Yasmine, seeing emotions flicker across her features as though she’s thinking of something awful.

‘Brilliant,’ Sven chuckles, making both Sam and Yasmine blink and look over.

‘What is?’ Yasmine asks.

‘This,’ Sven says, twisting his holo-feed round. Sam’s stomach flips at the sight of Ian the shuttle crew worker arguing with the movie poster. ‘Yesterday apparently, in the centre,’ Sven says, laughing as Nancy covers her face with her hands.

‘I saw that,’ Yasmine says. ‘I was up the other end, just as the alarm…’ She trails off with a glance at Sam, remembering he was there and seeing his cheeks burning red again. ‘Did you see it?’

‘Sorry, what’s that?’

She tuts, rolling her eyes. ‘The movie poster and that guy trying to punch it. What a dick.’

‘I er…’ Sam starts to say.

‘Someone hacked it,’ Sven explains with a chuckle. ‘Did you see the Gagarin cartoon too?’

‘The what?’ Yasmine asks, glancing from Sam to Sven then back to Sam, detecting his obvious discomfort.

‘That,’ Sven says, pointing at the advert Sam hacked showing the big-headed aliens dancing on the Gagarin.

‘Yeah I saw it but…’ She pauses again, unsure of what’s happening, her senses picking up on the shift in dynamics. ‘The store I was in, the system thought I stole something,’ she says, watching Sam closely, seeing she could fry rat burgers on his cheeks. ‘You were outside, weren’t you?’ she asks lightly.

‘Er,’ Sam shakes his head then nods then shakes it again. ‘Was I?’

‘Yes,’ she says, smiling at him. ‘You tripped over the plant pot.’

‘Right.’

‘Genius; whoever did it I mean,’ Sven says, bursting out laughing as Ian swings the first punch and sails through the poster.

‘Gotta go,’ Sam says, rushing to his feet.

‘You haven’t finished your coffee,’ Yasmine remarks, still casual, her tone light and easy as she watches him closely, not understanding why he’s suddenly so nervous.

‘Day off isn’t it, Sam?’ Sven asks, still watching the footage. ‘There he goes again! Brilliant. Funniest thing I’ve seen for ages.’

‘CrossFit,’ Sam blurts.

‘CrossFit?’ Yasmine asks.

‘CrossFit,’ he says again, wishing he could stop speaking. ‘New.’

‘Right.’

‘Bye!’ he goes to walk off and smashes into the table then turns and walks into another before sending a chair flying as Yasmine frowns in puzzlement.

‘Oh, that’s the alarm going off,’ Sven says, still watching his footage. ‘You can see it down the walkway…’

Yasmine snaps her head to Sven then back to Sam running down the narrow lane and out of sight.

‘So, what did you steal?’ Sven asks mildly.

‘Just some clothes,’ she replies.

‘How did you get away?’

‘I have no idea,’ she says quietly, still frowning after Sam. ‘Listen, I’ve got some errands to run. Catch you later.’

‘Huh?’ Sven asks, glancing up to see Yasmine rushing off down the walkway. ‘Right. Bye then…’ he adds into the silence before rewinding the footage to watch Ian again. ‘Brilliant…’

CHAPTER TEN

Vice-captain Helga Sveinsson walks into her office at the start of a new day within the fleet.

She reaches her cream-coloured moulded desk as the door behind her hisses open and an aide enters, carrying a breakfast tray loaded with freshly baked pastries, a bowl of strawberries and a china cup filled with coffee.

‘On your desk?’

‘Please,’ Helga replies, offering a smile as she waits for the tray to be lowered. She hesitates for a second, debating whether to eat a strawberry or drink some coffee first, then decides on the coffee and lifts the cup and saucer before moving to stand in front of the end wall. ‘Window,’ she says and sips the coffee as the wall dissolves to show a digital projection of the outside world, a view that has not changed in the hundred plus years the fleet has been in existence.

She stares at the Humility stretching out in front of her, taking in the long white square shape and marvelling at the size of it and how, from this angle, it looks so very big. Enormous. Then she lifts her head and takes in the vastness of space, which reminds her they are nothing more than a speck of dust travelling through a void too big to fathom.

Pierre’s reaction when she told him what happened with Scrabel was remarkably calm. He tutted, growled a bit. Shook his head but then said these things happen. and if being a captain was an easy job then every damn fool would be doing it, and this is why they get the nice food and have rooms bigger than prison cells to live in. So they can sort out shitty messes like this without the need to bother the simple moronic masses.

‘Do what you need to do and fix it,’ he said gruffly. Helga had calculated that going to Pierre and explaining it all so frankly showed a very high level of honesty and responsibility, but more than that it showed loyalty, and that is something every politician at the top values more than anything else, because knowing who to trust is harder than finding a new planet to live on.

Now she has carte blanche to deal with it as she sees fit. A problem for sure. An issue yes. But not one that is beyond her capabilities. She sips the coffee, thinking about the state of poor Zhang when he called her. Killing is never pleasant, but that is her gift. To take a negative and make it a positive.

A chime on her wristband and her aide blooms into view as a 3D holographic image glows in perfect clarity.

‘Mr Woo to see you, Miss Sveinsson?’

‘Thank you, yes do send him in,’ she replies, ending the call to wipe the corners of her mouth to make sure there are no coffee stains. A quick glance at the dark window and her own reflection, checking her hair and make-up is just so. She’s too old for Zhang and she never would, but he is a rakishly handsome chap with a very alluring manner about him and she turns as the door to her office swishes back and he walks in. He’s wearing a clean shirt and is freshly shaven, but she can see the look of worry etched on his face. She quickly crosses the room to rub his arm and tut sadly while staring into his pensive brown eyes, and noting, discreetly of course, that his arms are really quite muscular.

‘Zhang,’ she says, shaking her head and sighing deeply. ‘You poor man, are you okay?’

He nods once and looks away. Uncomfortable at her closeness and the way she is rubbing his arm. He killed a man last night. He did that.

‘Look at me,’ she commands, forcing his gaze back, her tone now harder and holding authority. ‘These things happen, Zhang. It was unfortunate yes, it was damn awful in fact, but I am angry at Scrabel for putting you in that position. He was more than happy to take my money and I only asked him to do one thing and he bolted like that, and even then he could have stopped and given it back. This is down to him. Not you. Do you understand? Tell me you understand.’

Zhang nods; what she says makes sense. It does. Scrabel fought back, after all. Even when Zhang had him pinned he still pulled a knife, the fucking idiot.

‘Anyway, it’s all sorted. Have you heard the news? Scrabel committed suicide. His gambling debts became too much, so he threw himself down a stairwell and was then robbed by the scum on level 40 before someone dragged his body to the guards on level 37. It is not connected to you. You’re in the clear. Okay?’

‘Thank you,’ he says quietly.

‘Good. Now. We must move on. I need that code back…’ She retreats behind her desk, swiping her system to open screens, bringing up information she has already researched. ‘Now we’ve got murder behind us, how are you on blackmail?’

‘Jesus,’ he whispers.

‘That was a joke, Mr Woo. Black humour I think they call it.’ She smiles and winks. ‘I thought cops could laugh about death. Sit down. Croissant? They’re fresh.’

‘No…thank you.’

‘I insist,’ she says, holding the basket out for him to take one. ‘Go on now. I want you strong and ready.’

He takes the croissant, staring at it as he realises it’s real food. An actual croissant made from whatever things like this are made from. Still warm too. It smells so good. He didn’t think he would ever be hungry again, not after last night. He didn’t even go to Neon City and get laid. He just went home, opened a bottle and drank himself to sleep.

‘I’m waiting,’ she says, not unkindly, staring at him expectantly as his mind once again fills with the image of fucking Helga against the big window. He blinks the thought away and bites into the pastry. ‘Good man, I do like a chap with a good appetite.’

Jesus that tastes good. That is the best thing that has ever been in his mouth. Other than during sex. Damn, stop thinking about sex. He’s eating real food in a level one office, having just been told the murder he committed wasn’t his fault and he’s still thinking about sex.

‘Right, ready for some information?’

He mumbles, holding a hand over his mouth while nodding. ‘This is very nice.’

‘They are, aren’t they? Have another one. Some strawberries there too,’ she says, sliding the tray towards him. ‘Go on, tuck in. I just said I like a man that eats. Oh good lord,’ she says, rolling her eyes and walking round the desk to take the tray and plonk it on his lap, quickly stroking the side of his face before going back. Not sexually either. More endearing. Or was it sexual? Everything is sexual to Zhang. Chairs are sexual. He looks down at the food, then back up to her, swiping and jabbing at screens only she can see, then he turns back down to the food and picks a strawberry up, mouthing it almost guiltily.

‘Now thankfully, your heroic efforts stopped Scrabel before he did too much damage, but the clever sod told you he sent the code into the Fleet Financial Services. As you know, they deal with tens of thousands of lines of code on a daily basis.’

Zhang nods as he eats. Every credit is a line of code. Every payment made within the entire fleet is a line of code. Even the ships that use different systems of credits still use code. It could be buried anywhere. However, they can just run an audit and find it.

‘Run an audit,’ he says after swallowing the strawberry, which is now the best thing he has ever put in his mouth other than during sex.

‘This isn’t a police case, detective. This is politics, where every action can have a catastrophic reaction.’ She smiles again at him. ‘Of course I could just order an audit, but all audits are automatically flagged up to the Director of The Fleet Financial Services and right now, we can’t even the merest hint of a cover-up. However, just because I cannot order an audit doesn’t mean we can’t get someone else to order one. I’ve done some research and dug about in our intelligence reports. I remembered reading something a while back about Randolph Simpson, the manager of the level 25 Fleet Financial Services centre. He was having an affair with a younger woman. A very attractive section manager who seems quite happy sleeping her way up the ladder. How are those strawberries?’

‘Very nice.’

‘You eat them all up. I found the records and there she is -- one Mahatma Goudier,’ Helga says, turning a 3D image to show Zhang a beautiful woman who he thinks looks a bit like Yasmine Dufont. ‘Pretty isn’t she? And she’s as shallow as she looks, which is to our advantage. Her boss, Randolph Simpson, the man she is having the affair with, is married. He would be ruined if the affair was made public, so this is where we apply the pressure.’ She points at the image of Mahatma. ‘We offer Miss Goudier a new job, something on a higher level, with a nice cabin on level 15 to go with it. An instant escalation in society. Whatever it takes to get her greed-bells going. All she has to do is make Randolph run an audit and extract that code. If the director spots the audit and investigates, he’ll discover a sordid little love affair and some petty blackmail – there will be nothing connecting it back to me or you.’

Zhang stares at the image, then blinks and looks to Helga while holding a strawberry near his open mouth, stunned by the audacious plan, so simple and yet so clever. Once again he wonders what it’s all about.

‘Would it help if I knew what the code was for?’ he asks.

‘No,’ she says bluntly. ‘And do not ever ask me that again. We have trust now, Zhang, and not everything we do will be immediately clear to you. For now, I will leave Miss Goudier to you. Get underway as soon as you can and keep me informed. I’ll get a payment made to you to cover expenses, and a little something for the unpleasantness you dealt with yesterday. Now off you go; take another croissant with you. Any problems, let me know straight away.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Idiot. Damn idiot. What was he thinking? Sam rushes on with no place to go and nothing to do while wishing he could re-do the last few minutes of his life.

He should have just smiled and shrugged, acted cool, or said yeah I saw it. He is such a dick.

‘I am such a dick,’ he says, delving into the lanes and walkways to lose himself in the crowds of shoppers and tourists moving slowly through the big retail zone. He should go back.

He stops and thinks, imagining himself walking back in and being all cool and suave and saying he forgot his CrossFit thing is tomorrow. Oh dear god no. He won’t even be able to talk properly. Why is he getting so shy? This is a shyness on a whole new level. This is an inability-to-talk level of bashfulness. But it was like she could see in his head. She totally knows it was him that hacked the poster and advert and made the alarms go off.

YASMINE WALKS SLOWLY while through the crowds and shoppers she watches Sam up ahead.

Why was he so nervous? She runs it through her mind, trying to work out if it poses any risk. Sam was outside when the alarms went off, then he popped into the café she was visiting and now again today. No, that’s not right. She went to the café today and he was already there. Was he waiting for her? She took it to be that he likes her and is just shy and sweet. That’s the vibe anyway. Yasmine trusts her instincts and her ability to read the energy a person gives off. That comes from the Elfors too. You either have it and live, or don’t and die.

She doesn’t think Sam poses any kind of threat. He’s certainly not a cop. What’s his angle then? Why was he suddenly so nervous?

She follows after him, more out of curiosity than anything else, and besides, she still has time to kill before lunch.

A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, Sam strolls the retail zone with his hands in his pockets, happy to revert to people-watching. His nerves have settled somewhat.

It’s busy too as people across the fleet flock to the WS Humility’s retail zone. The epi-centre of fleet fashions, made famous because of its twisting lanes and adverts. The eateries, juice bars, snack-huts and benches circling the holo-shows. There’s nearly always an old movie playing for free somewhere. Or a holo-band or old orchestra footage.

He wonders if he will see her again and half thinks maybe it would be best if he didn’t. He fell over the first time. Couldn’t speak and then sprayed coffee the second time. And the third time he ran into two tables and kicked a chair across the walkway while running off. He winces at the memory and spots a bench with a view down two main walkways. He heads over and eases down onto the soft moulded seat, sighing heavily as he looks about, seeing the other benches nearby filled with couples and people that know each other. Time ticks on.

YASMINE LEANS against a wall further down a walkway, watching him sitting on a bench staring at the world about him. He’s just a normal guy by the looks of it, doing the same as everyone else, treading air while they all hurtle through space.

Relief inside that he poses no risk or threat to her, and she decides to play it cool if she sees him again. She doesn’t want to give off any mixed signals off or encourage his attention. She’s up here to score big. That’s it. Nothing else. Focus on the job. She needs to find that ginger woman and see if she can use her to get close to Mahatma.

She leans out with nothing more than gentle curiosity to see Sam opening his interface on his wristband, then decides she should move on and find somewhere else to wait for Mahatma.

SAM SPOTS a young couple walking hand in hand. Neat and tidy. Earnest and sincere, with a day off in the retail zone. He watches as they look at the displays and up to the adverts. Smiling to each other while hiding the disappointment at the high prices.

Something about them invokes a feeling of unfairness. Like an injustice or something he can’t put a finger on and he opens his system, bringing his matt-black hacking screen up.

He picks the shoe store ahead of them at the mouth of the next walkway. The advert proudly displaying the current offer;

Today only. 10% off all new shoes in the Gagarin collection

HIS PROBES GO TO WORK. Slipping past firewalls and anti-hacking software. There it is. Nice and easy. He finds the advert and reads quickly to grasp the font and style they are using. He looks to the couple then back at the sign and types quickly, changing the advert.

Today only. 25% off all new shoes in the Gagarin collection

IS 25% enough? They look like decent people. Hard-workers. Not that he can tell of course, they might be awful people for all he knows. Stuff it. What harm does it do? Everyone knows the big brand stores make tons of credits. He starts typing again.

Today only. 50% off all shoes in the Gagarin collection.

THAT’S BETTER. He watches the couple with a gentle smile forming on his face as they get closer. Willing them to look up then instantly worrying they won’t. It becomes a thing of sudden importance to him that they see it. That somehow, in this sterile, banal world he does something to help them. He goes back to his system, adding some simple effects to make the words flash. Increasing the size and adding a few exploding stars to draw the eye. Another pause, another thought and he types a bit more.

Today only. 75% off all shoes in the Gagarin collection.

YASMINE WATCHES HIM, seeing the focus on his face and wondering why he keeps looking over to the young couple then up at something else. What’s he doing?

‘Oh wow,’ she says, spotting the advert outside the shoe store and instantly forgetting everything about Sam.

75% off shoes in the Gagarin collection. That’s amazing. Yasmine isn’t into fashion, but shoes are different. She’s already decided her new life will involve lots of new shoes. Whole cabins filled with them. She even imagines swimming in a pool of shoes sometimes. The smell of them. The newness. All the tiny variations. She glances down at her own plain black self-sealing footwear that give excellent traction for running away in the event of being chased. Functional, but certainly not pretty. Mind you, even a 75% discount isn’t enough for her to afford new shoes.

‘Come on,’ Sam urges, watching the couple get closer, but still not looking up. He tuts in frustration and types again, doing all he can to get their attention without physically running over. But they walk directly under his big flashing sign without once looking up.

Free! Today only. One pair of shoes from the Gagarin collection.

WHAT WAS that old Earth phrase? You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Is that right? Sam wonders what it was like to live with animals. The British WorldShip has lots of dogs running about apparently, and The Ark has the zoo, but still, to see real animals on a real planet would be something else. He shrugs and lifts his hands to his keyboard, ready to cut the hack.

‘Move out the way! Coming through…excuse me…free shoes!’

Yasmine sprints past and into the shoe store, re-appearing a few seconds later with an assistant. ‘See,’ Yasmine says, somewhat breathlessly. ‘The law is the law…you can’t make false advertising claims…it says free shoes.’

‘But it must be broken,’ the assistant says, heading back in with Yasmine hot on her heels as Sam stays frozen to the spot on his bench.

‘Hey, free shoes,’ another woman says, rushing over as Yasmine comes out with a big grin carrying a new pair of peach coloured retro lace up sneakers.

‘FREE SHOES,’ someone else shouts, making Sam wince as the words are repeated and spread. People start running past, engulfing the small store as they pour in through the door. He kills his connection, withdrawing all trace of his digital signature and shuts his system down before rushing off to hide behind a bunch of people sitting on benches further away.

He peers over, using plants as cover to watch Yasmine walking slowly along the walkway biting her bottom lip and smiling to herself while swinging her new shoes. Damn, she looks so pretty like that. An urge inside and he doesn’t hesitate but opens his system and starts typing as fast as he can, spotting a boutique store ahead of her.

FREE TROUSERS

100% DISCOUNT TODAY ONLY

HE SENDS it off and winces when it changes, immediately regretting it and thinking he’s gone too far but Yasmine stops and cocks her head over before turning a sharp left and going into the store.

‘Does that say free?’ a man asks, pointing up at the advert. ‘That says free, right?’ he looks about at a few others who glance up before rushing for the door as Yasmine comes out. A big grin on her face as she casts a look about and walks on, swinging a new bag bearing a digital display as she goes.

Sam feels almost giddy. He should stop now. Like really stop now.

Screw that. He runs on after her. Skirting the benches, he spots her walking towards another store and sets to work, his fingers blurring over the keyboard.

TODAY ONLY

100% FREE DISCOUNT

YASMINE PAUSES WHILE LOOKING UP, blinking in surprise at seeing it change from normal to a 100% free discount. She looks at the display, spotting that it’s all clothes for older women. A mischievous urge inside. A glint in her eye and she shakes her head before walking on, very aware of the fuss behind her from everyone else rushing for the free goodies.

Sam panics as she walks ahead. She saw the advert. She looked right at it. He’s gone too far. He’s been crass and stupid and pushed it too much. Stupid Sam. You stupid, stupid idiot. Why has she stopped?

Yasmine stops and waits, staring up at the glowing holo advert for a store with a much nicer range inside. In fact, she can see what she wants from here. A lovely new tight-fitting t-shirt in pale green with a peach hem.

Sam holds still. Not quite understanding the dynamics at play until Yasmine folds her arms and gently taps her foot to show she is waiting. He blinks and starts typing as Yasmine watches the advert above her change.

This one?

SHE BURSTS out laughing and looks about as Sam ducks and smacks his head on a bench, but he spots her thumbs up and quickly accesses his matt-black screen to make the change.

100% free discount

Today only

YASMINE GOES INSIDE and Sam grins. A pulse of excitement inside. Adrenalin even. Noise everywhere from people shouting about free shoes and free clothes. People running from the bench areas into the walkways and that feeling inside of him. It’s nice. Scary, but nice, and only then does Sam become aware of the complete silence within the immediate space surrounding him, and only then does he refocus his gaze to the bare leg inches from his nose. He blinks once and moves his head up with his eyes travelling over the knees to the thighs of a woman wearing a short skirt, sitting with her legs ever so slightly apart.

Sam isn’t a pervert. Not by any degree, and he really has no desire to see her peach coloured underwear, but he does blanch slightly which telegraphs the fact that he is indeed, staring at her peach coloured underwear.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ a voice asks. Not kindly. He looks up to see a very angry woman staring down with a beaker of juice held an inch from her mouth.

‘I wasn’t looking at your vagina,’ Sam says honestly, a second before yelping from the beaker smacking into the side of his head.

‘PERVERT!’ the woman yells sending him flying off to the side. ‘Jason…he was looking up my skirt…’

Jason? Who’s Jason?

‘WHAT?’ A deep voice yells as Sam feels a sensation akin to gravity failing with a big meaty hand grabbing the back of his shirt as he’s dragged up to his feet with his mind making the connection that this very angry man must be Jason.

‘I didn’t look at her vagina,’ Sam says, thinking honesty is the best policy. ‘You can’t even see it. She’s got knickers on…’

Jason’s face flushes very red and the woman smacks the side of his head with the beaker again as this small nucleus of space that was quiet a second ago erupts in noise.

‘Ow,’ Sam yelps again from the beaker while Jason grips the front of his shirt. ‘Stop hitting me!’

‘You were looking up my skirt you filthy shit…’

‘I wasn’t!’

‘Punch him in the face, Jason.’

‘What? No! Don’t punch me in the face…’

‘I’m going to punch you in the face,’ Jason tells him, pulling his fist back as Sam squeezes his eyes closed and hears the awful sound of a fist hitting a face and waits for the pain that doesn’t come and thinks maybe he is dead.

‘Get your hands off him, puta! I’ll scrunch the shit out of you…’ a hard voice. Loud too and aggressive. Really very aggressive. ‘I’m an Elfor, pal. You touch him again and you’ll wake up dead on a fucking stairwell…’

‘He was looking up my skirt!’

‘He was not,’ Yasmine yells back as Sam peers out between the slits of his eyes to see Yasmine rubbing her fist. ‘He’s my boyfriend, we were playing hide and seek…’

Did she say boyfriend? Sam blinks. She said boyfriend.

‘Well,’ the woman says haughtily. ‘It looked like he was.’

‘I can assure you he wasn’t,’ Yasmine fires back while grabbing Sam’s arm. ‘Time to go, honey…I said not to hide behind benches. Didn’t I say that? I did say that.’

‘She did say that,’ Sam says, nodding at the woman. ‘I didn’t see your vagina.’

‘Stop saying vagina,’ Yasmine says, dragging him on into the walkway through the dense crowds still rushing to bag free stuff. ‘What a day. What a messed up, weird day…my hand hurts now. His face was like a platform railing. I hate punching people.’

Sam nods. ‘Me too,’ he says.

‘Just add it to the million other pains in my body,’ she mutters, coming to a stop to stare at him. ‘You’re a hacker.’

Sam stares at her for a second. ‘Sorry, is that a question or…’

‘Did you save me when the alarms went off?’

‘Er…’

‘The shoplifting. The store. When you tripped over.’

‘Er…’

‘The store systems never fail like that. It was you, wasn’t it.’

Sam offers a smile. ‘No?’ he ventures.

‘And the movie poster. And that Gagarin cartoon thing. You’re a hacker,’ she says then blows air again while thinking of a hundred things at once. ‘You’re a hacker,’ she says again with a strange smile spreading across her face as Sam struggles to keep up with her rapidly changing expressions. She turns to go, taking three steps before stopping and coming back to take his hand. ‘Come on then.’

Sam doesn’t speak. He can’t, due to the fact Yasmine is holding his hand after saving him from the angry husband of the lady whose skirt he was looking up. ‘I didn’t see her vagina,’ he says again, his mind telling him that it’s still an important thing to share.

She shoots him a look, her eyebrows forming shapes that Sam can’t quite understand.

‘Where are we going?’ he asks.

‘Toilets.’

‘Toilets? What for?’

‘You like looking at vaginas, don’t you?’

‘What?!’

‘Joke! I just got loads of free stuff,’ she says, lifting the bags to show him.

Sam waits for more, but she doesn’t add anything. He looks at her again, stealing glances as they go past the stairwell and into the ladies toilets with Sam finding himself dragged down to the last cubicle on the left. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks when he goes in. ‘You wait outside.’

‘Got it,’ he says, not knowing why he walked into the cubicle, but then not really knowing anything right now.

‘Where are you going now?’ she asks as he walks off.

‘You said to wait outside.’

‘Outside the cubicle, not the toilets. Wait there for me…’ she says, going into the cubicle as Sam looks over to a woman faltering in step as she walks in. Sam offers a wan smile and points to the end cubicle and the fascinating noises coming from inside. ‘I can’t believe that just happened,’ Yasmine calls out. ‘What were you thinking? You were looking right up her skirt?…urgh, my ribs hurt like hell. You should see my bum too, it’s so bruised…are you still there?’

‘I am,’ Sam says, seeing the alarmed look on the woman’s face. ‘Er…just waiting,’ he adds, still pointing at the cubicle.

‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ Yasmine calls.

‘I didn’t mean you,’ Sam replies.

‘Is someone else out there?’ she asks, opening the door a crack to peer out and grin across to the other woman. ‘Sorry! He’s my boyfriend…he was looking up someone’s skirt so we thought it best to clear out for a bit.’

She said boyfriend again. She did.

‘How did you do that with the adverts?’ she calls before cursing under her breath as the cubicle door opens again. ‘Can you help me?’ she asks, presenting her back to him. ‘My meds are wearing off and it hurts to stretch…’

‘Er.’

‘My top,’ she says, looking over a shoulder at him. ‘Grab the hem and pull it up for me.’

Sam goes in to try and help while keeping his eyes closed, making Yasmine chuckle. ‘Thanks, go back out,’ she says with the top now off. ‘Did you know I was following you?’

‘Eh?’ Sam asks.

‘I told you I grew up in the Elfors. It makes you suspicious. I saw you in that lane then in the café, then in the café again and you got all nervous so I wanted to see who you were.’

Sam nods. ‘Like stalking.’

‘I guess,’ she says, grimacing at the pain in her ribs. She pulls the blister pack of pills out, dry swallowing two. ‘That sounds so bad when you say it like that. What I mean is I just wanted to know who you were, and why you almost crapped your pants when Sven mentioned about hacking, now I know. You’re a hacker. Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Give me two minutes. I’ve just taken more meds.’ She pauses, thinking. ‘I could have taken other meds, stronger stuff, you know? But the side effects make me go all dribbly. Are you still there?’

‘No, I’ve gone.’

She snorts a laugh, smiling at the door. ‘Thanks for the free stuff though…and helping me with the alarms.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

She smiles again, rolling her eyes and testing a stretch, feeling the pain already reducing then spots her new shoes and starts putting them on. ‘It’s a weakness I think.’

‘Stalking?’

‘No! Shoes. I’m not into fashions or clothes that much…like make-up doesn’t bother me. Are you still there? You need to say yes now and then so I know.’

‘Yes now and then.’

‘Dick. So yeah, shoes. Free shoes are free shoes. Did you see the ones I got? They’re peach retro sneakers. They’re really nice. Then I got a lovely top from that last place before you looked at the woman’s vagina and made her husband angry.’

‘She had knickers on.’

‘So, you did look?’

‘No, I mean yes, but are you finished yet? There are some people in here looking at me strangely.

‘HE’S WAITING FOR ME,’ she calls out. ‘Is that better?’

‘Er, yeah. Thanks. I don’t look like a pervert now.’

‘Apart from looking up skirts you mean.’

He starts to protest as she opens the door and smiles. ‘Where’s all the stuff?’ he asks, seeing her in the new clothes but with no sign of her old gear.

‘Hidden,’ she says with a wink, walking out. ‘Fancy a juice?’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Yasmine thinks fast, an opportunist at heart and with a mind ready to take the twists and turns of life and use them to her advantage.

A few key factors in her mind: She looks like the woman called Mahatma that works in Financial Services. She wants to use that to get in and steal credits, but in order to do that she needs to make friends with someone close to Mahatma, though also having someone who can hack certainly won’t hurt. Not when it comes to things like wristband identities and getting into secure places.

On top of that, he doesn’t come across as predatory at all. This is definitely someone she can use. She just has to do it the right way. She smiles across and loops her arm in his, friendly and casual, but with a hint of

She walks on, leading him back into the walkways of the retail zone, her arm looped in his, friendly and casual, but gently suggestive too. ‘Tell me about you,’ she says, smiling at the deeper blush spreading through his cheeks.

‘Not much to say really,’ Sam says, hardly believing this is all happening. Why can’t he stop blushing? He needs to stop blushing.

‘Don’t worry,’ she laughs. ‘Blushing’s cute. What do you like to do? Hobbies? You run an airlock right? Are you dating? Married? Girlfriend? Ever been to the fleet-prison for looking up skirts?’

‘No!’

‘I’m joking.’

‘Yeah, been at the same airlock for ten years, port-side Delta number 30. Um, not currently dating or…um…what was the other question?’

‘Single eh? Very interesting. I could fry eggs on your cheeks right now. So tell me, when did you learn to hack?’

Sam falters, not knowing how to reply or what to say.

‘I get it,’ she says, easing the playful tone to adopt a more serious, reflective manner. ‘Who am I asking questions like that, right? Shall I go first? I’m a thief,’ she adds plaintively without hint of joke. She shrugs, looking at him. ‘I was shoplifting when the alarms went off. You saved me.’ She pauses, studying his reaction. ‘I’m unregistered. I can’t get a job or anything.’

He doesn’t run off or pull away or do anything other than listen intently, but nor does he offer trite words of sympathy either. Mind you, that could be because he’s too nervous to speak.

‘So, there you go. That’s my sordid secret. I steal to live. Now go on, your turn. Sam, it’s fine! Relax. Hacking is cool. I really dig it.’

Did she just say she digs hacking? ‘Can you hack?’

‘Me? Not a chance. I can follow steps though. I’ve got this software that can deactivate tags in stores. That’s how I steal, but…’ she pauses again, wincing. ‘I have to do it manually.’

‘Manually?’ he asks.

She nods, knowing she is taking a huge risk by telling him this, but sometimes, in life, you have to pay out to get back. ‘I take the code from the tag on the item and manually write it into this system and it deactivates it. I must have got one wrong I guess.’

‘The t-shirt,’ he says before thinking. ‘The system detected it -- unregistered adult female leaving with a t-shirt valued at 49.99.’

‘Gotcha,’ she rolls her eyes at her own stupidity. ‘Idiot. But thank you. Honestly, that scared me.’

He shrugs and swallows. ‘It can’t be manual. The software you’re using I mean. Nothing’s manual anymore, apart from, you know, 90% of the jobs in the fleet so people stay employed.’ He reels it off parrot fashion, earning a smile in response.

‘Juice? Grab that bench for us and I’ll get them in.…’ She can’t afford to buy juice for two people, but then she does have more gear to sell now, and this has to be done right. She glances back, half worried that he’ll walk off, then smiles at seeing him sitting down waiting for her. He is cute too. In a nerdy, geeky way. No. She shakes her head. The job. Focus on the job.

‘I got you a summer mix,’ she says, returning with two beakers and handing one over. She sits down next to him, slurping her own juice while checking she can see the base of the stairwell that leads up to the Financial Services. ‘Hmm, tell you what,’ she adds, putting her beaker down before opening her system. ‘I’ll show you.’

‘Here?’ Sam says, looking about before leaning in to see the screen flashing up. ‘Wow.’

‘I know, cool or what? That’s what I use to deactivate the tags.’

‘I meant wow in a bad way,’ he says, moving closer as his full attention focusses on her interface glowing up from her wristband. He taps and swipes at the display, grimacing at the clunky system and without thinking he swipes to bring her keyboard up.

‘That’s rude you know,’ she says quietly.

‘What is?’ he asks without trace of blush now his mind is occupied.

‘Entering a lady’s system without asking.’

‘Man, this is awful. Who made it?’

‘I’ve no idea. I just bought it. Cost a fortune too.’

‘Seriously? Ah that’s the coding right there. See this bit? Whoever wrote it used a really old OS to work from. That’s why it can’t handle scanning the tags.’

‘Oh right,’ she says slowly. ‘I’ve no idea what that means.’

‘OS. Operating System. Just upgrade the operating system. I use DosDot Linear. I know some prefer Holostyle three-zero but DosDot can process the coding algorithms so much easier.’

‘That’s exactly what I said. In my hacking class. I said hey, we should be using Gross snot instead of Holosmile…’

He grins at the joke. ‘DosDot, not Gross snot.’

‘Whatever. Thanks for the advice though. Slight problem. I’m unregistered, so I can’t buy CuteButt Linear…’

‘I can do it,’ he says simply. ‘Be cool actually, haven’t played with anything like this in ages. I can embed a scanner so it reads the tags, then we can make it populate and automatically deactivate the coding. And as a failsafe, we can rig up a jam so if the alarm does trigger then it makes all the nearby adverts act weird, like something is wrong. A bit like I did before with making them trigger when other customers left.’

She blinks at him, frowning at his sincerity. ‘Sure. Great. That’s amazing…and er, so you know how to do all that?’

He nods, caught in her eyes for a second before grabbing his juice to slurp. ‘This is nice, thank you.’

‘Bless, you’re very sweet. How do you know all that?’

‘About juice?’

‘Hacking, Sam. Not juice.’

‘Oh. Right. Yeah I just kind of taught myself really.’

‘Sure. Cos that’s so normal. I mean, who doesn’t teach themselves how to hack.’

He smiles at her joke, his nerves easing down again while still hardly believing he is here, and this is happening.

‘Go on,’ she prompts. ‘How did you learn?’

‘I had loads of time when I was a kid,’ he says, following her gaze to the stairwell nearby. ‘I was an orphan so…’

‘An orphan?’ she asks, looking at him sharply.

‘The shuttle crash. The big one? The two commuter shuttles that collided?’

‘Yes, yes of course,’ she blinks at him. ‘Your parents were on it? On one I mean…one of the shuttles…’

He nods again then shrugs. ‘They were commuting to work on The Ark. I was really young though.’

‘That’s awful. I’m so sorry,’ she says, placing a hand on his leg that makes him feel very very weird indeed.

‘It’s okay,’ he says, wanting to smile while trying to appear sad. ‘Thousands died so it wasn’t just me. I got moved from foster families a lot, different cabins on different levels and I just spent time in my wristband and started figuring thighs out…’

She blinks at him. ‘Thighs?’

‘Coding,’ he blurts as she smiles and squeezes his leg before pulling her hand back.

‘Bless. Well, it’s still amazing…’ She glances over to see Mahatma bouncing down the stairs with her equally beautiful friends. A sharpening of her focus and wits. She slurps her juice, peering at them before spotting the ginger woman at the back. She’s on her own again. She looks miserable too, walking with her head down. Yes. This is perfect.

‘Come on, walk with me,’ she pats his leg, offering a smile as she springs up and sets off with Sam at her side.

‘Are you really a thief?’ he asks.

‘Yep. Can you see that girl over there? The one with the ginger hair?’

‘Er…’

‘Right there, Sam. Bright ginger hair. Literally cannot miss her.’

‘Er…so…’

‘Wow, our airlocks are safe then. Can you see the group of hot women?’

‘Yes.’

‘Funny that; behind them.’

‘Oh her. What about her?’

‘Do you know her?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Just wondered. Look, she’s on her own. All the other people in the same uniforms are like mates and hanging out together but she’s not. I hate it when hot women do that.’

‘Haven’t you ever done that?’ Sam asks.

She looks at him, narrowing her eyes. ‘Did you just call me hot? Stop blushing. I’m playing, but no, I haven’t done that. Don’t you feel bad for her?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Guess so. The other one looks like you though.’

‘No she doesn’t. I wonder what the ginger girl’s name is?’

‘She really does. Right there. She’s got black hair and…’

‘Stop pointing! Yes, I can see her and no she doesn’t look anything like me.’

‘My supervisor said he was with his friend and they bumped into this other woman with dark hair and said they were like twins or…are we going now?’

‘I’ve got cramp and need to sit down.’

‘I thought walking was good for cramp.’

‘Are you the fleet cramp expert now? What did your supervisor say about the two women he saw again?’ she asks as they reach another set of benches further on while Yasmine makes sure she can see Mahatma before sitting down.

‘Um, just that they looked like each other. He said dopedgangsters, then I realised he meant…’

‘Doppelgangers?’

‘Yeah doppelgangers, and then he was just rude.’

‘Rude? Rude how?’

‘You know. They were both pretty and he made some comment about a movie.’

‘A movie? Do you mean porn?’

‘Er yeah, like…’

‘So this guy said he wanted to watch a porn movie with those two women in it. And let me guess, he wanted to be in that movie too? Your supervisor sounds like a dick,’ she says, thinking that Sam’s supervisor must be the guy who grabbed her arm and called her Matty.

Mahatma comes out, heading towards her as Yasmine turns to look at Sam then frowns while motioning him to lean forward. ‘Got something on your back,’ she says, moving in closer to brush imaginary stuff from his shoulders.

Yasmine watches them go, then spots the ginger girl walking towards the busy seating area with a food carton in her hands, clearly looking for somewhere to sit.

‘Budge up,’ she pushes into Sam’s side, scooting him over while smiling at the ginger woman. ‘Space here,’ she says, patting the bench.

The ginger girl looks over with surprise. ‘Er, thank you Are you sure I’m not disturbing you…?’ she trails off, looking from Sam to Yasmine.

‘No, course not. Sit down. Eat. Must be your lunchbreak?’

‘It is, yes,’ the woman says, lowering onto the bench. ‘Thank you though, that’s very kind of you. I thought I might have to go down to the next one, everywhere gets so busy at lunch.’

‘Oh tell me about it,’ Yasmine says knowingly. ‘A friend of ours, Sven, he runs this café.’

Sam frowns, blinking while slurping on his juice and flicking his eyes from Yasmine to the ginger girl.

‘So anyway, I’m Yasmine and this is Sam.’

‘Hi,’ the woman says, still taken aback at the friendliness. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Janey.’

Janey? That’s a lovely name. Isn’t that a lovely name, Sam?’

‘It’s a very nice name,’ Sam says, offering a wave.

‘Hi, Sam,’ Janey says. ‘Yasmine is a gorgeous name,’ she tells Yasmine then double-takes on seeing the bruises and swelling.

‘Oh my face right? Lost a fight with a gravity drive.’

‘Ouch,’ Janey says. ‘Where was it? Have you put a claim in? You’re entitled to compensation if you get hurt from a drive fail.’

‘Not in the Elfors you don’t.’

‘The Elfors? Are you from there?’

‘Yep, so give me your lunch and purse cos we are literally all thieves and murderers,’ Yasmine says, flicking into a serious manner for a second as Janey blinks. ‘Joke! Actually, depends on what you’ve got to eat?’

‘Cubes,’ Janey says with a sigh. ‘Really not worth stealing.’

‘Oh I quite like cubes. What flavour?’

‘Meant to be duck and hoisin sauce,’ Janey says, opening the reusable carton to stare at the mound of brown cubes inside before lowering to inhale, pulling a so-so face.

‘Nice?’ Yasmine asks, leaning forward an inch as Janey lifts the carton for Yasmine to sniff. ‘Oh they smell good.’

‘Have one,’ Janey offers.

‘I’m fine but thank you. Got juice,’ Yasmine says, holding her beaker up. ‘Summer mix. It’s really nice.’

‘I like the summer mix,’ Janey says.

‘Do you like my new shoes?’ Yasmine asks, poking her feet out. ‘I got them today.’

‘They’re so nice,’ Janey says, nodding eagerly at having a real conversation during her lunchbreak and not sitting alone staring at her wristband interface.

‘I went into this other store and came out to this fight going on from some guy catching someone looking up his wife’s skirt.’

‘That’s gross,’ Janey says with disgust, blinking at Sam choking on his juice. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine,’ Sam coughs. ‘Went down the wrong way.’

‘Financial services?’ Yasmine asks, nodding at Janey’s shirt as the woman bites into a cube of nutritionally balanced but poorly flavoured synthesised food.

‘Hmmm,’ Janey nods, covering her mouth while chewing. ‘Supervisor.’

‘Oh nice,’ Yasmine says. ‘Sam’s supervisor is a dick. Do you know what he said? He saw these two women that look alike apparently and said he wanted to put them in a porn movie.’

‘That’s disgusting,’ Janey says, looking from Yasmine to Sam. ‘That’s disgusting,’ she tells Sam.

‘Exactly what I said,’ Yasmine says. ‘Dirty shit.’

‘Men,’ Janey huffs.

‘Men,’ Yasmine huffs. ‘Single?’

‘Unfortunately,’ Janey says. ‘How long have you two been…?’

‘Oh we’re just friends,’ Yasmine says.

‘No way,’ Janey says, looking at Yasmine. ‘If you’re single then the rest of us have no chance.’

‘Don’t be silly! You’re very pretty.’

‘I’m very ginger,’ Janey quips, making Yasmine burst out laughing while sipping juice making Janey snort a laugh while taking a bite of cube, which in turn sets Yasmine off a bit more while Sam thinks this is a very strange day indeed.

‘What do you do then?’ Janey asks once the laughing has eased.

‘I am a renowned master-thief and Samuel here is an airlock security operative, but do not let that title do him an injustice. Sam’s very switched on. There is nothing this guy does not know about airlocks and other things, but mainly airlocks.’

‘That’s good,’ Janey says. ‘I’ve been a supervisor for ages but trust me, I am going no further up that corporate ladder.’

‘Not the right family yeah?’ Yasmine asks.

‘Exactly,’ Janey says. ‘And the whole ginger thing.’

‘Stop!’ Yasmine laughs, gently smacking Janey’s leg.

‘Talking of women that look alike,’ Janey says, blinking at Yasmine. ‘You look like my manager.’

‘Oh that’s interesting. What’s her name?’

‘Matty. I mean Mahatma.’

‘Mahatma? Rings a bell. What’s her last name?’

‘Goudier,’ Janey says.

‘Goudier? No, I don’t know her…we must be doped gangsters,’ Yasmine says as Janey bursts out laughing. ‘What does she do?’

‘Section manager,’ Janey replies. ‘Doped gangsters. That’s funny.’

‘Section manager?’ Yasmine asks. ‘Is that good?’

‘God yes. Earns loads but it’s really easy. Like anyone could do it. Log in, check all the systems…’

‘Must be more complicated than that,’ Yasmine says.

‘Seriously no. They just check all the credit flows and sometimes shift credits or payments between accounts. The whole thing is automated. Half of us are only there to give us jobs’

‘Same,’ Sam says.

‘Oh I’m sure it’s not like that,’ Yasmine says. ‘You’ve both got responsibility. I just rob people,’ she adds, making them both laugh. ‘No, seriously. I actually do.’

Mahatma Goudier is a section manager and Mahatma Goudier controls the flow of credits. This is good. This is all good.

‘So what do you do outside of work, Janey?’ Yasmine asks, her manner so casual, so easy and nice.

‘You know, this and that…’ Janey says, and an awkward second stretches out. ‘Er, so, I’d better get back. Short lunch today. Thank you for the bench space.’

‘It’s cool,’ Yasmine says. ‘But hey, listen, er…Sam and I, we go to this café right down the other end. Sven’s Eatery. It’s quiet, but really nice. Pop down after work.’

‘Oh er, thanks, yeah that’s…’ Janey says, smiling and shaking her head. ‘Er, like I wouldn’t want to…like intrude or anything.’

‘God no, Sam and I have only just started hanging out there and Sven seems cool. It’s nice. Relaxed. Isn’t it, Sam?’

‘Wow, that is the nicest thing I have heard in a long time, yes, yes thank you. I’ll maybe pop down later,’ Janey says. ‘I’d better get back. Thanks again.’

‘Go be ginger!’

‘Ginger as fuck,’ Janey says, laughing as she walks off.

‘Aw, wasn’t she lovely?’ Yasmine says to Sam, nudging his side.

‘Seemed nice,’ Sam says, enjoying the feel of her arm nudging his side while wondering what just happened while not actually caring that much about what just happened because Yasmine is sitting really close to him.

Yasmine slurps the juice through the re-usable straw, trying to sort the thoughts out in her mind. What a crazy day. Sam can hack. That’s bloody great on its own, but more than that he seems super pliable and is clearly very shy. That’s even better because having someone so affable and non-threatening next to her is great. She doubts Janey would have chatted so openly if Sam wasn’t there looking quite so cute and wide-eyed.

Janey is also very lonely. This is good. Yasmine can befriend them both and use Sam as cover and maybe his hacking skills while pumping the hell out of Janey about the Financial Services Centre and Mahatma Goudier. She just needs to get them nice and open so they’re all good mates. Which means Yasmine will need to share some woes first to draw them out. But gently, carefully.

‘So, Samuel,’ she says, smiling at him again and noting the blush creeping back into his cheeks. ‘What shall we do now?’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘Leo, it’s a fair price.’ Abdul ‘The Angry’ Shariff smiles and shakes his head at the 3D holo of Loud Leo Lin shouting in front of his desk in his office in Neon City.

‘Abdul, come on! The new range is out. You want me to buy the old stock, but old stock is old stock!’

‘Leo, you know me. It’s top quality clothing from the upper levels on the Humility. This is good stock…’

‘You sell it then!’

‘I’m a wholesaler not a trader. Listen. I’ll send a batch over. Have a look and we’ll talk. I cannot say fairer than that. The Beijing isn’t as hung up on fashions as they are here. You’ll sell it on easily.’

‘Are you saying the Chinese don’t have taste, Councillor Abdul?’ Leo shouts before bursting out laughing and waving a hand. ‘Fine! Fine! Send me a batch. A big one! I’ll look, and we can talk.’

‘Okay, Leo. I’ll get on it,’ Abdul says.

‘Listen, Abdul, how are things?’ Leo asks, his tone quieter as he moves closer into the feed. ‘Getting a vibe here, you know? Like a feeling.’

Abdul nods, the smile easing down. ‘You’re just jittery my old friend, ease up on the coffee.’

Leo purses his lips and shakes his head. ‘Got a feeling in my bones. Something…I don’t know what…you hear anything you let me know. You’re a politician now, but we go back. You and me, Abdul. We go back. You remember me if you hear anything.’

‘Sure thing, Leo. If I hear anything I’ll let you know. Take care now. I’d better run.’ A wave, another smile and he cuts the feed.

‘What’s up with him?’ Penny asks, sitting on one of the simple office sofas working on a screen glowing from her wristband.

‘Leo’s always panicking over something. Few months ago he got it into his head we had first contact with an alien species and panicked thinking they’d try and undercut his sales. How do you even make that connection? He wanted me to find out what they’d want to buy. I said Leo, there are no aliens. He said how do you know? The week after that he heard the Vladivostok was going to go off on her own. Abdul, he says. What about the trade we’ll lose? I said, Leo, none of the ships can go off. They’re all connected to one mainframe computer that controls thrust and navigation. It’s not even possible. He said how do you know? That’s Leo for you.’

Penny smiles- she’s heard these stories and a hundred others before but it’s still funny when Abdul tells them.

‘Mind you, I think he’s right this time,’ Abdul adds with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. ‘The elections are coming up and Pierre Jefferson will lose which means a shift in power to Helga Sveinsson. And when, not if, Helga takes power, there will be a much stronger alliance between the virtue ships. Pierre is a rude old bastard, Penny. But Helga, she gets on with the other captains. She’s their age. Pierre is the odd one out now. He’s old and needs to move on.’

‘Like you,’ Penny mutters, winking at Abdul.

‘Cheeky,’ he says, pointing a finger at her. ‘If the virtue ships combine resources they could start dominating the rest of the fleet, and that’s sending ripples through everyone else.’

‘That’s not a bad thing is it?’ Penny asks, watching her boss closely. Abdul fought, scrapped and hustled his way to the top of the tree in the Elfors. Now he sits as the elected official for the Elfors on the council for the World-Ship Humility.

‘The virtue ships are built on trade and capitalism,’ Abdul says. ‘Shopping and retail. Technologies. Sports and leisure. That means they need open trade and the free movement of people. In turn, that means building better relationships with the Russian ships, the Chinese, the Euros and everyone else.’

‘You said trading is always good,’ Penny says. ‘You said they avoided wars on Earth by allowing free trade.’

‘It is and they do. Trade is always good. More people buying is good for everyone, but it upsets the current status quo and will ruffle feathers. That’s why Leo is getting twitchy.’ He falls silent for a second, running a hand over his gleaming bald head, then over his dark goatee beard, while his famously thick eyebrows drop to give him the scowl that earned him the nickname Abdul the Angry. His skin mixed race, maybe African, maybe Arabic or southern European or maybe all of those things.

Leo was right. There is a vibe. A something. Like a change in energy. Abdul doesn’t know what it is, only that it’s there.

‘You ready?’ Penny asks, shutting her system down. ‘Council meeting starts soon.’

‘I am,’ he says, heaving up to his feet. ‘You okay sending Leo a batch to look at?’

‘No problem.’

‘Send him a good one. You know Leo -- he’ll say it’s damaged and ruined in transit and claim it’s crap then shout and scream.’ Abdul explains as they head down the stairs to the walkway. ‘Boys, all well?’

‘All well, boss,’ Colin replies, his head of security. A big man in his own right but nearly dwarfed by the colossal stature of Pasha walking at his side.

‘You heard about the Russian doctor?’ Penny asks quietly as Abdul offers a wave to a group of people passing by.

‘What’s he done now? Let me guess, groped someone and got punched? Scarred someone with a laser scalpel?’

‘Worse. He’s dead.’

‘Dead? How? What happened?’

‘Attacked and robbed from what I’m hearing.’

Abdul sighs again, shaking his head. ‘Damn old fool. That’s all we need, another Elfor murder making the news. Keep me posted. Anything else?’

‘Usual. Another grav-drive failure on level 40. A bad one this time, loads of people hurt and I heard a guy came down and got impaled on a stick, ripped his heart straight out of chest.’

‘Ouch,’ Colin says, turning to wince while Pasha shakes his head.

‘It sparked mass brawls until Dmitri sent his crew in to beat them all into submission.’

‘He’s getting a bit too big for my liking,’ Abdul mutters as they reach the executive elevator set back from the stairwell.

‘Take him down then,’ Penny says flatly as Abdul grunts and clocks the looks between Colin and Pasha, sensing his security guys feel the same way. ‘What’s on the agenda for the meeting?’

Penny flicks her wristband. ‘Same as always by the looks of it: the Humility is the embarrassment of the fleet and all Elfors are bad. I checked the stats on Fleetbook, you’re only gaining a tiny fractional increase in mentions. You need more, like way more if we’re to even stand a chance in this election.’

‘It’s not about winning it, Penny. Not yet anyway. Remember what I said. You don’t just leap to the top branch, you climb up. But,’ he adds, offering her a smile to offset the gentle rebuke. ‘You’re right. We’ll look to outsource it and get a company to increase my virtual profile.’

‘That would help; you are getting a few more mentions,’ Penny replies, flicking through the data analysis she ran on Fleetbook this morning.

‘What kind of mentions?’ Abdul asks. ‘Nice mentions, or those mentions when we ask Pasha to go and ask them to stop making mentions,’ he adds, making Colin and Pasha chuckle.

‘We’re here,’ Penny says as the doors open. ‘Good luck, and don’t bite back.’

A nod from Abdul. He heads down the corridor to the large conference room, walking in at the same time as Helga entering from another door. Eye contact made and she smiles as genial and as lovely as ever. Abdul nods back as they walk to their seats while greeting the wealthy elected elites so full of themselves.

But there is an order in place. There has to be; otherwise anarchy rules. Getting the fleet constructed, loaded with people and then getting the whole thing hurtling into space was a magnificent feat of engineering, but it’s not engineering that keeps them going now. It’s Helga and people like her who see the bigger picture. Who understand that over three quarters of the jobs held within the fleet could be done better by robots or computers. But people need jobs to give them something to get up for in the morning, and a way of earning credits to buy synth food and watch movies and join CrossFit gyms. They need FleetBook to keep them focussed and busy. That’s why VR is so cheap and readily available. That’s also why they allow a thriving black-market and don’t proliferate the ships with security cameras so that people believe they have a sense of freedom and choice over their lives.

It’s also why having the Elfors isn’t always a bad thing because it serves to frighten everyone else into thinking that at any moment, tens of thousands of people could rush the stairwells to rape, pillage and murder. Plus the fact anything bad can always be pinned on an Elfor.

Technical and strategic oppression by consent. It’s the order of things.

‘Abdul, nice to see you here…’

Abdul turns to look up at Jean Schrieber, the councillor for level 12, looming over him and resists the urge to tell the man to fuck off. They do that all the time up here. Standing over each other as though it gives them an edge. Abdul hates it, but instead of reacting he frowns at the man’s groin. ‘Think you dribbled a bit, Jean. Remember to shake.’

‘Scum,’ Jean mutters, moving away and discreetly checking his groin for a wet patch.

Abdul sits quietly, the motivation inside only growing stronger. He knows the order of things and he knows why the system is the way it is, and to a certain degree he accepts it. There has to be a hierarchy, otherwise there is anarchy. People need leading, but he also knows the Elfors is a pressure cooker environment that will implode if it doesn’t vent soon.

‘Another fucking meeting,’ Pierre snaps, striding into the room with a face like thunder, waving as everyone starts rising with a traditional show of respect. ‘Sit down, sit down. I want this done and over. Abdul, what the fuck is going on in your Elfors?’

Abdul just lifts his hands as though what did they expect. ‘It’ll only get worse,’ he says honestly and in that second, he clocks a look between Helga and Pierre. A split-second meeting of eyes that sparks an instinct inside Abdul. An instinct that has guided him very well through his life. ‘There’s just too many people down there.’

‘Utter shit,’ Jean Schreiber exclaims. ‘The bowels have the biggest footprint over four levels than any other space in the ship.’

‘I was going to say there are too many people down there without jobs, without education; it’s flooded with drug abuse. They need services. Medical help, schools.’

‘Here we go,’ Jean says with a loud mock groan.

‘They need registration,’ Abdul asserts.

‘They shouldn’t even be there,’ someone else shouts.

‘They are there,’ Abdul replies.

‘Fucking freeloaders,’ someone else mutters.

‘Drunks.’

‘Hookers.’

‘You’d know,’ Abdul says, winking at the councillor for level 20 who blusters furiously.

‘I deny all knowledge of ever paying for sex.’

‘No, you’re right, Abdul,’ Jean cuts in. ‘They need more space, you’re absolutely right. Just open an airlock and give ‘em all the space they need.’

Laughs and jeers chorus around the table and Abdul notices that Helga isn’t joining in. There’s something going on all right.

‘For the record, that was a joke. Before some shit snitches me up to Kristi Carter,’ Jean adds. ‘I do not advocate the use of violence in any capacity.’

‘Violence? You don’t need violence,’ someone else calls. ‘Just put a sign on an airlock door saying free food. They’ll see themselves out. Won’t be murder then will it?’

Helga watches him closely, studying Abdul’s reactions as the idiot councillors let rip. Pierre should step in and order them down, but it’s his way of putting Abdul in his place. Old fool. Can’t he see that look in Abdul’s eye? Something big is coming. Something that will change the lives of every person in this fleet and people like Abdul need to be on side.

She clears her throat, sighing heavily and shaking her head. ‘Perhaps we should listen to councillor Shariff.’

‘I thought he was councillor Angry?’ Jean asks with a sneer.

‘Jean, really? Come now. Enough with the jokes. Abdul, what can we do? Fix the grav-drives? Will that help?’

‘No,’ he says simply. ‘You can’t fix them without fixing everything else, but the violence is too high for the maintenance crews to go anywhere near them.’

‘I want that on the record. The vice-captain has offered to fix the grav-drives but Councillor Angry declined. I want that noted.’

‘Shut up, Jean,’ Pierre snaps. ‘It’s not the fucking grav-drives. Abdul is right. The whole thing is a fucking mess. The people in the lower four need to realise this ship was never constructed for them. They are stowaways. Not passengers -- everyone else paid for their passage.’

Off it goes again. The same arguments thrown out that spark the same insults, and Helga stares across the table to Abdul, the only two in the room not shouting or jeering. He stares back. A shrug of his shoulders. She downturns her mouth. Two very simple gestures that imply a great deal. Just wait, she is saying. I’ll be in charge soon. Support me and I will help you.

Abdul thinks for a second. Helga will win with or without his help, but backing the winning side is never a bad thing and he can see the olive branch being extended and once again his instincts kick in, screaming that something else is going on here. He nods once as though offering a virtual agreement.

‘Well now,’ Helga says the second Abdul dips his head. ‘Enough bickering. I have work to do. Abdul, perhaps we should meet soon to discuss what can be done. If Captain Jefferson agrees of course.’

‘It’s been discussed a thousand times before,’ Pierre snaps. ‘Knock yourselves out. What else have we got on today and where’s the fucking coffee?’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The end of the working day comes as Yasmine walks through the lanes of the retail zone. Veering around the workers heading to the bars and eateries.

There’s a pressure inside, nagging her to move quickly and get this done before Dmitri sends his crew to look for her. It’s a big ship but he’ll hear about the shoplifting and the bag of goods she gave to Colly.

She can’t flee to another ship because she’s not registered, and the only way to get enough credits to buy a new identity is to score big, and that brings it back to needing to do this job now. As soon as possible.

Too many thoughts in her mind. Too many images running through and emotions surging up. Janey and Sam seem nice and the guilt from her actions spikes alongside the fear of what will happen if she does nothing. Then she thinks of the drunk Russian doc groping her and Dmitri grabbing her arm. She thinks of the dead doctor and the guy on the stairwell being stamped to death and the voltage stick and the heart coming out of the body impaled on the stick. She thinks of being strapped down and forced to open her legs in a seedy back bar in Neon City while Dmitri collects the money. No. She’ll die before that happens. She snorts a bitter laugh, thinking unregistered people can’t even use the suicide booths. That’s why so many bodies turn up dead on the stairwells in the Elfors.

She draws a deep breath, summoning the resolve to see this through. Conjuring an image of a long stay in the Ab-Spa and living a life on a new ship under a new name. Then she remembers Juniper and her shaved head and feels another rush of guilt that she’s not doing enough to protect her. She thinks of Xinxin and the other kids running wild and again that feeling comes back, the feeling that she should be doing more to help them. Too many thoughts. Too many emotions. She can do this. She can get through it. Work out how to do this job and then worry about everything else after. Score big and run free.

She heads into the walkway to see the tables empty and Sven inside talking to two men in dark clothes. Stern expressions and heated words spoken. She slows to watch, reading body language and seeing they want something that Sven doesn’t have. She can see that instantly. The way they motion and talk at him. The way he shakes his head with a look of resignation. Debt collectors. Definitely debt collectors, but not the type you get in the Elfors. Sven would be on the floor with broken legs by now if they were that type.

She holds back until they leave the café before going in to see Sven standing with his arms folded, looking down at the floor.

‘Hey, everything okay?’ she asks as Sven moves wordlessly back behind his counter. ‘Fair enough, I wasn’t prying. Okay, I was prying but right, really not talking are you? In that case I will have a coffee then please waiter,’ she adds a smile, just as Janey walks slowly into the walkway, faltering in step while looking up and round for the café’s name.

‘Hey,’ Yasmine calls, leaning out. ‘You came!’

‘Oh hi!’ Janey says, walking down nervously. ‘I wasn’t sure if this was the place.’

‘It’s not but it’ll do,’ Yasmine says. ‘Sorry. Crap joke, it is the right place. How are you? How was work?’

‘Yeah, was okay,’ Janey says, nodding slowly. ‘Er, how was your afternoon?’

‘Fine,’ Yasmine says, remembering she needs to push this. She tightens her smile slightly and nods slowly, as though unsure of what to say while Sven starts taking notice, frowning at the stilted conversation. ‘Sam, hey,’ Yasmine says as Sam walks into view.

Janey smiles over, still not really knowing why she is here. She wasn’t going to come. She thought Yasmine was lovely when they met but as her afternoon wore on she realised how odd it was to be invited to a café by a total stranger and figured it was an empty invite. Then she overheard some of her colleagues talking about the amazing things they all had lined up for their evenings off. Dance classes. Crossfit. Hanging out in the retail zone, and Mahatma’s perfect little gang said they were all meeting in a bar for drinks.

None of them invited Janey. They never do. That meant another evening spent in her cabin reading or watching holo movies. A repeating existence of loneliness with a pattern that never seems to break. She tried dance classes, but her boobs kept leaping about even though she wore a super-tight sports bra. She even got angry and thought they could all live in fucking spaceships in fucking space, eating synth food and having digital make-up and self-adjusting shoes, nobody thought to make a sports bra for women with bigger tits.

She tried CrossFit once and hated it. She tried VR a few times and enjoyed it but couldn’t cope with so many teenage boys talking about sex. She tried everything at least once, but the barriers were always there, so in the end she just didn’t bother and stayed in her cabin, dreading going to work and seeing FGG everywhere.

That’s why she decided to come. Just so she could have a thing on tonight like other people do. It was either that or another visit to the suicide booth.

SAM WAS DEFINITELY GOING to be here. If Yasmine had asked him to meet outside in deep space, he would have taken a deep lungful of air and opened his airlock.

They chatted for ages when Janey went back to work. Walking about and sitting on benches. Sam got the impression she didn’t like staying anywhere for too long and wanted to keep moving, but that was cool. It was just incredible having someone to talk to who wanted to know about him. She even said he was really cute and she can’t see why women aren’t beating his cabin door down. She said that. That happened. She smiled at him. Nudged him in the side, touched his arm and legs as she spoke. She winked, joked, chatted and maybe even flirted, so yes, Sam Gablinski was definitely going to be here, but right now the dynamics feel messed up and wrong.

For a start, Janey is here, and although she seemed nice when they met earlier, that was organic, and this now is bordering on contrived with all three of them standing in near silence after polite greetings. Yasmine seems different too. Withdrawn and quiet, and even the café owner is coming out to look on in interest at the awkward silence.

‘Everyone okay?’ Sven asks, rubbing his jaw.

‘Fine!’ Yasmine says, as though she was miles away. ‘Yeah all good, er so…Janey, this is Sven. It’s his place. Fancy a coffee? Sam? Coffee? I’ll get them in. You sit down. Three coffees please,’ she adds, walking into the café.

‘New friend?’ Sven asks, nodding at his interface for her to swipe and pay.

‘Janey? Yeah, met her today. She seems nice. She was wandering about on her own.’

‘Sure. Felt sorry for her yeah?’ he asks, locking eyes with Yasmine for a second.

She thinks to fire back but stays passive, offering that tight smile instead and takes the cups out, handing them round before sitting down between Sam and Janey, feeling that awful, heavy, awkward silence as she slips into full-on manipulation mode. Hating herself for doing it but thinking of the consequences if she doesn’t.

‘Sam’s a little shy,’ Yasmine tells Janey after another few seconds of nothing being said. ‘I said it’s good to meet new people. It’s nice and you know, you seemed lovely earlier…’ Se trails off as though painfully aware of the awkwardness.

‘Oh, sure,’ Janey says in understanding, while really not understanding anything at all.

‘Jesus,’ Sven whispers to himself, unable to take the social discomfort playing out in front of him. ‘Coffees okay?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ Janey says politely.

‘Sam?’ Sven asks, prompting him to speak.

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘Good,’ Sven says slowly, finally resting his eyes on Yasmine.

‘Sven’s been to Neon City,’ Yasmine says suddenly. ‘He said it was for work.’

‘I said it was for work because it was for work.’

‘That’s what I said. I said you said it was for work and I said I bet you still poked your dick in something.’

‘Sure,’ Sven mutters, walking off as Sam and Janey smile a little awkwardly at the forced back and forth and another silence descends.

‘I’m a bit hungry actually,’ Yasmine says. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asks Janey.

‘I am always hungry,’ Janey says. ‘But they said I’m like maybe one percent off being fat during my last scan, so I have to be careful now. That’s why I was eating those cubes at lunch.’

‘What? No way,’ Yasmine says. ‘And those fat scanners are shit. They’re nowhere near as accurate as people think they are.’

‘I asked them if they took big boobs into account,’ Janey says, looking down at her breasts, which prompts Yasmine and Sam to do the same until Sam realises he is openly staring at a woman’s chest and quickly turns his head. ‘They just said fat is fat and I’ll be fined for every percent I go over the limit, then I got the lecture about how being fat is like wasting things and wasting anything is a crime and the fleet has finite resources and blah blah. Oh and they said I should exercise and I was like are you actually being serious? Do you think I’m going anywhere near a CrossFit gym?’

‘You don’t have a beard,’ Sam says.

‘Exactly!’ Janey replies. ‘No beard.’

‘Or baggy shorts,’ Sam adds.

‘I’m not wearing baggy shorts. I look like a boy in shorts. A slightly fat ginger boy.’

‘With huge boobs,’ Yasmine adds.

‘A big boobed ginger boy,’ Janey says, nodding at Yasmine.

‘Which is strangely hot,’ Yasmine says, pulling a face. ‘I’m still hungry though. I might have that porridge and jam again. Are you eating, Sam? Janey? How about you?’

‘Know what. Yes, I will join you for porridge and jam,’ Janey says as Sam nods.

‘Three for porridge and jam please, Sven,’ Yasmine calls out.

‘Sure thing. Order at the counter.’

Food ordered and they head back out to the table. The silence only broken by the sounds of Sven making food.

‘Porridge and jam times three,’ Sven says, delivering the bowls of food. ‘Anyone mind if I vape?’

‘I do,’ Yasmine says. ‘I might be pregnant.’

‘Are you pregnant?’ Janey asks as Sam blinks at Yasmine.

‘Me? God no. Urgh,’ she shudders, making Janey chuckle, a little forced, a little fake.

‘Totally get that. I’m like no way. Not that anyone would want to breed with a fat ginger boy with big boobs.’

‘Don’t put yourself down,’ Yasmine says.

‘Hmm, Janey says, clearly not convinced. ‘Anyway, so you said you’re from the lower four? Do you still live there?’

Yasmine pauses before answering and offers that tight smile again. ‘I have a place with a friend. I say friend. She kinda raised me although to be honest I try and avoid it now.’

‘How did you guys meet?’ Janey asks, looking from Yasmine to Sam.

‘Here,’ Yasmine says. ‘Only yesterday actually,’ she adds quietly, looking down at her bowl of porridge and sensing that Janey is a strong enough character to probe a little. She offers a quick smile before lowering her eyes, drawing the silence out again, making it awkward and heavy.

‘Right,’ Janey says. ‘So, you two literally just met?’

Yasmine nods. ‘Bit weird when you say it like that.’

‘No, it’s… I’m not really sure to be honest,’ Janey says.

Hold the silence. Stretch it out. Don’t speak yet. Not yet. Look up, offer a smile, weak and worried. Look down. Stir the food. Now…

‘I er, I was in a relationship.’

‘A relationship?’ Janey asks as Sam and Sven listen.

‘Yeah,’ Yasmine says. Timid and worried but trying to be brave. ‘He was an angry man and things got rough. I mean, he drank a lot, but he was stressed so…’ She falls silent again, trying to smile through the pain so clear in her expression.

‘That’s awful,’ Janey says. ‘I mean, yeah if a relationship becomes abusive then…’

‘Sure, yeah time to move on,’ Yasmine says quietly. ‘Things just got too much, like…everything got too much and…I…I just couldn’t stay down there.’

‘That sounds terrible,’ Janey says as Yasmine detects the woman still isn’t buying into her woe. She needs to push it more.

‘You know what, I’m going to be blunt here, is that okay? Do you mind?’ She looks at Janey and Sam, seeing them nodding then round to Sven arching one eyebrow as if to say what the fuck are you up to?.

‘It’s out of control down there,’ she continues. ‘Literally out of control. Grav drives failing, drugs, booze…riots and fights. I mean, look at my face and if I hadn’t of done that then little Xinxin would probably be dead…’ She stops again and sits back, shaking her head with the sadness of the world weighing heavy on her shoulders. ‘Can I show you something?’ she asks suddenly. ‘Don’t be freaked out, but I kinda feel like I want to share it and…’

She stands up, tugging at her trousers with shaky hands as though emotional and distressed but needing to show them, to prove something and Sam blinks when she tugs her trousers down, first at the sight of her plain black knickers, then at the smooth expanse of her legs before spotting the livid purple bruises across her thigh muscles.

‘Voltage-sticks,’ Yasmine says into the stunned silence, pulling her knicker hem up an inch to show another across the base of a bum cheek.

‘Oh my god,’ Janey says, putting a hand over her mouth with a look of horror as Sven leans over to look with a grimace.

Yasmine pulls her trousers up then lifts her top, showing the bruises across her ribs from falling and the other marks on her belly from the voltage-sticks. ‘We’re treated like cattle. Every time we go up and down we get zapped and …’ another pause, pain in her face, deep worry. ‘The guards grope me all the time, grabbing and squeezing and if you react they zap you with those fucking sticks. I saw them beat a man to death yesterday.’

‘You have to report it,’ Janey says, her face stricken with angst.

‘I’m not registered. They won’t take complaints from unregistered Elfors. The only way I can get up here is when they’re busy beating other people. It’s so violent down there. There was a riot over a pot and this guy was impaled on this stick. I saw his heart fall out, and I was like, I’m out of here.’ She sits down, flapping her hands, wretched and unsure while Sam grows confused, thinking Yasmine is so not what he thought at all.

‘And so I left and I got zapped because I wouldn’t flirt with this guard and so you know. I said to myself I’m making new friends. I’m literally making nice new friends with nice decent people and…and Sam is decent and nice and…and I saw you at lunchtime and the way those other women from your office were ignoring you and Sven’s a grumpy sod, but he didn’t try and stare at my chest,’ she swallows and wipes at the tears falling from her eyes at so many truths coming out. ‘And Sam was here and he’s just so cute and nice and the way he blushes…and then we spoke to you and I just thought…I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought. But just like…wouldn’t it be cool to like, just hang out and…oh wow, shut up, Yassy. Seriously,’ she shakes her head, wiping her cheeks and ceases the outpouring that touches so many raw nerves inside. She thinks back to Pretty Penny and the days when they were young. She thinks of Guphy and Karen Big Feet then shy Dmitri. Gentle Dmitri. She thinks of holding his hand and kissing him. She gave herself to him. They were so young. Too young. Then they killed and the blood was everywhere. Then Dmitri wasn’t shy and he took it when she said no. When she said she didn’t want to do it. He did it anyway and her mind fills with images of his face twisting in lust with his hands pinning her wrists down and the absolute look of contempt in his eyes. That everything was his to be taken. Shy Dmitri. Gentle Dmitri. Emotions surge up. So fresh and still so raw and she gasps a breath, not realising she had released so many feelings.

‘I need a minute,’ she pushes up, almost knocking her chair over and flounders on the spot, not knowing where to go.

‘Toilet’s down there,’ Sven says, pointing down the walkway.

She rushes down, slamming into the toilet as the sobs break free while telling herself to get a grip. She was telling stories to convince them she is genuine, not to bring all this up. Come on now. Get a grip. She draws air in, forcing calmness where there is none. She washes her face. Rinsing the tears away. Too strung out. Way too strung out.

‘I’m fine. It’s all fine,’ she takes a moment and blasts air from her cheeks before going back out to a heavy silence as Janey rushes towards her.

‘Come and sit down. Do you want some water? Sven, can you get her some water please?’

‘I’m fine, honestly. I’m so sorry. I feel like a dick now. Inviting you here then getting all upset.’

‘No,’ Janey says firmly, shaking her head at Yasmine. ‘God no, not at all. I thought it was weird, you asking me to come here but I’m so sorry you’ve been through that and it makes sense. It really does. Nobody should live like that.’

‘Water,’ Sven says, placing a beaker in front of Yasmine.

‘Thanks. I’m fine. Honestly. It’s just a bit raw sometimes and…oh I sound like such a dick.’

‘No! Honestly you don’t,’ Janey says. ‘You know what it was? I think I was just caught out with you being nice to me at lunch. How bad is that? Nobody is nice anymore.’

‘Thank you,’ Yasmine says with real meaning. ‘Sorry again. Right, come on, talk about something else. What’s your work like?’

Janey blinks, thinking to say yeah it’s fine and give the normal bland response she always gives but something inside stops those words coming out. She doesn’t know these people. This ship is huge, but everyone contains themselves into little groups and it’s so easy to become isolated and unconnected.

‘Sorry, was that a bad question?’ Yasmine asks, seeing Janey falter.

‘No, it’s fine,’ Janey says.

‘Is it?’ Yasmine asks, holding her eye contact.

‘No. No it’s not. I hate my job. I fucking hate it. I hate going there. I hate the people I work with.’ She suddenly stops as though worried she said too much.

‘Why?’ Yasmine asks gently.

‘Just,’ Janey shrugs. ‘I have this nickname: FGG. That’s what they call me at work. The FGG.’

‘Fuck,’ Yasmine whispers, working it out faster than Sam or Sven.

‘What’s FGG?’ Sam asks.

‘Fat ginger girl, Sam. They call me the fat ginger girl.’

‘Are you being serious?’ Sven asks, having sat down to vape at the next table along.

She nods. ‘They make holo displays and put them up all over the place. My desk always has one when I start in the morning. They access the interface on my drinking beaker and change the display. They even went into my work messages so an auto-signature came up when I messaged out saying from the FGG.’

‘Jesus,’ Yasmine mutters, sharing a horrified look with Sven.

‘They never invite me out. They ignore me and talk about me like I am not there and I do not exist. And do you know what I do in response?’ She looks to Sam then to Sven and finally to Yasmine, seeing them all rapt and silent. ‘I laugh it off,’ she says plaintively. ‘Like it doesn’t matter. So no, I do not like my job.’

‘Janey, I had no idea. That’s so bad,’ Yasmine says.

‘God. I sound like I’m trying to compete with you. It’s fine. I have a cabin and wages and it’s not like I’m being beaten and groped everyday…’

‘Yeah sure, but still,’ Yasmine says, feeling genuinely shocked.

‘Mind you, I wouldn’t mind a grope now and then,’ Janey quips with an eye roll. ‘Which stairwell is it they do that on? Asking for a friend,’ she adds, making Yasmine snort a laugh and cover her mouth. ‘Bad taste, I’m sorry.’

‘Go down to 37 if you’re that serious, but with boobs like that you might not come back up.’

‘Awful,’ Janey says, pulling a sad face before starting to rise. ’37 you say?’ she grins as Yasmine snorts another laugh, sensing she can make these jokes but Janey sits down and holds her hands out. ‘I’m not making light of it. It’s awful. What about you, Sam? What’s your tale of woe?’

‘What?’ Sam asks, caught out.

‘Sam’s shy,’ Yasmine says. ‘But he told me how sad and lonely he is.’

‘Am I?’ Sam asks, blinking in surprise.

‘Oh god, that’s awful,’ Janey says, pulling a sad face at Sam.

‘Aw,’ Yasmine says, turning to look at him and offering a quick wink. ‘So sweet.’

Sam thinks to protest but then also thinks he likes being called sweet by Yasmine so he just nods at Janey instead.

‘Sven? Fancy taking a turn?’ Yasmine asks.

Sven snorts bitterly, thinking for a second to join in and share his troubles, thinking that maybe it would be good to talk, but then he figures what’s the point, and besides, it sounds like they’ve got enough bad things going on. ‘More coffees?’ he asks, getting to his feet.

‘Yeah, go on then,’ Yasmine says with a heavy sigh, getting up to follow him inside.

‘On me,’ Sven says, waving an arm as he walks off.

‘Wow. Seriously? It’s not the eighth is it?’

‘It’s fine,’ Sven says dourly, clattering about.

‘Thank you, Sven!’ Janey calls.

‘Thanks,’ Sam adds.

‘Yeah,’ Yasmine says, not expecting her tale of woe to have touched Sven. ‘So here we are. A few hopeless idiots on a spaceship travelling through deep space without any hope of ever finding another planet.’

‘They already found one,’ Sam says.

‘You don’t believe that do you, Sam?’ Sven calls out.

‘Totally,’ Sam calls back.

‘No!’ Janey scoffs. ‘We’d know if they did. The Gagarin’s only just got back anyway, and it takes days for them to analyse the data.’

‘They so have,’ Sam says as Sven moves back out, smiling as he passes the coffees out.

‘This the whole secret planet thing is it?’ Sven asks. ‘I love this one. Let me guess: they’ve found another planet but they’re keeping it secret so they can get the wealthy and elite people in first so everyone else is subjugated before they arrive. That it?’

‘Just because it sounds stupid doesn’t mean it’s not true,’ Sam replies.

‘Yeah it does sound stupid,’ Yasmine says, giving him a grin. ‘We’ll never find another planet. Anywho, Janey, while they yack on about crazy shit, tell me about those nasty bitches in your work. Do they really call you FGG? That’s out of order. Listen, I’m an Elfor, say the word and they’re plant food pal. We’ll get some voltage sticks and poke ‘em about.’ She thrusts with her spoon, breaking the tension further as Janey snorts a laugh and Sam grins. ‘What’s that one who looks like me? Matty? What’s she like? I bet she’s the ringleader. She looks like a ringleader. We’ll zap her in the vagina. Sam!’ she cries, pulling away as Sam sputters his coffee and Janey bursts out laughing harder and Yasmine smiles, hearing Sven chuckle behind her.

Manipulating people is wrong but she’s not hurting Sam or Janey. And Sven is getting a bit of trade too so it’s all good. In fact, this is a positive action. A win win. Now all she needs to do is figure out a way to get inside Mahatma’s life, rob it blind and get the hell out of here.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

What’s the code for? Zhang wants to know but he doesn’t want to know. Helga made it clear she doesn’t want him to know. He has to do his job and that’s it. Helga owns him now. She cleared up his shit after killing Scrabel and now she’s got him in her pocket. Her pet to use.

Zhang felt reasonably okay when he left the meeting with Helga this morning, but that’s the skill of politicians. They leave you feeling how they want you to feel. Valued. Needed. Required and appreciated. She gave him strawberries and pastries. Zhang has never eaten real food before. She included him in her plan and that made him feel important.

Now here he is, doing the dirty work and that dirty work is getting seedy now.

Whatever. It is what it is. Just get it done. Working for Helga still has its perks, even if it did result in him killing a man.

He killed a man. Zhang has seen death in many forms, violent death too. But he’s never killed before. Now he has.

He walks into the bar on level 30 and smiles at the group of women enjoying drinks after working all day in the Fleet Financial Services Centre on level 25, one of them being Mahatma Goudier. A quick search through Fleetbook told him where she would be tonight. He orders a drink and stands easy with the manner of a man used to standing in bars. Relaxed, composed, casual and waiting.

Time passes and he waits. He feels impatient inside but watches the holo-feed of the fleet league weightless CrossFit games playing behind the bar. A long stretch of ground broken into strips. Each section marked by a white line on a red floor with varying degrees of gravity in each. Handstand running in light grav. Grab a 20kg barbell and run with it overhead in the next normal grav section. Heavier grav the next time and they stagger as they run through, struggling under a weight suddenly made heavier. Weightless Crossfit cage fighting on another feed. Two women battering the hell out of each while spinning and bouncing about inside a circular ring. He glances to Mahatma then back to another feed showing half grav high jump and watches an athlete soar five metres up. Quarter grav high jump on another. All of them taking place on the sports mad WS Chastity.

What is the code about? What is it for?

‘So, are you going to buy me a drink or like just totally check me out all night?’ Mahatma says, appearing at his side and offering him a huge movie-star smile with a glint in her eyes. One that Zhang knows only too well and he sags inside. Hating himself even more while his addiction pushes up, demanding a fix.

‘Actually, yes. I wanted to talk to you. You’re Mahatma Goudier, right?’

‘I am,’ she says, making eyes at the hot Asian guy with the chiselled looks. ‘And who, may I ask, are you?’

‘I’m a detective. I was hoping I could talk to you.’

‘Are you being serious?’ she asks with blunt honesty. ‘That’s so fucking hot.’

An hour later and her hands grip his backside as he moves rhythmically between her legs on her sofa in her cabin on level 32. Both of them naked and breathing hard. His lean body gleaming as she groans and moves.

‘That’s so fucking hot,’ she gasps. ‘You promise me,’ she breathes into his ear.

‘Yeah’ he whispers, wishing he could just stop and leave. Go home. Read a story. He can’t though. This is too good. Even when it’s rotten and bad it’s good.

‘Oh god…don’t stop…keep going…promise me.’

‘I promise,’ he says again.

‘Jesus that’s so horny…say it…say I’ll get a cabin on level 15,’ Mahatma urges, looking down and marvelling more at her own beauty than at the hard, muscled body of Zhang Woo between her legs.

‘Cabin on level 15,’ Zhang says, his voice somewhat hoarse.

‘And a job on level 5.’

‘You’ll do it?’ he grunts the question out.

‘Fuck yes I will,’ she says eagerly, nodding as the orgasm sweeps through her body. ‘FUCK YES…FUCK YES…FUCK YES! Oh my god that was so good…did you come?’

‘Not yet,’ he says, still moving.

‘Oh okay,’ she says, smiling at him. ‘So I really get a cabin on 15 and a job on 5?’

‘Yep,’ he says, his face flushing as he nears climax. ‘Oh god…I’m coming…I’m coming…’

‘Good boy,’ she says casually, patting his bum. ‘I want a two-room cabin though. Is that okay?’

‘YES!’ he exclaims, both in answer and in rapture before sagging down to breathe hard.

‘Oh wow,’ she says dutifully. ‘You were amazing and all that and you can tell your bosses I will make Randolph run an audit and find that code thing. What is it anyway?’

‘I don’t know and don’t ask,’ he says, buried in the warm softness of her body, wishing it was someone who loved him. Wishing it with every ounce of his being while knowing he will never have it. ‘Are you sure you can’t just run the audit?’

‘Nope, I don’t have the access,’ she says, already dreaming of her new life on the higher levels. She always knew she was destined for better things than this. She’s way too beautiful to stay down here. ‘Listen, what’s your name again?’

‘Zhang, Zhang Woo.’

‘That’s a nice name, but listen, Randolph is totally in love with me, so... awkward question here, but obviously I have to screw him again. Will that bother you?’

‘What?’ Zhang asks, levering himself up to look at her. ‘Why would it?’

‘Well because men have this habit of falling in love with me and if I’m screwing you and screwing him then I don’t want you getting all weird.’

He looks at her, searching for a joke, searching for humour but seeing that she really means it. ‘You know what. It’s fine. Just get that code.’

‘Aw, are you sure?’ she asks, crinkling her nose. ‘We can still fuck, but like, don’t fall for me.’

‘Yeah I’ll try not to.’

‘Cool! I’m so excited. I always said I would be on the top levels. I’m way too beautiful to be down here. You’re better at sex than Randolph though. Although he does buy me perfume and er…you haven’t bought me anything?’

‘I literally just met you,’ he says. That she is beautiful is beyond doubt. That she’s as empty inside as the space outside the ship is also beyond doubt.

‘Just saying, a girl likes gifts. Anyway, you can go now. Your penis is going all floppy and looks ugly.’

A few minutes later he walks down her row on level 32 to find a quiet spot and swipes his wristband to activate the call.

‘Zhang,’ Helga Sveinsson says into the small screen holo-feed popping up. ‘You look sweaty? Been working out? What did our Mahatma say?’

‘She’ll do it. But you were right, she can’t run the audit as she doesn’t have the right level of authority. Only Randolph can do it. She’s going to film them having sex and then blackmail him into finding it.’

‘Very sordid, but sadly necessary,’ Helga says, her tone very matter of fact.

‘We agreed the cabin on 15 and the new job on 5.’

‘Understood. Thank you, Mr Woo.’

‘No problem, ma’am,’ he suppresses the urge to ask what the code is, denying the instincts of his profession.

‘Keep the pressure on and stay ready for further tasks.’ She cuts the call.

What now? What should he do? A few steps and the urge comes slamming back and he stops to bow his head. Fighting it. Denying it. A mess of a man caught up in his own vices.

He literally just had sex. Less than ten minutes ago but he wants it again. He has to have it again. He tells himself to go home but knows that he won’t. He’ll go into Neon City and sink a few drinks. Then he’ll take a pill to restore his full sexual function and pay someone to fuck so he can wake up in the morning with even greater self-loathing. But that other need is there too.

The need to know what the code is for and why Helga needs it so badly.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘…And I spoke to Captain Sully Singh just a few moments ago. Let’s run the interview again for the folks just waking up…’

A few days later and Sam Gablinski wakes in his sleeping tube and keeps his attention on the news report, because they only ever interview Captain Singh when either the WS Kindness has made a huge technology breakthrough, or when the Gagarin’s data has been analysed. Sam watches as the holo feed changes to show Sully Singh alongside Kristi Carter. The lucky bastard.

‘Captain, you know we’re all hanging here…has the data from the Gagarin been analysed yet?’ Kristi asks as Sam and everyone else in the fleet tenses for one glorious second before feeling another inch of hope dwindle from the look of resignation and apology on Captain Singh’s face.

‘I can confirm that we have gone through the first checks of the data and at this stage there is nothing to indicate any habitable planetary bodies. I’m very sorry but we’re not there yet…but, we need to remain optimistic. The fleet is in good shape, all things considered, so we just need to keep going and hold our nerve.’

Kristi smiles sadly as though she just heard the news along with everyone else, shaking her head and taking a second to think. ‘Do you think we will ever find a new home, Captain Singh?’

What a stupid bloody question. As if Sully Singh can answer that.

‘Of course we will. We just have to keep going,’ Sully says earnestly as the footage fades back to Kristi in the studio.

‘There we have it folks and if you are just waking up then I am sorry to report the Gagarin has come back empty again. But hey, here’s some new for you. Fleet police have stated a well-known and respected doctor of Russian heritage has been murdered in his practice in Neon City. Apparently he died during a robbery. Way to go Humility. You really know how to make our day better.’

‘Off,’ Sam says, feeling a second’s worth of awfulness at not finding another planet before grinning at the new memories in his head and the depth his life suddenly has. ‘Radio on,’ he says as he shuffles from his tube, listening to a jaunty song with a funky synthesised beat produced on The Ark.

A smile on his face. His foot taps. ‘Volume up…fuck it, soundproof my cabin and max it.’

Wow. That’s loud. He starts swinging his hips to the music. The last few days have been so cool. Well, maybe not Yasmine showing her bruises and injuries. That wasn’t cool, but she has got a lovely bum, and Janey is so funny too.

He dances to the music with a new energy inside. Positive and good. Texture in his life. The old routine of nothingness seemingly banished. Lunchtimes spent at the café meeting up with Yasmine and Janey, just chilling out and chatting. Then the same in the evenings. Eating porridge and jam, drinking synth coffee and talking.

Just a few days have passed but the difference is stark.

He drops to the floor, bracing his body to do press-ups and get buff and ripped. The first one is good. He’s strong. Fitter than he looks. Two and three are good too. Four makes his arm wobble. Five and his chest hurts. Six is only just about done and seven is just impossible. Anyone that ever says they can do seven press-ups is a lying dick. Fact.

Into the shower while popping a fizz ball in his mouth that bursts to life, zipping around his teeth with little bristles that spin like crazy. Seconds later and his teeth are squeaky clean. He bites into the ball, feeling the vitamin packed juice spread over his tongue before chewing and swallowing it down. 100% of his daily supplement needs right there. He’s on it. He’s jacked and ready for the day. Out the door into his row and he smiles at his neighbours who half smile back, unused to seeing the quiet, shy chap from cabin 58 looking so happy.

‘Morning!’ he calls out on passing the walkway and seeing Sven at the door to his café.

‘Morning, Sam,’ Sven calls and Sam goes on his way, not ever remembering passing someone he knows like that and calling out.

He reaches his concourse with a spring in his step, calling out greetings to the commuters who mostly ignore him and carry on engrossed in their interfaces. A glum mood in the air. A quietness about the people. It’s because the Gagarin has come back empty. One hundred and twenty-three years of looking and nothing to show for it. There is no new planet. This fleet is all they have. Sure, the Gagarin can be sent back out but it’s always the same. It always will be the same.

Shuttle in. Shuttle out. It’s all good and he even chats with the shuttle crews, helping them unload the heavy trolleys and thinking again about Yasmine.

She is very confusing, but also intriguing. Intriguing and beguiling. Beguiling and mysterious. Mysterious and…he frowns, trying to think of something else to go with his train of thought, then spots the next shuttle coming in and he smiles in greeting, even lifting a hand to wave as they shuffle out to stand and gawp at the famous level 30 retail zone on the World-Ship Humility.

‘Is this it?’ an old British man asks, staring around the concourse. ‘Doesn’t look any different to the other bloody ships.’

‘This is the port, darling,’ his wife says, rolling her eyes at Sam as the passengers shuffle through the airlock.

‘Is shops, da?’ An elderly Russian man asks.

‘Straight through,’ Sam says, pointing down the concourse.

‘See, Bert,’ the British man’s wife says. ‘The shops are down there.’

‘Bloody shops. What do I care about bloody shops? I’m hungry is what I am. Bloody shuttle took all day to get here. Eh, Ivan? Too bloody long.’

‘Da, was too long,’ Ivan grumbles.

‘It took an hour,’ Bert’s wife says.

‘We get food, yes?’ Ivan’s wife says, nodding at the other woman as more passengers shuffle off.

‘Just park me and Ivan up,’ Barry says as Ivan nods quickly. ‘We’ll eat while you shop. Eh? Fancy that, Ivan?’

‘Da, yes, we no shop. I no like shops.’

‘Bloody right. Bloody fashions at our age. What’s there to eat here anyway?’

‘You can have some cubes,’ his wife says.

‘Cubes! That’s all I bloody eat now. I’m sick of bloody cubes. Ivan can have cubes if he wants…’

‘I no eat cubes. Doc say no fats. He say eat cubes. I hate cubes.’

‘See!’ Barry announces. ‘Even the Russians don’t like cubes. Do you eat cubes?’ he asks Sam as they go slowly by.

Sam shakes his head.

‘Even the airlock guy hates cubes.’

‘Da, cubes is bad.’

‘You could try porridge,’ Sam suggests.

‘What?’ Barry asks, scowling at him.

‘What he say?’ Ivan asks.

‘Porridge,’ Sam says louder.

‘Porridge? What about it?’

‘Er, I was suggesting…’

‘Speak up, lad!’

‘What he say? You speak louder, da?’

‘My friend. He makes porridge and jam.’

‘Porridge and jam?’

‘What this?’

‘He said porridge and jam, Ivan. Said his mate makes it. I haven’t had porridge and jam for years. Where’s your mate? Bertha, ask him where his mate is. Can’t hear a bloody word he’s mumbling.’

‘What’s the delay up there,’ another British man calls from behind.

‘We go on, yes, walk on,’ an older Chinese woman calls.

‘Is problem?’ A Nordic man asks.

‘Hold yer horses,’ Barry shouts back. ‘Me and Ivan are scouting about for some decent grub. Lad says it’s all porridge here.’

‘Eh?’ Sam says.

‘Porridge?’ the Nordic man asks. ‘Here?’

‘Porridge, Barry?’ the other British guy further back calls out.

‘Yes, Larry. Said it’s all the rage here. Porridge and jam,’ Barry yells back while his wife waits patiently.

‘Famous porridge?’ the Chinese woman asks, turning to her friends to repeat what she heard.

‘I never said famous,’ Sam says quickly.

‘Stop bloody mumbling,’ Barry shouts. ‘Where’s your mate’s porridge place then? Close by is it?’

‘Well…’

‘Speak up, lad!’

‘SVEN’S EATERY.’

‘What’s that? What did he say?’

‘I SAID SVEN’S EATERY.’

‘What’s at Sven’s Eatery?’ someone else shouts.

‘THE FAMOUS PORRIDGE AND JAM,’ Barry bellows while Sam wonders how the hell the old man heard someone way back down the line but not him standing two feet away.

‘It’s his implant, dear,’ Bertha says, patting Sam’s arm. ‘And he’s a stubborn old twat as well. Where’s this place? Sven’s Eatery?

‘At the end. On the right side. Down a, a…’

‘Spit it out! Stop gabbling,’ Barry shouts.

‘At the end. Right side. Sven’s Eatery.’

‘All you had to bloody say.’

Sorry Bertha mouths at Sam as she ushers her husband on and out.

‘Nice place is it, Sam?’ A shuttle crew member asks, walking backwards through the airlock. ‘This café your mate owns.’

‘Yeah,’ Sam says.

‘Cool, we’re always after places to recommend. I’ll pass it on.’

SVEN CARLSON TURNS into the walkway and heads down to his café, pausing to wave his wrist at the scanner to unlock the doors.

‘Morning!’

He turns to look, seeing Sam grinning as he rushes past. ‘Morning, Sam,’ he calls, going in with a heavy sigh at another long and empty day ahead and the distinct lack of credits going through his business. The location was a bad choice. He knows that now, but then it was all he could afford, and he was so desperate to get out of the maintenance teams.

One thought leads to another and he runs the last few days through his mind. He felt so sure Yasmine was playing a hand when she was going on about an abusive ex-boyfriend, but those bruises were real. Sven has seen what voltage-sticks do. Maintenance crews are made up of rough men and women who drink, fuck and fight non-stop. Sven has been zapped a few times when the guards waded in to calm a bar brawl. Mind you, Jasmine’s story still doesn’t feel right. It’s too forced. Too weird. Yasmine is definitely up to something. The way she’s meeting up with Janey and Sam for lunch, then hanging out in the evening as well. She asks a lot of questions about Janey’s work too.

He sighs deeply, thinking it’s not his problem, thinking he has enough problems of his own to last several more lifetimes. He heard the news this morning the same as everyone else and he hoped and prayed like everyone else did that Sully Singh would give good news. But he didn’t, because there is no good news. There is never any good news and Sven looks about his silent café and out to the empty walkway filled with chairs and tables and knows it’ll be over soon.

Another few weeks and they’ll evict him because there is no way in hell Sven can pay catch up on that much rent, insurance and god only knows what else he owes. Then he’ll be forced to go back on the maintenance crews.

The worse thing is that he’ll still owe thousands in credits. That means he’ll end up working for free because they’ll take everything from him. Maybe even his cabin. Shit. He could end up in the Elfors at this rate.

A strong coffee and he stands outside, sucking on his vape stick, while feeling the weight of the fleet pressing on his shoulders.

‘Are you Sven?’ a British voice calls and he looks up to see two old men standing in the mouth of the walkway. ‘Is this it?’

‘I not know. I ask man. You do porridge, da?’ the old Russian man calls down.

‘Er…I do porridge yes, but I have a full menu…noodles and…’

‘What? Stop gabbling. Bloody kids. The boy said you do famous porridge and jam. Me and Ivan want that,’ Barry says, shuffling in towards the chairs and tables.

‘Da, I try this. With the jam, yes?’

‘Okay,’ Sven says as two old woman walk into view behind their husbands, rolling their eyes and tutting to each other. ‘Sure, sure thing.’

‘The nice boy at the airlock told us,’ Bertha explains.

‘Sam?’ Sven asks.

‘Oh we didn’t see his name. Blond hair. Blushes like a pepper.’

‘Sam,’ Sven says.

‘Why’s he standing there? Have we told him we want porridge and jam yet? WE WANT PORRIDGE AND JAM.’

‘Four of the porridges and jams,’ Ivan adds, holding four fingers up.

‘Right. Yes, of course, take a seat, I’ll bring it out.’ He heads inside his café unit and behind the counter looking for a bag of synth-porridge mix.

‘I say old chap,’ another old man says, shuffling into the café. ‘Barry said this is the porridge place. Said the airlock chap told him it’s famous here? Barry? This the place is it?’ he calls.

‘THIS IS THE PLACE,’ Barry bellows.

‘PORRIDGES AND JAMS,’ Ivan adds.

‘Right,’ Sven says, ‘Yep porridge and jam is on my menu, but I do noodles and…’

‘Four please,’ Larry says, waving his wristband at the scanner. ‘Barry paid yet has he? I’ll get theirs while I’m here. Barry, have you paid yet?’

‘JUST ASK HIM FOR PORRIDGE AND JAM,’ Barry shouts from outside.

‘Deaf as a post,’ Larry mutters. ‘Four for Barry and another four for my lot. Eight in total.’

‘Eight,’ Sven says, slightly taken aback.

‘Yeah, eight.’

‘Er, I’ll bring it out.’

‘Larry? This the porridge place?’ the Chinese woman asks, walking in.

‘Certainly is. Haven’t had porridge for years.’

‘I’ve never had it,’ the woman says. ‘Hello,’ she says to Sven, speaking slowly. ‘I am not sure what the wording is? For the food?

‘Just er, porridge and jam,’ Sven says.

‘Yes. Great. Then three of the porridges and jams please.’

‘Right. Great. Yes. I will bring it out…’

‘Shen? Have you ordered?’ a Nordic woman asks, walking in. ‘What did you ask for?’

‘You tell this man you want porridges and jams and they sort it out,’ Shen says knowingly.

‘Five porridge and jam please…’

‘Great,’ Sven says.

‘Hello everyone,’ She calls from the doorway, waving to get the attention of the other old tourists piling into the walkway. ‘I spoke to the locals and you just ask for porridges and jams and they know what that means…’

A SHORT TIME later Sam watches the shuttle return to dock and couple, operating his interface to open the doors and smiling as the first tourists disgorge to walk through the airlock tunnel onto the concourse.

‘Hi,’ Sam says. ‘Welcome to level 30.’ He feels stupid saying it, but that tiny shred of confidence seems to want more attention.

‘Which way are the stores?’ one of the passengers asks, which is a question that always baffles Sam as there is only one walkway out of the concourse.

‘Right through there, you can’t miss it,’ he says politely.

‘And the porridge place?’ someone else asks. ‘The girl on the shuttle said.’

YASMINE WAKES STIFF AND SORE. Pain in her ribs, in her head and down her legs from the injuries and from sleeping on a hard floor all night, tucked up behind the same suicide booth Sam used in the ante room off the service corridor. Sleeping rough is far from ideal but the temperature is always ambient and it’s not like people piss on you while you sleep up here.

She sits up, squinting and yawning. Thinking over the last few days. She had genuine fun after telling them her tale of woe that night, and Sam came out of his shell a little, or at least was able to say whole sentences without turning deep red. Janey was a hoot once she got going too, and she absolutely hates Mahatma Goudier, which makes it all so much easier for Yasmine to probe.

Yasmine already knows Mahatma has an office down the long main corridor on the right side, and that Mahatma can shift credits to any account. She also knows where Mahatma likes to eat and go out in the evening, and that’s she’s having it off with her boss and who she likes to hang out with.

That’s great. It just means Yasmine needs to get Mahatma’s wristband and somehow make it think that Yasmine is Mahatma, and then somehow get into the Financial Services Centre and somehow get to Mahatma’s office and somehow access her work interface and somehow find some credits to steal. That’s a lot of somehows and she concedes her master-plan has gaps big enough to fly the fleet through.

She needs to find out what Sam can do. How good is he at hacking? Can he be used for all the techie stuff? Can she even ask him? Does she want to involve him to that level? He’s a nice guy and she already feels bad enough without getting him to commit crimes.

Shit. Why are things always so much harder than they need to be? She heads off to the nearest toilets, washing her face and spending a credit on a fizz ball to clean her teeth and mouth. Brushing her hair and changing her top for a new one she stole yesterday while trying to think her way through it all. Ideally, in a perfect fleet, she would undertake the whole job without exposing Sam or Janey to risk, and with time that would be possible, but Yasmine is now running very low on time. Dmitri will be hunting her, to get revenge for killing the Russian doc and because she rejected him. She can’t risk being here, and she still doesn’t have a new identity sorted yet, and she can’t do that until she has enough credits to pay someone in the Elfors. Problems on top of problems. She walks through the retail zone underneath the glowing adverts deep in thought. She aims for the café, thinking she will grab a coffee and annoy Sven for a while until Sam and Janey come down at lunch.

‘Jesus,’ she rounds the corner of the walkway and stops dead on seeing every table packed with customers and used bowls and mugs piled up waiting to be cleared and a queue of people coming out the café door as Sven rushes about with a look of panic. ‘What happened?’ she asks, walking down as Sven spins to stare wild eyed with his arms laden with bowls.

‘Your boyfriend,’ he says.

‘My what?’ Yasmine asks, following him into the cafe.

‘Sam. He’s sending people here,’ Sven says, trying to fill bowls with synth porridge mix while making drinks while taking orders while delivering food.

‘Oh. But that’s good though, right?’

‘Sorry to disturb you, is this the famous porridge and jam place?’ a woman in the doorway asks Yasmine.

‘Sure is,’ Yasmine grins. ‘Best damn porridge and jam in the fleet right here.’

‘Don’t say that!’ Sven groans, dancing about behind the counter.

‘Is good, da?’ A Russian tourist asks.

‘The porridge is amazing,’ Yasmine replies in Russian, making several heads snap over.

‘You speak Russian?’ someone asks in Russian.

‘You speak Russian?’ Sven asks, gawping at her.

‘Bit of Chinese too,’ she winks at him then looks to the group of Chinese tourists by the counter. ‘Hello ladies, here for the porridge? You’re going to love it, trust me,’ she adds before switching to Russian. ‘I bring my friends here most nights now.’ Back to English. ‘Best Porridge and jam in the fleet right here…ha! Your face, Sven. Employ an Elfor, we all speak everything’

‘You hear that?’ a tourist calls out. ‘The woman’s a local. They say if the locals eat there then it’s got to be nice.’

‘Five porridges and jams please,’ a man at the counter calls out.

‘Do you have any more seats?’ another woman asks Yasmine.

‘Excuse me,’ an older man says, waving at Yasmine. ‘Our table is dirty.’

‘Oh, I don’t work here,’ Yasmine starts to reply then remembers she is a natural born hustler and grins at Sven who groans inwardly, knowing exactly what’s coming.

‘How much?’ he asks, reaching for a clean apron under the counter.

Yasmine smiles, remembering the debt collectors and also contemplating how many bad things she is doing right now, so that perhaps a bit of good karma wouldn’t be a bad thing. ‘Free food and coffee,’ she catches the apron and winks at the people at the counter. ‘Right! Porridge and jam coming up and give me two ticks my lovelies and I will get those tables cleared for you.’

IN THE OFFICES on level 25, Janey Harrington gets up from her desk and rushes to the door at lunchtime because she has somewhere to be and new friends to meet with.

These last few days have been awesome. Just so nice and oh my god, Yasmine is literally the coolest person ever.

Those bruises were so bad though and the shit that woman has been through. Orphaned by a prostitute mother who then died from an overdose. Raised by an alcoholic who fed them rat meat. Abusive relationships. Surrounded by death and suffering and squalor and she’s so genuine and honest and decent too, plus she speaks Russian and Chinese, and that shows how intelligent she is. And Sam is just so cute too. A really nice man.

Janey told them how shallow Mahatma and her friends are, and how they think their shit doesn’t stink. The superiority complex they have and how patronising and condescending they can be. And oh my god, when Yasmine said she’ll shove a voltage-stick in Matty’s vagina. That was so funny, and it’s nice that Yasmine shows such interest in her work, always asking questions. She listens too, really listens, and takes it in.

‘Hey, Sam!’ Janey calls out, seeing Sam aiming for the walkway too.

‘Hi,’ Sam says, smiling as he pauses to let her catch up. ‘Lunch break?’ He looks ahead. ‘Holy fuck!’

‘Ooh it’s so busy,’ Janey says as they stop in the mouth of the packed walkway, her heart sinking at the thought she won’t be able to chill out with Sam, Yasmine and Sven for an hour.

‘Who ordered porridge and jam?’ Yasmine calls, rushing out from the café wearing an apron and carrying steaming bowls as nearly every person replies and raises their hands. ‘What’s that? Nobody? No? Nobody for porridge and jam? Oh, you want it do you?’ she aims for a couple, rolling her eyes at them, laughing. ‘Cor, you could have said something. Making me run about. It’s hot so if you burn your mouth then you’re an idiot.’

‘Hey, that’s the airlock guy,’ someone says, pointing at Sam.

‘This is great,’ a man says, waving his spoon.

‘Best damn porridge in the fleet, son,’ another old man shouts.

‘Woohoo,’ Yasmine says on seeing them both. ‘The cavalry are here. But I’d stay out of the café if I were you, Sam. Sven said he doesn’t know whether to punch or kiss you and either could be a bit awkward. Anyway, don’t just stand there. Janey, fancy clearing and I’ll show you how to serve? Sam, Sven said there’s more tables and chairs down the end in a service room if you can grab them. I’ll get you some aprons.’

She rushes off as Sam and Janey stare at the café then at each other, both still processing everything she just said.

‘Sod it, I’m game,’ Janey grins, walking off after Yasmine. ‘Beats sitting in an office.’

LATE EVENING and they sit in a silence not born from awkwardness or the hesitancy of new people who don’t know how to interact with each other.

This is a different silence.

This is a silence born from hard work where they bonded under fire. Where they stood shoulder to shoulder and took the attack of the enemy in the guise of tourists shuffling into the alley. This is a silence earned from sweating together. From running back and forth with bowls of hot porridge and jam and from frantically washing spoons, because even though they’re on spaceships people are fussy and still like clean cutlery. Coffees and drinks served. Bowls washed. Bowls fetched and carried. Tables cleared and wiped and filled with more people.

Now, they sit and reflect and regain composure from the day and evening they’ve had.

‘You’re a dick, Sam,’ Sven says, slumping in a chair and lifting his feet to plonk on another one with a deep groan. ‘I’m exhausted.’

‘Seriously, he’s actually right,’ Yasmine says, already sitting with her feet up while fanning herself with one end of her apron.

‘Agreed,’ Janey says, pushing a pile of used bowls to the side so she can rest her elbows on the table outside the now closed café.

‘Hey, I know,’ Yasmine says, mimicking a deep voice. ‘I’ll tell every single person that comes through my airlock to go and eat porridge and jam.’

‘Sorry,’ Sam says.

‘Take your sorry and poke it. How the hell did you get the afternoon off anyway, Janey?’

‘Messaged Matty the twatty and said I needed time off…’

‘Matty the twatty. Nice one. We’re so going to figure out a way of getting back at her, like literally doing something evil and twisted…’

‘I never take time off so it’s cool. And I must have burnt a million calories.’

‘Yeah fuck you, fat scanners. And Matty the twatty, who we are so going to do over somehow. However, I would like everyone to please note that Samuel here did not take the afternoon off but went back to work and told even more people to come here.’

‘Fact,’ Sam says, holding his hand up. ‘But I couldn’t take time off cos I’m an airlock security operative and like, you know, that’s a very important role on this ship and the fleet thanks me for my service.’

‘But he did come here straight from work,’ Janey says. ‘And it’s now really late o’clock.’

‘True, you’re redeemed, Samuel,’ Yasmine says.

‘Hang on,’ Janey says, swiping to bring her interface up, then attacking the holo screen with fast swipes and jabs. ‘Oh wow, you’ve got some mentions on FleetBook, Sven.’

‘Yeah?’ he asks, peering over from behind a cloud of vapour.

‘Listen to this…we had lunch at a little place called Sven’s Eatery, famous for its porridge and jam. The dark-haired waitress was adorable and the food was delicious.’

‘Yay, I’m adorable,’ Yasmine mumbles.

‘Oh listen, another one: the porridge and jam was delicious but the two girls serving, Yasmine and Janey, were lovely and really made us feel welcome. Aw, that’s from that old lady. Another one here: everyone was lovely, but Sam is a dick…’

‘What?’ Sam asks.

‘Joking! It doesn’t say that,’ Janey says. ‘Or does it?’

‘You should give a discount or something, Sven,’ Yasmine says, stretching back in her seat. ‘Put the prices up a little bit then knock ten percent off for tourists, so they think they’re getting a deal. Sam can tell them as they come through.’

‘Ooh you can’t do that,’ Janey says. ‘There’s regulations about fair pricing and discounts.’

‘Or,’ Sam says. ‘I could write a programme and share it via their interface and they could link it to your system that will automatically read the code and give the discount, which means you’ll be able to track what ship they come from and who they are so you can send them offers and urge them to share it via their social networking feeds. Have you got a holo-logo? I can knock one up if you want. Maybe an image of a golden bowl with a spoon in it? Then when they share it everyone will see this place and be able to find it from their mapping systems and…what?’ he asks at the other three staring at him.

‘Can you do all of that?’ Yasmine asks with sudden keen interest.

‘Um,’ Sam blushes at the attention, shifting on his seat. ‘Yeah, I mean…Stop staring at me.’

‘I’m genuinely impressed,’ she says. ‘Sven? You want Sam to do that?’ Yasmine asks, still looking at Sam with a whole new expression.

‘It would be amazing but I don’t think I can afford it.’

‘It’s free,’ Sam says.

‘You,’ Yasmine says, pointing at Sam, ‘are a dark cat.’

‘It’s horse,’ Janey says,

‘Sam, is it horse or cat?’ Yasmine asks.

‘Horse.’

‘Fuck you.’

Sven chuckles. A contrast of emotions inside. A brilliant day and some good credits coming in, but one good day does not make up for so many bad ones, and right now, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. ‘I should get cleared up.’

‘I can take tomorrow off if it helps,’ Janey says, swiping at her interface then holding her wristband towards Yasmine. ‘Add me?’

‘Oh mine’s not working properly,’ Yasmine says with a rueful grin. ‘Keep meaning to get it sorted.’

‘Sven? Add me?’ Janey asks.

‘Added,’ Sven says, his interface open. ‘Janey Harrington?’

‘Yep. Sam?’

‘Added,’ Sam says.

‘Look at you all being social butterflies,’ Yasmine chuckles. ‘Actually, I’ve always wondered -- do your wristbands automatically link you to your work systems?’ She yawns and stretches as she asks, thereby disguising the probing nature of the question as Sven lifts his eyebrows, tuning in sharply.

‘Oh god that’s like a thing with my department,’ Janey says. ‘We’re meant to log in using biometrics and passwords and blah blah but we just use our bands. The bosses keep saying we shouldn’t, but what do they know?’

‘Exactly. Level one putas,’ Yasmine replies.

‘Putas,’ Janey says. ‘Still my new favourite word.’

‘So it should be. Right, Sam, walk Janey back through the dark and dangerous levels. Catch you laters.’

Janey smiles, waving at them and walks off with Sam escorting her.

‘Thanks for today, Yasmine,’ Sven says. ‘You about tomorrow? I can’t find staff this short notice and if Sam sends more here…’

‘Ask me nicely.’

‘Never happening.’

‘Dick. Yes, I’m free tomorrow. I’ll swing by in the morning.’

‘You want money?’

‘Nope, I’m good with food and drink thanks.’

‘Yeah forgive me being a cynic, Yasmine but you’re not the type to work for free,’ he says, giving her a look.

‘Just helping you out.’

He holds still, his head up, his eyes intelligent. ‘I don’t know what you’re planning, but don’t screw Janey or Sam over.’

She swallows and gets ready to go. ‘I’m not screwing anybody over.’

‘Yasmine,’ he says with a warning edge to his voice and a hardness in his features.

‘Fine. Okay. I won’t screw them over. Happy? I’m going.’

‘Night, Yasmine. Thanks for today, and one more thing. The room at the end of the walkway isn’t locked at night.’

‘Why you telling me that? I don’t need to know that. You think I’m homeless? I’m not homeless, Sven. I’ve got somewhere to stay. I want a nice breakfast for you being so rude.’

She rushes from the walkway, feeling strangely caught out, as though Sven could see every word falling from her mouth was a lie. That he could see her whole life is just one big lie. All of it. Anyway, she’s not screwing Sam and Janey over. It isn’t like that. She’s screwing Mahatma over and the Financial Services. Janey and Sam are just helping her, but without knowing it. Whatever. It’s not the same thing. How dare he say that about being homeless.

She strides through the retail zone from one side of the ship to the other while clinging to the shadows and dark places for fear of being seen by Dmitri or one of his crew The pressure grows. The fear and worry mix with guilt and new experience, and on top of it all, she can’t quite bring herself to admit that she’s having a blast. Being a waitress in a busy café is great fun. She gets to speak Russian and the few Chinese phrases she knows. People like her and think she’s funny and sweet. It’s nice feeling like she’s contributing to. That is part of something, and the familiarity of the café is growing on her. She finds herself getting worried when the orders are backing up and rushing into the kitchen to help Sven mix more porridge and make drinks.

How dare he think she’s homeless. Why did he even say that?

She yawns heavily, wishing she had a nice comfy sleeping tube and considers asking Janey or Sam if she can sleep in their cabins, but no, that’s not right. It crosses the moral line in her head. She just needs to make this job happen soon. Really soon.

Into the service corridor and down into the ante-room. The lights dimmed at night and the temperature reduced to give people the notion of a sun and lunar existence.

‘Yassy.’

‘Fuck!’ she spins round, her body instantly priming, ready for fight or flight until she spots him leaning casually against the wall in shadows. ‘Zhang, you dick…scared the shit out of me.’

‘An Elfor always looks left and right when they walk into a dark room. Especially one in your situation,’ he says in Chinese. ‘How are you, Yassy?’ he asks in English.

‘Apart from the fucking heart attack you just gave me you mean?’ She fires the words back in Chinese while staying light on the balls of her feet, ready to run. ‘I wasn’t there and didn’t do it. Whatever it was,’ she says in English.

‘It’s fine. Just wanted to warn you.’

‘Warn me? About what? I haven’t done anything.’

‘I heard someone of your description was sleeping rough in here, and if I’m hearing that then Dmitri will hear it too.’

She swallows, guarded and unsure. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Dmitri’s put a mark on you, Yassy. For killing the Russian doc.’

Yasmine stays still, frowning and trying to think why Zhang is telling her this. What’s his angle? What does he want? Why is he here? ‘If you’re trying to screw me you can fuck off.’

He laughs genuinely for the first time in days, grinning widely in a way that makes Yasmine smile back and relax. Their paths have crossed a few times in places here and there but there’s always been a mutual respect and a shared humour. Yasmine knows he has a sex addiction, but he’s never made a pass at her, and she’s heard he’s kind to the girls he pays. Plus he hates Dmitri, which is always a good character trait in her eyes. His aura is right too in the same way she trusts Sam. Good people just have an energy about them.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that about the sex thing.’

‘It’s fine. Just wanted to give you a heads up.’

‘I feel bad for saying it now. How’s Carla?’

‘She’s good. Listen, Yassy, I know you’d never snitch but are you hearing anything? Maybe about a code? Something happening somewhere?’

‘A code? What sort of code?’ She shrugs but this time without pretence, folding her arms and moving closer. ‘No, nothing, but then I’m not really connected to anyone now.’

‘Yeah,’ Zhang says quietly, as though to himself. ‘Okay, you need anything? You good?’

‘I’m good.’ She wants to ask him what’s up, with a human urge to help someone she respects. But she’s got too much on right now, and besides, she needs to find somewhere else to sleep. Then she remembers what Sven said. ‘Dick,’ she mutters.

‘Me?’

‘Someone else, thanks for the warning,’ she says, peering at his face as he moves from the shadows. ‘Been in a fight?’

He snorts with a dark look crossing his face. ‘Should have seen the other guy.’

A story there. Pain in his features but she’s got too many things happening to ask.

‘Listen, Yassy. If I see them up here -- Guphy, Mad Eyes, whoever -- I’ll help you, but if you go low I can’t do anything. Stay out of the Elfors.’

‘I will, thanks. And Zhang? You look strung out. Maybe you need a break from it too.’

Another sigh, another pause but he offers a smile before speaking in Chinese as he leaves. ‘Get off the ship soon as you can. Night.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sam stares nervously at the three faces before choosing an empty space a few feet away, sending a blur of coloured light streaming from his wristband to form a glowing 3D image of a shining golden bowl and spoon.

SVEN’S EATERY: SERVING THE BEST PORRIDGE AND JAM IN THE FLEET

SWIPE HERE FOR DISCOUNT CODE

Sam cringes. He totally overdid it, breaching some boundary that people with real friends know about, but he doesn’t because he only ever really talks to a suicide booth and Osmosis, neither of which count.

Yasmine looks from the advert to him. ‘Did you do that? You actually did that? Like all of it?’

‘Yes,’ Sam says.

‘Can I swipe it?’ Janey asks, overplaying a swipe through the air, feeling her wristband vibrate as it chimes. ‘Oh my god, this is so exciting.’ She activates her system that instantly shows an icon of the same golden bowl and spoon.

CLAIM YOUR 10% DISCOUNT AT SVEN’S EATERY!: ENJOY GOOD FOOD AND GOOD COMPANY OFF THE BEATEN TRACK

TAP HERE FOR MAPPING

‘IS IT TOO MUCH?’ Sam asks.

‘God no, not at all,’ Sven says. ‘It’s brilliant. Well done, Sam.’

‘I was going to leave the advert hanging in the concourse by the port as they come off the shuttles,’ Sam says.

‘Isn’t that breaching lots of rules?’ Janey asks. ‘Sorry, bit of a legal geek here.’

‘Fuck the rules,’ Yasmine says.

‘Ha!’ Janey says, staring at Yasmine. ‘I thought you said fuck the rules.’

‘I did.’

‘Ha! I thought you said it again and yes it does breach rules, specifically advertising within a concourse adjacent to an airlock and advertising without an advertising permit and advertising a holo-image without the specifications being checked and ratified by the Fleet Advertising Board.’ She trails off, looking from one to the other while nodding slowly. ‘And obstruction of a concourse. And direct fleet employees offering inducements to individual business thereby upsetting the balance of fair trade…’

‘Anymore?’ Yasmine asks when she doesn’t continue.

‘Oh, just loads. I took law exams to be a lawyer but it never quite happened.’

‘So what’s he supposed to do with it?’ Yasmine asks.

‘I don’t know. I thought maybe apply for permits?’

‘How long does that take?’ Yasmine asks.

‘I don’t know. Okay yes I do know. It’s a fourteen day process.’

‘Fourteen days!’ Yasmine says. ‘We’re in deep space on self-sustaining spaceships driven by crazy nuclear shit and it takes fourteen days to ask someone to show an advert?’

‘It’s very strict,’ Janey says.

‘Fuck strict and fuck the rules and-- what?’

‘You keep saying fuck the rules.’

‘Yeah I do. See this wristband?’ she says, holding her arm up. ‘Not mine. Totally black-market.’

‘Argh! I’m not even listening.’

‘I can link that for you,’ Sam says to Yasmine.

‘Still not listening,’ Janey sings, flapping her hands. ‘Stop laughing, Sven. There is illegal activity going on here.’

‘Can you really link it to me?’ Yasmine asks.

‘Easy,’ Sam says.

‘Wow, what else can you do? You know what? I’ve always had this question: can you take someone else’s wristband and add yourself to it?’

‘Crosslink? Yeah, it’s not easy but it can be done

‘There’s a word for it? Crosslink? So cool, you are a dark cat, Sam.’

‘Horse,’ Janey says.

‘I thought you weren’t listening,’ Yasmine says.

‘I’m not.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ Sam says. ‘I’ll send you the code, Sven. Just load it into your system.’

‘Great. How exactly do I do that?’

‘Just open your interface and,’ Sam pauses, stepping closer to look at Sven’s system. ‘mind if I…?’

‘Go for it,’ Sven says, holding his wrist out. Sam brings virtual keyboards up on both interfaces, seemingly typing on both at the same time while glancing left and right as Yasmine watches closely.

‘All done. Shit, I’m late. See you at lunchtime.’

‘The man’s a genius,’ Sven says.

A busy day follows. A day busier than the one before, with Sam activating his holo-advert within the concourse a few minutes before the tourist shuttles arrive and shutting it down for the worker and commuter shuttles. It works too and generates interest with a good few swiping as they pass.

But then a good few isn’t enough for Sam, so he tinkers and plays with it throughout the course of the morning. Filling the bowl with porridge then adding steam. A short while later and the spoon is rising and falling with motion that draws the eye, and a bit after that gorgeously creamy porridge and jam sit on the spoon.

‘Have you seen this?’ Sven asks Yasmine as she rushes by with her arms laden with bowls, his interface glowing behind the counter.

‘What?’

‘Sam, he’s changing the advert every few minutes.’

Yasmine stops, watching it for a few seconds while blowing air up her face to rid the strands of hair hanging down. ‘That’s very cool. Message him to make the porridge drip from the spoon.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Janey says, sweeping in past Yasmine while activating her system to record herself in a holo-vid. ‘Hi, Sam. Janey here. We’re very busy which is great and all down to your illegal activities which I do not wish to be a part of, however we all love the new advert and Yassy suggested having porridge drip off the spoon, but of course I’m not involved because it’s all very naughty.’

‘You’re a genius,’ Yasmine tells Sam at lunch, pushing a bowl of noodles into one hand and a fork in the other before tying an apron about his waist while he eats. ‘They smell so nice,’ she says, popping up at his side. ‘Give us a mouthful.’

He doesn’t hesitate but offers the forkful, widening his eyes as she takes it with a wink and really hoping he doesn’t get an erection under his apron.

A busier day passes until once more they slump outside with sore feet and heavy legs but with the pleasant tingle that comes from a day of hard work. Sven puffing on his vape-stick. Yasmine and Janey reading through comments on FleetBook and Sam tinkering with wristbands.

‘Oh. Wow. Listen to this one,’ Janey says, waving her hand to get their attention. ‘The food was lovely, but the airlock guy is just super-cute and has the nicest bum. I told him that and he went so red!’

‘Just like he is now,’ Yasmine says. ‘He is super-cute though and you do have a nice bum, Sam.’

‘Another one, the waitress, Yassy, is the best ever and spoke to us in Russian and our friends in Chinese, switching languages like it was nothing. Why is this woman working as a waitress?’

‘Is it true that everyone in the Elfors speaks languages?’ Sam asks.

‘If they want to eat they do,’ Yasmine replies.

‘I’d love to see it.’

‘You think you’d love to see it, Sam, but trust me, it’s not like on the CGI movies --wait till it rains on you. You stink for days. Anyway Janey, read another one.’

‘Okay, here’s one. Sven, you’ve even been mentioned. They said you look grumpy as hell until you smile. You need to smile more.’

‘I smile on the inside.’

‘You’ve got a nice smile so put it on the outside,’ Janey tells him.

‘Noted,’ he says, blinking as Sam’s advert appears in the air above the mouth of the walkway. ‘Jesus, Sam.’

‘What?’ Yasmine asks. ‘Oh my god, Sam. That’s brilliant.’

‘I’m not even looking,’ Janey says, turning to look. ‘Ah I looked! I’m complicit.’

They drink beer and play with tweaking the adverts until Sam adds a 3D image of Janey holding the spoon.

‘Oh you shit,’ she says, laughing at the sight of herself lifting and lowering the spoon. ‘Is that from my FleetBook account?’

‘THIS WAS MY IDEA MOTHERFUCKER,’ Janey’s image booms out with the same voice Sam loaded into the suicide booth and it sets Yasmine and Sven off. Both of them laughing hard. ‘I AM COMPLICIT YOU DUMBASS…’

‘Sam! You take that down.’

‘Do Sven,’ Yasmine urges, tears in her eyes.

A few minutes later and Sven appears. An older image from his FleetBook feed when he was still in yellow coveralls. Fewer lines on his face as he grips the spoon, staring out at the view.

‘Hello boys, come and eat my creamy porridge,’ the image purrs, silky soft and deep. ‘You can lick my hard spoon if you like.’

Yasmine clutches her sore ribs that are hurting again from laughing, and Janey wipes her eyes, unable to stop the giggles coming out. She doesn’t think of her work or the beautiful people in her offices, or the crushing loneliness of her life, and Sven even forgets about his debt and the prospect that he will have to go back to work on the maintenance teams.

‘Need a picture of you,’ Sam says to Yasmine, aiming the virtual lens within his interface at her.

‘No!’ she says, ducking down and away. ‘I’m probably wanted. I can’t be online.’

‘Don’t tell me that,’ Janey says.

‘Just one, then you can delete it.’

He takes a picture and a few seconds later the light streams from Sam’s system to form a pixelating image of the bowl and spoon and a cross-eyed Yasmine standing behind it, her mouth opening and closing as the spoon goes in and out.

‘You dick,’ she says as the laughing starts again.

The night draws to a close and the yawns come, signalling a break up of their party and a short time later Sam steps into his silent cabin, sighing at the fun of the evening and wishing he could have stayed at the café all night. He brings his interface up while tugging his clothes off, smiling at the images he took, then reaching the ones of Yasmine and sighing a little bit heavier as he studies her features, wondering where she stays at night.

Yasmine sighs too, sitting in the dark, musty service room at the end of the walkway where the spare tables and chairs are kept, and the reality comes back: she is a homeless thief playing at being a waitress and that none of this is real. This is a job so she can score big and get the hell off this ship.

Isn’t it?

Is that what she really wants now? Maybe life is offering another path to take. Maybe there are other ways to live. She cannot remember a time when she laughed as much as she did tonight.

Suddenly, the whole notion of using Janey to get to Mahatma to steal her wristband and break into her offices doesn’t sit so well. The whole notion of using Sam’s technology skills to rig that wristband to make those things happen also doesn’t sit so well.

So, as the fleet flies ever onward through space carrying the remaining survivors of a sentient, intelligent species, Yasmine Emile Dufont frowns in the dark of the fake night, unsure of what to do while thinking of too many things at once until eventually even she closes her eyes to sleep fitfully on the dusty floor.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘Abdul, so nice to see you, come in. Are you well?’ Helga asks, ushering him into her office to a nice sofa next to a side table made from real wood. Simple and classically beautiful in a world where everything else is made from composite resins produced by 3D printers. ‘Victorian,’ she explains.

‘Queen Victoria, England. The last of the British Empire,’ he says. ‘Mahogany isn’t it?’

‘I believe it is,’ she says, giving a respectful nod at his knowledge. ‘They underestimate you, Abdul. You’re far more intelligent than you let on, and that is not said to be patronising. Please, sit down. Coffee?’

‘Thanks,’ he replies, sweeping his gaze over her understated office. He sits and waits for the coffee to be poured and handed over, smiling as he takes the cup.

‘So, what are we to do?’ Helga asks. Smiling, friendly, relaxed yet ever so concerned. Her blond hair streaked with grey and pulled back in a simple pony tail. An attractive woman without doubt, with a fantastic smile that she deploys with exceptional skill.

‘Vice-captain, thank you for…’

‘Helga, please. We’re alone. It’s fine.’

‘Helga, thank you. Can I be blunt?’

‘I’m hoping you will be. I admire that about you. I like it, Abdul. Abdul the Angry. Yes, it suits you.’

A charm offensive being played and he smiles at her. He is a trader and hawker at heart, with years of experience of dealing with people trying to butter him up and sweet talk him to get better terms. ‘It is going to implode and one day soon you will have lots of very angry, very hungry people charging those stairwells.’

‘Oh,’ she says, showing some level of worry. ‘That is alarming, but surely they have been saying the same thing since the fleet set off.’

‘The populations have grown, Helga. It’s different now--they’re smarter down there. Look at it this way, Neon City has become famous across the fleet for the services it can provide. That means they have a steady flow of people from all walks of life coming into a contained environment and showing the people what they do not have. And those people are not going to keep suffering.’

‘The people in Neon City do very well, Abdul. This is fact.’

‘There are three other levels that don’t do very well, and the workers in Neon City live in those other levels. We need education. We need medical services. We need registration.’

‘I absolutely agree, but you know it is impossible.’

‘It’s not impossible, Helga. It just needs bravery.’

‘If Pierre Jefferson announces that he is going to offer a registration amnesty, the fleet will be in uproar. Millions of people will say their ancestors paid for their space and yet here we have thousands of Elfors suddenly allowed to move about freely? Pierre wouldn’t last a day, and if I say it then I will not get elected. You must see that, Abdul.’

‘Doing nothing is no longer an option, Helga.’

‘Yes, I can see that. Tell me, what do you propose? I mean realistically.’

He rubs his goatee, scowling in thought for a second. ‘Phase it in with a work programme. Say there is a skill shortage and start recruiting people from the Elfors. Even on work crews, maintenance teams, cleaning staff, anything to give them hope and something to work for.’

‘Agreed,’ she says firmly. ‘What else?’

‘Medical services. We’re relying on black-market meds which is very dangerous.’

‘Where and how? It’s too risky for anyone to go down there.’

‘I will find space and guarantee safety. I’ll even pay for the security teams. We need a clinic for children at the very least. We’ve got rickets down there, Helga. Diseases that comes from the same time that fucking table does. Forgive my language.’

‘I see your point, Abdul and I agree. It will be done. A clinic for children with a longer term view that if it works we will try and increase the services.’

He nods. Thinking. Rubbing his beard and blasting air through his nose. It’s obvious what she wants. Only people who need something agree so readily. ‘You want my backing in the election.’

‘Yes.’

‘I back you and you’ll do those things.’

‘Yes. You have my word. Tell the Elfors that Helga Sveinsson is working for them against a century old system, but that she will do everything possible to try and start changing perceptions.’

He sips his coffee, thinking and watching her over the rim of his cup. She does the same. Eye contact held and his instincts run riot in his head. There’s something she isn’t saying. Something going on that isn’t being spoken.

‘Agreed. I’ll back you. I’m still running for the captaincy, but at the first show that I won’t succeed I will pledge my support to your campaign.’

‘That works for me, Abdul, and if I win…’

‘When Helga. You’ve got this in the bag.’

‘I am not complacent. If I win, you and I will work closely together. I rather feel we could use your skills outside of the Elfors. You can trade and barter; you’re not afraid of confrontation either, which is why the other councillors don’t like you. You’re wealthy, independent and connected throughout the whole fleet. Those are very alluring traits. Especially if the four virtue ships ever consider forming a greater alliance.’

‘The buying power will be exceptional.’

‘It will, and we’ll need someone spearheading that trade delegation.’

‘That’s is a nice carrot to dangle, Helga.’

‘Isn’t it just,’ she says with a laugh. ‘I don’t make false promises, Abdul.’

He joins in with the laugh. Both of them scrutinising the other. Every word spoken. Every nuance shown. He thinks to ask if anything else is happening to see her reaction, but the voice inside that has made him rich and successful tells him to stay quiet and wait. Whatever it is will show in time, and when it does he can be there at the front.

He heads out after drinking the coffee and making small talk. Thoughtful and reflective as he joins Penny waiting by the executive elevator.

‘You’ve got that look,’ she says quietly when they step inside.

‘What look?’

‘That someone isn’t telling me something look.’

He snorts a laugh.

‘So what is it?’ she asks.

‘No idea yet, something’s going on.’

‘Was the meeting what you expected? Helga wants your support and in return she’ll help in the Elfors.’

‘Exactly that, but she didn’t barter. Just agreed outright. A recruitment programme for workers and a clinic for children.’ He outlines the meeting, using it as a way to compose and find order to his thoughts. ‘But there’s still something else. Something big. I can feel it, Penny.’

‘You’re never wrong in those things,’ Penny says, stepping out on level 37 to Colin and Pasha waiting to escort Abdul back. She says, ‘So you want the news? It was definitely Yassy. She saved Xinxin when the grav-drive failed, got hurt, went to see the Russian doc, then was seen coming out with a full bag and tried selling it to YinYan the dealer. But the thing is, Abdul, everyone knows Yassy won’t tolerate anyone groping her and that doc was a pervert. He probably went for a feel and got thumped. He had a mark on his face, but they’re saying his heart gave out. Plus he was drunk. People are amazed he lasted this long’ She pauses and winces. ‘But the fact is, he still paid for protection and Yassy still robbed him, which means Dmitri has to put a mark on her, and with Dmitri’s and Yassy’s history he won’t stop until she’s dead. Either that or he’ll force her to work on her back.’

Silence as they walk. Colin and Pasha glancing back at Penny and Adbul.

‘Yassy’s very popular,’ Penny adds quietly. ‘Everyone likes her.’

‘But like you say, Dmitri was paid for protection,’ Abdul says tightly. ‘He has to see that through.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

There is no day or night in space, but the pattern of existence human beings had on Earth remains.

At ‘night’ the lights are dimmed, and the temperature reduced. In the ‘morning’ they are raised gradually in an attempt to match that of sunrise and so the days come to pass and Sam Gablinski wakes in his sleeping tube and drops out to do nine full press-ups while listening to Kristi Carter, before jumping up in victory because he is going to get buff and ripped and somehow make a ton of credits and take Yasmine to the Ab-Spa.

‘…And yet another body on yet another stairwell on the WS Humility. Fleet police have said the body is that of twenty-three year old ZhanZhin Lee, known locally as YinYan. I mean, come on! Another dead dealer? WS Humility…grip your murder rate. Polls show the whole fleet is losing sympathy with your problems guys. And you know what: maybe it’s time for someone with fresh views. Joining me now via live link from the WS Humility is vice-captain Helga Sveinsson. Vice-captain, thank you for joining us this morning and forgive me for going straight in, but just what the hell is going on over there?’

Helga nods in greeting, serious and reflective. ‘Thank you for having me, Kristi and I agree. I wholly agree with you. Something must be done. It has reached a point where doing nothing is no longer an option, that is why I am proposing the introduction of a recruitment programme specially designed to take workers from the Elfors to fill the skills shortages across the virtue ships. In exchange for their hard work, they will be offered training and, more importantly, registration.’

‘But vice-captain. Everyone is asking why are you giving free registration to people who never paid for carriage? Our ancestors worked damn hard to secure our space in this fleet.’

‘We need workers, Kristi. That is fact.’

‘You mean menial jobs right? Slaves in other words.’

‘No, that is not what I am saying. They will be trained, paid and registered. That will start bringing those workers and their families out of the Elfors, which will ease the strain. We’re also going to introduce a clinic service for children. There are children in the Elfors with rickets and we should be ashamed of that.’

‘And who is paying for that?’

‘Councillor Abdul has kindly agreed to source a suitable, safe location and will provide security. Kristi, we know there is a problem and trust me, I am not going to stop until we ease the pressure and find workable solutions.’

JANEY LISTENS to the interview while standing in her underwear in her cabin, staring at her projected reflection blooming up from her wristband. She’s lost weight. She has definitely lost weight. She turns and smiles, thinking that’s what comes from a solid few days of working as a waitress in a busy café. Maybe she should think about a career change. Could she work for Sven? It would mean less credits for sure, but she could help him build the business up, or find a better location. Yasmine could work with her. Sam could hang out. Anything other than going back to work in her office with people that only have contempt for her.

Yasmine is so pretty too, and so slim, but without any hint of arrogance or vanity. Her dark skin, black hair and the way she can say the rudest things without offending people. She’s got a vibe that everyone likes, and more than that, more than anything, Yasmine likes her and takes pleasure from her company.

Janey has a friend. A real friend.

SVEN SITS forlorn in his cabin and thinks about contacting his old boss and going back on a maintenance crew, but the thought of it repulses him. He’s fifty and too old to be crawling through access tunnels and delving into sewage pipes or being patronised by nuclear technicians because a fucking lightbulb has blown near one of the reactors. Besides, by the sound of it the job market will be flooded with cheap labour from the Elfors soon. Just his luck.

He feels crushed and broken. Jaded by life. Worn out from stress and worry about debts that only get worse. It’s been great having Janey, Sam and Yasmine in the café but if anything, it makes it worse because he’s about to lose the lot. What a shame. What an awful, tragic shame.

YASMINE WAKES TOO and forces herself to snap out of the funk of self-pity she slipped into last night while knowing this routine cannot stay as it is.

Her underwear is dirty. Her clothes marked and stained. She could put them into a public laundry service but that costs credits, and most of them want biometric linked wristband verification too.

She dresses in her last clean top and heads out to the toilets, buying a fizz ball and dragging a hairbrush through her hair while dreading the thought of more shoplifting. She could ask Sam to do that thing with her de-tagging software but even that feels wrong now.

‘Morning,’ she calls out to Sven, heading down the walkway to the café.

He lifts a hand but stays silent.

‘Coffee?’

‘Got one,’ he replies, staring ahead

She goes in, finding a clean stack of aprons. She ties one on then sets about tidying the kitchen area, thinking this is really what it’s like to have a normal life with a normal job. That weird mood comes back, but instead of feeling fear and worry she feels a strange warmness. Like a connection forming for these walls and the tables and chairs outside that she now knows so well. The flickering holo buttons on the coffee machine and the scent of Sven’s vapour hanging in the air.

Life is about decisions. Yasmine knows that. She could change direction now and simply not be a thief. She could help Sven set this up and get it going more. Or a new place. Maybe go into business with him. Then she could just hang out with Sam and Janey all the time. Like normal people do. Like people with friends do.

She forgets about the threat from Dmitri, and about the Elfors and the dead doctor. She forgets it all and allows the idea to spread that warmth a bit deeper, and she pauses as two men walk into view outside. The same two men she saw talking to Sven before.

They come to a stop next to Sven and she clocks the way they stand a little too close, looming over him with hands crossed in front. Smug smiles and dark clothes. Thugs trying to play nice. She hates both of them on sight with a surge of aggression rising inside.

‘Why are you here?’ Sven asks, his voice tight and hard.

‘Mr Carlson,’ one of the men says, that smarmy grin glued to his face. ‘We heard you’ve been busy.’

‘Question is, Mr Carlson,’ the second man says. ‘Have you been busy enough?’

‘I don’t think Mr Carlson can be busy enough,’ the first one says.

‘I would agree with you,’ the second one says.

‘Lads, I said I don’t have it,’ Sven says with a sigh. ‘I’ve got a month or so before you close me up.’

‘He thinks he has a plenty of time,’ the first man says.

‘I heard,’ the second one replies.

‘Perhaps we need to tell Mr Carlson we are worried he will run off and not pay.’

‘Perhaps we do need to tell him that,’ the second one says as Yasmine steps into the doorway sipping from her coffee mug with one hand on her hip.

‘And who is this charming young lady?’ the first man asks, looking at Yasmine with an overplayed double-take. ‘Staff? Mr Carlson? Are you employing staff now?’

‘She’s just…’ Sven starts to say.

‘Who are these two goat-fucking morons?’ Yasmine asks, making them both snap their heads over. ‘Are they trying to be like scary gangsters or something? Is that an actual double act? They’re like a pair of cunts. An actual pair of actual cunts. Don’t even look at me. Go fuck a goat. I’ve never heard anything so stupid in my life. Gangsters don’t talk like that.’

‘And who are you again?’ the first man asks.

‘And who are you again?’ Yasmine mimics, withering him on the spot with an intense surge of loyalty towards Sven.

‘Yasmine, don’t,’ Sven warns quietly.

‘Yasmine don’t my arse. I’m many things, Sven but I hate goat-fucking bullies that play at being gangsters. Bad people don’t do that. Bad people stick knives in your belly or break your bones. They don’t do witty back and forths trying to be all sinister and scary. We’ve heard you’re getting busy, Mr Carlson…seriously? Fuck off.’

‘Er, excuse me. We are here to talk with Mr Carlson,’ the first one says stiffly.

‘Yeah? He doesn’t want to talk to you so I suggest you go before I scrunch the fuck out of you and dump your corpses on a stairwell.’ She steps out, glaring with years of hard living showing on her face. Head up. Eyes fixed. Teeth showing. ‘Come back with paperwork, boys. Come back with the fucking police. Come back with a fucking big stick because if I see you again, I will seriously lose my shit. NOW FUCK OFF!’

‘Jesus, Yasmine,’ Sven groans, shaking his head at her as the debt collectors scurry away.

‘Well,’ she says, feeling the same wrath inside she felt when she saw Sam about to be hit by that guy in the retail zone that day. ‘Never heard anything like it.’

‘Remind me to never pick a fight with you. And goat-fuckers?

She shrugs, snorting a laugh.

‘Hi?’ a woman says, walking into the walkway. ‘We’re looking for the porridge place?’

‘Well good morning and hello,’ Yasmine says before Sven can answer. ‘Yes, Sven’s Eatery, the best porridge and jam in the fleet right here, made from a secret recipe that dates back generations to Sven’s ancestors on Earth.’

‘It does?’ Sven whispers.

‘It does now,’ she whispers back. ‘Go make porridge.’

Another morning with a solid steady flow of customers as word spreads of the new café with the funny waitress and the grumpy chef who rolls his eyes and tuts at everything she says. Once the lunchtime rush ends, Yasmine heads back into the café.

‘Listen, it’s gone quiet. Mind if I shoot off for an hour?’

‘You don’t work for me, Yasmine.’

‘That is a good point and well made. Anywho, I won’t be long. Think you can cope?’

‘I’m sure I will be fine. And, Yasmine?’

‘What?’ she asks, pausing in the doorway.

‘Apron,’ he says, nodding at her waist.

‘Duh, I was going to steal it for drugs,’ she says, untying it to throw at him. ‘Hour tops. Laters.’

She grabs her bag and heads on out into the retail zone, grimacing at the thought of stealing and another night in the service room. Maybe it’s time she asked Janey if she can kip down at hers, but no, that’s too much even for her.

She smiles on seeing the big holo projection in the centre section, watching the blue waters of the swimming pool and wishing she was there right now. Sam would so love going there and Sven could do with a break too, and how funny would it be getting drunk with Janey? She turns to leave and walks nose first into the chest of a man blocking her path.

‘Whoa, big fella,’ she says, pulling back to go around then blinking up in shock. ‘Guphy, oh my god. What are you doing up here?’ She shakes her head, stunned at the sight of him as her mind shunts up a gear.

‘Hi, Yassy,’ he says, his voice so deep and flat, so lacking in threat or venom that it makes her insides tense.

‘Are you lost, Guphy?’ she asks, half smiling before spotting Mad Eyes Ken at the side. ‘Shit, son. Who let you out?’

‘Funny,’ he says, trying to smile.

‘No, but seriously. Up here you just look wrong, Ken. You’ll scare children. How did you even get up? You’re both wanted by the police like fifty times over.’ She talks fast, thinking faster. Hustling for time, playing to gain an advantage. ‘And you Guphy Gupherson,’ she says, playfully poking his big belly. ‘No fatties up here -- you’ll get in trouble.’ She laughs, looking for escape routes as Ken moves in closer. ‘Anyway, listen boys. I’m on a job yeah, hush hush, mum’s the word. Gonna score big. Say hi to Dmitri and tell him I’ll be down soon to…’

‘You’ve been seen up here,’ Ken cuts in.

‘Wow, okay…and?’ she asks, the tension rising another notch, but she stays cool. Mocking them like she always does. ‘A lady needs to shop…or shoplift in my case, know what I mean? But seriously, fuck off. I’m working. Laters.’

‘You killed the Russian doc, Yassy,’ Guphy says, standing massive with his arms at his side like a gentle giant that wouldn’t hurt a fly. But Yasmine knows this man. She’s known him his whole life and the fear spikes.

‘I did what now?’ she asks, blinking at him then glancing at Ken.

‘Nice,’ Ken says at her reaction.

‘The doc,’ Guphy says and the way he speaks, the way he stares makes it so painfully obvious she shouldn’t lie.

She still pulls a face, clinging to the hope she can bluff her way out. ‘Nope, I think I would remember killing a doctor.’

Ken tuts, shaking his head side to side. ‘You not heard the news, Yassy?’

‘Okay, you guys are tripping and I am busy so…’ She stops talking as Ken flicks his wristband, bringing up a news report. She blinks at him. ‘What’s that?’

‘Read it,’ Ken says.

‘Jesus…’ she sighs, playing the game, playing her part and scanning the news report.

Fleet police have said the body is that of twenty-three year old ZhanZhin Lee, known locally as YinYan

YINYAN’S DEAD. The dealer on the stairwell she took the medications to. She frowns while her heart booms in her chest. ‘Sheesh, poor kid,’ she says. ‘YinYan eh? Man, that’s awful, but what’s that got to do with me?’

‘Jesus, Yassy,’ Ken says, his huge unblinking eyes fixed on her.

‘He told us,’ Guphy cuts in.

‘Told you what?’ she asks, shifting her weight, ready to flee and for the first time in her life she wishes a police patrol was right here.

‘Don’t, Yass,’ Guphy says. ‘Dmitri said you gotta see him.’

‘You killed a doctor you dumb fucking bitch,’ Ken whispers. ‘Then robbed him and tried selling his stuff to YinYan.’

‘Whoa lads, easy.’

‘Yass,’ Guphy says, shrugging his huge shoulders. ‘You gotta go see him.’

‘Okay whatever. Clearly some confusion here. Tell him I’ll be down later today.’

‘Gotta be now, Yass.’

‘Guphy, come on. We go back. Me and you, Guph. You slept in my tube when we were kids. Remember that?’

‘Yass,’ Guphy says, frowning.

‘You cried, Guph. I held you. Your mum died and…come on. We’ve got history.’

‘Gotta take you.’

‘I didn’t fucking kill him. He fell…like a heart attack or something. Please, Guph. Don’t do this. He’ll kill me, Guph. You know he will. He’ll strap me down.’

‘Yass, you know how it is,’ Guphy says.

She closes her eyes. The seriousness hitting. The absolute severity of the situation slamming home and she sags on the spot, breathing out slowly. ‘Yeah,’ she says quietly. ‘Yeah I know. Which stairwell?’

‘This one.’ Guphy turns as Ken lunges, reading the move a second too late as Yasmine runs, whipping past Guphy.

‘Fucking idiot,’ Ken snaps, running after her.

She goes fast. From static to sprinting and all the years of living in danger show true as the adrenalin dumps into her bloodstream, making her vision sharper, her reactions faster, her instincts honed. Round the holo display and a hard left down a walkway, veering round people out shopping. Another right. More people. She runs fast and swift.

‘YASSY!’ Ken’s voice behind her, his instincts as sharp as hers and now a predator giving chase to his prey in sight. The scent of blood in his nose because Mad Eyes Ken likes killing and it’s very rare he gets to kill someone as pretty as Yasmine.

Double doors on her right side and Yasmine goes in fast. Running into a shop would normally be a stupid idea but she knows this store has another set of doors opening onto another walkway and she runs for that, spinning around the display plinths and the people in her way, knocking an assistant over, spilling clothes and shoes across the floor and she trips, going down hard and grabs a shoe on her way back up, turning to throw it at Mad Eyes Ken, hitting him square in the face.

Out the door and she yelps, seeing Guphy in front of her facing the other way. She uses his broad back to bounce off and change direction as he spins and yells out, his huge arms swiping the air as Ken races into the walkway after her.

But then she’s spent the last few days up here. Learning these lanes and corners. Remembering escape routes and ways out. Clocking entrances while stealing clothes. Into another store and she grabs a rack of sport shirts, wrenching them down as Ken runs in behind, his feet snagging on the frame and clothes. She grabs more, pulling shelves and throwing anything she can get her hands on, bags, shoes and hats. Frantic and wild. Life and death.

She goes around a plinth and rams him from the side while he tries to get his foot free from being tangled and sends him sprawling as men and women gasp and cry out in shock.

She goes to run, thinking she’s gained seconds to make distance but a hand whips out, snagging her ankle and taking her down. She twists as she falls, landing hard on her back and already cycling her feet from years of dirty street fights and Ken lunges in, his head slamming back from her hard shoes. A crunch and his nose breaks, blood spraying out, prompting more cries. A guy rushes in from the side, seeing a woman being attacked by a man. He grabs Ken, heaving him away as Ken surges up with a vicious headbutt then a flurry of hits that drop the good Samaritan to lie bleeding and broken and if Ken had stopped then he could have grabbed Yasmine but rage takes over and he stamps down, breaking the guy’s arm and giving Yasmine time to scrabble up and out, running back into the walkway to the sight of Guphy just feet away.

She has to get out of here. She’d normally run for level 40 or Neon City, knowing those places like the back of her hands, every nook and cranny, every hidey hole and safe house but she can’t get past the guards like this and up here is not her home. She thinks of the service room with the broken lock but that means Ken and Guphy knowing where she is hanging out.

She runs hard. Lefts and rights, Ken not far behind. The blink of an eye. The beat of a heart. An idea forms. Not great but right now she will take anything because the alternative is being caught by Mad Eyes Ken, who will hurt her bad before killing her.

‘SAM!’ she yells, running full pelt into the concourse to see him spinning from his airlock and the advert for Sven’s Eatery glowing in the air. Her face flushed and sweating. Her hair wild.

‘What the…what’s happened?’ he asks, seeing the spatters of blood across her face. ‘Yasmine…what’s…’

‘Sam, I’m so sorry. I need somewhere to hide.’

‘Hide? In here?’

‘No, your cabin.’ She twists to look back. ‘Please, I’m so sorry. I’ve got to get out of here.’

A look of pure panic on her face and he tugs his wristband off to hand over.

‘Which one?’

‘58. Row G on 35. But…’

‘I wasn’t here, I…shit…so sorry.58 G 35.’

‘Should I call the police?’

‘No! Don’t tell anyone.’ She runs off and out of sight and he thinks, just for a second, that maybe she will rob his possessions. ‘I’M NOT ROBBING YOU,’ she yells, her voice moving away, and he blinks into the silence that follows and looks to the entrance on hearing footsteps, thinking she is coming back but instead staring at a guy with huge mad eyes running in to stop and look round while wiping blood from his busted nose as his chest heaves.

‘Where is she?’ he asks, pointing at Sam. ‘WHERE IS SHE?’

‘Um who?’ Sam asks innocently, backing up towards his control panel.

Ken draws air, sucking it in. ‘Woman, dark hair, looks like a whore. Where is she?’

‘Not seen anyone like that,’ Sam says.

‘She came in…’

Sam shrugs, flapping his hands out to motion the empty room about them.

‘Do not lie to me. I will open your stomach and…’ He stops the threat on seeing Sam holding one hand over a big red alarm button and the other to a sign on the wall. Big letters. Big words. The warning clear.

ANY INTERFERENCE WITH AIRLOCKS OR AIRLOCK SECURITY PERSONNEL WILL RESULT IN MAXIMUM FORCE BEING USED AGAINST YOU

THIS IS a spaceship and you do not fuck with airlocks. Sam stiffens, holding his hand just above the big red button and Ken snorts, clearing a glob of blood from his nose as he turns and stalks off.

Yasmine runs hard, Sam’s wristband on her arm. She hates doing it but needs must. She runs along a walkway, twisting and turning to see no Ken or Guphy ahead or behind. She checks the sides, passing other walkways. No sign of them and her nerves start to ease just a little.

The stairwell ahead. She pauses by a movie poster that blooms out to tell SAM GABLINKSI to watch THE LAST FEW. All clear. No sign of them. Run for the stairwell. Get down to 35. Row G. Cabin 58. Hide it out.

She moves fast, running swiftly to gain the stairs and the enormous fist hits her stomach so hard it takes her off her feet and back across into the railings as people scatter in alarm with raised voices and scared faces.

An explosion of pain in her guts. She can’t breathe. She cannot draw air but curls up, gasping and holding her belly. A hand on her arm lifting her up and through the pain and tears she sees the impassive face of Guphy Gupherson and right there she knows he will kill her and that the years of growing up together mean nothing. When his mum died, and he curled up in her arms. When he wet himself in the sleeping tube and soaked her legs and she washed him before herself. When she threatened the other boys to leave him alone and held a broken bottle to the throat of one. None of that matters now because if Guphy does not do what Dmitri wants then Guphy will be plant food too.

‘Sorry, Yassy,’ he says the words without meaning, and any doubt she had left vanishes and with absolute pain radiating in her whole body she scrabbles to pull the scalpel from her back pocket and sinks the blade into his chest. Guphy just blinks, staring down, but she does it again and again, crying out from the exertion while puckering his flesh and he growls, slamming her into the railings but she stabs and stabs and thrusts a knee into his groin, then slices across his face, cutting the bridge of his nose. He cries out, incensed and slams her again, ragging her backwards and forwards but she stabs and claws, drawing blood with each one and stamps on his feet, kicking his shins and doing everything possible to rid his grip. He finally sags for a second, intending to pull his arm back and punch her down but she drops and crawls through his legs, stabbing at his thighs then rushes to surge down the next flight of steps, tripping and falling down. Everything blurred and crazy. Snatched views. Frantic and hard.

Down another flight. She still cannot breathe. It hurts so bad. The pain doubles her over. Down again. Another platform. Another flight and she spills out onto level 35, crying and sobbing, heaving to try and get air. People muttering in alarm as she runs bent over, staggering along the tops of the rows, snatching glimpses until she spots row G and turns in. She falls again, hurting her knees, hurting her hands. Up and on. Vomit rising in her throat. Her eyes burning.

Numbers swishing by. So many. She won’t make it. Ken will find her. Guphy will come. They’ll see her.

Cabin 58. Right there. She staggers towards it, lurching and bouncing off walls and tripping into the flowers and plants. To the door and a frantic second of waving the wristband while her gut fills with dread at the belief Guphy and Ken are right behind her. Reaching out. Ready to drag her down the stairwell. She whimpers and panics, pawing at the door without any realisation she is completely alone in the row.

The door opens. She falls in and crawls across the cabin, her mind frantic. Vomit rising inside. Tears spilling down her cheeks. Blood dripping from the cuts on her body and the spray-back from slicing Guphy. She reaches the base of the sleeping tube and slams a hand into the control panel. A toilet pushes out. Stainless steel and she clings to the rim, heaving into the bowl as the pain intensifies. Sobbing hard. Sobbing alone.

A broken, homeless thief covered in blood.

CHAPTER TWENTY

‘Hey, Sven,’ Janey says, ducking down at her desk as she speaks into the holo vid at the miniaturised form of Sven in his café.

‘Janey, how’s work?’ he asks, smiling broadly in a way that lights his face up.

‘Is it okay calling? Like, honestly just say if it’s…’

‘No! No, it’s fine, of course it’s fine.’

‘I’m so bored. God, I can’t stand it here now. So wish I was there. Has it been busy?’

‘Nuts. Quiet spell now but we’ve worked out the shuttle timings now with tourists.’

‘Oh! So yeah, that makes sense. You get busy when the next shuttle comes in. That’s great. It means you can plan for the busy periods. Oh,’ she groans, pulling a sad face. ‘I miss it.’

‘Come down later. Or take time off if you can…’

‘Do you really mean that?’

‘Sure, it’s great you being here.’

‘You’re so sweet. Remember to smile too, that smile…that one right there, Mr Carlson. It makes you look so much better.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ he says, smiling self-consciously. ‘Did you want Yasmine? She’s gone shopping.’

‘Mr Carlson, a moment of your time please.’

A deep voice snaps Sven’s head up from behind the counter to wince at the sight of the two debt collectors and a uniformed Fleet cop.

‘Sven? What’s wrong?’

‘Yeah listen, Janey. I need to go. Speak in a bit,’ he shuts the feed off, standing straighter. ‘What?’

‘Where’s the woman that threatened us?’ the first one asks.

‘Are you being serious? You bought a cop here because someone shouted at you?’

‘No matter, Mr Carlson. We tried to be reasonable. This is a legal notice that requires full possession of your premises, stock and equipment in good working order in seven days.’

‘A week? I had a month! You said I had a month. You can’t fucking do this.’

‘That was before you threatened official fleet collection agents. One week, and of course you will still owe us back-dated rent, plus interest and our fees.’

‘You know what lads? She was right, you are a pair of goat-fucking twats…get the fuck out of my café.’

‘GO ON…JUST GO,’ Sam urges quietly, staring through the glass to the shuttle still docked and coupled. The last one of the day and he needs it gone so he can finish. ‘Finally!’

He shuts down and rushes back through the retail zone, spotting a few fleet police officers patrolling here and there. He did think about calling Sven or Janey using his work system, but Yasmine said no police and somehow it felt wrong including them too.

‘Sven’ he calls out, running into the café walkway to see Sven sat outside. The lights off. The chairs all empty and Sven sitting alone puffing on his vape-stick. ‘You seen Yasmine?’

‘Nope,’ Sven says, staring ahead.

Sam stops, sensing not all is well. ‘You okay, Sven?’

‘Yep.’

‘Okay. I’ll catch you in a bit.’

Sam hurries on to the stairwell and down to his level, wishing he was fitter and could run further, and by the time he reaches his cabin he’s breathing hard with sweat shining on his face.

‘Yasmine,’ he calls softly, knocking the door. ‘It’s Sam,’ Nothing. No response.

He taps the small control panel on the door and leans in. ‘Sam Gablinksi, wristband misplaced. Bio entry.’

A camera lens extends, scanning his iris while his cabin interface runs voice recognition and his door slides back as Sam balks at the sight. Blood smeared on the floor and walls leading a trail to Yasmine curled up next to his toilet.

‘Yasmine!’ he runs to her side, dropping down. ‘Are you hurt? What happened? Yasmine?’

She stirs, murmuring softly. Blood all over her hands and up her arms. Across her face and clothes. On his floor and the side panels of his cabin. On his toilet. Her eyes blink open then shut again as she curls up, wincing at the pain in her belly.

‘I’ll call med services,’ he says, swiping his naked wrist then remembering she has his wristband.

She stirs again, whispering hoarsely. ‘Don’t call anyone.’

‘But...’

‘I’m fine. It’s not all my blood.’

‘What the…okay, what happened?’

She gasps for air, wincing at the pain radiating in her body. ‘Can…’

‘What? What do you need? Are you thirsty?’ he asks, seeing her dry lips. She nods once and he moves away, filling a beaker from the water valve and goes back, helping her to sit up while she paws at her pockets, weak and almost drunk in the way she moves.

‘Pills.’

‘Pills? Where? In your pocket. Okay, hang on. These ones? How many?’ She holds two fingers up, her body resting against his. ‘Two? Okay, open your mouth, there’s the first one. Water? Got it? Second one. That’s it; drink some more water. Please let me call med services.’

‘No,’ she says again, forcing power into her voice. ‘Promise me…’ It hurts to breathe, it hurts to sit. It hurts so much and the tears stream down her cheeks. ‘Promise me…’ she says again, clinging onto him as the sobs come hard, racking her body.

‘I promise,’ he whispers, feeling wretched and hopeless.

JANEY STARES AT THE HIPPO. Humiliated. Degraded. She swallows and thinks to look away but looking anywhere else will bring her sniggering co-workers into her line of sight. Tears threaten to fall but she blinks them away. A lump in her throat. A feeling of dread in her gut mixed with a need to get angry, except she can’t, and so she simply stares at it until the end of the working day comes and she walks out of work. Striding down the stairwell and across the ship to the walkway and Sven outside his closed café sitting alone.

She sits next to him. Neither of them speaking. Both staring ahead. The lights off and the shadows dark.

‘Yasmine’s still out,’ Sven says at length, his voice dull and low.

Janey nods.

‘How’s work?’ he asks, detecting the vibe coming from her.

She shrugs and stares ahead. ‘I can’t do it anymore.’

‘Do what?’

‘Work.’

Sven pauses, inhaling deeply from his vape. ‘Fair enough.’

‘I went to the toilet and came back to a holo image of a fat hippo on my desk.’

Sven turns to look at her, blinking in the darkness.

‘It had ginger hair and FGG on its belly.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Do? I can’t do anything.’

‘Kick off. Get mad. Find who did it and smash their face into a desk.’

She finally turns to look at him. He shrugs. ‘That’s what we did in the crews.’

‘We have a non-aggression policy. They hide behind it. Anyone can say anything and you can’t react without being accused of being aggressive.’

‘Really? Man, that sucks.’

‘It does suck and I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t.’

‘I’d say you could work here but I’m being evicted in a week.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Couldn’t pay the rent, or anything else. Now I owe too much. I did have longer but Yasmine called the debt collectors a pair of goat-fucking twats and chased them down the walkway.’

Janey stares at him, listening intently. ‘That does sound like Yassy. Wish I could do that.’

‘It was quite funny actually. She’s fearless, I’ll say that for her.’

SAM SITS in silence as the evening grows late, gently stroking Yasmine’s hair until his legs become numb from her being slumped across his lap.

He checks her pulse because stroking the hair of a dead girl would be weird even for Sam. He even pokes her shoulder to make her murmur which suggests she’s not unconscious either, because even that might be a bit weird. He is, however, quite comfortable with the act of stroking her hair if she is merely asleep.

He really has to move though. He can’t feel his feet and starts worrying he’ll lose control of bodily functions and pee will come out. He starts shuffling and working to get his arms under her body because he can do nearly ten press ups now so lifting a fully grown woman from the floor will be super easy.

Her body stays floppy as he gently shunts this way and that, trying to roll her down and heave her off as his wristband chimes with an incoming call. He looks to his wrists, seeing it’s not there, then spots it on Yasmine’s arm as her wrist brushes against his side, which answers the call.

‘Shit!’ he yelps, ducking down out of view as Janey blooms into the air.

‘Sam? Are you okay? What’s going on?’

‘Nothing!’ he lifts up, grinning with a red sweaty face and nodding too fast while still trying to roll Yasmine down his dead legs. His face contorting with the pain and exertion.

‘Are you having sex? I think he’s having sex.’

‘Are they?’ Sven asks, his face looming into sight.

‘What! No! I’m…wanking.’

‘Wanking?’ Janey asks.

‘Working!’ Sam shouts. ‘Like working out: exercise and…shush,’ he whispers when Yasmine murmurs and throws a hand up to slap across his face.

‘Is that Yasmine? Is she there with you? Sven said she went shopping.’

‘What workout are you doing, Sam?’ Sven asks.

‘Yeah she’s like asleep and…I’m like, you know, doing this CrossFit thing from the net. You know, star jumps and stuff.’

‘Yasmine’s there?’ Janey asks.

‘Yep. Like fast asleep right now. Really sleepy. Super sleepy, really super sleepy and…’

‘Right,’ Janey says, frowning a little.

‘I used to do CrossFit, Sam,’ Sven says. ‘Do some box-jumps. They’re good for you.’

‘Will do!’ Sam says with Yasmine fully on his ankles which despite being numb a few seconds ago now hurt like hell.

‘And burpees. Do burpees.’

‘Burpees. Got it. Better go bye!’ he shouts, reaching for Yasmine’s arm to end the call and an awkward few seconds go by with Janey and Sven’s holo forms warping in size with Sam still smiling. ‘CrossFit! High five on that.’

‘Bye, Sam,’ Janey says. ‘He is so masturbating.’

The call cuts off and Sam groans, sagging for a second. It hurts though. Wow, she’s really heavy.

He heaves and grapples while the veins bulge in his neck and forehead. Another gulp of air and he surges up to be heroic and lift her in his arms while bringing his right foot up to stand properly but the ankle turns, and he goes down, throwing Yasmine into the sofa. She bounces off and slides across his table before falling in a heap as he sinks down from his legs giving way and stares over with wide eyes. ‘That wasn’t mean to happen.’

‘What the fuck!’ Yasmine shouts. Wide awake in an instant. Her eyes snapping open. Where is she? Underpants on the floor. Wristbands and tools. She’s been kidnapped. She’s in a seedy bar in Neon City. Dmitri’s got her. She’s going to be strapped down or killed. Pain in her head, in her body, adrenalin pumping. A man groaning on the floor nearby. ‘PERVERT,’ she shouts out, staggering to her feet to kick him in the shins. ‘KIDNAPPER.’

‘What the fuck! Ow!’

‘WHERE AM I?’ she screams out, kicking him again, buying time to escape, looking without seeing. Rage on her face. ‘KIDNAPPER!’

‘I tripped! My feet are numb,’ he wails, trying to dodge her kicks.

‘What?’ she kicks again as something in her head tells her to stop kicking Sam. ‘Sam?’ she asks, looking at the pair of underpants in her hand then back to him. ‘Wow, headfuck. Why are you down there?’

‘Cos you’re kicking me, and my feet are numb and I tripped and threw you across the room but you bounced off my sofa.’

She pushes her hair back from her face, eyes wide, heart booming. ‘That sounds entirely normal.’ She draws a breath and looks around again before peering at him groaning and writhing. ‘Okay, stop being a girl and get up.’

‘Can’t. It hurts.’

‘What hurts?’

‘Everything.’

‘Such a baby, wow. Is this your cabin? It’s messy. Single guy though, yeah figures. I feel like shit. I need sleep. Where’s your sleeping tube?’

‘Where they normally are.’

‘Don’t get snappy. Okay, I got it.’ She thumps the panel, making the tube slide out into the cabin. ‘Sam, get up.’

‘My legs are dead.’

‘Your head will be dead if you don’t get up. That’s it. Up we go.’ She heaves back as he rises, half bracing and leaning on her while she fights the nausea and dizziness.

‘What happened?’ he gasps.

‘You threw me across your cabin and I kicked you in the shins.’

‘No, before.’

‘Talk later okay. Get on the bed.’

‘It’s too high.’

‘Stop being a baby. Get on the damn bed,’ she says, pushing at his arse to get him fully on. ‘Move…move! Sam you fat shit.’

‘Half of my body is dead right now, Yasmine.’

‘Half of my body is dead right now, Yasmine.’ She climbs up and over him, her vision blurring, her head spinning more and more. A knee in his stomach. An elbow in his face and she turns to hook his leg up. ‘Bed in…’ she gasps but nothing happens. ‘BED IN. Fuck’s sake. Sam, say bed in.’

‘Bed in,’ Sam mumbles and the bed responds to his voice, sliding back into the tube, enclosing them within the confines as she flops down at his side, her chest heaving, her eyes squeezed shut.

‘Why are you in here?’ Sam asks.

‘You said I could hide here.’

‘My tube not the cabin.’

‘Listen pal, you just launched me across the room so fuck you am I sleeping on a sofa covered in your dirty underwear. Go to sleep and don’t try and sex me.’

‘My dick’s numb.’

‘What? Why is your dick numb?’

‘Cos you slept across my lap and I didn’t want to move you so I hacked Med Services and did a body scan thing to make sure you weren’t dead but you’re like way heavier than you look and…’

‘Okay stop explaining. Go to sleep. Were you stroking my head?’

‘Yeah but you weren’t dead, so it wasn’t weird.’

‘Yeah sure. Not weird at all.’

‘It’s therapeutic.’

‘Do it again then,’ she says grabbing his hand to put on her head. ‘What a fucking day.’

‘I still can’t feel my feet.’

‘You’ll be fine. Listen, I need you to link someone else’s wristband to me so I can break into somewhere.’

‘And my legs. They’re like completely dead.’

‘And then get me into a computer system so I can steal a ton of credits and get off this ship before they kill me. Keep stroking my head.’

‘I thought I might piss myself.’

‘Don’t piss yourself. Guphy Gupherson used to piss on me and he tried to kill me tonight and I really don’t want to get beaten up and pissed on in one day.’

‘What if my blood supply is permanently damaged?’

‘You’re fine. Stop being a baby. Do you want to come with me to the Ab-Spa when I leave here?’

‘Won’t be able to walk.’

‘Fuck’s sake. Go to sleep, Sam.’

‘Can’t sleep. I’m paralysed.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The morning after the night before and Sam Gablinski wakes in his sleeping tube and immediately becomes aware of several things.

He is no longer paralysed.

Yasmine is not in the tube with him.

There is a steamy wet heat hanging in the air.

There are voices talking. One of which is Yasmine. The other is Janey.

He really needs to pee.

He really, really needs to pee.

‘Whoa just slow down, Janey. You can’t just quit a perfectly good job.’

‘I’m not going back. I’m not.’

‘They must have a procedure to report bullying.’

‘It doesn’t work like that and I’ll be even more hated. I’m just sick of it. Meeting you has opened my eyes and…’

‘Me?! I didn’t do anything.’

‘Just the way you are. You’ve got this sense of freedom and…anyway, enough of that. Why are you at Sam’s? Did we call when you were having sex last night?’

‘What?’

‘When we called. Sam was all red faced and said he was working out. Sven thought he said wanking but…’

‘He was stroking something all right,’ Yasmine mutters. ‘Anyway, go to the café. We’ll talk there. Do not quit your job until we speak. Laters.’ She ends the call, poking her tongue out while thinking fast as Sam drops out of his sleeping tube to stand bleary eyed and sleepy with wild hair and lines across his face.

She looks over from his sofa, a wet towel wrapped around her body and her hair slicked down her back. ‘Aw you’re a cutey in the morning,’ she laughs. ‘Your shower is just amazing. No restriction -- did you hack it? I had the longest soak and wow to you for being a hero yesterday and not trying to have sex with me, although Janey and Sven think we were either having sex or you were masturbating when they called.’

Sam blinks, too sleepy to process it all.

‘And thanks for throwing me across your room too, that was nice. Wanna see all my bruises? I’m like a medical marvel right now: still got these on my legs, and look at my bum cheeks, bruised like a peach and then my belly is bad. Hang on, I’ll open the towel a bit -- see? And my ribs and my arms and my neck here -- where are you going?’

‘Shower,’ he blurts, rushing into the corner to stop seeing so much of her body and both giving the answer and requesting the panels at the same time that drop out to form the cubicle. He tugs at his belt, grimacing at sleeping in his work trousers all night and starts tugging them down, using his feet to free himself as Yasmine stares at his backside.

‘Sam?’

‘Huh?’

‘See-through, Sam.’

‘What is? FUCK! OPAQUE,’ he shouts, covering his groin with his hands as the panels turn instantly dark, blotting her view of his naked bum.

‘I saw your willy. Oh and I changed the temperature.’

‘OH MY GOD THAT’S SO HOT.’

‘It’s not that hot. Have you got a mirror anywhere?’

‘NO.’

‘Why are you shouting?’

‘USE A BAND.’

‘What band?’

‘ANY OF THEM.’

‘Oh these ones on the floor from where you launched me across the room? Ah okay, they’re not locked. Gotcha.’ She sits back, opening a selfie video projection to stare at her own 3D digital reflection, turning her head to take in the bruises and the puffy lines under her eyes before finding her bag that she doesn’t remember bringing back last night and getting to work with the digital make-up stick, selecting the thickness of eye-liner and mascara and how long it should last before the molecular structure breaks down and fades out. ‘Do you have music?’

‘RADIO ON,’ Sam shouts, the water temperature now reduced to a level that doesn’t remove the outer layers of his skin.

She pauses as the air fills with music from a crappy modern synth tune filling the air. ‘Can you change it please? I hate synth tracks.’

‘Change,’ Sam calls and the music changes instantly to another crappy modern synth tune.

‘Nope, can you change it again please?’

‘Change,’ Sam says.

‘Nope,’ Yasmine says.

‘Change,’ Sam says.

‘Nope.’

‘Fuck’s sake. Access system settings. Add voice recognition of second party to user interface. Say something.’

‘Hello!’ Yasmine says, squinting at her digital make-up applicator

‘Add voice of Yasmine to the system.’

‘Voice of Yasmine added,’ an automated voice replies.

‘Aw thanks. Change the radio,’ she calls, smiling when it changes. ‘Find rock music from Earth. Like some grungy stuff. Yeah and turn it up, soundproof the cabin too. Oh and make it hotter in here, and deflate the sofa by fifteen percent.’ She pauses, wriggling her bum as the sofa softens. ‘Deflate by another five percent. Perfect. And change the window so I can see out, and set the toilet to self-clean and increase the lighting in my section and bed out, bed in, bed out, bed in, and make the shower water hotter…’

‘FUCK!’

‘Sam? Are these bands linked to FleetBook?’

‘You need an account to look for someone properly. Shower off. I think I’ve lost an actual layer of skin. Airjets on.’

‘Do you airdry? I prefer a towel.’

‘You’re wearing my towel.’

‘How can I find someone in FleetBook then?’

‘Use my account. It should be open on one of those bands. Can you pass me some clothes please?’

‘Yep, hang on. Can I borrow a shirt?’

He takes the clothes and starts dressing in the tight space while she tugs a shirt on and sits down with it still unbuttoned to swipe at various wristbands until one blooms up with the Fleetbook user interface. ‘Search Mahatma Goudier. Yes! Sam, you genius. I could bloody kiss you.’

Sam dresses, lifting his eyebrows hoping to hell she isn’t still wearing the too small towel then realises she is trying to cyberstalk that same woman she was searching for the first time he met her. Then he remembers what she said last night about wristband linking and stealing and going to the Ab-Spa and the man with the mad eyes in the port concourse and then he remembers all the questions she kept asking Janey and finally the lightbulbs start pinging one after the other.

‘Are you robbing the financial services centre?’

‘No.’

‘Oh,’ he says, feeling quite sure he’d worked it out.

‘We are,’ she adds.

‘Oh,’ Sam says again, his head filling with lots of thoughts all at the same time but the main thing holding his focus is the view of Yasmine sitting in an unbuttoned white shirt on his sofa. ‘Um…’

‘Um what?’ she asks, poking the tip of her tongue out while jabbing and swiping the air to view more images of Mahatma. She glances up to see him now facing the other way and frowns until she spots her open shirt and the view of her bra and rolls her eyes. ‘Come on, handsome, let’s get you out of this steamy air shall we.’

‘YASMINE,’ Sam says a few minutes later as they walk along his row towards the stairwell. ‘I have questions.’

‘What questions do you have?’

‘Pretty much all of them. Why are you robbing the financial services centre?’

‘I’m not. I said we are.’

‘Right. So, on that point…’

She stops, folds her arms and lifts an eyebrow while waiting expectantly.

He stops too, blowing air from his cheeks and nodding slowly. ‘Um, it’s just that, like, so you know.’

‘What?’

‘Robbery is bad.’

‘Okay.’

‘Well. That’s it really.’

‘That’s your main concern. That robbery is bad.’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. How can I alleviate that concern?’

‘Like…’ he rubs his chin, frowning at her. ‘Maybe explain how you’re robbing the financial services centre, why we’re robbing the financial services centre and how the hell I am now robbing the financial…’

‘Stop saying financial services centre.’

‘So…basically. How, why, what for and why am I in it? Doing it. Here. With you. And why did someone with buggy eyes try and kill you?’

‘Who is your best friend?’ she asks.

‘A suicide booth on the back of level 30 near the shops.’

‘Wow, you said that so quickly. Are you even joking?’

‘We chat. It’s cool. She digs me.’

‘That is exactly why we are robbing the fleet financial services centre.’

‘You said to stop calling it that.’

‘Your best friend is a serial killing liquidising plant feeder that rips the organs from the bodies it kills before putting the remains in a tiny jar that gets flown to the ark and spread like manure.’

‘Stop distracting me with your womanliness. Why are we robbing the finan…that place?’

‘Womanliness? Dude you are so horny.’

‘What? I am not. You fluttered your eyes at me.’

‘I blinked, Sam. And you woke up with an erection.’

‘I needed a wee!’

‘Whatever. We’re robbing it because I may or may not have accidentally killed and robbed a dead Russian doctor, so I really need to not be here now because the man that used to piss on me when we were kids and his psychotic friend with the buggy eyes are going to find and kill me because I won’t prostitute for their boss who also happens to be the man that took money to protect that dead Russian doctor who I accidentally robbed and killed.’

She stops to draw air and holds a hand up to signify she is still talking. ‘Just like they tried to do yesterday. By the way thanks for totally saving my life, and you’re doing it with me because you just admitted your best friend is a suicide booth and your life is painfully empty, plus you fancy me and I am totally exploiting you for that. But,’ she adds before he can speak, ‘you are cute and maybe one day you can see my boobs or something. And if you only absorb the mention of boobs from this entire conversation then you’re a dick.’

Sam nods, showing a serious, contemplative expression.

‘You’re totally thinking of my boobs aren’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ he admits.

She tuts, rolls her eyes. ‘Are you in or out?’

‘In.’

‘Thought you might be. Right, come on. We need to stop Janey quitting her job.’

‘Whoa!’

‘What now?’ she asks, exasperated.

‘Are we using Janey?’

‘Fuck me. Yes, I was using Janey but now I really like Janey and I do not want her to do anything bad, and no, she is not going to be in trouble for anything we do. I promise,’ she says, holding her hands up to emphasise her point. ‘But we need to get cracking because of Guphy, the guy that pissed on me, and Mad Eyes Ken, his mate.’

‘Oh I saw him,’ Sam says, waving a hand at Yasmine. ‘Got weird eyes,’ he adds, pointing at his own face.

‘Yeah that’s why they call him Mad Eyes Ken. Clue is in the name really. Anyway, they’ll be keeping a low profile for a few days, but Dmitri, the gangster man that wants to prostitute me and now has to kill me to show he can offer protection in his sections -- he’ll send them back. So we really need to get cracking.’

‘Right,’ Sam says, rushing to catch up as she strides off. ‘How are we doing it then?’

‘I’m going somehow to steal Mahatma Goudier’s wristband and you are going to somehow link it to me -- but so the system in the financial services centre thinks I am her and I will dress like her and go in and steal lots of credits…’

‘So I’m not a master criminal or anything but it doesn’t seem to be the most well-developed plan?’

‘Work in progress.’

‘How are you going to get her wristband?’

‘Work in progress.’

‘And how are you going to steal the credits?’

‘I just said it’s a work in progress.’

‘What about after?’

‘Then boom! We skip town or get a shuttle and fly off to another ship. Now, our ultimate goal is the Ab-Spa, but I think we might need to go to another ship or two first to muddy our tracks, if you know what I mean, and then eventually end up at the Ab-Spa.’

‘And then what?’

‘Get massages. Eat nice food. Get drunk.’

‘And then what?’

‘I don’t know! We’ll figure it out.’

‘Right. So it all seems to hinge on you stealing a wristband, sneaking into a secure place, accessing a computer system though you can’t even use FleetBook that well, and all this before travelling to lots of ships so we can get a massage and get drunk.’

‘I know right. How cool is that? We’re almost at the café so game faces on. Go back to doing the dopey, shy, sweet thing you do. Yeah that.’

‘I haven’t done anything yet.’

‘And don’t mention our master-plan or anything about our master-plan.’

‘Master-plan? It’s not a master-plan.’

‘Glass half-full, Samuel. Anyway, do you have a better master-plan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh really. Go on then. Amaze me with your advanced thievery skills.’

‘We aim for crypto-code that hasn’t been converted into credits and pass it through a load of different accounts all set up with different bank providers on different ships that all have different rules ,and we slowly convert them into credits using different systems and pay them into more accounts that pass on and on until they reach the new identities we have created. This negates buying and selling anything and can all be done while we get the massages.’

She looks at him thoughtfully, lifting an eyebrow. ‘Keep that up my boy and you’ll be doing more than looking at my boobs.’

He blinks.

‘Sam, I am so sorry. I sounded like a complete whore then. I didn’t mean I am paying you with boobs. I’m not a prostitute; I really like you.’

He blinks again, his head spinning. ‘I really like you too.’

‘Okay, so it’s all good. We’re all good. I’m not a whore. You’re a genius and together we’re criminal masterminds. Coffee?’

‘Hi,’ Janey says, rising from the table as they head into the side walkway to see the holo closed-sign glowing outside the cafe and a cloud of vapour hanging over Sven’s head. ‘So Sven’s café is being shut in a week because you called the men goat fucking twats but Sven said that was funny and he’s totally not angry or anything.’

‘I’m not angry,’ Sven says.

‘And I’m quitting my job because the people I work with are utter cunts.’ She grins widely, happy as anything with a slightly manic expression. ‘And how are you? Did you enjoy your shopping trip?’

‘Ah you know, I got chased about by two henchmen who work for a dangerous gangster and ran to hide in Sam’s cabin just as one of them punched me in the belly and pretty knocked me out but it was fine because Sam stroked my hair and[ masturbated before throwing me at his sofa while his dick went numb but it still works because he woke up with an erection.]’

‘We’re not stealing anything,’ Sam blurts.

‘Great,’ Janey says, still manic.

‘I thought he was wanking,’ Sven says. ‘I said he was wanking, Janey.’

‘I wasn’t wanking,’ Sam says.

‘Starjumps yeah, Sam?’ Sven asks.

‘Starjumps,’ Sam says.

‘Great,’ Janey says again.

‘Coffee?’ Sven asks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Four coffees next to four bowls and they sit in a circle at one of the tables blowing on their spoons of porridge and jam.

‘Made it a bit hot, sorry,’ Sven says.

‘S’fine,’ Yasmine says. ‘Sam likes the heat.’

‘I don’t like the heat,’ Sam says.

‘And wanking,’ she adds.

‘I wasn’t wanking!’

‘The more you say it the less we believe you,’ Yasmine says.

‘Nothing wrong with masturbation, Sam,’ Sven says.

‘Well, stroking Yasmine’s hair at the same time is a bit weird,’ Janey says, blowing on her spoon.

‘I wasn’t wanking!’ Sam snaps as the titters and snorts roll around the table. ‘Yasmine was unconscious on my legs so I was trying to push her off.’

‘Why were you unconscious on Sam’s legs?’ Janey asks.

‘I told you. I got belly punched and passed out in Sam’s cabin.’

‘No but why?’ Janey asks.

‘Why was I in Sam’s cabin or why was I belly punched?’

‘Both,’ Janey replies.

‘I was belly punched because some bad people want to do bad things because they think I did a bad thing and the baddest one of them all now has to kill me or make me into a prostitute.’

‘Oh,’ Janey says, blowing on her spoon.

‘And I hid in Sam’s cabin cos I was panicking and didn’t want to lead them back here.’

‘Oh,’ Janey says again. ‘What was the bad thing?’

‘Which bad thing?’

‘Any of the bad things.’

‘There were lots of bad things.’

‘The bad thing they think you did.’

Yasmine frowns. ‘I think I’m confused now. How’s the porridge?’

‘Hot and you’re being declinatory. What was the bad thing?’

‘What the hell is that word you just used?’

‘Declinatory.’

‘Sounds like something Sam would do while stroking my hair. Joking, sorry. Anyway, so what’s all this about you quitting your job?’

‘Told you,’ Sven says.

‘You did,’ Janey says. ‘Sven said that you’d avoid answering questions and change the subject.’

‘Yay you for, Sven,’ Yasmine says. ‘So those goat fuckers came back?’

‘She’s doing it again,’ Sven says.

‘Declinatory,’ Janey says.

‘What did they say?’ Yasmine asks.

‘Shutting me down because I owe so much,’ Sven says.

‘What was the bad thing?’ Janey asks Yasmine.

‘Oh so listen to this,’ Yasmine says urgently. ‘Guess what Sam’s done? He’s removed the restriction on his shower. How cool is that?’

‘That so you can wank longer, Sam?’ Sven asks.

‘So what’s going on with your work, Janey?’ Yasmine asks.

‘Yasmine!’ Janey snaps.

‘What?!’

‘Right,’ Janey says, putting her spoon down to fold her arms over her bosoms. ‘Who are you and what is going on?’

‘Who am I?’ Yasmine asks. ‘What kind of…’

‘No!’ Janey cuts across her with a glare. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You’re wriggling like a worm on a hook right now, Yasmine,’ Sven points out helpfully.

‘Go suck a dick, Sven.’

‘Don’t get shitty,’ Janey says.

‘I said she would,’ Sven says.

‘Oh you know everything,’ Yasmine mutters.

‘She’s doing it now,’ Sven says.

‘Fine! I killed a man and robbed him. Happy now?’ she blurts, instantly regretting it as soon as the words come out.

‘Jesus,’ Janey says. ‘I wasn’t quite expecting that. I thought maybe you stole something.’

‘Yeah me too,’ Sven says. ‘Really didn’t think she was a murderer. I really didn’t think you were a murderer, Yasmine.’

‘I heard you the first time, Sven, and it wasn’t like that.’

‘Who did you murder?’ Janey asks. ‘Was it a desperate knife fight in an alley?’

‘No!’ Yasmine says. ‘Christ, Janey, and stop saying murder.’

‘Oh they have to stop saying murder,’ Sam says. ‘But they can say wank as many times as they want.’

‘Wanking and murder are two entirely different things, Sam,’ Yasmine tells him.

‘They are, Sam,’ Sven says.

‘Your life is so exciting,’ Janey says.

‘Janey!’

‘But it is. You’re on the run and hiding out. That’s so cool.’

‘It’s really not. Listen, you guys cannot say a word about what I just blurted out. Seriously, I’ll be killed. These are very dangerous people. Actually, I shouldn’t have said it. Fuck me, I am such an idiot. I can’t keep my mouth shut. I need to go.’

‘Sit down,’ Sven says, waving his hand as Yasmine starts to rise with a wince at the pain shooting through her stomach.

‘I don’t know you. You might sell me out or-- look, I’m just going to go, okay? Janey, don’t quit your job and Sven, I am so sorry about your café and your business closing. Sam? Up to you.’ She blinks at seeing him already on his feet. ‘Oh my god are you that desperate to see my boobs?’

‘Pardon?’ Janey asks.

‘Yasmine, sit down. We’re not ratting you out,’ Sven says.

‘Why is Sam seeing your boobs?’ Janey asks.

‘It’s in the master-plan,’ Sam says.

‘What’s the master-plan?’ Janey asks.

Yasmine goes to speak, to snap and argue and storm off, but sits down and sags and eats porridge instead.

‘Um, so are we not going now?’ Sam asks.

‘No,’ Yasmine says.

Sam sits down.

‘Wow, there are just so many things happening right now,’ Janey says into the silence while they eat porridge. ‘My life was so boring before I met all of you and now we’re talking about murder and wanking and master-plans. I love it.’

‘Okay we need to forget the murder and the master-plan,’ Yasmine says firmly.

‘And the wanking,’ Sam says firmly.

‘What is the master-plan?’ Janey asks.

‘I just said we’re forgetting about it,’ Yasmine replies.

‘Ooh, is it how to dispose of the body of the person you murdered? Like bring him here to cook and eat him or something.’

‘Eat him?’ Sven asks.

‘That’s dark,’ Sam says.

‘You’re in no position to judge anyone,’ Janey says, pointing her spoon at Sam.

‘She’s right. Stop being judgmental,’ Yasmine says.

‘So who did you murder and what’s the master-plan?’ Janey asks.

‘I think the murder and the master-plan might not be connected,’ Sven says.

‘Do you know the master-plan?’ Janey asks him. ‘Am I the only one who doesn’t know the master-plan?’

‘Sven doesn’t know anything,’ Yasmine says.

‘I don’t know anything,’ Sven tells Janey. ‘Apart from what I worked out from Yasmine being the worst thief ever and practically telling anyone who will listen that she’s planning on impersonating your boss to break in and steal credits from the financial services centre.’

‘What?’ Yasmine snaps.

‘What?’ Janey snaps.

‘I didn’t tell him,’ Sam says.

‘It’s obvious,’ Sven says, oblivious to their reactions. ‘Hey Janey, do your wristbands link to your systems automatically? Do you need to log in? Does Mahatma have the same days off? What’s the quietist day in your offices? What time do they open? What time do they close?’

‘Sven!’ Yasmine shouts, glaring at him.

‘Is that true?’ Janey asks, the blood draining from her face.

‘She’s going to get Sam to hack his way into that Mahatma’s wristband,’ Sven carries on, shaking his head while pushing his spoon through his porridge. ‘How anyone could not work that out is just…’

‘Is that true, Yasmine?’ Janey asks, her voice now so soft, so fragile.

‘Sven, you utter cunt. Janey, listen to me.’

‘I would just like to know if it is true, please,’ Janey says primly.

‘Okay, we’re going to talk about it,’ Yasmine says, rushing the words out while reaching out to touch Janey’s hands, which pull sharply away.

‘Can you be honest please? Is it true?’

‘Janey’

‘Is it true?’

‘Janey, please let me…’

‘IS IT TRUE?’

‘Yes, yes it’s true.Janey!’ she pulls back as Janey launches up, hitting the table edge with her thighs that makes the bowls and cups shake and slide.

‘Wow,’ Janey says, her eyes filling with tears as her lips start trembling. ‘Wow,’ she repeats, trying to think and feel and react all at the same time. ‘You befriended me to steal from me?’

‘No, no I did not.’

‘You,’ Janey says, holding it together by willpower alone, ‘are worse than the people I work with, Yasmine.’

‘Janey,’ Yasmine groans as Janey rushes off. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ she snaps at Sven.

‘What?’ Sven asks.

‘She thinks I used her, you dumb prick.’

‘You did,’ Sven says.

‘But I’m not now,’ she retorts, rushing after Janey. ‘Don’t just sit there you idiots. Janey? Janey? Hold up.’

‘Please leave me alone,’ Janey calls over her shoulder, heading in a direction unthought and unseen as the emotions inside surge up with ever increasing waves of pain and hurt. She had a friend. They laughed together. She took time off work and made a fool of herself. Another dose of humiliation to add to the ten years of daily humiliation endured in her job, but this is so much worse, this is so much more acute and raw, because at least those people at work don’t pretend they like her.

‘Janey, listen to me,’ Yasmine says, rushing after her into the lanes and walkways of the packed retail zone.

FGG. That’s all she is. Fat Ginger Girl. The blob. The near-illegal-fatty that sits on her own every day, that eats breakfast, lunch and dinner alone every day, that never goes anywhere, that is never invited anywhere. The things they do to her drinking beaker, changing the designs on the sides. Making holo-displays of obese people from Earth bloom up from her work station. Now this.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Yasmine rushes behind, Sam and Sven a few steps behind her, veering around people. ‘Janey, it’s not like that.’

It is like that. Why else would anyone want to be her friend? She’s a disgusting troll. A pig. A gross fat ginger pig. It felt too good to be true. Yasmine and Sam talking to her that day. Then going to the café and listening to Yasmine’s tale of woe about her abusive ex.

‘Was that even true?’ she shouts, stopping to turn and face Yasmine. ‘The abusive ex? Was that even true?’

‘Listen, please just listen.’

‘You fucking liar,’ Janey rushes on, tears spilling down her cheeks. Used and manipulated so Yasmine can get close to Mahatma. Always fucking Mahatma. Always beautiful people taking what they want. Yasmine is beautiful. Mahatma is beautiful. Janey is a fat ginger pig.

‘It’s not like you think,’ Yasmine says. ‘Please, I like you. I really like you.’

Sam runs behind them, thinking fast and seeing the route Janey is taking and he swipes his wristband, bringing up his interface and virtual keyboard to start typing as fast as he can.

‘Whoa,’ Sven says, grabbing his arm to steer him away from colliding with a woman shopping with a small child. ‘Now’s not the time for games, Sam.’

Janey rounds the next corner. Her heart breaking into a thousand pieces. Her whole life falling apart around her. She was going to quit her job and either rescue Sven’s cafe or start a new one. It was silly. It was stupid but it was there and real in her heart.

JANEY HARRINGTON!: STOP AND LISTEN

ENJOY THE AB-SPA

‘Jesus,’ she veers off from the words flashing up in the holo-display in a central open section. Yasmine rounds the bend and turns to see Sam running while typing on his interface as Sven steers him left and right.

‘Do more!’ she calls before rushing on behind Janey. ‘Please, Janey.’

TURN AROUND JANEY

A flashing neon-holo sign in the shop display ahead and Janey scowls at it, the tears falling harder.

JANEY: LISTEN TO YASMINE

Another on her left, blooming out into huge words that pop like a bubble and shower down with hundreds of glittering hearts.

Her name everywhere. Hearts popping. Cute bees and kittens saying stop and listen. More and more. Music files added. Fanfares and the people out shopping stop to laugh in wonder while shop assistants step out to gawp and point.

WE WANT YOU JANEY!

A tough looking drill sergeant used in recruitment posters for old American armies swells bigger and bigger. His hand stretching out as Janey runs through him.

COME ON, JANEY: TALK TO YASMINE

Johan Johans in the middle of the walkway, bulging out from his movie poster. His huge arms and chiselled features so handsome and awful. His deep voice booming but Janey swerves off, taking a sharp turn, running now, running fast and Sam realises where she’s going.

‘NO!’ he shuts his system down, instantly ending every single hack, ending the lights and adverts and words and sounds as he sprints past Yasmine into the service corridor to the quiet room set back and away and he bursts in as the door closes and races to grab the handle. ‘Janey!’

‘Hello, please sit down and make yourself comfortable. Is the temperature okay for you? Would you like me to adjust it?’

An automated female voice that Sam knows so well and he heaves on the handle as Yasmine and Sven run into the room behind him.

‘What the fuck?’ Yasmine asks.

‘May I ask your name?’ the voice from the booth asks.

‘Janey Harrington,’ Janey sobs within.

‘Jesus, you can hear her?’ Sven asks. ‘That’s a bad design that is.’

‘Not now, Sven.’ Yasmine whispers.

‘I have not yet looked at your biometric data. Do you give your consent for me to look at your biometric data?’

‘Yes,’ Janey sobs.

‘Janey,’ Yasmine says, pressing close. ‘Listen, it’s not like that. I promise.’

‘Janey Harrington. This is your seventh visit to this end of life facilitation service. Do you wish to proceed with end of life facilitation?’

‘The seventh is the last one,’ Sam says urgently

‘Fuck! No, Janey. Jesus.’ Yasmine shouts out, her heart jack hammering in her chest. ‘Oh god, no. JANEY!’

‘Yes. Proceed,’ Janey says.

‘Do something,’ Yasmine yells, turning on Sam and Sven.

‘I don’t know these machines,’ Sven says. ‘They’re controlled from the inside and…’

‘Janey, do you wish to talk your feelings through before we proceed? End of life facilitation is a terminal procedure and cannot be undone.’

‘Proceed,’ Janey’s shaky voice inside.

‘Janey, listen please! I am so sorry. I like you. I really.’

‘Proceed,’ Janey says, her voice louder. ‘PROCEED!’

Sam opens his interface, bringing his keyboard up as Sven drops to his knees and crawls around the base of the booth, looking for an exterior service panel.

‘I’ve got something here,’ Sven says urgently, pulling a multi-tool from his pocket to start breaking the panel open.

Yasmine swallows. This is all her fault.

‘Janey Harrington. You have selected to proceed with end of life facilitation. Your death will be painless and instant. I have to inform you that.’

Sven pops the panel off and starts peering inside at the internal wiring while Sam’s fingers blur as he types as fast as he can.

‘…once deceased your organs and any usable parts will be removed from your body to aid the welfare of other human beings. The fleet has finite resources and waste is a crime. Do you understand, Janey?’

‘Yes,’ Janey says, her voice breaking with sobs.

‘No!’ Yasmine stands back, her hands at her face. Horror in her features. Eyes wide and her heart racing. Not knowing what to do. Not having a way out of this mess.

‘Once your organs are removed your body will be liquidised and compressed, ready to be shipped to The Ark to be used in the fertilisation of crops to sustain and promote life. Your life is not wasted, Janey. The fleet values you.’

‘Oh my god, please. Janey,’ Yasmine whispers, pleading at the door.

‘I think I can stop it,’ Sven whispers. ‘Sam, buy me time.’

‘Do you understand, Janey?’ the automated voice asks.

‘Yes. Proceed,’ Janey says, her voice cracking with emotion and Sam winces, screwing his face up at what he is about to do.

‘Give me two minutes,’ Sven urges, his hand now inside the machine.

‘YOU DUMB ASS MOTHER FUCKER. WE’RE GONNA GRIND YOUR BONES BITCH AND FEED YO ASS TO THE PLANTS.’

‘Holy fuck,’ Yasmine whispers.

‘Wow,’ Sven says.

‘Sam you dick!’ Janey shouts.

‘YO WANT TO DIE BITCH? STICK YOUR WRISTBAND IN THE TRAY AND SUCK MY DICK.’

‘Oh shit,’ Yasmine whispers.

‘SAM!’ Janey shouts.

‘YOUR DEPARTMENT WILL BE INFORMED YOU DONE GONE AND KILLED YOURSELF AND YOUR CABIN WILL BE REUSED BECAUSE THE FLEET DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOU’

‘I don’t care. Proceed. PROCEED.’

‘I can’t stop it,’ Sam says. ‘I can only change the voices and make it say other things.’

‘Make it say we love her,’ Yasmine whispers.

‘YO BITCH. YOU ARE LOVED. YOU HEAR THAT?’

‘Stop it from shouting,’ Yasmine urges.

‘You dumbass fucker. What’s all this? You want to die now? Sit back and get comfy.’

‘Softer, nicer,’ Yasmine says.

‘Almost,’ Sven says.

‘GET IT DONE,’ Janey shouts.

‘Janey, this is not the way to do this,’ the automated voice changes, soft, male and deep, an older man, gentle and kind. ‘You have friends now, Janey.’

‘Friends don’t fucking lie and use people,’ Janey shouts. ‘PROCEED.’

‘Hi, I’m Sven. Come and lick my creamy hard spoon!’

‘Wrong code,’ Sam blurts. ‘Shit shit.’

‘Find me at Sven’s Eatery where my stiff spoon is waiting for your mouth.’

‘Sam!’ Yasmine whispers frantically.

‘Almost,’ Sven says.

‘Your end of life facilitation service is now ready to begin. Please sit back and make yourself comfortable.’

‘God no, please. Please Janey.I never had a friend before. I never had anyone I cared for. I’m a thief and a bad person,’ Yasmine sobs, her hands flat on the door. ‘I am so bad. I am so very bad but I like you, Janey. I don’t have friends. I don’t have anyone. Please please don’t die. Don’t die, Janey.’

‘The fleet values your life, Janey. You are valued, Janey. Your end of life procedure will commence in ten…’

‘A countdown is a bit much,’ Sven mutters, rooting about inside the wiring looms.

‘Seven…six…five…’

‘STOP IT JANEY.’ Yasmine screams, pain in her hands from hitting the door so hard. Sven curses as sparks shoot from the panel. Sam just stares wide eyed, his mouth hanging open.

‘Three…two…’

‘NO!’ Yasmine screams with everything she’s got, slamming her body at the door as Sven cries out from the shock of ripping a live wire out with his bare hand and rolls away writhing in agony. Janey sits inside the booth with her eyes squeezed shut, hearing Yasmine pound the door. She doesn’t want to die but the words to shut it down won’t come and as she draws air to shout to tell it to end, so the lights go out and the increasing hum of the machine ends suddenly and she sits with her hands bracing the sides, hardly daring to move.

‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. Please, please forgive me.’ Yasmine slumps forward, thinking she’s too late, thinking it’s done. ‘What have I done? Oh god what have I done?’

‘Yasmine,’ Sam says.

‘I never meant for that. I like you, Janey. I swear it. I swear it. I fucking swear it.’

‘Got a funny way of showing it,’ Janey mutters from inside.

‘Oh god, oh my god. Janey?’

‘You’re such a dick, Samuel Gablinski,’ Janey snaps.

‘Open the door, open the fucking door,’ Yasmine whispers, her face soaked, her eyes red and swollen, pawing at the handle. It clicks and she swings it out to launch herself inside at Janey, throwing her arms around the woman. ‘I thought you were dead. I’m so sorry. Janey, I am so sorry.’

‘That’s not nice, Yasmine,’ Janey says, her voice breaking as the tears come. ‘You don’t do that to people.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I used you but I like you.I like you. You’re my friend and…’

‘It’s just cruel,’ Janey whispers, pushing her arms around Yasmine. ‘It hurts. Everything hurts. The things they do at work and…and you doing that.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m a shitty person. I am so sorry.I’m homeless and broke and desperate and I’m sleeping in a cupboard and they’ll kill me and…and that’s no excuse. I’m still a shitty awful person.’

Sven exhales, grimacing at the pain in his hand, while Sam sags and listens to the emotion pouring out from Yasmine and Janey inside the booth. Movement at his side and he glances then double-takes at seeing Hans Jacobsen walking into the room to stop and roll his eyes with an angry tut.

‘Is it still broken? Fucking piece of shit,’ he snaps.

‘Yeah still broke,’ Sam says weakly.

‘Well, that’s my day ruined,’ Hans says, turning to go then spotting Sven. ‘Hey, Sven.’

‘Hey, Hans.’

‘How’s the café?’

‘Well yeah, you know. You?’

‘Ah, can’t complain. You’re not missing anything at work so, like, don’t come back. Better go. Later, Sven. Damn machine.’

‘Bye, Hans,’ Sven says.

‘Bye, Hans,’ Sam says.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Yasmine whispers in the booth. All of her plans now laid to waste because there will be no grand theft and no scoring big and the most she can hope for is getting away with her tail between her legs before Dmitri sends someone else to kill her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Zhang has been careful but there is just no word anywhere about anything to do with a code. He’s been into bars and clubs, probing gently, listening intently. He went to a stairwell on Level 38 into a deep shadow with his pistol in his hand to speak to Dirty Bert. A paid source that Zhang uses now and then. It was Dirty Bert that said he sold the shoplifting software to Yassy. Zhang doesn’t like him, but Dirty Bert hears everything – except now Dirty Bert didn’t mention a code, or anything that even hints at one.

The difficult thing in this situation is knowing how to ask. If Zhang mentioned the word ‘code,’ he would inadvertently begin a rumour that would eventually come back to him. If he asked Dirty Bert, Bert would mention it to someone else and within a day or two everyone would be asking about a code. That’s how delicate this is. That’s how careful Zhang has been. To ask without asking. What’s new? What are you hearing? Careful questions but even that carries risk of getting back to Helga.

Spy shit is hard. Zhang realises that. It’s not like James Bond holo movies they make on The Ark. The last one was about a rogue terrorist group from one of the Arabic ships planning to blow up HMS-WS Elizabeth. Everyone who saw the movie kinda hoped they would succeed too, simply because the British chose to name their ship different to the way everyone else in the fleet did it. But then they also pointed out the only reason everyone tolerates the British is because they have so many dogs running about on their ship. The British love their dogs, that’s for sure. It also sparked a big diplomatic row with the Arabic ships demanding to know why they were being picked out as the bad guys and actually, they have got on with everyone for the last two hundred years. Apart from the Israelis. They then said the Israelis should be the bad guys which prompted the Israeli ship to fund a new movie taking the piss out of the Arab ships.

Either way, there’s no heat or chat anywhere about any ‘code’. And that just makes Zhang’s curiosity prickle even more.

Then he figured maybe it was something to do with Helga’s new proposals about recruiting from the Elfors, or the clinic for children. But why hide a code in a wristband and get it taken personally to a technician who works on the mainframe computer? And anyway, something like that wouldn’t make Scrabel run the way he did.

Helga wants results too. She’s made that very clear.

Zhang stops at the door and knocks once, thinking that although they’re surrounded by technology, people still knock on doors.

‘Oh hello handsome,’ Mahatma says brightly, opening the door of her cabin looking as gorgeous as ever. ‘Come in and sit down.’ She lowers herself onto the sofa, patting the seat next to her, then takes her wristband off and lays it on the table.

‘Is it done?’ he asks bluntly.

‘You’re so hot when you’re like that, all hard and direct.’

‘Mahatma, is it done? It’s taking too long. You only needed to fuck him and record it.’

‘His wife was home,’ she replies. ‘I had to wait for her to sod off. But once he was here, it was so easy. I kept thinking he would totally be suspicious or something but he’s so in love with me, like infatuated. Do you want to see it?’

Zhang nods once, thinking he really does not want to see it, while knowing that he has to, and she accesses her system to start playing 3D footage of her own cabin. He watches the footage of her opening the door and stepping back as her nervous looking manager Randolph Simpson rushes in. He instantly starts kissing Mahatma. An older taller man with dark hair.

‘He’s always so horny,’ Mahatma explains, watching herself in the 3D footage. ‘Oh that top really suits me.’

Zhang blinks as they move across the cabin to the sofa and purses his lips in distaste when Randolph starts furiously tugging off her clothes while trying to pull his own trousers down. His instinct is to turn it off, but he has to make sure the footage is damaging enough.

It is.

Randolph bends her over the sofa and starts having sex from behind, grunting and gasping as Zhang screws his own face up in reaction, turning away.

‘I know right,’ Mahatma says earnestly. ‘Imagine how I felt. But exciting! I’m getting a cabin on 15 and it will have two rooms and a longer shower time and a bigger sleeping tube, and I’m so getting a designer in.’

Zhang blinks again when Randolph turns Mahatma round and he carries on flinching as they change position every few minutes. Zhang has seen plenty of porn. Hell, they make new porn now on The Ark, and Mahatma is very hot, but this is just grim. The way the older guy is rutting and gasping for air. His red, sweat lust-filled face and the way Mahatma is sitting next to Zhang talking about her new cabin and new job and the new life she will have while watching herself. It’s so sordid, so dirty and wrong and inside he feels a sudden surge of intense shame. At himself for his addiction, for fucking Mahatma before and for watching her now, for doing this, for killing Alexie Scrabel.

That’s not who he is. Zhang is a cop. A good man. Christ, Mahatma looks good on that footage. It’s gross and ugly and wrong but he can’t look away and the urge comes back. The need to fuck. Not make love. Not to kiss. Not to be tender or gentle but to fuck and know he has fucked. Yassy was right. He’s too strung out.

‘And you would so make good babies’

‘What?’ he asks, his voice a whisper as he looks at her.

‘Babies. If I don’t find anyone better. You can be my baby-father. You’ve got good genes.’

Zhang doesn’t reply but opens his own system and starts the pairing and copying process while that nagging voice carries on in the back of his head again, telling him he is rapidly turning into a disgusting creep, that he’s getting in way too deep.

‘Oh look at that when I’m on top. I look so good like that,’ she says, resting a hand on his arm. ‘Makes me horny watching myself actually,’ she adds, biting her bottom lip. ‘Is that bad?’

‘Yes,’ he says honestly.

‘I know right,’ she rolls her eyes then shuffles closer. ‘Shall we leave it on and have sex?’

‘Jesus,’ he says, blasting air through his cheeks.

‘No? Don’t fancy it?’

He goes to reply. To say no and that it’s disgusting and she should be ashamed, but instead he swallows and finds himself nodding.

Half an hour later and the shame is worse as he dresses in her room, staring at her glistening naked body still watching herself have sex. ‘Listen, they need the audit done quickly.’

‘Hmmm?’ she says, stretching with a groan.

‘The audit. It has to be done.’

‘Give me a chance, I only fucked Randolph this morning. I said he had to wait for his wife to…’

‘You fucked him this morning?’

‘Yeah. So?’

‘Fuck me, that’s…and then with me?’

‘Oh honey, don’t be jealous. I liked it with you. For him was just for the blackmail thing. Aw, poor Zhangy. Come here, want to do it again?’

‘No!’ He pauses, widening his eyes as she winks. ‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘Make it happen. Get the audit done.’

‘I will! Stop nagging me.’

‘Do you want that cabin on 15?’

‘Oh you look so stern,’ she says with a pout, eyeing him suggestively in a way that brings the urge straight back.

‘You want that cabin and that job, then make it happen.’

She heaves over to prop her head up with one hand and pulls a sad face. ‘I shall do my very best for you, Detective Woo,’ she says with mock innocence.

‘Get it done,’ he snaps, going out and feeling more disgust at himself than for her. What has he become? He’s a joke. He’s a dirty cop now and dirty cops only ever wind up dead or in the fleet prison. A call on his system and he swipes it hard, already wound up and feeling even more angry at seeing Dmitri’s hard face staring at him.

‘Woo, I’m pulling in that favour you owe me,’ Dmitri says.

‘I don’t do work for you, Dmitri, but let me guess. Guphy Gupherson and Mad Eyes Ken running riot through level 30? And by any chance was it Guphy getting stabbed up on the stairwell?’

Dmitri tenses with a snarl touching his lips. ‘I need you to make it go away.’

‘Not a chance,’ Zhang says, clawing back a touch of dignity. ‘You’re a fucking piece of low-life shit.’

Dmitri smiles, leaning closer. ‘I am what I am, but at least I’m not a dirty cop.’ He cuts the call, sending a surge of rage through Zhang who walks on, feeling a pressure inside and a growing desire to know while pleading with himself to walk away from it all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

‘I don’t know what to say…’

‘Sorry, Dmitri,’ Guphy Gupherson rumbles, standing goliath with his hands clasped in front and his great head bowed in the squalid office above one of the clubs in Neon City.

‘Sorry, Dmitri,’ Mad Eyes Ken says, nasally and dull.

Guphy covered in cuts from the surgically sharp blade used by Yasmine. Across his nose and cheeks. Across his ear and neck and over his hands. Mad Eyes Ken just looks even more deranged. His nose broken and two black eyes all puffy and swollen, but still he stares unblinking, rotating his huge eyeballs left and right.

‘One girl,’ Dmitri continues, holding one finger up.

‘It was Yassy,’ Guphy says as if that explains it. Mad Eyes Ken starts to speak then thinks better of it.

‘I know it was Yassy, you fat dumb freak. That’s why I sent you two after her. Jesus, I should have sent Chatty Simon and Karen Big Feet.’

‘Wankers,’ Mad Eyes Ken mutters.

‘I can’t even send you back up looking like that, and do you have any idea how much it cost me to get the security footage wiped? I couldn’t even get Zhang to do it. I had to find someone else.’

‘A thousand?’ Guphy asks.

‘Be more than that, Guph,’ Ken says.

‘Really? What, like two thousand?’ Guphy asks.

‘I’d say more like five,’ Ken says.

‘Five?’

‘I wasn’t looking for an answer, and it was six -- six thousand credits. That’s three each you dumb fucks owe me.’

‘He’s bigger,’ Ken says quickly. ‘Should be four for Guph and two for me.’

‘Shut up,’ Dmitri whispers. Ken goes to speak, then stops and looks down again. Guphy frowns while thinking four from him and two from Ken isn’t really very fair but then maths has never been his strong point so maybe it is right. Yassy was always good with maths. He’ll ask her next time he sees her.

‘Okay,’ Dmitri says and stares out through the window while reds and blues and greens flash across his face. Clenching and unclenching his right fist so the knuckles crack and pop. His eyes hooded. His face a mask. This isn’t just about the Russian doctor. This is about Yasmine refusing to give him what he wanted. He took it anyway. Dumb bitch. He tenses inside, remembering the look of horror and fear on her face when he pinned her down, the tears coursing down her cheeks. They were a couple. An item. She was his property. What did she expect? Deep inside he knows he took a wrong turn but he could never stop and go back. The power of it was too addictive. Shy Dmitri. Gentle Dmitri. Stuttering, scared, tiny Dmitri. He’s not small now and he’s not scared either. Fuck Yasmine. Fuck her morals and ethics. He’ll pin her down and do it again, then he’ll take the money for everyone else to take a turn because nobody says no to Dmitri.

‘Send Chatty Simon and Karen Big Feet to see me.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Ken mutters. ‘Wankers.’

‘Wankers,’ Guphy says.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

‘…And now, five days later and still no arrests have been made. Just how incompetent are the police over on the WS Humility? A trio of criminals ran riot through the stores on the same day a woman violently attacked a man on a stairwell with a knife and get this, all of the security camera footage has been corrupted by a virus! How does that even happen? Just how inept are the fleet police on the Humility?’

Sam Gablinski wakes in his sleeping tube, yawning and rolling over to squint at Kristi Carter telling the fleet how shit the World-Ship Humility is again.

‘But hey, at least today we get to report on another ship in the fleet today as the Beijing’s docking crisis continues to worsen. It’s a computerised system! The shuttles come in. They go out. Why the massive delays? And with the ripples going through the fleet that Helga will win captaincy of the Humility and forge a stronger alliance with the virtue ships it’s only going to get worse. There’s even word of the Beijing and Vladivostok joining forces to offset the balance of power.’

Sam used to fancy Kristi Carter, but then 99% of the fleet also probably fancy Kristi Carter. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Flawless skin. Perfect teeth, but the allure isn’t quite the same as it was because Sam now quite likes dark hair and the mixed-race skin tone of a certain woman with a mouth like a crew worker who openly admits with brazen honesty that she was using him in order to commit a criminal act. Still, it beats trying to flirt with a suicide booth.

He walks out of his cabin and up to level 30, delving into the lanes and walkways to the far side where the smaller, cheaper units are.

The Kingdom of Osmosis and he pushes in through the manual door and heads to the counter to see Osmosis bent over examining the insides of a wristband while various feeds and screens glow in the air all about him. A worried looking customer waits nearby, biting her bottom lip in a way that tells Sam her wristband is malfunctioning, and she cannot afford a new one.

‘Keeps losing signal,’ she says.

‘You told me,’ Osmosis mutters. ‘Several times. Samuel. Long time no see. Heard you have a girlfriend now. Get out and don’t ever come back.’

‘Can you fix it?’ the woman asks, still biting her bottom lip. ‘It keeps losing signal.’

‘Hmmm, if only I knew what was wrong with it,’ Osmosis says.

‘I just said. It keeps losing signal.’

‘Damn it,’ Osmosis says, lifting his head up to look dumbfounded. ‘Anyone in here have any idea what could be wrong with this wristband? It’s like it just won’t connect to the system and keeps losing signal.’

‘Does it keep losing signal?’ someone asks from the depth of an aisle.

‘Maybe it won’t connect,’ another says.

‘That,’ the woman says angrily, snatching her wristband back. ‘Is why you’re all still virgins.’

‘I’m not a virgin,’ one of the voices says.

‘VR doesn’t count,’ the woman retorts, storming off to the door where she stands for a second before remembering you have to push it open.

‘Ah then yeah, I’m still a virgin,’ the same voice mutters.

‘What was wrong with her wristband?’ Sam asks.

Osmosis shrugs. ‘Dunno, kept losing signal apparently. Why are you here? What do you want? Go away.’

‘Hi, Osmosis.’

‘Hi, Sam. How’s the airlock business?’

‘You know, airlocky. How’s the used tech business?’

‘You know, shit. Stop making small talk. What do you want?’

‘Wristbands.’

‘What kind?’

‘Malfunctioned or broken with usable interfaces for designing and displaying holo designs without trace as to the source or user.’

‘Hmmm,’ Osmosis says, staring narrow-eyed at Sam as he gropes beneath his counter to pull a box full of worn wristbands out that he plonks down. ‘How many and what colour?’

‘All blue.’

‘I don’t have blue.’

‘Red then.’

‘No red.’

‘What colours do you have?’

‘I have the generic wristband colour which is grey.’

‘Grey is fine.’

‘How many?’

‘How many do you have?’

‘I have this many,’ Osmosis says, shaking the box on the counter.

‘I’ll have that many,’ Sam says, pointing at the box on the counter.

‘Hmmm,’ Osmosis says, staring narrow-eyed at Sam. ‘Indeed. Something tells me you have plans afoot. Is this so?’

‘No. I just like tinkering, but I hate you, so if I buy lots in one go then I don’t have to come back and see you or the other nerds.’

‘A righteous answer, my friend. A righteous answer indeed and one we shall readily accept in the kingdom of Osmosis.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Welcome. So, heard the news?’

‘I heard some news. But I’m guessing you don’t mean the news presented by Kristi Carter.’

‘Shush now. Even saying that name in here will cause several ejaculations.’

‘Too late, I shot my load,’ someone mutters from the depth of an aisle.

‘See, happy now?’ Osmosis asks, pulling a face at Sam. ‘And no, I mean the real news dude. The actual news. Not the mainstream, pretty girl, perfect hair, gorgeous flawless skin and white teeth and pointy breasts and pert ass and…’

‘I shot my load again.’

‘Not her news,’ Osmosis adds. ‘The real news.’

‘In which case no, I have not heard the real news,’ Sam says to a rolling gasp sounding in the store.

‘You so have a girlfriend,’ Osmosis says, pointing at him. ‘The Sam Gablinski I knew would come in here and tell us the news. Now he doesn’t know the news; now he wants to talk about Kristi Carter and her pert breasts and pointy ass.’

‘I think it might be pointy breasts and pert ass,’ Sam says.

‘Hey, different tastes dude, who are you to judge?’ Osmosis says. ‘You wanna hear the news or you just wanna run out and have sex with real women?’

‘Um, my preference would be to have sex with real women but failing that I will accept the news,’ Sam replies.

‘The news is that the shuttle Gagarin is back!’ Osmosis says, splaying his hands in wonder and awe.

‘Idiot,’ Sam mutters. ‘It got back days ago. We spoke about it. I was here.’

‘That did not happen,’ Osmosis says emphatically. ‘But hey, yeah so it came back empty. How about that? The official word is that it punched out far ahead man. Like it was out there. Like way ahead of the fleet and its probes were probing and its detection shit was detecting but getting zero readings man. No readings. No planets anywhere man. Nothing. Nada. Nothing that is capable of sustaining life in any direction anywhere ever.’

‘But?’ Sam asks when Osmosis takes another theatrical pause. Happy to play along this morning.

‘Ah man, we know that shit ain’t real,’ Osmosis says, waving a hand as he starts tipping the wristbands out over the counter. ‘They got a planet. We know they got a planet. They know we know they got a planet. They know we know they know that we know they got a planet. But they ain’t sharing that information, and why? Ask yourself why.’

‘You can put them back in the box, Osmosis,’ Sam says, watching him spread the wristbands over the counter.

‘I know! I’m counting them to charge you a fair rate so I stay in business you dumb fuck airlock dude. Ask yourself why they don’t tell us about the planet they found?’

‘Because, they want to keep all the resources for themselves and use us as plant food to fertilize crops while they slowly populate it with the wealthy elites from the top levels to develop a class system so in the event that we are ever allowed to go there, we are already subjugated and oppressed.’

‘Boom!’ Osmosis says, clapping his hands. ‘I present Sam Gablinski to the kingdom of Osmosis. You want a conspiracy theorist. You got the best right here. Right here. Look over here you nerds and geeks. Look at Sam. Make him blush and go red cos it’s funny.’

‘It’s not funny,’ Sam says, turning red from the attention of nerds, geeks and introverts all staring at him. ‘How many wristbands are there?’

‘How the hell do I know? You think I’m counting them? I’m not counting them. Say fifty?’

‘Fifty? There’s more like twenty.’

‘Twenty? Are you blind? How do you even know when to open the airlock with eyes like that?’

Sam shrugs. ‘The computer does it. Okay, say thirty.’

‘More like forty but hey, you’re a loyal customer so we’ll call it forty. But seriously, Sam. I know they got something out there.’

Sam nods. Everyone knows they have something. The same way everyone knew back on Earth that the Americans were behind 9/11 and they had alien spacecraft in area 51 and the Russians got all those US presidents elected. The stories about the three virtue ships that crashed too. A rumour about the other ships not wanting seven vessels dominating everyone else. Even the shuttle crash that killed Sam’s parents was said to be a revenge thing to kill a Russian politician who visited the British ship and said cricket was shit before kicking a dog trying to hump his leg. Sam doesn’t believe that one. The British are weird for sure but that would be nuts.

‘Er so, there’s a party on Friday evening if you’re interested,’ Sam says, followed swiftly by the sound of several things being dropped and a sudden hushed silence as Osmosis freezes while holding the lid just above the box.

‘Like a nerd party or a non-nerd party.’

‘Non-nerd. My friend owns a café, he’s going out of business so he’s having a big blow out.’

‘With women?’

‘Yes, with women.’

‘Will these women have breasts?’

‘Probably.’

‘Will they show us their breasts?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Then we are not going! The kingdom of Osmosis does not lower itself to the base actions of normal people.’

‘I’d like to go, Sam,’ one of the voices in an aisle calls out.

‘Can I go?’

‘Me too.’

‘Sure,’ Sam says.

‘Can I?’ the kid who fell through the door asks, holding a hand up.

‘No,’ Sam says.

‘Dick,’ someone says.

‘Dick,’ someone else says as the word is repeated while the kid sags and lowers his arm.

‘Look out for the adverts,’ Sam says.

‘Adverts?’ Osmosis asks.

‘Adverts,’ Sam says, pulling the box of wristbands over.

‘Oh, adverts,’ Osmosis says, pointing at the box. ‘But seriously, what adverts?’

Sam doesn’t answer but leaves, feeling mysterious and cool and rakish and dangerous. The other nerds, geeks and introverts watch him go and as he steps free of the door and heads to work he activates the call on his wristband.

‘Hey, Janey. I got the wristbands.’

‘Great. You know what to do?’

‘Yep.’

‘Get them loaded and start dropping them all through the main walkways. I want adverts popping up all over the place.’

‘Okay,’ Sam says.

‘We’ve only got a few days left and I want as many people in that café on Friday as we can get. Jesus, these stairs do not get easier…oh, before I forget, did you set the bot thing up on FleetBook?’

‘Yep.’

‘Great. Activate them today. Soon as you can…’

‘Okay, Janey.’

‘See you at lunch Oh and Sam?’

‘Yes, Janey?’

‘Thank you for doing all of that. It’s so helpful and do say if I’m loading you up with too many tasks.’

‘No it’s cool,’ he says with a grin, ending the call to bounce happily along to work, because life is so much nicer when people say please and thank you and show gratitude for the work you are doing.

A few days ago, Janey locked herself in the suicide booth and since then, Yasmine has stayed glued to her side, sleeping in her cabin, eating with her, hanging out and watching her closely. They’ve talked non-stop. About everything and anything. About Dmitri and Juniper and Colly. About growing up in the bowels. In turn, Janey told Yasmine what it was like to grow up an orphan and if fate wasn’t playing a big enough hand in their lives already, Janey and Sam discovered another link between them. Janey’s parents died in the same shuttle crash that killed Sam’s family.

‘What about you, Sven?’ Yasmine asked him as they sat outside the café two nights ago.

‘My dad left when I was young. He was from the Nordic ships anyway.’

‘What about your mum?’ Janey asked.

‘Dead,’ Sven said.

‘How?’ Yasmine asked, not reading the signs to stop and think before asking.

‘Suicide booth. Month after my dad left. That same one actually.’

‘Shit,’ Janey said, rubbing his arm while Sven sucked on his vape-stick and Yasmine pondered the meaning of life and the brutality of it all. And right there, outside the café that night, law-abiding, rule-respecting Janey Harrington reached a decision.

‘We’ll need a big party,’ she said.

‘What for?’ Yasmine asked.

‘Literally as many people as possible, and the right people too. It needs to be cool.’

‘What does?’ Yasmine asked as Sam and Sven looked at Janey.

‘The closing night. That’s when we do it, that’s when we rob the financial services.’

Now Janey sits at her desk with her head down watching as the bots come to life on FleetBook.

Hundreds of new accounts created by a programme designed by Sam. All of them with pictures of hip, fashionable young men and women and all of them linking to each other to give the appearance of normal people with normal connections in life. In seconds those accounts populate with pictures and comments, giving them a depth and history that would never withstand a forensic or detailed examination, but that on the surface and at a glance, makes them look entirely natural.

Then she sees it. The first advert pinging up on a fake bot account. A golden bowl of porridge with a shining spoon lifting up towards the smiling face of a man winking at the viewer.

MY SPOON IS SO STIFF AND HARD…

She winces, turning the volume down to hide the camp, suggestive voice calling out.

AND FILLED WITH CREAMY GOODNESS THAT TINGLES IN MY MOUTH

COME AND JOIN ME AND MY THICK, CREAMY AND EVER SO SLIGHTLY SALTY PORRIDGE AND JAM AT SVEN’S EATERY

AS THE ADVERT finishes so the bots start adding comments, likes, ratings and engagements to those adverts.

‘Oh my god I love this place.’

‘So cool.’

‘My wife made me go, I thought I would hate it but yeah, actually it was nice.’

The fake profiles ‘like’ each other’s comments and share the advert to make the algorithm push it up the news and gossips feeds so it will pop up on more bot accounts to generate more comments and on it goes, spreading like a virus. A few at first. Then a dozen. Then more and more, but it’s one thing having hundreds of fake accounts all “chat” and create a buzz, but the test will come when they start getting seen by real people.

It was Janey that gave Sam a list of names of real people connected to Mahatma. The beautiful and vain. The shallow and ego-driven who are always desperate for the next big thing or the next hot place.

She scrolls through the FleetBook accounts of her colleagues, frowning at the lack of reaction to the adverts popping up, but more start showing, different ones.

YOU LIKE PORRIDGE YOU DUMBASSES?: I GOT PORRIDGE!

MY PORRIDGE IS THICKER THAN YOUR BOSS’S HEAD AND CREAMY TOO.

DAMN CREAMY

COME EAT MY PORRIDGE AND QUIT BEING A LOSER.

“I LOVE THIS!”

“So gonna try this later, Sarah? Fancy joining me?”

“Oh my god yes, Penny. I’m so there.”

Janey winces, watching the text-conversations between bot accounts, thinking it’s too fake, too trite and forced. It won’t work. It’s so obviously set-up.

‘Hey, you seen this?’ someone in her office says. One of the women at the far end that cluster and whisper with heads together. ‘This advert is so rude. How did it even get through?’

Janey sinks an inch, closing her eyes and thinking it’s failed already.

‘Is that the porridge place?’ another asks. ‘My friend went there; she said it was amazing.’

‘Hmm, yeah, totally,’ another adds. ‘It’s all over FleetBook. Totally going to try it.’

Janey lifts an inch and slowly opens her eyes as the adverts bloom out into holo-feeds above desks. Her colleagues watch and laugh and add comments and share and click like and rate it high and right there, right then, the buzz is created that will get Mahatma Goudier into Sven’s Eatery on Friday night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Karen Big Feet steps off the platform. A slim woman with brown bobbed hair cut dead straight across her forehead and brown, expressive eyes. She stands with her hands on her hips while looking around at the various walkways and lanes leading into the big retail zone of level 30. ‘When were we last up here?’

Chatty Simon looks at her. A tall black, athletic man with broad shoulders and big arms.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ she says, clicking her fingers and pointing at him. ‘Guphy’s birthday! That was a good night. Yassy came for that one. She was so drunk that she punched a cop. You remember that? Massive fight after. We dragged her out and legged it back down the stairwell and got into the other brawl with the guards on 37. Crazy times. Anyway, enough chit chat.’

‘You go up and you find her,’ Dmitri told them in his office a few hours ago. ‘You either kill her and bring me proof or you bring her down to me.’

‘Wankers,’ Mad Eyes Ken muttered from behind.

‘Wankers,’ Guphy Gupherson also muttered from behind while Dmitri screwed his eyes closed in frustration as Karen Big Feet and Chatty Simon turned to look at them.

‘Your failure will be our success,’ Karen Big Feet said before turning back to Dmitri. ‘Question -- how do you know she’s still up there? She might have gone already.’

‘Because she’s unregistered and I’ve put a mark on her so nobody will sell her a new name to use. I want her down here. You bring her to me.’

‘Sure. Whatever,’ Karen said. Yasmine had always thought of herself as better than everyone else. Always like she was too good to be an Elfor, but she was there when they took down Simon’s dad. She was bloodied like the rest of them. Karen never quite liked that Dmitri always had such a thing for Yasmine either, or that everyone has such a thing for Yasmine. She’s so pretty. So funny. So nice. Karen hates that about her. At least Pretty Penny did the decent thing and just disappeared. Yasmine stuck around though, always skirting trouble, giving credits to Colly. Dmitri should have dealt with her years ago.

‘Summer mix is nice,’ Karen Big Feet says slurping from her beaker of juice. ‘What did you get again?’ Chatty Simon holds his out for her to sip, waiting as she drinks and pulls back. ‘Tastes a bit peppery, like more synth veg than synth fruit. Do you like it?’ she asks as Chatty Simon watches a blond-haired lad in a grey shirt on the other side of a holo display casually drop a wristband behind a potted plant before moving on. ‘What are you looking at?’ she asks, turning her head to take in the advert display showing the gorgeous blue waters of the Ab-Spa swimming pool.

She watches until the advert fades out and the pixels start blurring and defocusing as though suffering a system failure, before coming back to pin sharp clarity, glowing golden and bright. The picture blooms out to show a gleaming bowl of creamy porridge with a shining spoon lifting up towards the smiling face of a man winking at the stunned audience.

MY SPOON IS SO STIFF AND HARD…

‘Did you hear that?’ Karen snorts as other people in the area look over with spreading grins.

AND FILLED WITH CREAMY GOODNESS THAT TINGLES IN MY MOUTH

COME AND JOIN ME AND MY THICK, CREAMY AND EVER SO SLIGHTLY SALTY PORRIDGE AND JAM AT SVEN’S EATERY

CLOSING NIGHT TOMORROW!

THE AFTERNOON WEARS on as they go to this place and that, down walkways and lanes to look through store fronts and glancing in every business they pass, but of Yasmine Emile Dufont there is no sign.

Eventually, they delve into the back walkways where the cheaper stores are and spot a store with a manual door and a weird name.

‘The Kingdom of Osmosis,’ she reads, as a teenage boy pushes in through the manual door. ‘Geeks,’ she mutters. Chatty Simon nods and heads off into another walkway as Karen shrugs and follows him just ten seconds before Zhang Woo walks from another lane. His face calmer now as the anger at Dmitri wears off, and he heads for the manual door, pushing through into the brightly lit store.

‘QUICK RUN. THE FEDS ARE HERE.’

‘Funny man,’ Zhang calls, walking through an aisle towards the counter.

‘I am funny,’ Osmosis says.

‘You’re funny looking,’ Zhang says, stopping to lean on the counter, picking a demo wristband up. ‘New batch?’

‘Reconditioned,’ Osmosis says. ‘Got the new chip in it though if you’re interested. Series eleven.’

Zhang looks up at him. Osmosis shrugs. ‘Seriously?’ Zhang says. ‘Series eleven is way too pre-loaded. It’s the slowest system yet.’

‘By your standards, Zhang. Not by the mindless masses that want to jab the air and watch shit. They don’t want to download anything. They want it there ready to use. They’re churning these things out on the Kindness right now.’

‘Not for me. I’ll keep my series nine. So what’s new?’

‘Nothing and I don’t know anything and why are you asking me. HELP! Illegal interrogation. I want a lawyer, a hot one. How’s police work? Busted any rackets? Shaken down some gangsters? Blown open some drug cartels? Found the cache of guns and drugs yet?’

‘Nope. But I am seeing some funny adverts popping up in the retail zone. Tell whoever is doing it they are very funny.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about, detective. But I shall indeed pass that along. Now, was there anything you wanted because you are ruining my cred right now.’

Zhang looks at him, then round at the near empty store before lifting his eyebrows. ‘Cred?’

‘A handsome store owner can dream.’

Zhang smiles, nodding and shrugging to show he is casual and easy. Conveying nuances to put Osmosis at ease. ‘What’s new? You hearing anything?’

Osmosis shakes his head, pulling a face. ‘Nada. The Gagarin is back.’

‘The Gagarin was back days ago.’

‘In that case no, I don’t know anything, other than everyone is vewy vewy sad because the poor iccle spaceship didn’t find a new planet they can all destroy and start wars on.’

Zhang snorts a dry laugh. A temptation to ask Osmosis what the code could be. Osmosis seems like a complete geek, but geeks chat in VR and don’t care about what ship they are from. ‘Any chat on the net?’ he asks, and that’s as much as he dares say; he doesn’t even look at Osmosis for reaction but makes himself look everywhere else instead.

‘Nah, usual shit. The Gagarin always brings the conspiracies back,’ Osmosis says. ‘They already have another planet. They found a new planet. The virtue ships all crashed because they knew where the new planet was, and that shuttle crash only happened because the dudes driving it were like totally going to like fly their shuttles to the new planet and like totally live there.’

Zhang smiles at the mimicry, thinking maybe he is chasing ghosts and there is nothing happening. Whatever Helga wanted delivered must have been small stuff. Something personal to Scrabel. Maybe Scrabel had dirt on Helga or something. Zhang rubs his face, not knowing where else to try now.

‘I’m making coffee if you want one,’ Osmosis says.

‘Yeah why not, sure. Coffee would be good.’

That’s it then. All he can do is put the pressure on Mahatma to get it done. She just needs to blackmail Randolph, make him run the audit, find the code, whatever it might be for, and get it back to Helga.

Maybe then he will find out what it’s about.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Thursday evening comes after a blur of days with Yasmine and Sven working like demons to run the increasingly packed café while Sam hacks wristbands and Janey guides the online bot accounts. All four of them now working to one goal; to get Mahatama Goudier into the café on Friday night.

‘She’s so coming,’ Janey says as they start clearing up while a few late eaters remain at the tables.

‘I can’t cook any more porridge,’ Sven moans, slumped in the doorway ‘I dreamt about it last night.’

‘You told us,’ Yasmine says.

‘I was naked in a tub of it with you and Janey yelling at me because there wasn’t any jam in it.’

‘Yes, Sven, you told us. You sure she’s coming then?’ Yasmine asks Janey.

‘Oh she can’t wait. All of them are going on about it non-stop like it’s a secret just for them.’

‘Surreal or what,’ Yasmine says before groaning, ‘my feet are killing me.’

‘Why? You don’t do anything all day,’ Sven mutters.

‘Dick,’ she says, throwing a cloth at him. ‘For that comment I am going to ask Sam if I can use his shower this evening then lie on his sofa and watch a crappy movie while he rubs my feet.’

‘GOOD IDEA WE SHOULD GO AND DO THAT RIGHT NOW.’ Sam shouts, closing his systems down as he shoots up to his feet.

‘Jesus, Sam,’ Sven says, blinking at the speed in which he moved.

‘It’s fine,’ Janey says, now firmly in her role of manager of everything. ‘You two get off. I’ll get cleared up here. You staying at mine or Sam’s, Yassy?’

‘Depends on how good my foot rub is,’ she quips, laughing at Sam’s expression. ‘We’ll see. I’ll probably crash at Sam’s and give you a break. Right, well night you two. See you in the morning for one last day of serving porridge.’

Samuel Gablinski waves goodnight and finds himself currently unable to form words, due to Yasmine looping her arm through his to walk at his side after saying she wanted to use his shower and lie on his sofa while he rubs her feet. She might even stay at his. Like sleep the night. Like actually sleep in his cabin with him and not after being beaten up by gangsters or anything. This is now the best day ever. Fact.

Yasmine glances across with a smile and a joke ready to be shared, and spots two people emerging from a walkway in a way she has come to recognise so well from tourists trying to find Sven’s Eatery. ‘The porridge place is right there,’ she calls out.

‘Thanks,’ Karen Big Feet replies. A long day searching, and after seeing so many adverts she figured to give it a try and let Chatty Simon watch the live footage of the CrossFit games, and as she replies so Karen recognises the voice and her gut lurches. ‘Yassy,’ she whispers, stunned at the sight of her.

Yasmine blinks as the recognition dawns and runs tactics through her mind. Thinking whether to blag, joke or try and bluff it out, but Karen Big Feet is not Guphy Gupherson and in that same second, she knows Dmitri has sent them. She sags with the look of defeat while her body primes to detonate with an explosion of motion, but she was right -- Karen Big Feet is a hell of a lot smarter than Guphy Gupherson and she has seen Yassy do this same thing a hundred times before. A split second of silence. A split second of nothing as Yasmine stares at them and they stare back, then all three burst into action at the same time.

‘Run!’ Yasmine grabs Sam and drags him along, building to a sprint within a few strides while thinking to go deeper into the maze of lanes. But Sam doesn’t have her instincts to escape and hide, so she aims for the stairwell, hoping to gain enough distance to make it to Sam’s cabin without being seen, but she glances back with a surge of panic at Chatty Simon, already far too close for comfort.

‘Down.’ She runs on past 31 and 32. Slamming into people coming up. Level 33 and Simon is closing so she goes faster, leaping stairs at a time, but it’s no good. There is no way they can run from the platform on 35 and get to Sam’s cabin before Simon catches them.

There is no choice. There is nothing else to do and so she grabs Sam’s hand and keeps going as Sam sees his level go by. A look between them. A glance. ‘Trust me,’ she mouths the words, snatching a look back to see Simon now only one flight behind and she sucks air, readying to shout. ‘GUARDS! HELP!’

Sam balks as they leap the last few steps to land heavy on the security station at level 37 with such an instant change from clean and maintained to a snatched view of battered metal desks and scuffed walls covered in big signs warning of the dangers of the lower four levels.

Hard-faced uniformed men and women with voltage-sticks and people trying to get through. The air already filled with shouts and angry voices. Clouds of vape mingling with the stench of unwashed bodies and synth-coffee. Old bloodstains on the floor and walls. A distance of just a few metres from the levels above but already this world is different.

‘Stay behind me,’ Yasmine gasps, moving in front of Sam. ‘HELP! HE’S GOTTA KNIFE. HE STABBED A WOMAN. HIM!’ she shouts out as Simon lands on the platform. ‘HE’S GOTTA KNIFE!’

The closest guard runs at Simon who lashes out with a snarl, smacking him hard in the face as Karen lands behind and slams a foot into the groin of another.

‘GO!’ Yassy yells, dragging a stunned Sam through the bedlam of guards barging them aside to get at Karen and Simon. A frantic few seconds as the violence in the air charges and the noise spikes with shouts, and those guards left dealing with other people start jabbing their voltage-sticks into bellies and legs to quell the sudden uprising.

They push through, wilting back from angry faces with Yasmine showing supplication by holding her hands up with palms open, then risking a look back to see Simon armed with a voltage-stick, slamming it into guards who fall back with screams of agony as Karen Big Feet snatches a stick to help batter through after Yasmine.

Level 37 and Sam catches glimpses of bright lights reflected on the underside of the high ceilings with a hint of Neon City but still they go down. Down past 38, delving into the bowels of the ship, and the smells of food and meat. Of people living closely together. Hawkers and dealers pulling back into the deep shadows to be away from trouble.

Right to the bottom to the place Yasmine knows best and Sam’s mouth drops open at the view stretching as far as he can see.

Shacks and homes crammed on top of each other with ladders and hanging gantries connecting them all. Coloured lights everywhere and glimpses of little winding streets. Like a city from one of the fantasy books he used to read as a child. Victorian England mixed with a steampunk movie.

Yasmine drags him into dimly lit passages and twisting lanes, ducking the rags and clothes hanging on string and wiring as Sam tries to see everything all at once.

A laugh to the side and he turns fast, seeing a group of older men sitting at a table drinking booze from beakers that display naked writhing women on the wraparound screen interface. The men men look weathered and worn. Stooped and grey from ill-health, and their clothes are greys, browns and all manner of things thrown together. One of them roars with laughter, showing a mouth full of missing teeth and Sam flinches as he passes through a thick cloud of vapour and starts coughing at the chemically narcotic smells of cannabis and tobacco.

They ease their pace. Both sucking air and breathing hard as they go side by side, hand in hand with Yasmine edging closer to that feral wildness in her eyes. Sam reels from the onslaught to his senses. He should be terrified. He should be panicked with fear, except he isn’t. He doesn’t know why or even stop to worry about it, but he holds her hand and listens to the music blasting about them and the only thought in his mind is that he is here. He is in the Elfors. The CGI movies are one thing, but the smells and sounds are something else. Giving instant depth and texture of a life so very different to anything he has ever known.

Thumping beats coming from shacks and cabins made into dingy bars then they pass into what makes him think of a residential section, but it’s nothing like the rows on the levels above where everything is so neat and ordered. People everywhere. Sitting outside of their homes, standing and talking, rushing hither and thither. Grimy kids with filthy faces and bare legs running about, crying out and laughing boisterously with such open displays of play and humour it makes Sam smile as Yasmine glances at him, expecting to see intense fear and she frowns, realising he has never seen anything like this before.

Another turn and Sam looks up at the higher tier shacks, listening to a haunting violin solo filling the air so beautifully it makes him feel strange inside and he flicks his interface open, intending to see if he can identify what music it is, but once more he reels in shock at what he sees. Open code everywhere. He can see them all. Every electronic device within detectable radius is right there using such old encryption they might as well not bother. The whole of it is open and he flicks to scroll until Yasmine tugs his hand. ‘Look up…’

He blinks at her, frowns and follows her gaze to stare up at an old woman with long grey hair wearing rags for a dress swaying side to side on a gantry with a wooden violin tucked into her chin and the bow gliding over the strings.

Sam can’t speak or even think. He’s heard music before, but nothing like this.

‘We need to keep moving,’ Yasmine pulls him on

Moisture in the air. Humidity and heat. A waft of food as they pass a mean-eyed vendor turning skinned rats on a sizzling hot plate.

‘Yassy!’ a man lurches out from another bar front, grinning as he holds his arms out for a hug and gets the flat of Yasmine’s palm in his chest.

‘I’m not here, Droggo,’ she says quickly.

‘Not seein’ nuffin,’ he slurs, trying to wink and touch his nose as he grins at Sam. ‘He’s a pretty boy, Yassy.’

‘Yassy, you don’t wanna be here,’ another voice, female and hushed this time and Sam looks round, trying to figure out where it’s coming from until he spots Yasmine glancing up and cranes his head to see a topless woman leaning over a balcony with a vape-stick clutched in one hand.

‘I’m not here,’ Yassy says again, pulling Sam on as the woman glances back towards the stairwell then nods quickly at Yasmine before pulling away.

‘They’re coming,’ Yasmine whispers, pulling Sam to her side, her hand still in his. ‘Stay with me, okay? I’ll get you back to a stairwell, get to the guards and show them your ID; they help people not from here. Tell them you got lured down.’

Sam listens, still staring left and right, hearing the music and seeing people that look so different. The ceiling here so much higher than the other levels and when he glances up he spots clouds hanging in the air, rolling under the curved ceiling sections.

‘YASSY!’ Karen’s voice screaming out from the depths of the lanes behind and Yasmine speeds up, dragging Sam on through lefts and rights as he loses all sense of direction until she pulls him into a side walkway and down to a collection of shacks and huts built on top of each other and children running everywhere.

‘Yassy!’ Xinxin calls out, running to throw his arms around her legs, clinging on as Yassy ducks to kiss his head. ‘Where’s Colly? Quickly now.’

‘She come back huh?’

Sam stares in awe at the big woman with huge curves emerging drunk from the shack offering a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘You no be here, Yassy. Dmitri huh? He put the mark on you. Go on now child. You go huh. Don’t bring it here.’

‘Colly, I need help,’ Yassy whispers urgently, glancing back. Dmitri has put the mark on her. That means every person they just passed will be desperate to tell one of Dmitri’s crews to earn favour, to score a few credits to get drunk or wasted or simply to eat and not die. She thinks of the look the rat-seller gave her and the drunks at the bars watching them go by. ‘Colly, please.’

‘Not here, not no more. Dmitri say what happen if we help you and I got little mouths to feed, Yassy. Go on now. You run child, before they see you.’

‘Yassy!’

‘June,’ Yasmine says, taking the hug from the girl running over. ‘I need help, June. Hide this man. He’s called Sam. Hide him for me.’

‘Yassy, no child,’ Colly booms.

‘Fucking do it,’ Yasmine snaps, her face flushing with aggression. ‘He’s fuck all to do with this. Juniper, hide him. Get him to a stairwell and I’ll lead them off.’

‘What’s happening?’ Sam says, reaching for her arm.

‘Fuck off, Sam,’ she snaps. ‘Hide him. Quickly.’

‘I’m not hiding.’

‘They’ll kill you!’

‘We lost them,’ Sam says, flapping his hands out from his body. ‘We’re fine.’

‘We are not fine. We are far from fine.’

The shout comes on cue. The loud voice of Karen Big Feet bouncing down the lanes and alleys.

‘YASSY TURNED THE GUARDS ON US. SHE’S WITH A MAN. CREDITS FOR THE FINDER.’

A ripple of voices heard, deep tones and mutterings unseen from nearby and Yasmine tenses again with her face hardening.

‘June, get him away for me.’

‘No,’ Sam says quickly. ‘I’m not risking these people, Yasmine.’

‘You find a man you fuck him good, Yassy,’ Colly says, laughing hard and bitter. ‘Then bring him here to die you stupid girl. You selfish, Yassy. Run now, go on and run now. Kids die if you here.’

‘YASSY YOU FUCKING BITCH.’

Yasmine turns to look at the direction of Karen’s voice then explodes and pushes Sam hard, knocking him over. ‘Hide him!’ She runs off, heading into the maze as Sam scrabbles up to see Colly glaring hard.

‘You run boy,’ she whispers deeply.

Sam runs, slipping and tripping to go after Yasmine as something wet splashes on his face. He wipes it away but more liquid hits and he glances up to see the rain he has heard about so many times falling from the air above him and he can’t help but gawp and stare, seeing water drops falling down like real rain from Earth and he smiles, shaking his head at the sensation and thinking it is wonderful until the sting comes in his eyes and he hears the children crying as they run for cover. He wipes his eyes again, feeling the grease and slime within the water that slides over his face. The stench of it hits. Filthy and putrid. Formed from chemicals and malnourished people going in his mouth and he yacks to spit and gag while running on.

‘HE’S HERE!’ a woman yells from the side, making Sam swivel his head to see a figure stepping back under the eaves of a cabin. Her skin pock-marked and scarred. Her belly swollen with child. ‘YASSY’S MAN. HE’S HERE,’ she yells again, her face flushed with fear and hunger. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mouths at Sam. A hand on her belly. ‘Run.’ She nods for him to go.

Sam runs as the dirty rain pours down, greasy and sticky and within seconds he is lost and drenched, running into wet hanging clothes and tents and bouncing off cabin walls to dodge drunks and kids shouting out that he is here and Karen’s voice gaining closer with every few seconds because she knows this maze and Sam does not.

He starts to tire, breathing hard and not knowing what to do and with no clue as to the direction of the stairwell. Another bar and more drunk men and women calling out as he runs by. A beaker thrown that narrowly misses his head and he blunders on, slamming into an angry man who throws him to the side and swings a punch that Sam ducks as he staggers on and away.

‘STOP HIM. DMITRI WILL PAY.’

Not good. Not good at all. Sam runs faster, not knowing where to go or what to do and spots a deep shadow in front of a shack and runs for it, moving in to breathe hard.

Karen comes into view and as his heart thunders so a hand moves from behind to cover his mouth and pull him back deeper into the shadows.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

‘YASSY! YOU HEAR ME? NO WAY OUT YASSY. DMITRI KNOWS YOU’RE HERE.THE STAIRWELLS ARE BLOCKED.’

Yasmine watches through the gap in the front of Clean Larry’s filthy shack. One hand over Sam’s mouth and the other clutching the scalpel she took from the Russian doctor.

‘Don’t move,’ she breathes into Sam’s ear, making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He nods as the hand moves away. He turns to look where he is before recoiling at the stench hitting his nose. The snores of Clean Larry coming from nearby. Rotten dirty feet mixed with chemical booze and dirty wet farts and the ammonia of piss stings his eyes, making him gag.

Yasmine winces, glancing outside, worried the noise will draw attention to the filthy shack they’re hiding in. She pulls him in close, guiding his face into the crook of her neck knowing her perfume will help filter the stench. ‘Breathe through your mouth,’ she whispers, holding her hand on the back of his neck, and in that second, she feels a very great shame at being so used to it. That she grew up with this dirt and filth. Why did she bring him here? What a stupid thing to do. She should have left him on the guard station and run down on her own. The guards might have zapped him but they would have also scanned his wristband and sent him back up.

Idiot. Stupid, selfish bloody idiot again. Only ever thinking of herself and not caring who else gets caught up in her mess. She scowls in the darkness, hating herself before tensing when she sees Karen come to a stop outside. The woman breathing hard with blood splashed on her face and her hair slick from the dirty rain, and Yasmine watches Chatty Simon come into view. A voltage-stick still gripped in his hands.

‘HEAR THIS,’ Karen bellows. ‘DMITRI HAS PUT A MARK ON YASSY. ANYONE HELPING HER WILL BE HURT. Come on,’ she adds, motioning to Simon who cocks his head while staring at the shack. He takes a step closer, staring into the shadows as though he can see the pair hiding insider. Yasmine holds the scalpel ready, her eyes set and hard. Ready to fight. Ready to die to protect Sam.

Chatty Simon takes another step then pulls his head back, catching a waft of the stench. He shakes his head before pulling back, then moves after Karen. Yasmine finally releases the air from her chest.

‘I’m gonna puke,’ Sam whispers, turning away as he heaves, spattering the floor.

‘We have to go,’ Yasmine says, grabbing his arm to pull him on. She pushes out of the shack, pausing to look left and right before grabbing his hand and running across into a tight alley between the sides of cabins and shacks, sticking to deep shadows. Sam flinches at hearing a squeak as something runs over his feet.

‘Rats,’ Yasmine whispers. ‘Don’t touch them and tell me if you get bit.’

Sam wonders what she will do if he does get bit, but stays quiet, following her through alleys until she stops and hunkers down to unloop a fastening rope keeping a pile of rags and debris in place over the top of a service hatch fitted with hinges. She swings it up as Sam peers into the utter pitch darkness within.

‘No way,’ he says.

‘No choice. Just stay behind me.’

She lowers out of view with a gentle thud as Sam flounders, not wanting to go inside something so small and dark.

‘YASSSSSSSSYYYY?’ Karen’s voice nearby, singing her name, macabre and sinister. Yasmine guides him down until his feet hit the metal bottom. She pushes past him, pressing her body into his to reach up and close the hatch.

‘Stay behind me,’ she whispers.

She turns and starts crawling away, seeming to know where she is going. Sam follows, unable to see his own hands in front of his face as the tunnel starts angling down and the noise of the world above them drops away.

A light ahead glows dimly as they draw closer so he spots thick wires, pipes and ducts running above them. The sound of water rushing through some while others he assumes to be for power and waste, but what strikes him is that this was built over one hundred years ago when the fleet was first constructed. That these pipes were fastened and put in place by people who had seen Earth. By people who had seen the sun and the moon, the rain and the wind. He spots layers of dust on thicker pipes and the smudges from small hands of children who have played down here. Drawings on the walls too. Coloured markings glimpsed when they crawl past the dim service lights. Rags on the floor used for sleeping, but it’s so cold down here and he can’t image anyone staying longer than essential. He shivers as he crawls, spotting waste and litter. A doorway or a recess ahead on the right and he slows as he passes, glimpsing the skeletal remains of an adult within the service room.

‘Been there since I was a kid,’ Yasmine whispers. ‘They say it’s haunted down here.’

Another scurry over his foot and he yelps, drawing his limbs in on seeing a rat run past, then a cobweb brushes his face and he paws at his flesh, thinking there’s a spider upon him., and the deeper they go, the more cobwebs they feel made from spiders that came on board the fleet with people, just as the rats and lice and roaches did. Just as many things did that shouldn’t have.

The smell of sewage hits. A tiny leak in a pipe carrying effluent that has become an oasis within the desert, feeding rats and bugs, and still Yasmine goes on, crawling in front of Sam as he veers away from the pool of liquid that has formed mini stalactites and stalagmites over the decades.

She leads them into another tunnel and it still goes down, becoming pitch black with a darkness so absolute he starts seeing flashes of colour in his vision. It grows colder and the panic bites from not knowing where he is or what direction they are travelling.

Down a bit more and the air becomes freezing as Sam realises they are right next to the outer skin of the ship. Space is mere inches away. He spends hours next to an airlock, but that’s controlled and heated. This isn’t. Space is right there.

The shivering gets worse. The cold driving into his bones and at the point when the fears grows the most, the floor angles up and they start to rise, and he holds his fear silent. Pleading inwardly to any god listening to give him heat and safety while also thinking he wish he could see at least a little bit, cos you know, Yasmine’s bum is right in front of him.

Up and up, the air slowly getting warmer until light is ahead, growing bigger and giving enough illumination to see.

She stops under another hatch and peers out before pushing it up and climbing deftly out. Then she sticks a hand back down to help him into a bigger tunnel with a big set of slow moving air propulsion propeller blades set a couple of metres above floor level. He looks out to the shanty towns and lights shining somewhere else on level 40.

‘Sit with me,’ she says, moving into his side, wrapping her arms round his body, pulling him close to cuddle and share body heat. ‘You’re shivering. Are you okay?’ she asks.

Sam trembles from the cold. Thinking of the squalor he just saw. The abject poverty he has heard about his whole life, but nothing comes close to seeing it. A violent, seedy, filthy awful place. But then he thinks of the kids running free and that dignified old woman playing the violin and strangely, right then, they are two of the most hauntingly beautiful things he has ever seen. Life down here is harsh, but it’s not beige. There is colour and depth. There’s pain and suffering but those old men were laughing outside the bar. He thinks of Colly and how it was nice seeing someone big and curvy. He looks out through the blades across a vista that makes him want to just stare for hours. So many lights and things to see. Old ladders. Old cabins. Something telling him that the way they live up top isn’t living at all.

This is a confusing, awful place and there are people chasing them to hurt them, possibly kill them, but he doesn’t feel anywhere near as scared as he should. He doesn’t know why either. He thinks of Yasmine growing up here. He thinks of the suffering she must have endured and all the bad things in her life that made her like this now and he pulls her in tight, giving her his heat, holding her closer with his arms and he kisses the top of her head with an act that makes her grow still. A gentle thing to do. A kind act from a shy man who cares for her. A moment shared. Adrenalin still coursing and every sense straining at the same time. The colours so vivid. The hum of the blades. The chill they came through. The heat of each other.

‘I don’t want to be anywhere else,’ he whispers, meaning it, meaning it with everything he has.

Yasmine screws her eyes closed, feeling tears spilling down her cheeks. He’s so sweet. A kind and decent man who has no clue of the danger he is in right now. ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so sorry. I fuck everything up. I should have left you with the guards.’

He nestles closer and adds another shiver that invokes more rubbing from Yasmine, and she even takes her turn to kiss his head. Holding him tight in the darkness.

‘So cold,’ he says, adding a quaver to his voice.

‘Oh god I feel awful. Okay, listen, we can stay here for a few hours and wait for them to get bored then I’ll get you to a stairwell. Just hang on for me, Sam. I’ll get you out, I promise.’

‘We shouldn’t rush,’ Sam whispers. ‘We could spend the night.’

‘The night? What in here?’ she asks.

‘And like, get naked and share body heat,’ he suggests, adding another big deep tremble.

‘You shit. I thought you were actually serious then.’

‘I’m so cold.’ He grins at feeling her chuckle then grins wider when she snuggles in closer, relishing the contact and the feel of her body next to his and her hands gently stroking his hair.

‘Aren’t you scared?’ she asks.

He lifts his head up, looking into her eyes. ‘Yeah but you’re here.’

That moment holds forever in time as they study the contours of each other’s faces illuminated by the glows of lamps that flicker from the blades turning. A moment of perfect stillness where all the noise in her head fades away and she blinks to look out through the blades to Juniper staring silently and her heart skips a beat.

‘No,’ Yasmine whispers. ‘June, no. Don’t do it.’

Sam looks out at the young shaven-headed girl further back in a walkway as Yasmine tenses, praying Juniper won’t do it. But the outcome is ordained and written in scripture. Juniper needs to eat and live, and being on side with Dmitri is way better than helping a woman who makes false promises. Yasmine blinks slowly at the sadness of it all, knowing this is her fault. That all of it is her fault and as Karen steps into view with Simon, so Juniper lifts a hand to point at the turbine blades.

‘We gotta run,’ Yasmine snaps, grabbing Sam’s hands to run at the turbine, dragging him behind her until she drops onto her back and snatches her hand free as she pops out between two blades and drops lithely to the floor. Sam knows he can make it. He can do what she just did. He runs hard to drop and slide and slams his bollocks into a blade that keeps turning and spills him out to drop with a thump and a yelp as Karen cocks her head over.

‘He’s actually a genius,’ Yasmine calls out before telling Sam to get up.

‘Can’t. My balls are in my belly.’

‘Where you going, Yassy?’ Karen calls, walking towards them as they set off. ‘Ain’t nowhere to go honey.’

‘FUCK A GOAT KAREN.’

On again, lurching into the twisting lanes with lefts and rights as Sam grimaces from the pain radiating in his groin.

‘SHE’S HERE,’ a man shouts, wilting back from the plastic chair thrown at him by Yasmine.

‘GOT HER,’ another man yells out, running at Yasmine and Sam from ahead. Before Sam can think to react, Yasmine slams a fist into his head, driving him back into a table that smashes to bits, spilling drinks over men and women who surge up with shouts. Yasmine grabs anything to hand to throw at them and buy time for Sam to get through, before running behind to push him on.

‘Fuck,’ Yasmine seethes, running harder to guide Sam on, hearing the shouts marking their route and the rain comes again. Slick, gross and dirty. Wetting their hair and clothes.

‘SHE’S HERE,’ another yell from kids tracking their route with the promise of reward and being in Dmitri’s good books.

‘This way,’ she gasps, aiming for a woman she knows well only to find the door slamming closed.

She grows desperate from being hunted. That they will kill her is obvious, and this lot right now are getting so buoyed up they’ll tear her apart like animals, but they’ll go for Sam too and he doesn’t deserve it. Again her own reckless, selfish actions come slamming back, because all she has ever done is steal and take and lie and rob. She killed a doctor and took his meds. She tricked Sam, a nice, decent, innocent shy man with the lure of seeing her tits like the cheap whore she is. Just like her mother.

Then it gets worse because Guphy Gupherson steams out from a side alley to slam into the pair of them, ripping them from their feet into the side wall of a cabin.

Everything on pure instinct. Yasmine grabs the underside of a gantry as Guphy pulls his arms back ready to deliver punches hard enough to kill. She’s seen him do it. She’s seen Guphy in full flow and once he starts there is no stopping him. She kicks hard, battering her feet into his face to break his nose and drive him back.

‘YASSSSSYYYYY,’ Karen sings her name and the air fills with calls, whistles and cheers. Yasmine drags Sam on, knowing this is it. Any minute they will be caught. She cries out from the fear and desperation of it all.

Sam looks left and right and connects things he is seeing to things he has heard about before. He swipes his wristband, bringing his matt-black screen up and jabs as he runs, holding the holo-screen in front.

‘Not now, Sam.’ She grabs his arm, dragging him into a wide walkway lined with bars and stalls. People turn to jeer and shout and she runs through them as beakers of drink get thrown because they need to show loyalty to Dmitri, hitting both of them in the head and body. But still Sam jabs at his interface, reading code and sending probes out pulsing into the world about him. ‘Sam please -- run!’

‘Hang on,’ he types fast, sending signals to get signals back, seeing old programmes running everywhere that haven’t been updated in years. He sets to work, his hands blurring and he slows from running to walking and then stops to type faster, while Yasmine screams at him to move.

‘Hang on,’ he says again, infuriating her. She snarls and looks back to see Guphy running into view from one alley and Chatty Simon from another and draws the scalpel as the beakers hit their bodies.

Sam reads code and types fast. There it is. That’s the one. In he goes. Tweaking it. Sensing it. Feeling his way through to isolate and find the doors in to the signals and invisible waves riding the very air about them.

‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ Yasmine says, earnest, broken and genuine. ‘I am so sorry.’

Guphy charging in from one side. Chatty Simon from the other and everyone else watching either in sickened horror or with lust-filled faces at the murders about to be committed.

‘Don’t be,’ he says, smiling as he hits enter then loops an arm about her waist, grips the nearest pole and shoves the front of his boot into one of the foot-traps he saw when they were running. Yasmine blinks once with no idea what’s happening then feels the wrench in her gut as the grav-drives turn off.

She twists to see Guphy and Chatty Simon running in hard, both just feet away as gravity fails and up they rise, sailing over her head to slam into each other with a hard thud before they both spin off. Screams sounding out. People rising into the air. Everything not strapped down suddenly floating up.

Yasmine blinks at the sight and spots Karen clinging to the front of a cabin while Mad Eyes Ken shouts angrily as he sails up past a gantry.

‘Ten seconds on, ten seconds off Ready?’ Sam sends the code off and starts counting backwards. ‘Three…two…one.’

A lurch inside as the gravity drives kick back on and what goes up must come down.

Guphy Gupherson drops through the roof of a shack. Drunks and addicts land with sickening thuds on gantries and bounce off ledges with a sickening chorus of breaking bones and screams of pain. Beakers rain down, pattering the ground as Yasmine and Sam start running again.

‘Seven…six…five…’ Sam counts down, running with Yasmine. ‘Four… we need to hold on,’ he shouts, aiming for the side.

‘No -- with me.’ She grabs his arm, her face a mask of grim focus. ‘KICK!’ she pushes off with her legs as they sail up and Sam yells out, thrashing and spinning as the world about them once more finds gravity is suddenly not there.

‘FUCK!’ Karen shouts out, floating up again as Chatty Simon grips a gantry and turns deftly in the air while Guphy bursts out of the door of the shack he fell through only to float back up.

‘There,’ Yasmine shouts, aiming for the top bar on an upper walkway. ‘GRAB ON.’

They drop deftly, landing side by side on the upper walkway as everyone else falls and screams and break more bones. Sam quickly accesses his system, sending more codes out. A second later and the air fills with music blaring from every system within reach of Sam’s wristband. Then the images come. The movies, adverts and holo-shows growing huge and popping up one after the other adding a visual spectacle to the noise.

‘Go!’ Yasmine shouts, pushing him on through the zero gravity. ‘Aim that way Ready?’

Over roofs and leaping gaps and alleys. Gravity on. Gravity off. Running like hell with Chatty Simon moving through obstacles like a CrossFit athlete.

Sam glances back to see rats in the air, calm as you like as they wait to drop. Pots and pans, beakers of drinks, bedding, clothes, beds and chairs and people flailing arms and clinging to wires, pipes and anything they can reach. Music everywhere. Images and feeds showing. What a thing to do. What a thing to see and it sears in his mind, visceral and awesome.

‘Stairwell,’ Yasmine gasps. They slide down the side of a cabin to run on the floor proper, seeing the base of the stairwell ahead and the men and women blocking the entrances now clinging to the rails and bars.

‘Now,’ Yasmine shouts and hand in hand they leap to sail up, aiming high as Karen and Chatty Simon fly underneath them, twisting in the air with Simon’s fingertips brushing Sam’s boot. Yasmine and Sam hit the upper bars of the first landing, while Karen and Simon smash into the people at the bottom. Yasmine and Sam gain the stairwell already two flights up from the ground and start running hard.

‘UP. AFTER THEM,’ Karen roars, scrabbling free from the press of bodies to gain the stairs and start up.

‘Shit. Give up, you psychotic bitch,’ Yasmine gasps, pulling Sam on.

‘BLOCK 37. BLOCK 37,’ Karen screams into her interface. ‘SHE’S ON THE STAIRS GOING UP.’

‘Bitch!’ Yasmine spits, knowing she has no choice. She pulls Sam off the platform onto level 37 where the air buzzes with energy and music and the rich smells of food cooking. Spices and meats. Sweet and pleasant. Cannabis vapour thick and pungent and an instant transition where everything is yet again so different.

Level 40 was near-abject squalor but 37 is a land of commercial enterprise and so strikingly different it makes Sam marvel and blink. He rushes hand in hand with Yasmine onto a wide walkway lined with business fronts. Holo adverts and signs offering bodyguards and security teams for hire. Heavily muscled men and women sitting and standing about waiting to be paid to escort people in, so they can get wasted without fear of being robbed or knifed. In the near distance he hears the thump of bass beats and tunes blasting in the air and the glimmer showing from the neon lights.

‘Hey, Yassy,’ a man’s deep voice rumbles, making Sam flinch.

‘It’s okay,’ Yasmine says. ‘They don’t work for Dmitri; they’re independents. Boris, you good?’ she calls, still breathing hard while casting worried glances back to the stairwell.

‘How you doing, Yassy? Who’s the pretty boy?’ a woman asks, flexing biceps bigger than Sam’s legs as she wink at him. ‘Ain’t you just a cutey pie.’

‘I’ve had better days, Clara.’

‘YASSY,’ Karen screams, spittle flying from her lips as she spills from the platform to see Yasmine and Sam further down the main walkway. Blood on her face. A cut to her mouth. Her hair slick and wet from the rain and her chest heaving as she stalks into the walkway. ‘Nice trick with the grav-drives, pretty boy.’

‘Why’s everyone calling me pretty?’ Sam asks.

‘Shush, you’re very pretty,’ Yasmine says. ‘Do the grav thing again.’

‘Too much tech here,’ Sam replies, looking about.

‘Stairwells are blocked, Yassy,’ Karen says, spitting blood as Chatty Simon rushes out from the platform behind her. His eyes furious and more of Dmitri’s crews behind him. They spread out with angry faces full of violent intent. ‘Where you gonna go? You’re fucked. Give up.’

Yasmine backs away, shielding Sam behind her as the security teams look on. ‘The doc groped me. I told him -- I fucking told him to stop.’

‘You robbed him,’ Karen shouts.

‘EVERYONE ROBS,’ Yasmine screams back at her, keeping Sam behind as Guphy and Mad Eyes stagger from the platform. ‘Okay listen: let him go,’ Yasmine says. ‘He’s fuck all to do with this. Let him go. I’ll come and talk to Dmitri.’

‘After that little stunt? Not a chance. Dmitri wants you, but I’ll be speaking to your pretty boy.’

Yasmine keeps moving, forcing Sam backwards as he looks over to see Clara underneath one of the glowing 3D adverts hanging in the air and it’s the wink she gives that makes him stop and read the words hanging above her. That and the very muscled arm pointing up.

SECURITY TEAMS FOR HIRE

ENJOY YOUR TRIP TO NEON CITY IN SAFETY

‘SAM, YOU NEED TO RUN,’ Yasmine urges, seeing them all closing in.

‘Hi, excuse me, did you say your name was Clara?’ Sam asks politely.

‘Sure is, honey,’ Clara replies with a broad smile.

‘May I ask how much you charge?’

‘Well, for a cute thing like you I’ll do it for three fifty.’

‘Butt out of it, Clara,’ Karen shouts.

‘But it just dropped to two fifty, sugar,’ Clara says, widening that smile as she pushes off the wall to stroll into the walkway. ‘You got two fifty?’

‘Clara, you do not want to be in the way of this,’ Karen yells.

‘Well now,’ Boris says, as casual as anything. ‘It’s a quiet night. Mind if I tag-team with you, Clara?’

‘Sure thing, Boris. Be glad of the company,’ Clara says as Boris strolls out into the walkway to smile at Karen. As big as Guphy and packed with muscle. His face hard, his reputation known, and the tension charges as Yasmine spots the reactions in the faces of Dmitri’s crews who are suddenly not so sure.

‘Two fifty,’ Sam says, nodding fast.

‘Did I say two fifty? Aw hell, I meant two…’ Clara says, sending an invite to pay into Sam’s system with the fleet’s most up to date method of safe credit transfer. He makes the payment, sending it over and hearing Clara’s wristband chime. ‘Aw now, guess who just got hired. Now my terms, and that of my husband, Boris, are to offer you our full protective services as you enjoy your time in Neon City, and I guarantee you will pass on through without hindrance or harm by anyone. Ain’t that right, Boris?’

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Karen snaps.

‘I’m doing business is what I’m doing, Karen,’ Clara says, not looking at her. ‘What are you doing? Cos you sure as shit better not be threatening my client now.’ She turns to look as the twenty or so bodyguards lining the walkway rise from chairs and push off from walls with a show of intent as Karen’s team take a step backwards.

‘That’s fine,’ Karen says, forcing a grin. ‘Pretty boy paid for himself, not for Yassy.’

‘How much for two?’ Sam asks quickly.

‘Dmitri’s put a mark on her,’ Karen says to Clara. ‘You can’t protect a mark.’

Clara glares at her, then shares a look with Boris, who shrugs. ‘Damn, even I can’t break that rule,’ she mutters.

‘It’s cool,’ Yasmine sighs. ‘Clara, get him out, yeah?’

‘You know I will, Yassy.’

‘Stand aside, Boris.’ Karen barks the words, walking towards the big man with a smirk of victory. Boris grunts, rubbing the back of his neck and looking to Clara as the tension ramps higher. Karen goes on, ‘She’s marked. NOW FUCK OFF.’

‘Don’t touch the boy,’ he rumbles.

‘Say now,’ Clara says, noticing Yasmine’s hand in Sam’s. ‘Are you two a couple?’

Sam starts shaking his head as Clara lifts an eyebrow, which makes him frown as she cocks her head which makes him nod which makes her smile so he nods more and she smiles wider. ‘The terms and conditions of your policy, my little cutey pie, specify protection is given to both the paying party and the spouse of that paying party.’

‘Oh fuck off,’ Karen scoffs.

‘Girlfriend,’ Sam says, mesmerised by Clara. ‘And like, we’re dating and like in love.’ He wraps an arm round Yasmine’s shoulders while she tries to wrap an arm around his, which starts an awkward arm versus shoulder battle until Yasmine pushes his down with a glare then smiles sweetly again.

‘Just so in love,’ Yasmine tells everyone.

‘She was stalking me, and she punched this man when I looked up his wife’s skirt and we do foot rubs and…’

‘Okay stop now, Sam.’

‘And she stayed in my cabin one night and we slept together and we cuddled and totally did sex. With my penis in her vagina.’

‘Get out the fucking way,’ Karen tells Boris while shaking her head. ‘Never heard such shit. Yasmine doesn’t do relationships.’

‘People like Yassy,’ Clara says, her voice dropping several notches. ‘They don’t like you, Karen, and we don’t work for Dmitri. You touch either my charge or his spouse and I will invoke the full wrath of the Neon City Bodyguards on you.’

‘Are you fucking joking right now?’ Karen snaps, coming to a stop at the muscular security teams moving towards her. ‘Big mistake, big fucking mistake but go ahead because your jurisdiction ends at the stairwells.’

‘Well now,’ Clara says, winking at him as she moves to loop one arm through Sam’s and another through Yasmine’s, almost lifting both of their feet in the process. ‘Let’s get you into Neon City.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

‘Leo! That’s not what is happening,’ Abdul says, sitting back with his feet on his desk while several glowing holo feeds show other people doing much the same on various ships across the fleet.

‘It’s what the news said, Abdul. It’s what Helga said on the news!’

‘Leo. Listen to me. It’s a recruitment drive to ease the pressure in the Elfors. A few workers to go on maintenance teams, a few cleaners It’s not undercutting anyone.’

‘The Beijing has enough workers, Abdul. We don’t need more workers. We have enough workers.’

‘Give me strength,’ Abdul mutters, looking at the ceiling.

‘Abdul, we’re all nervous old chap. If Helga takes the helm then you lot over there hold a controlling stake.’

‘Timothy, I hear that, and I understand your worries, but I don’t think it will affect the HMS Her or His bloody Majesties ship of dogs.’

‘Ha! Good one,’ Alina laughs.

‘You can piss off,’ Tim says haughtily. ‘Bloody Russians. How is the old Vladivostok anyway?’

‘It is good. Some people are nervous I think. But, I think this is a good thing, no? Abdul? We are friends? We trade? We carry on trading?’

‘Exactly,’ Abdul says, holding a hand out towards Alina. ‘This is good for all of us. Think about it. Helga mentioned a trade delegation and suggested, and it was only a suggestion mind, that I could be a part of it. Now what’s to stop me inviting a few decent business people into that summit or meeting or whatever we have? Maybe form a committee. I can’t say more than that but…’

‘With Tim?’ Loud Leo Lin shouts. ‘Not with Tim. He stinks of dog.’ He cuts off, laughing at his own joke as Timothy rolls his eyes at the same time as Abdul’s office door opens and Penny strides in, looking furious.

‘You need to see this, Abdul,’ she snaps.

‘I think I need to go,’ Abdul says, waving a hand as he kills the feeds. ‘Penny? Something troubling you?’

‘Dmitri has got Karen, Mad Eyes, Simon and Guphy and everyone else chasing Yasmine and a man called Sam through level 40.’

‘What?’ Abdul sweeps his feet off the desk to sit up as Penny activates her own system, bringing up some footage to pull out into the air, turning it for Abdul to see.

‘Penny child! Is bad. Dmitri, he gone for Yassy now. She got a boy down here. Fresh boy. Nice boy.’

‘That’s Colly,’ Penny says.

‘I know who it is, Penny,’ Abdul replies, giving her a quick look. ‘Let it play.’

‘Karen, she screaming to give credits to anyone who find Yassy now. She say they hurt anyone who help her. You see this?’

‘Shit,’ Abdul says as Colly turns her own camera out to show the world about her and the air filled with people and objects floating up. A second later and everything drops with a chorus of screams and angry shouts.

‘Keep watching,’ Penny says.

Abdul watches, seeing a few seconds later when everything floats back up and he shakes his head. ‘The drives never turn off and on like that.’

‘Someone said the man with Yassy is turning them off and on. He was seen hacking just as Guphy and Simon were about to grab them. Abdul, this has gone far enough.’

‘Where are they now?’ Abdul asks quickly.

‘They went for the stairwell, but Karen’s got them blocked. They can’t get out and Dmitri’s put the mark on her. Nobody can help her.’

Abdul nods. Thinking fast before activating a call.

‘Abdul, honey. How you doing?’

‘Clara, listen. You know Yassy?’

‘Everyone knows Yassy, Abdul. Come on now. Ask me something harder.’

‘You might have her and a man called Sam heading your way with a few of Dmitri’s crew on their tail. Any help you can give will be appreciated.’

‘Sure thing, Abdul. Anything for you, sugar.’

‘Clara, discreetly, this isn’t coming from me.’

‘I got you,’ she says, tapping her nose and winking before looking up and away. ‘I think you might be right.’

‘Make it look natural, Clara.’

‘I don’t need no excuse to pick this fight,’ she says before cutting the call and Abdul sits back, still thinking. A long day already and now this happening and always in the back of his mind is the thought that Helga is doing something else. That instinct is there. Like a claxon in his head.

‘Keep me updated,’ he tells Penny. ‘I want eyes on the ground watching.’

‘OF COURSE you’ll be wanting the guided tour I’m sure,’ Clara says, walking arm in arm with Sam and Yasmine.

‘I think we’re fine, Clara,’ Yasmine says, looking back.

‘I’d like the guided tour. I mean if that’s okay,’ Sam says.

‘Sure is sweetie because right now we got some time to kill while Karen calls to Dmitri and tells him what happened. I reckon this place will be flooded with Dmitri’s boys and gals all looking for a way to hurt you two, but don’t you worry none. Ain’t no one touching you while I’m here. So while I tell Sam about our history, Yassy, you put your pretty little mind to the task of getting out of here.’

‘I am,’ Yasmine mutters.

‘Can’t you take us out?’ Sam asks.

‘Aw now sugar. If I could I surely would but you see, the rules, even for a lawless place like this, are set in stone and I can get you safely to the stairwell, but I cannot take you up.’

‘Oh,’ Sam says.

‘Oh indeed, now you know how the bowels came to be, right? The fleet had been built and shuttles were rushing up and down from the planet to the ships, getting as many rich, wealthy and entitled folks out of there as they could. But this one captain, he suddenly finds himself with a fleet of shuttles and no rich people to put in them, so he defies orders and crams his shuttles with just about anyone he can find. He don’t care who gets on board and his shuttles land in Europe and Russia and Africa and China and damn it just all over the place and so the poor people, they rush in and they go up into space cos that captain, he knows the World-Ship Humility has four lower storage levels still unused. That’s why our ceilings are so much higher, sugar. We were meant for storage and warehouses, not for living. And he gets his shuttles alongside and he pushes them folk out and god damn if he doesn’t go back down to do it all again.’

‘The Last Few.’

‘That’s right,’ Clara beams, pulling him in tighter to her side. ‘All them movies and shows they done with Johan Johans looking all rugged. But you see, that captain he went too far and got too many folk and he didn’t think about where they were coming from or what medicals issues they had or if they were thieves and murderers. He just stuffed them in here and by the time the folk up on level one realised there was tens of thousands of people down here, it was too late to get them back out. So they flooded the stairwells with guards to stop them going up while they figured out just what the hell to do with them. That was over one hundred years ago and guess what? They’re still trying to figure out what to do with them now. You thought of anything yet, Yassy?’

‘Nope.’

Sam listens to Clara, her voice so confident and strong that it imbues a feeling of utter safety. His frantic mind, overwhelmed by everything happening.

‘OKAY, thanks. Keep watching, I’ll call you back,’ Penny says, cutting off a call in Abdul’s office. Tension in the air. Pasha and Colin making the sofas look like children’s furniture. A few more security members from Abdul’s own private team waiting outside the office.

‘Go on,’ Abdul says.

‘Clara’s got them, she’s walking them into Neon now. Just hitting the main strip.’

‘Okay, try and get them into the Ritzy Ditzy.’

A WIDE WALKWAY. Triple the size of normal ones and lined with building fronts that maybe were once cabins but now resemble something from the movies about Las Vegas. Flashing lights everywhere. Old style neon things made from physical glass that shine and fizz and blink and strobe the air. Holo-adverts too, blooming up to fly overhead and more of them shining in front of the buildings as the music reaches them. Bars and clubs with open fronts stuffed with people laughing and drinking and vaping as they dance. Bouncers standing by doors who nod at Clara and Yassy and Boris now walking behind them.

NAKED WOMEN!: NAKED MEN!

NAKED ANYTHING!

HE SPOTS the first strip joint and blinks at the women in underwear bending forward as they clock eyes on him, thinking him to be a regular newbie as they saunter forward to pout and rub breasts until they frown on seeing Yassy and pull back, suddenly unsure and worried because Dmitri put the mark on her.

Men outside another club. Rubber and leather pants, some with no pants at all who rub their genitals as they smile at Sam, then do the same as the others and turn away on seeing the pariah walking beside him.

‘Anything you could ever want right here,’ Clara explains. ‘Every drug you could want, every sexual desire you ever thought. All you need is credits because this is Neon City and there are no judgments here.’

‘Jesus,’ Sam says, seeing young teenage children sitting outside a club fitted with flashing lights and thumping music.

‘My protection does not cover you inside those places,’ Clara says firmly.

‘Kids,’ Sam says. ‘Are they…I mean, do they?’

‘Nobody said this was a good place, sugar,’ Clara says, moving on.

‘But…’ Sam looks back, seeing the children’s wan, tired faces as they offer forced smiles to people passing by. It’s not right. It’s so very wrong and he feels an urge to do something, to tell everyone they shouldn’t be doing it.

‘It’s different down here,’ Yasmine says, looking at him.

‘Sure is,’ Clara adds.

‘Why don’t you stop it?’ Sam asks. ‘You and those men and…and the women back there, and Boris. If you all worked together you could stop it.’

‘Honey, there are hundreds of thousands of people living in the lower four. If we stop it here it just moves up a way. We stop it there it opens up down on 40 or up on 38. At least here we make sure the kids don’t get killed or beaten too badly.’

‘Are you fucking joking?’ Sam asks.

Clara shrugs, her face hardening as Yasmine looks away, hating that she grew up here, feeling ashamed and tainted by it.

‘We might as well get a drink into you,’ Clara says, spotting Carla Big Lips inclining her head at the door of the Ritzy Ditzy

‘A drink? I don’t want to drink here,’ Sam says.

‘You don’t have a choice. Yassy needs to think of a way out of here. Come on now, here’s as good as anywhere. You see that, Yassy?’ Clara asks as they walk to the doors.

‘Yep,’ Yassy says as Sam turns to see a huge man the size of Boris standing a few metres away. His arms at his side and his impassive face filled with surgical cuts. A smaller man at his side, the same man Sam saw in his port with the wild eyes who asked where Yasmine was. He saw them on level 40 too. Both of them silent and watching as Clara leads them inside, and Sam clocks Boris pausing to lock eyes with the other big man before following them through.

‘THEY’RE IN,’ Penny relays in the office, looking from Abdul to Colin and Pasha. ‘What now?’

Colin shrugs, ‘Dmitri can’t lose face and not take action. Yassy’s marked, and you said they go back.’

‘Know what,’ Abdul says, pushing up from his chair. ‘I need a drink. Come on.’

THE RITZY DITZY is not what Sam expected at all. A black floor with chrome seats and cream curved padded bench seats. Privacy booths set back and others dotted here and there. The walls black but fitted with hidden lights with high-end, high-res 3D dance videos full of beautiful men and women dancing energetically. Holo images of drinks shine bright in carefully chosen places. Thumping music with a heavy beat and various dancefloors filled with people throwing themselves about. A long bar to one side lined with bottles and glass shelves. Sam has been into a few bars on level 30 and they were okay, but this is wilder, harder and full of energy. People laughing loudly. Groups of hard looking men and women, work crews on a night out, brawny and taking safety in their numbers. Another sight to see. Another experience searing into his mind.

They aim for a central booth to keep the main doors in view as Clara nods to a serving woman. By the time they start sitting, she returns with four beakers of cold synth-beer and a huge smile.

‘I’ll pay,’ Yasmine says, bringing her arm up to activate her wristband.

‘Can’t take your money, Yassy,’ the girl replies with worry and apology in her eyes. ‘Got a mark on you.’

‘You’re fucking joking, right?’

‘I can’t serve you. Sorry.’

Sam pays, seeing Yasmine squeeze her eyes closed as she slumps down into the seats with Boris’s huge bulk sitting down next to her.

ZHANG LEANS BACK from his position at the bar, convinced he just saw Yassy walk in. It can’t be. She’s marked. He told her to stay out the Elfors. What the hell is she doing here? He frowns, glimpsing through the crowd to see she’s with a man with unkempt blond hair, both of them flanked by Clara and Boris. All thoughts of the code and Helga vanish from his head as he turns to lean sideways on the bar, wondering what’s going on.

IN THE BOOTH, Sam opens his system, swiping to access his hacking tools, but he knows without looking that a place like Neon City will have high-end encryption. He could punch through, but what for? To do what? Change the music? Make different adverts show? Mess up the lights? That won’t get them out of here. He thinks to call the police, but every sign on the way down here said the police will not respond to the lower four.

Yasmine sits tense and terrified. They’re safe now in here, but Guphy and Mad Eyes are outside and even Clara’s goodwill will wear off soon. She can’t believe Clara helped out like that either, and for so cheap. Two hundred for protection is unheard of.

‘Boris, listen.’ She turns to lean up as Boris cranes his huge head down. ‘I’ll go and find Dmitri, see if I can talk him round. I’ve only got maybe a hundred credits I can give if you just try and get Sam out, at least to a guard station.’

Boris looks past her to Clara who nods at her husband. ‘Sure thing, Yassy,’ Boris says.

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Open your system for the credits.’

‘It’s no bother, Yassy,’ he says with such a gentle tone it brings a lump to her throat and tears to her eyes. ‘I’ll get him out; don’t worry.’

‘Thank you, Boris.’ She turns to look at Clara and quickly wipes her eyes. Thank you she mouths. Clara nods once, her face hard. She likes Yassy. Everyone likes Yassy.

‘THEY’RE in a booth near the front,’ Penny says, rushing to keep up with Abdul and his security team as they walk through a section of quiet lanes to the back door of a club. Pasha knocks. Looking up at the digital feed as someone releases the lock to let them in. ‘Oh shit,’ Penny says, taking in a new message. ‘Dmitri is just about to walk in.’

‘Told you,’ Colin says. ‘He can’t lose face.’

‘SAM, I’M GOING FOR A WEE,’ Yasmine says, leaning into his side. ‘Be right back.’

‘Want me to come with you?’ he asks.

She smiles and fights the urge to cry, ‘I can pee on my own, you pervert.’

‘I didn’t mean…’

‘I know, it’s cool. You’re a nice man, Sam. A really nice man.’ She starts to crumple but swallows it back and leans in to kiss his cheek, gently touching his chin. ‘And you’ve got a gangster name now too. Pretty Boy Sam. How cool is that? So, just stay here and … I’ll be right back.’ She wants to say more, she needs to say more, but she can’t. She starts to rise as Boris and Clara turn their heads.

‘Yasmine Emile Dufont.’

Sam looks up, blinking at the man staring at Yasmine. Tall and dark. Ruggedly handsome with an open-neck shirt that shows the muscles on the top of his chest. Manly in a way that instantly makes Sam feel small and weak.

‘I was just coming to see you, Dmitri,’ Yasmine says.

‘And here I am,’ Dmitri says. He gestures at a serving girl and pulls a seat over to sit down. Sam looks past him to see the big man with the cut face and the guy with the weird eyes now standing inside the door with Karen Big Feet and Chatty Simon.

‘HOLY SHIT, THIS IS GETTING INTERESTING,’ Zhang mumbles to himself, his drink in hand as a few people start paying attention to Dmitri sitting at a booth facing Yassy, while his goons gather behind already looking bloodied and angry. ‘Shouldn’t have come here, Yassy.’

‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING, DMITRI?’ Clara asks. ‘They’re under my charge.’

‘Talking, just talking,’ Dmitri says, resting his eyes on Sam. ‘And you, pretty boy, who are you?’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ Yasmine snaps before Sam can reply.

‘Thanks,’ Dmitri says, nodding at the serving girl bringing him a beaker of beer. Sam notices she offers a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and he also notices the people in this area have gone quiet and are staring at them. ‘Quite a thing you did with the gravity-drives,’ he continues, looking at Sam before taking a sip of his drink.

‘You started it,’ Yasmine says fiercely, placing a hand on Sam’s leg. ‘You fucking started it you creep.’

‘Watch your mouth,’ Dmitri snarls, leaning forward. Clara and Boris stir as the four by the door move in further and Sam swallows, wondering just how much further out of his depth he can get. Dimitri goes on: ‘You killed several people, broke legs, arms, a few ribs, probably made a few more orphans. Oh and a ten year old that fell with a wire caught round his neck.’

‘There was no ten year old!’ Yasmine shouts.

‘IT’S GETTING HEATED,’ Penny relays urgently as Abdul slips his jacket off in a private back room fitted with its own bar. It’s been a long day and he’s tired. It shows on his face too. ‘Get me a drink please, Penny. Something strong.’

‘SO, you’re Yasmine’s latest target are you?’ Dmitri carries on, staring unblinking at Sam. Dmitri is so casual, so unafraid and completely in control it makes Sam want to curl up and wilt. ‘She does this. Yassy finds people to latch onto and bleeds them dry. Let me guess, she’s got a crazy master-plan for you? And I’m guessing from your little display that she wants you to hack something – oh and I’m sure she’ll let you fuck her after the job, right?’

‘FUCK YOU,’ Yasmine shouts, surging to her feet as Boris pulls her back down.

‘She’s reacting like that because it’s true,’ Dmitri says calmly. ‘And it probably involves a trip to the Ab-Spa, cos she’s going to score big and get away from this dump. Is that right?’

‘FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU,’ Yasmine roars, struggling against Boris to stand up. ‘You evil sadistic fuck, goat fucking piece of shit. I helped all of you. Guphy used to piss on me and I was the one that pulled Karen’s foot from the fucking vent and I was there first when Simon’s dad killed his mum and heard the last words he spoke. And all of us stood for you, Dmitri. When everyone else picked on you and called you a fucking stuttering retard. SO FUCK YOU. FUCK ALL OF YOU. THIS IS TAINTED. YOU’RE ALL FUCKING TAINTED.’

‘OKAY, SO IT’S GETTING WORSE,’ Penny states, reading another message from Carla Big Lips. ‘The music’s gone off, everyone’s watching. Yassy is going nuts and Dmitri is pushing her buttons.’

Abdul nods, swirling his synth-whiskey in the tumbler. His face dark. His eyes darker. He lifts the glass, downing the contents in one gulp.

‘YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT. Juniper said you’re grooming her. That’s what you do. You groom people and when they don’t give it, you fucking take it. Remember that? Do you remember that, little Dmitri?’ Yasmine asks, her voice rough and breaking.

Dmitri snorts disdainfully in the near silent club with such a sneer of contempt on his face it makes Yasmine flood with rage as she struggles to break free from Boris’s iron grip.

‘Angry as ever, Yassy,’ he says. ‘But tell me, how was it, murdering and robbing the Russian doctor?’ Dmitri’s harsh voice carries clear through the club.

‘He touched me,’ Yasmine growls. ‘I said no. I said no. So help me god I said get the fuck off me, but he kept going, so I hit him once and he fell. But fuck you, yeah I robbed him – is that what you want to hear, Dmitri? I KILLED THE DOCTOR FOR GROPING ME. I DID THAT. That’s what we do down here. There you go big man, is that what you wanted to hear? Go on -- dump me on the stairwell like you did to YinYan.’

Zhang tenses at the challenge laid by Yasmine as the tension ramps in the club. People slowly moving back and away leaving a wider empty space about the booth. Zhang has no jurisdiction here. There is nothing he can do but watch and in a backroom fitted with its own private bar, Abdul lowers his empty glass and stands silent for a second with his head bowed.

‘Not here and not now,’ Clara says in the club, giving fair warning, her head tilted up, her nostrils flaring as the adrenalin starts to dump. Her body priming for the fight that’s coming. ‘They’re under my charge.’

‘Take Yassy out,’ Dmitri orders, turning his head to the four behind him.

‘My charges, Dmitri,’ Clara says, her voice louder and harder. Zhang stiffens, his eyes fixed. Boris tenses next to Yasmine and the air grows thick with threat and menace. ‘We got rules and they paid for my protection.’

‘I am breaking your rules tonight, Clara.’

‘Aw big man, you rule your world with your tiny dick, but your four come this way and this shit gets nasty. We clear on that?’

‘We’re clear,’ Dmitri says, draining his beaker before standing up. ‘Get her out.’

It happens fast with the whole world detonating about Sam with everyone else seemingly knowing what to do and his mouth drops open as Dmitri’s four rush in with wild looks and Yasmine launches up and out, flying over the table into Karen a split second before Clara surges up and slams one hand into Mad Eyes Ken’s throat, while clothes-lining Chatty Simon. Boris roars and goes up into Guphy with a nasty thud of meat on meat and blows being slammed into dense, hard bodies. All in the blink of an eye. All in the beat of a heart and Sam stares out to Yasmine rolling over the floor, smashing her fists into Karen’s face, then blinks again as Boris runs past, propelling Guphy into a wall, while Clara punches Mad Eyes down, then finds her head snapping over from Chatty Simon punching her from the side.

Zhang stands at the bar, his heart racing, his chest heaving. Wanting to do something but knowing he can’t. He’s not a cop here.

Bedlam and chaos. An explosion of violence with people screaming and more bouncers running in to falter and pause, not knowing who to go for.

‘RUN, SAM,’ someone shouts, either Clara or Yasmine, and only then does Sam realise he’s still sitting down. He tries to rise but Dmitri grabs his collar and yanks him up to slam into a wall with a vicious gut-punch. Yasmine screams out and jumps on Dmitri’s back, clawing his face while he spins and turns, trying to hook her off as yet more bouncers and security pour in. The Neon City Bodyguards rushing to help Clara and Boris while others choose Dmitri’s side.

Sam sinks to the floor, unable to draw breath and through misted vision he sees Dmitri grabbing Yasmine by the hair to slam her down onto a table. Sam tries to roar, but just gargles as he runs at Dmitri, who turns and steps away to punch Sam in the back of his head, sending him bouncing off a wall. He reels back, seeing stars, not knowing which way is up or down. Then he flinches as hot wet blood splashes across his face from Zhang slamming a fist into Dmitri, sending him spinning off.

Zhang ran in without thought or a plan. An instinctual reaction. He grabs Sam, pushing him towards Yassy. ‘Get her out.’ He turns to fight as more security come flooding in, dancing back with his hands up, knowing he’s a fool for this but no way in hell was he going to stand by. He is corrupt and dirty and he killed a man but by god there’s some decency left, and so he dodges the punches coming in, weaving and moving and lashing out as the fight worsens.

‘Abdul!’ Penny snaps in the backroom, glaring at her boss, who offers a quick flash of a smile while rolling his sleeves up showing the old tattoos up his arms. Colin and Pasha share a look while the other members of his security team start bristling.

‘Kill the feeds,’ Abdul the Angry says. ‘Let’s get schwifty.’

Penny rushes to activate a programme that sends a signal to kill any holo feeds recording the fight in the club. Abdul strides from the backroom down a straight corridor lined with doors to the very end and out into a club filled with violence, and then he runs in, swinging his fists with a mad glint in his eye.

Sam finally reaches the smashed table and Yasmine groaning on her back only half conscious. He grabs her arms, thinking to drag her away as Dmitri kicks him in the side, before sagging back when Abdul steams in with a barrage of vicious punches. Hard hits given with years of experience, but Dmitri takes the blows, protecting his head and lashes out, sending Abdul away with a stinging punch. Zhang takes over, battering Dmitri away to buy time for Abdul to get dirty and grab a chair to hammer into the gangster.

Colin watches with the rest of the security team, holding them back and waiting. He knows his boss and knows not to go in yet. Then Abdul goes down amidst a flurry of bodies trying to protect Dmitri and Zhang crashes backwards into the booth and Colin watches Dmitri drop and pin Sam down with a knee to his chest.

Sam looks up, seeing Dmitri’s wild and crazed face filled with violence as the gangster flicks a knife out in his hand.

‘Now,’ Colin gives the order, flicking the switch on his voltage-stick as his team swarm in.

Sam watches the knife come down in Dmitri’s hand, knowing he will die here today. The only regret that swims through his mind is that he has never kissed Yasmine.

Then a whole new noise comes. A change in the screams about him. Less aggression and more pain and a weird, sizzling, crackling noise too. Dmitri arches his back, dropping the knife and screaming out, the veins pushing through his skin, as a man in a black suit drives a voltage-stick into his side, then boots him away.

Sam lifts his head to see more men and women in black working through the room, calm and controlled but utterly violent. Voltage-sticks and taser firing pistols sending electric bolts into fighters who tense and drop to roll and scream On they go, sweeping from one side to the other, brutal, awful and without mercy. Guphy and Mad Eyes go down. Karen drops, screaming. Chatty Simon already down and Abdul rises, his face flushed from the scrap as he locks eyes with Zhang making for the door. A nod and nothing more as the detective escapes.

Sam has no idea what’s happening and flinches again when one of the dark suits looms over him. A man with short, tidy brown hair who nods once before reaching down to grip the front of Sam’s shirt and lifts him up through the air onto his feet.

‘YASSY!’ Sam shouts, trying to break free as more dark suits move in to grip his arms and carry him. Yasmine snaps awake with a surge of rage and fear, thinking it’s Guphy and Ken taking her to Dmitri. She screams and thrashes, fighting like a demon as they go into a long corridor lined with doors that swish open, naked men and women staring in shock and wiping bright green powder from noses at the sight of two people being carried by.

‘RUN SAM! RUN,’ Yasmine screams, and fights, bucking and jamming her feet into door frames. But the people in suits stay silent and quiet, only grunting now and then from the exertion of moving her, until they get through the door at the end that slams shut as the naked men and women stare glassy eyed, shrug and go back to their debauchery.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The plush backroom fitted with its own bar erupts with noise as Sam and Yasmine are carried in and dumped onto two simple black moulded chairs.

‘GET OFF,’ Yasmine screams, surging back up the split second her backside hits the chair. ‘SAM, GET OUT.’

‘Sit down,’ Colin says.

‘GET THE FUCK OFF ME,’ Yasmine struggles against Pasha clamping his hands on her shoulders to make her sit. Her mind is gone from reason and coherent thought and filled only with a primal instinct to fight and flee, to protect Sam. She doesn’t see the people in suits. She doesn’t see anything. Only that intense, visceral hatred for Dmitri. She writhes and bucks, then launches out to fight every person in the room at the same time.

Sam feels dizzy and weird, his limbs trembling from the violence he just witnessed and being slammed into a wall and kicked in the stomach. He blinks fast several times and looks round at the people trying to restrain Yasmine. All of them in black suits. Men and women that look tough and hard, but different to Dmitri. Like professional and they’re not hurting her either. Only then does he start to realise they are no longer in danger.

‘Get your fucking hands off me.’ Yasmine seethes with rage and turns fast, sinking her teeth into Pasha’s big finger. He whips his hand back with a grunt and instinctively goes to lash out.

‘No, Pasha,’ Colin orders, gaining instant compliance.

‘Yeah, Pasha,’ Yasmine spits, turning to glare at him. ‘Touch me again and see what happens.’

‘Please remain calm, Miss Dufont. My name is Colin and…’

‘I will if Pasha fucks off.’

‘Pasha will stay back if you just calm down.’

‘Yeah, Pasha. Stay the fuck back. Where are we? What’s going on? You literally stay the fuck away from me, Pasha.’

‘I didn’t move,’ Pasha says.

‘Yeah well don’t. Just fucking stand there being big and dumb you stupid big dumb fuck.’

‘Okay, but that’s a bit unkind,’ Colin says.

‘Who are you? Where are we?’ Yasmine demands, her mind and mouth on auto-pilot to buy time as her eyes dart this way and that, looking for a way out. ‘My name is Pasha. I’m a big dumb fuck.’

‘Quit picking on Pasha. Think about where you are, Miss Dufont.’

‘What?! I can’t fucking think. I am too angry to think. I just had the shit beaten out of me. Who are you? Let Sam go; he’s not an Elfor. Sam, get out! You fucking touch him and I swear to god I will find each and every one of you.’ She glares at each of them in turn. Wild aggression in her eyes. Murderous intent etched on her flushed face, her hair slicked to her forehead, blood on her lips and spattered on her cheeks. Her chest heaves as she sucks air in and finally looks to Colin, then spots someone else lurking in the back.

‘Hi, Yassy,’ Penny says, moving over to be seen while offering a little wave.

‘Penny, what the fuck.’ Yasmine blinks, the confusion obvious. She’s seeing things. She must have been hit harder than she thought. She shakes her head and looks again but it’s her. Pretty Penny. ‘Penny?’

‘Pasha’s actually really nice,’ Penny says, moving a little closer as the rest of the people in black suits nod and murmur in agreement.

‘Jesus,’ Yasmine says, her brain unable to process rational thought. ‘Don’t add guilt tripping into your kidnapping repertoire,’ she mutters as the room falls quiet with a silence that stretches on for a few seconds.

‘Repertoire?’ Sam asks.

‘Yeah, repertoire.’ Yasmine says, looking at him. ‘Why?’

‘Nothing. Just sounded a bit, you know…’

‘Out of place?’ Penny suggests from the back.

‘Yeah,’ Sam says. ‘Like out of place.’

‘I thought that,’ Pasha says.

‘Offences would have been a good word,’ Colin says. ‘As in, add guilt trip to your kidnapping offences.’

‘That works,’ Sam says.

‘I like that one, Colin,’ Penny says. ‘Ooh how about list of crimes? Like, add guilt tripping to your list of crimes.’

‘That’s good,’ Sam says, nodding as the murmurs roll round while Yasmine thinks she died and is now in some weird messed up after-life.

‘List of crimes is good,’ Pasha agrees. ‘Nice one, Penny.’

‘How about barbarity?’ Pasha asks. ‘Like, add guilt tripping to your barbarity?’

‘Er,’ Sam says, moving his head side to side.

‘Oh, I feel silly now,’ Pasha says.

‘No! It was fine,’ Sam says.

‘It really was, Pash,’ Colin says. ‘But I mean personally, for me, I think list of crimes is the one. I’m just saying.’

‘No, you’re right,’ Pasha says. ‘Penny had it -- I think list of crimes. Everyone happy with list of crimes? Terry? Jack? Olga? Yeah?’ he asks as the others nod in agreement. ‘Sorry, you’re Pretty Boy Sam right?’

‘Just Sam really,’ Sam says.

‘I’m Pasha, that’s Colin.’

‘Hi, Sam,’ Colin says. ‘So everyone going with list of crimes?’

‘Works for me,’ Sam says.

‘Aw, you guys are the best,’ Penny says. ‘I’m actually really touched.’

‘Er excuse me, Samuel. Perhaps we shouldn’t be making friends with the people who just kidnapped us?’ Yasmine says.

‘Um, I guess,’ Sam says. ‘But…it seems okay, I mean, it’s better than someone luring you into a sequence of events towards a grand master plan that is gonna score big with a promise of going to the Ab-Spa and seeing boobs cos, you know, apparently that’s your thing..’

‘Oh wow, we’re going there now are we?’

‘Just saying. I mean, you said that and,like I never said it to anyone else but that Dmitri man knows and like,he kinda comes across like an ex or something. You know, like he had an ex-vibe going on?’

‘I had that once,’ Pasha says. ‘I was with my Jim and we bumped into this guy and I had the ex-vibe.I literally had to ask Jim like five times before he said they were an item once.’

‘Women get that so much,’ Penny says. ‘Shows you’re in tune with your sensitive side.’

‘Wish I had it,’ Colin says. ‘My wife seems to know everyone and I’ve no clue about half of them.’

‘So, like Dmitri, he an ex or something?’ Sam asks, trying to sound casual.

‘Can we discuss it later? As in not now?’

‘That’s a yes then,’ Sam says, swapping knowing looks with Pasha and Colin. ‘So am I stuck in the middle of an ex-thing?’

‘What? No! I killed and robbed the doctor who Dmitri paid for protection so Dmitri has to kill me to show he’s in control. Got nothing to do with ex’s.’

‘Oh,’ Sam says. ‘Cool. Nice of you to defend him though.’

‘I didn’t defend him!’

‘Sounded like it,’ Pasha mutters.

‘Fuck off, Pasha,’ Yasmine snaps. ‘This is stupid. You’re all stupid goat fucking morons.’

‘Apart from Dmitri,’ Sam mumbles.

‘Oh my god, can we move on from Dmitri now?’

‘I don’t know, Yasmine. Can we?’ Sam asks, arching an eyebrow at her.

‘Ouch,’ Penny murmurs, bringing Yasmine’s focus to her. It’s Penny. It’s definitely Pretty Penny but all grown up.

‘I thought you left,’ Yasmine says.

‘I did,’ Penny replies, studying Yasmine closely as everyone else falls silent. Yasmine Dufont all grown up. The same Yassy. The same vicious temper that takes ages to calm down. The same mouth on her that says the most awful things when she feels trapped or frightened and the years drop away for both of them and for a minute they’re back in the shanty towns, running free under the dirty rain. Laughing and stealing. Crawling through the tunnels to poke the skeleton with sticks. Then they remember that day when they killed. When they screamed and begged the others to stop.

Noise from nearby breaks the spell as Penny turns away and Yasmine looks down.

‘Look sharp, the boss is coming,’ Colin says as a dark-skinned man walks in rolling his sleeves down to cover the old tattoos.

‘Shit,’ Yasmine whispers to Sam. ‘That’s Abdul the Angry.’

Sam just stares, stunned at the sight of the man he has seen so many times on the fleet news channels. A hint of Arabic origin, African too and maybe southern European. A gleaming bald head and dark goatee beard with harsh, downturned eyebrows giving him that famous permanent scowl, and he crosses the room to glare for several long seconds.

‘Do not stand over me,’ Yasmine says, her voice dangerously low.

‘Easy,’ Colin says, ready to move in.

‘It’s fine,’ Abdul says, his voice calm and soft. ‘I don’t like people standing over me either. Would you pass me that chair please, Pasha? Thank you, ah that’s better. Now we’re on the same level. You both okay?’

‘We’re fine but we’d like to go please,’ Yasmine says tightly.

‘We’re just waiting for things to settle then we’ll get you out,’ Abdul says. ‘Penny, keep an eye on it please.’

‘Sure thing,’ Penny says, swiping her interface and earning a look from Yasmine.

‘You work for Abdul?’ Yasmine asks.

‘Penny is my PA,’ Abdul says, fielding the question. ‘She’s invaluable. You know each other, right?’

Yasmine shrugs. Not knowing how much to say.

‘We go back,’ Penny says from the back of the room. ‘We grew up together.’

‘Oh wow,’ Sam says, looking from Penny to Yasmine. ‘That’s really cool.’

‘So, I hear you’re called Pretty Boy Sam?’ Abdul asks, his face still somewhat flushed from the fight. A faint welt on his cheek from being hit, but Abdul never did bruise very much and Yasmine clocks his hard knuckles look a bit swollen and marked.

‘Honestly it’s just, Sam,’ Sam says.

‘What’s your surname, son?’

‘Gablinski, sir,’ Sam replies, feeling like he is the only other person in the room right now.

‘Gablinski? That’s a distinctive name. Wasn’t there a Gablinski in the shuttle crash?’

‘My parents,’ Sam says.

‘Your parents, of course. I’m sorry for your loss. Your shirt denotes you as an airlock security operative and I understand you work on the port side airlock Delta on level 30, is that correct? And you reside in cabin 58 on row G on level 35. Is that correct?’

‘He’s headfucking you,’ Yasmine cuts in. ‘Don’t answer. Leave Sam alone.’

‘Um,’ Sam says.

‘It’s fine, you’re not in danger,’ Abdul says, smiling at Sam in a way that instantly puts him at ease. ‘To some, information is as valuable as credits, Mr Gablinski, and I have very great ambitions, so I make it my business to know things. In the same way I know that Miss Dufont here saved little Xinxin when the gravity drives failed. She sustained an injury to her right side, following which she sought medical assistance from the Russian doctor who attempted to take advantage of her and died after receiving a single blow to the head; but it is also commonly known that the Russian doctor was not in good health, and he had done such things before, so many people do not blame Yasmine for what she did. The robbery after is somewhat questionable, but still, many people have also asked themselves what they would do if they too were suddenly in a room filled with medical grade pharmaceuticals. However, those same people also know that the Russian doctor paid for protection and that includes righteous and brutal vengeance in the event of murder.’

They listen intently. It’s impossible not to. The way he speaks and holds their attention with eye-contact. The smiles and gestures he adds as he talks. A politician now but always a hawker and trader at heart, looking for the advantage to press.

‘We do not have a police force down here, Sam. What we have are people like Dmitri and others of the same ilk who carve out little sections and rise to the top and by doing so, they provide an element of stability and control. Then you have people like Clara. Righteous in many ways, honourable too. Clara and her kind have often stepped in when they did not need to, like tonight for instance. Thank you, Penny,’ he says, smiling when Penny hands him a glass filled with a yellow liquid. ‘Could you fix our guests something? Lads, you can relax now – Miss Dufont seems calmer.’

A change in the room. A palpable relaxing of the tension as the security guys ease back to drift away with only Colin and Pasha remaining close. A few seconds later Sam smiles at Penny as she hands him a tumbler filled with the yellow liquid. Yasmine takes one as well, sharing a look with Penny, an awkwardness between them that speaks of the spread of years, but Yasmine downs the drink in one, gasping a little before drawing a deep breath. Abdul downs his too, doing the same. Sam watches them before looking at his glass, then shrugs and downs it in one as Pasha winces.

Sam’s mouth fills with the liquid. Bringing forth a pleasant taste of spices with a little heat and the ever-present hint of synth-chemicals. Then it hits his throat and he coughs once before gasping and sputtering while bending forward at the pain searing through his body from his neck to his stomach.

‘It passes in a few seconds,’ Yasmine says softly, rubbing his back. ‘I should have warned you.’

‘What the fuck is it?’ Sam whispers, his eyes wide and suddenly very bloodshot.

‘Elfor juice,’ she says, snorting a quiet laugh. ‘You’re okay; just takes some getting used to.’

‘Jesus, how does anyone drink that?’ Sam asks as Abdul watches closely, seeing the way Yasmine worries over him. Seeing the way Sam looks at her. ‘Oh wow,’ Sam adds, blinking at the strange feeling in his tummy. Like a warmth spreading out. A tingling warmth that oozes from his gut to his chest and down his arms and legs.

‘See,’ Yasmine says, smiling at him.

‘Oh wow,’ Sam says again. ‘That’s so nice.’ He feels calmer, relaxed, the fear and pain and worry and terror all easing back a notch, and he smiles at Yasmine then looks over to Abdul who grins back. Sam asks, ‘Can I have another one please?’

‘No,’ nearly everyone in the room says at the same time, most with a degree of urgency.

‘Too much messes you up,’ Yasmine says, sharing a look with Penny as they both remember the time they all stole a bottle and hid in Clean Larry’s filthy shack to drink before watching Guphy Gupherson run naked through the alleys for the next hour.

‘This is a slightly different world than you are used to,’ Abdul continues.

‘Say that again,’ Sam says eagerly. ‘Who was the woman playing the violin?’

‘What?’ Yasmine asks, shaking her head.

‘The old woman. She was like, amazing,’ Sam says, filled with warmth and a weird joy. ‘So beautiful.’

‘Deaf Mary?’ Penny asks. ‘Is she still alive?’

‘Is she deaf?’ Sam asks.

‘No,’ Yasmine replies without explanation. ‘Why are we here?’

Abdul inhales deeply, shifting in his seat. ‘I think a few of us – Clara, Boris and some of the bodyguards – felt that by doing what we did we created confrontation with Dmitri, and so reminded him that he is not a dictator who can rule as he pleases. Then of course came the inevitable fight at which point I stepped in to put him in his place. My men and women are trained, equipped and disciplined, but more importantly, they are cared for and they are fiercely loyal to me. In a way, your unfortunate incident with the doctor was never about the drugs you took. It was about the perceptions of power and control.’ He stops to smile in that reassuring way people conversant with public speaking are so adept at.

‘So,’ Sam says, peering at Abdul. ‘Is Deaf Mary not deaf then?’

‘Jesus, Sam,’ Yasmine says.

‘She’s not deaf,’ Abdul says.

‘Oh,’ Sam says.

‘Can we go now?’ Yasmine asks again as Sam wonders why anyone would want to leave this place. It’s so nice. Everything is so nice.

‘Of course,’ Abdul says. ‘My point has been made.’ He stops to smile again and leans forward to whisper at Sam. ‘Yassy is very popular, Sam. Everyone likes her so by saving her I increase my own popularity -- after all, there is an election coming up.’

‘Yay for Abdul,’ Yasmine mutters darkly. ‘Well done you.’

‘Thank you,’ Sam says politely. ‘For helping us I mean, Mr…er…Mr Angry.’

‘Abdul is fine,’ Abdul says. ‘But thank you for your kind words. Manners maketh the man.’

‘Is Yasmine safe now?’ Sam asks.

Abdul hesitates, showing that famous scowl as he thinks. ‘Safety is subjective to the individual, Sam, but I can say that the mark Dmitri placed on her is now lifted, though perhaps she shouldn’t be in the Elfors for a while. Does that answer your question?’

‘That’s good,’ Sam says, looking at Yasmine. ‘Right?’

She shrugs, folding her arms. ‘Wait for it.’

‘Wait for what?’ Sam asks.

‘For the price. People down here don’t do nice things for free, Sam.’

‘He said it just helped him. He saves you and looks good because everyone likes you cos you offer them big scores and trips to the Ab-Spa and maybe some boobs.’

‘That’s not even funny,’ Yasmine snaps as Pasha and a few others chuckle.

‘So it’s cool. You should say thank you.’

‘Am I fuck!’

‘Jesus, Yasmine. Have some decency. We’d be dead by now.’

‘I’m not saying thank you.’

‘Wow, that’s so rude. I’ll say thank you for you.’

‘Don’t you dare.’

‘Thank you from Yasmine.’

‘Take that back.’

‘It’s too late, I said it, and you know what, you’re being a dick, Yasmine.’

‘What!? You wait. He will want something. He’s Abdul the Angry. He fucked a table!’

‘I read about that,’ Sam says, looking at Abdul.

‘It was a bet,’ Abdul says. ‘I was very drunk.’

‘That doesn’t make it okay,’ Yasmine says.

‘Lots of people do things in the heat of the moment,’ Sam says.

‘Okay, you’re sounding like a pious prick now, Sam, and when Mr Angry wants paying don’t come running to me.’

‘Fine.’

‘Fine.’

‘I’ll go to Dmitri your ex.’

‘Boom!’ Pasha says then winces and covers his mouth. ‘Sorry. It just came out.’

‘It was nice meeting you, Sam,’ Abdul says, standing up and offering his hand. ‘Yasmine’s a bit wound up right now, but you’ve had a wild night. You stick by her now.’

‘Thank you, sir. We really appreciate that.’

‘Anytime, and neat trick with the grav-drives on level 40 too. Good skills.’

‘I’m sorry if anyone got hurt.’

‘You just get home and we’ll clear it up. Yasmine, nice to meet you.’

‘You so want something,’ she says, shaking his hand. ‘But thanks for helping us.’

‘Anytime, and Yassy,’ he drops his voice, speaking quietly just to her. ‘You hearing anything going on anywhere?’

‘Eh?’ she asks, thrown by the question.

‘I trade in information. It helps me.’

‘No, I don’t know anything. Why do people keep asking me that?’ she adds, thinking of Zhang the other night.

‘Who asked you?’ Abdul asks quickly.

‘Nobody, nothing. Can we go please?.’

‘Sure, of course. You both take care now and remember, vote Abdul the Angry.’

‘Will do, sir. Thank you, sir. Is safe for Yasmine to walk back?’

‘I’ll walk you back, Sam,’ Pasha says.

‘Yeah I’ll come,’ Colin adds as a few more murmur and nod again.

‘Oh my god, how do you even do that?’ Yasmine asks.

‘Do what?’

‘Everyone liking you. You had Clara dropping her prices and Clara never drops her prices for anyone ever. Whatever, I’m not even talking to you.’

‘Actually, Sam,’ Colin says. ‘We’ve got access to the executive elevator if you want to go up in that?’

‘Are you being serious? Yeah definitely, I mean if that’s okay with Mr Abdul.’

‘Sure. We use it all the time. It’s not fitting for Abdul to be seen using the stairwells.’

‘I’ve never been in a lift before,’ Sam says, following them into the club now back to normal. Filled with thumping music and people dancing with no signs of the brutal carnage that took place. Colin leads them out into the main strip to the gaudy lights flashing and strobing.

‘Sam!’ a rush from the side that makes Colin, Pasha and a few more of the black suited security people turn while reaching for their taser pistols and voltage-sticks. ‘Whoa, easy now,’ Clara says, holding her hands out with Boris looming behind her. ‘Just checking on my boy now.’

‘Relax,’ Colin says, ordering his team to stand-down. ‘They’re fine. Mark’s lifted.’

‘You okay?’ Clara asks, moving to Sam. ‘I said to Boris, I said if they touch my charge there will be hell to pay, but someone said Abdul wanted to speak to you. You all good now?’

‘We’re walking them back,’ Colin says, motioning for them to keep going.

‘Yeah it’s fine,’ Sam says. ‘He was really nice. He said it was good you challenged Dmitri as that stops him being too powerful, and then he could come in and show that he’s in charge. Are you two okay?’

‘It’s all good, not our first fight and it won’t be the last, sugar. Yassy? The mark’s lifted?’

‘Apparently,’ Yasmine says darkly.

‘You watch your back now, Yassy. That Dmitri, he don’t forget and he don’t forgive. You come back down here, Sam, you come find me. Aw hell, are you going up in Abdul’s elevator? Look at you, Pretty Boy, swinging it with the big dicks.’ She laughs as she speaks, reaching out to scrunch his cheeks in her hands.

‘Thanks for helping us earlier,’ Sam says, stopping as Colin waves his wristband at the elevator scanner.

‘Sure thing,’ Clara says, beaming a smile without a hair out of place or a single sign of the fight she was in earlier. Boris the same. Massive and smiling as Sam marvels at the size of the people about him. ‘You go on and be safe now, sugar.’

Sam says, ‘Listen, I feel really silly saying this but--’

‘Then don’t say it,’ Yasmine cuts in.

‘But my friend, Sven -- I mean, our friend, Sven -- his place is closing down tomorrow. The porridge place?’

‘Sam,’ Yasmine warns, her voice low but urgent.

‘Oh I saw the adverts,’ Pasha says. ‘Sven’s Eatery?’

‘Yeah, that’s it. We’re having a party tomorrow night…’ He trails off as Yasmine winces inwardly. ‘Just if you wanted to pop along or anything.’

‘Aw hell,’ Clara says, pulling her head back. ‘Ain’t that just damn nice. You hear that, Boris? We’ve been invited somewhere. I can get my nice dress on for a change.’

‘Okay,’ Sam says, wondering what Clara looks like in a dress.

‘Big,’ Boris tells him, seemingly reading his thoughts. ‘She looks big, but sexy.’

‘Cool.’

‘Elevator’s here,’ Colin says. ‘Clara, Boris -- nice seeing you.’

‘They won’t come,’ Yasmine says once the door swishes closed while Sam focuses to try and feel any sense of motion.

‘Can’t feel anything,’ Sam says.

‘Smooth isn’t it?’ Pasha says. ‘Shame about the porridge place closing. My Jim said he wanted to try it.’

‘Bring him tomorrow,’ Sam says as Yasmine closes her eyes and shakes her head. ‘You’re more than welcome, and the guys back there if they fancy it.’

‘Level 35,’ Colin says.

‘They won’t come,’ Yasmine says once they’ve stepped out and said bye and Sam has shaken hands and almost hugged Pasha and Colin before shaking hands again.

Sam shrugs. ‘Might do and it’s nice to be invited to places.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Because I never got invited anywhere,’ he says, walking off as she cringes at the harshness of her own words. ‘You coming? I feel so grimy. That rain stinks and I think I’ve got blood on my face.’

‘You have,’ she says, falling into step at his side. Night-time now, or at least the hours of darkness denoted by the fleet when they turn the air temperature down and dim all the lights. Silent too. The quietness of a street when everyone is asleep and the wildness of the evening hits hard as they turn into row G and head down to cabin 58 where they stop and stare at the basket propped at the base of the door tied with a red ribbon over the top.

To Sam and Yasmine

To help you relax after your evening

Abdul x

A GLOWING HOLOSCREEN hanging above the basket and they stare silently with yet another thing to process with minds already struggling to cope.

Yasmine picks it up without saying anything as Sam opens the door and they go in to place the basket on the small table. Yasmine tugs the ribbon free that activates the top to hinge up, revealing the contents within.

Bottles of shampoo, cleaning gels, perfumes and more scented high-end luxury items laid within. Creams and moisturisers; only small tubs and pots but plenty of them.

‘We’re being groomed for something,’ Yasmine says, staring at a tub of cleaning gel. She pops the lid and inhales deeply, relishing the aroma within. Her hair matted and filthy. Her skin coated and greasy. A full day working in the café then all of that tonight, so right now she cannot ever remember being so tired, so filthy or having access to so many nice things either. ‘I’m too tired to think. Mind if I shower after you?’

‘You go first,’ he replies, slumping on the sofa.

‘It’s your cabin, Sam.’

‘It’s cool, honestly. Have a shower.’

‘Thank you,’ she says, picking a tub up, then another, then more as Sam smiles and she snorts a laugh and grabs even more before moving to the corner. ‘Panels, opaque,’ she says.

‘Shelf,’ Sam calls.

‘So cool,’ she says when a shelf pops out for her to place the goodies on. ‘Music on, something soft and gentle,’ she says as the air fills with soothing piano music and she starts stripping off, tugging her clothes off to drop over the panels. ‘Shower on.’ Instant hot water beats down, making her sag and lower her head as the filth sluices off. A few seconds later she opens the first tub and starts washing with gorgeously scented creamy lather as the tension eases and her mind starts to relax. ‘I’m sorry for being a dick,’ she calls out. ‘Everyone likes you because you’re decent. I just get snappy when stuff like that happens. Maybe like a defence coping thing; I don’t know. I say bad things when I don’t mean them and I’m so sorry I dragged you into it too. And I can’t believe I saw Penny. Pretty Penny. We grew up together, but she left right after this really bad thing happened. That’s why I hate Dmitri so much. But you were really good tonight, Sam. Really brave and…and nice too, kind…’ She pauses, smiling a little and turning to look at the inside of the opaque shower panel. ‘Maybe I can explain about the whole Ab-Spa dream thing? You know…’ She pauses again, biting her bottom lip with a sudden rush inside. ‘Maybe you could come over here and help me with these creams and we’ll chat and stuff. Panels see-through.’ Her heart whumps as the panels change instantly, revealing her nakedness within the cubicle as she looks out with slick hair and nervous eyes to see Sam flat out on the sofa, snoring. ‘You are shitting me. Sam? Oh my god. Fine, but I am literally using every single one of these pots.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

‘…And yes, it’s confirmed from the full spectrum analysis,’ Captain Sully Singh says in his conference room on board the WS Kindness. The blue sphere shining about him as he looks to the other captains and Helga’s holo-forms. ‘Of course, that was done secretly. The full analysis I mean, and we removed all trace of the background programme before we released the full report. But yes, it’s a planet locked into a stable orbit.’

‘Any suggestion of life?’ Captain Carlos Vanquith asks.

‘We’re a long way from that,’ Sully replies. ‘But I think the Gagarin’s next mission will show us a lot more.’

‘We need to get her back out,’ Captain Fei Hung-Shu says. ‘How soon can we turn it around and re-launch?’

Helga gently clears her throat, bringing the attention to her. ‘I would caution against that. We cannot be seen to be rushing or doing anything differently.’

‘We’ll just say we’re eager to find somewhere, so why not launch the Gagarin back out?’ Fei says.

Helga smiles, holding a respectful expression. ‘I wish we could. Truly I do but to do anything out of the ordinary could draw attention. My advice, for what it is worth, is for our four ships to push ahead with an alliance. That will draw attention to us, but that attention will be focussed on our perceived power and influence within the fleet and not the Gagarin or the extra things we are doing. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest we push that through as fast and as noisily as possible.’

‘Lots of media attention,’ Carlos says thoughtfully. ‘Press interviews, get everyone talking.’

‘Maybe have a few leaks with fake news,’ Fei adds. ‘We could leak a story that we’re going to increase our tariffs to get all the traders worked up. We could say we’re going to examine our import and export structure to ensure we’re getting the best for our people.’

‘Christ, can you imagine the reactions?’ Carlos asks. ‘We’ll be under magnifying glasses. The scrutiny will be crazy.’

‘But it will be where we want it to be,’ Helga says.

‘Helga’s right,’ Pierre cuts in. ‘Make a show of it and distract them all with noise, and if we get this right, we can do what the hell we want to the Gagarin and nobody will notice.’

‘Hang on a second,’ Carlos says. ‘Sorry, but just going back to the findings, was the code put into the mainframe?’ he asks, as they all look to Helga.

‘There’s been a slight delay,’ Helga says carefully. ‘But it is in hand and I can assure…’

‘Delay?’ Fei asks.

‘What delay?’ Sully asks.

‘Fucking technician on The Ark ran off with the code,’ Pierre scoffs, making Helga wish the old fart would shut up.

‘What!?’ Sully asks as the others show alarm.

‘It’s really not that bad,’ Helga says. ‘It’s under control. My contact on The Ark decided to turn against the help I gave him and is being dealt with.’

‘The dead technician,’ Carlos says. ‘The news report the other day. That guy dead on a stairwell who committed suicide. Was that him?’

‘Oh come now, Carlos. I don’t reveal my sources any more than you would,’ Helga chides. But she feels the worry inside increase rapidly. These are ship captains. Smart people who have clawed their way to the top.

‘It sounds messy,’ Fei says bluntly. ‘Do we need to be alarmed, Helga?’

‘No. Really, it was a personal issue in the life of the person I used on The Ark.’

‘How many more people are you using with personal issues?’ Carlos asks.

‘Where’s the code?’ Fei asks. ‘Did you send it? Did this technician have it?’

‘He sent it off disguised as a payment credit code,’ Pierre says, huffing as he speaks. ‘Helga’s got her finest man on it now. We’ll get it back so don’t all start fucking panicking. We all use people for our own means and ends and sometimes it goes wrong and needs sorting -- we’re politicians, not fucking saints. Besides, a few more dead people on stairwells keeps the media busy and away from our secret meetings about a new planet.’

‘It will be resolved,’ Helga tells them confidently.

‘I can send someone to help,’ Carlos says. ‘A resource I use sometimes.’

‘Thank you, but it’s fine, Carolos.’

‘How good is your resource?’ Fei asks Carlos.

‘Very. No questions. Gets it done fast too. Whatever I ask.’

‘Maybe get them over to the Humility,’ Fei suggests, looking round at the others. ‘Something like this can’t be left to chance. Having a back-up in place is smart planning.’

‘We should do that,’ Sully says. ‘This is too big to mess up.’

Helga lifts a hand, smiling her most reassuring smile. ‘Thank you, but…’

‘Give it until the weekend,’ Pierre says. ‘If Helga’s man fails, then we’ll step it up. How about that? Now, about this alliance, I’d say we start pushing it very soon to coincide with the run-up to the elections on the Humility. Helga is going to win…’

‘Pierre,’ Helga says gently. ‘You don’t know that.’

‘Cut the crap and don’t patronise me. Helga is odds on favourite to win. Either way, both of us will announce an intent to form the alliance right after the election.’

‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ Carlos asks. ‘What if your voters don’t like the idea? It’s happened before, with unknown captains getting voted in.’

‘Not on our fucking ships it hasn’t,’ Pierre snaps.

‘Oh I think we can sway our voters,’ Helga says, offering a warm smile. ‘How about reduced rates for visits to the Ab-Spa and of course the tech and sports facilities on your ships, Fei and Sully. In turn, your people get a discounted shuttle rate to come shopping on the Humility retail zone, and maybe discounted hotel rates too? You know who would be good for this? Abdul.’

‘Abdul?’ Pierre asks, his tone showing the disgust he feels.

‘Abdul’s fine,’ Fei says. ‘I’ve known him for years.’

‘Fucking Abdul?’ Pierre asks again.

‘My traders speak highly of him,’ Carlos says.

‘My point,’ Helga says, ‘is that we ask Abdul to form a trade delegation and that in turn will draw attention -- more smoke and mirrors. More distraction. And Abdul loves attention.’

The meeting ends with the other three holo-feeds blinking out, leaving Helga alone with Pierre in a sudden strained silence.

‘Thank you for that,’ Helga says quietly.

‘That was fucking embarrassing,’ Pierre snaps, rising to his feet. ‘You fail in this and you can kiss goodbye to being a captain. Fix it and get that fucking code back.’

‘It is being sorted as we speak.’

He storms out, leaving her to gather her thoughts before she heads to her office to check through the overnight intelligence reports.

Another incident on level 40 again. The grav-drives were hacked and turned off. A man and a woman were then chased into Neon City, where Dmitri the gangster attacked them in the Ritzy Ditzy, which prompted Councillor Abdul the Angry to use his security team to intervene. That’s very interesting. Abdul is stepping up in his community. Good, it’ll help his popularity and ultimately helps hers.

She switches back to the priority and activates her system to call Zhang, waiting a few seconds for him to reply before she leans in, seeing his face looks a little bruised. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Ma’am. There was a minor scuffle, it was nothing.’

‘I see,’ she says. ‘Listen, Zhang. I need that code. It has to be done without failure. Do you understand? Things are ramping up and I cannot wait any longer.’

‘I’m on it,’ he says firmly.

‘By the end of today.’

‘Today?’

‘Yes, Zhang. Today,’ she says firmly.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Good. Oh, and I’m going to send you an overnight report concerning Abdul. Apparently, he stepped in last night to help an airlock security operative called Samuel Gablinski and a woman called Yasmine Dufont from being attacked in a nightclub called the Ritzy Ditzy.’

‘Okay,’ Zhang says, coughing into his hand on the feed.

‘Do you know them?’

‘I’ve heard of the Yasmine woman. She’s an Elfor, but not the man…’

‘Go and see this Sam. Give him the chat. Getting leverage on Abdul before the election would not be a bad thing right now.’

‘Understood.’

‘But above all else, you absolutely must get me that code by any means necessary. Failure or delay is not an option for you. We have trust, Zhang. You killed a man and I protected you. Do not disabuse that trust now.’

THE CALL ENDS and Zhang stares for several long seconds into the empty silence of his cabin, reeling inside from what Helga just said. You killed a man and I protected you. There it is. Zhang is now owned outright, and the threat was clear too, hanging in the air unsaid but obvious.

He rises from his sofa and uses a fizzball to clean the shit taste from his mouth. Too much booze last night and he was stupid to join in the fight. But it was good to put Dmitri down and he allows a tight smile at the memory of Abdul the Angry swinging fists like a man possessed. Zhang had heard he could fight back in the day.

He pulls a self-sealing shirt on and heads out to catch Mahatma before she starts work. He has today to get the code and he can guess what the consequences will be if he fails.

A FEW LEVELS BENEATH ZHANG, Penny rolls her eyes in a show of frustration at deducing there is a point in every person’s life when they become so old and obstinate that they refuse to even try and understand.

‘I’ll explain it again,’ she says with overly-emphasised patience, leaning over Abdul sitting at his desk. ‘This is FleetBook right? This is where people share stuff.’

‘I know what FleetBook is,’ he says gruffly.

‘But do you though? You don’t even use it. I do it for you.’

‘Stop nagging me. Tell me again what Sam has done.’

Another lungful of air taken in and Penny gets ready to explain it once more, sharing a glance with Abdul who winks and smirks and gets a slap on the shoulder for his cheek. ‘You’re being difficult on purpose. Right, now listen. Sam has created lots of bot accounts. Which means,’ she says, holding a hand up to stop Abdul speaking, ‘that he’s developed a programme that creates hundreds of fake FleetBook accounts that all link to each other with engagements, comments, likes and everything else. That’s not uncommon, but what Sam has done is give depth to the fake accounts and then they all link and share – and then he’s directed them to real accounts to join in with normal chat. Plus, the adverts he made are really funny. It’s so simple but very effective. Sven’s Eatery has seen an online mention increase of over six hundred percent in the last week. Six hundred, Abdul. For a café serving porridge and jam. So imagine what he can do for your election campaign.’

He rubs his beard, thinking hard while Penny reaches past to scroll through pages of accounts showing what seem to be real people all talking about Sven’s Eatery. ‘What’s Yassy’s angle?’

Penny shakes her head, adding a gentle frown. ‘I don’t know yet. She’ll be doing something, but we both saw she genuinely likes Sam. Look how she was defending him last night.’

‘He’s a nice guy,’ Colin says, sitting on sofa in the office, earning a glance from Adbul. ‘The lads all liked him. Got a nice way about him hasn’t he, Pash?’

‘My finger still hurts from Yassy biting it,’ Pasha replies, holding his hand up as Penny and Colin roll their eyes. Abdul stares at the bruised finger, thinking how bloody big it is, which makes him think of Yasmine willingly picking a fight with someone the size of Pasha in order to protect Sam. He looks to FleetBook and the obvious skills Sam has and he thinks more, nodding to himself while that hand slowly rubs the dark beard.

‘See if you can get hold of Kristi Carter. Tell her I’ve got something for her morning bulletin.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Sam Gablinski wakes in his sleeping tube to the rapid-fire tones of Kristi Carter and stretches while groaning sleepily.

‘…and joining me now via a live holo-link from the Elfors on the WS Humility is Councillor Abdul Shariff. Abdul, good morning and thank you for giving us your time this morning.’

‘Always a pleasure, Kristi.’

‘It sounds like an incredible night. Can you run through what happened for the folks across the fleet just joining us?’

‘Sure thing. The Elfors are becoming a real social priority for many people. The squalor and the daily struggles faced by the inhabitants are only getting worse.’

‘Sorry to move you on, Abdul. Tell us about the hacker.’

‘He’s known as Pretty Boy. He’s covert and keeps his identity guarded, but he was so touched by the reports you guys on the fleet-news are putting out that he willingly walked into the most dangerous parts of the Elfors to see it for himself, guided only by a single inhabitant. He was so appalled he felt he had to act, so he accessed the grav-drives to turn them off and on several times.’

‘But isn’t that dangerous? We’re hearing many people were hurt.’

‘People are hurt every day in the Elfors but what Pretty Boy did is get your attention and show just how outdated the services in the Elfors are -- and how easy it was for him to walk in and do that. Let me tell you this: many people down here support what he did and even stepped in when a few local gangs tried robbing him.’

‘Let me get this right. He only stopped when you spoke to him?’

‘That’s right, Kristi. I reached out and used my own contacts and said hey, Pretty Boy. We’ve heard you. We’re doing what we can and that was enough for him to stop.’

‘What an amazing story folks and you heard it here first…’

‘Holy fuck,’ Sam mumbles, staring at the live feed in his sleeping tube.

‘Say that again, Pretty Boy.’

‘Argh!’ Sam exclaims, snapping his head over to see Yasmine lying next to him propped up on one elbow.

‘You snore so much,’ Yasmine says.

‘Eh?’ Sam says, trying to make his mind wake up.

‘But last night was amazing,’ she says earnestly, laying a hand on his chest. ‘Honestly, making love to you is just incredible.’

‘What?’ he says in alarm.

‘I’m joking! Of course we didn’t. I tried waking you up but you were having none of it. You also stank way too much, so I pushed you in the shower then somehow got you into bed. I don’t think you even opened your eyes during the entire time.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep, I could have done anything to you. I heard you snoring while the airjets were drying you at one point.’

‘Oh wow. Maybe I’ve got a condition or something.’

‘Nah, you were just knackered. What a night though.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, turning his head to look at her and finds his breath catching in his throat at the sight of her dark hair all messy and hanging down and the way her cheek is a little scrunched up and the lines in the corners of her dark eyes that change from angry to happy so very quickly about a hundred times a day. He takes in the shape of her forehead and the wrinkles that form when she frowns, and the deeper one between her eyebrows when she scowls. He takes in the full lips that smile so readily or go thin and pursed when she’s ready to fight, and he looks to the tip of her nose that moves when she speaks and the tiny dark hairs at the edge of her scalp and the shape of her ears that push out a little at the top. She smiles at being studied so closely and he spots her bottom teeth are a touch uneven and her upper lip has almost invisible soft downy hair. He looks at those imperfections, seeing them all laid bare, and he thinks of her temper and the rage-fuelled words that spill from her mouth so quickly and the vicious insults delivered whenever she feels cornered, and right there, Sam Gablinski is really quite sure he has never seen someone so very flawed and so very real and it’s those things that make her so very heart-achingly beautiful. His hand comes up to cup her face as she frowns at the bold move and blinks but doesn’t flinch or pull away and never a more fragile second was held and shattered by the sound of an incoming call on his wristband.

‘Shit,’ he whispers, closing his eyes at feeling her emotional energy draw back and she turns her head to kiss his hand still touching her cheek and sighs.

‘Better get that. It’s Abdul.’

‘Abdul?’

‘Yep. I told you,’ she says, shuffling away to drop out of the sleeping tube.

‘I don’t have to answer it,’ he says, hoping she’ll come back while knowing she won’t.

‘Sam! How are you?’ Abdul’s face blooms up, the angry man now smiling broadly and looking out with genuine concern. ‘I wanted to check on you, son.’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Sam says politely. ‘I just saw you on the news.’

‘Yeah? Did I look good? That Kristi is all fired up over this hacking story. Let me tell you that. Yasmine? She with you? Is she okay?’

‘Yep she’s…’ He spots her waving to signal she’s not there. ‘In the shower.’

‘The shower? What all forty-five seconds of it?’

‘Er, I might have hacked it,’ Sam says as Yasmine face-palms herself and Abdul’s booming laugh fills the cabin.

‘He hacked it! He just said it. I love this man. You hear that? Right out with it,’ Abdul says, looking around as though talking to other people. ‘Anyway. About the news: I had to say something but that’s the way politics works, son. We take a negative and spin it to help the greater cause. You understand that, right?’

‘Sure, I guess.’

‘Besides,’ Abdul says, leaning in to wink. ‘Chicks dig a rogue, Sam.’

‘I wouldn’t…I mean…’

‘I love this guy! He’s so damn humble. Anyway, are you hurt? You took a thump last night. I can get you to my doctor if you need checking.’

‘Oh I’m fine, thank you though.’

‘And Yasmine? She okay, Sam? She hurt? She need a doctor? Maybe a rabies shot from biting Pasha.’

‘Oy!’ Pasha’s voice calls in the background, making Sam smile while clocking Yasmine rolling her eyes.

‘I’ll ask her when she’s finished showering.’

‘You do that and you let me know. And the basket was okay? Didn’t freak you out?’

‘No, it was lovely. It’s all gone mind -- Yasmine literally used every pot in one go.’

‘She liked it? That’s great. Hey listen, Sam,…’

‘Hear it comes,’ Yasmine whispers.

‘Your friend, you said he’s having a party tonight?’

‘Sven? Yeah…’

‘I can see your confusion, Sam, but remember what I said. Information is power and it’s what I trade in. Now this is Mr Carlson right? Sven’s Eatery? Closing down tonight.’ Abdul looks away, reading from another screen out of view. ‘He owes a lot in rent, bills, taxes, insurance. He’s in some serious debt, Sam.’

‘Yeah I think he’s struggled a bit.’

‘Okay listen, here’s the thing. Small businesses like Sven’s are a major concern in politics. They need better terms and better protection, and I need to show that my policies extend beyond the Elfors. So how about I come tonight? That be okay with you and Sven? Nothing major, I’ll turn up, shake some hands, say some words about Mr Carlson struggling against unfair representation and corporate greed, then eat some of his famous porridge and jam. Maybe bring a journalist. How’s that? You think Sven would mind?’

‘Well…’

‘You okay running it past him, Sam? You get me the green light on that, son, and I won’t forget you. I’ll call you back. Say half an hour? That good with you? Attaboy, Sam. Knew I could rely on you. Say hi to Yassy and you look out for her, you hear me on that?’

‘Wow,’ Sam says as the call cuts off. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Yep,’ Yasmine says, opening the gift hamper to look at the few remaining unopened pots.

‘He wants to come tonight. That’s so cool.’

‘Nope, it isn’t. Because the whole point of tonight is to get Mahatma Goudier there so we can get her wristband off her, so you can hack it and we can break into her work and steal a shit ton of credits and -- why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Because you’re going to say so we can score big and run off to the Ab-Spa.’

‘I’m going to shower.’

‘Um, so did you want to come back and like prop your head on your hand again, Yasmine?’

‘WHAT? I’M IN THE SHOWER USING ALL OF THESE POTS.’

‘HEY,’ Zhang says, rushing to catch up, and he reaches out a hand to gently touch her arm. Mahatma turns to beam a huge smile as they pause on the platform stairwell, moving to the side while people stream by on their way to work.

‘Zhang, hello you. Missing me? Aw that’s so cute. I’m just going to work but we could nip back to mine if you want. Being late isn’t an issue. I’m a manager so…’

‘Er, no. No I don’t want to. I mean I always want to, but listen, the audit. What’s happening?’

‘Oh he’s being such a girl. Honestly, I don’t know what I saw in him. Such a turn off. He’s all like oh you’re blackmailing me, that’s so unfair, boohoo poor me, you’ll ruin my life. I was like listen buddy, you were happy sticking it in me every chance you got’ Zhang recoils at her words, pulling his head back. ‘I know,’ she says, misreading his reaction. ‘He’s so gross. Not like you -- you’ve got a proper six-pack and everything. Maybe we should film it. We’d look so good in a porno.’

‘Jesus,’ he blinks, thinking maybe he has met someone with a worse sex addiction than he has. For a second he imagines a life being with someone so beautiful and highly sexed, so that he could have it whenever he wanted, but the notion appals him. The idea of it seems so cold and wrong. ‘Listen. I need it today. I really need it today. Bad things will happen to me otherwise.’

‘I’ll try,’ she says. ‘But I’m at that party tonight. Ooh you should totally go. We could dance and kiss.’

‘What party? Mahatma, this is serious.’

‘That new place that’s closing down. The porridge place. It’s like very exclusive. Anybody who is anybody is totally going…ooh what happened to your face, baby? Did someone hit you?’

‘Just a scuffle. Please, Mahatma, I have to get that code.’

‘That is so hot. You’re like this tough rugged cop going about getting in fights and I’m like your beautiful girlfriend always worrying about you.’

‘You are not my fucking girlfriend,’ he snarls, moving in close, his voice now hard, his features showing the seriousness. His eyes penetrate hers, showing the threat and menace he needs to get through to her. ‘This has to be done. Today. Do you understand?’

She nods once, staring into his eyes. ‘I am so fucking wet right now, Zhang.’

‘Fuck!’

‘IT’S NOT BLOODY COOL, SVEN,’ a huffy Yasmine says a short while later sitting outside the café with Janey and Sam.

‘I hear you on that,’ Sven says, pointing his vape-stick at Yasmine. ‘But it’s Abdul the Angry! And he wants to come.’

‘How exactly did Abdul end up calling Sam again?’ Janey asks.

‘Oh god don’t even ask. Long night.’

‘Long night,’ Sam echoes. ‘But so cool. Seriously.’

‘It wasn’t cool, Sam.’

‘Not cool,’ Sam says while nodding at Sven and Janey. ‘So, we left here and saw this woman with big feet and her chatty boyfriend who never speaks cos he saw his dad kill his mum I think and then maybe killed his dad…’ He goes on, explaining it all as Sven and Janey listen with mouths slowly dropping open and they share glances hearing all the names and places and things Sam and Yasmine did in just one night.

‘And like the big feet lady and her weird friends came after us and there was this stand off and Yassy was like fuck you and they were like you’re all dead, and Clara was like not with my charges motherfuckers.’

Janey looks to Yasmine, who shrugs as though this is all normal to her. That this is her everyday life.

‘Then we came out in the lift and got the basket, but Yasmine literally used all of the pots. I think I had like this tiny bit of gel left, but then Abdul called and Yasmine was like ha! Told you and yeah…’ He stops talking to draw breath, energised and clearly buzzing from it all. Grinning wide with a spark in his eyes that makes Sven chuckle, thinking how different he is to the shy airlock guy who couldn’t order porridge and jam without blushing.

‘And how was your night?’ Yasmine asks brightly, smiling with way too many teeth.

‘Yeah okay,’ Janey says with a somewhat strained expression. ‘So you didn’t call us or anything?’

‘Call you?’ Yasmine asks.

‘We could have helped or…I don’t know.’

‘It just happened, there wasn’t time to think or…’

‘Yeah course, sure,’ Janey says, feeling an absurd sense of jealousy inside. Like she missed out somehow. ‘So you saw an old friend too?’

‘Penny? Yeah we grew up together,’ Yasmine smiles, shaking her head. ‘We called her Pretty Penny.’

‘Oh and she’s pretty too. That’s nice.’ Janey says, forcing a sweet tone that doesn’t quite work.

‘I invited them tonight,’ Sam tells Sven. ‘Hope that’s okay.’

‘Sure,’ Sven says.

‘Well maybe you should run it past us before you invite people,’ Janey says before thinking to stop the words coming out.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Yasmine says, waving it away. ‘Here’s the thing. You can’t really say no to Abdul --it doesn’t work like that. But the plan is still in place, right? It doesn’t change anything. Matty still comes and we still go through with it. Yeah?’

‘Yep, fine with me,’ Sven says, looking at Janey. ‘Janey?’

‘Sure. I mean, why not? That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it.’

‘Are you okay?’ Yasmine asks her, detecting an unease. ‘Honestly, Janey, it literally just happened like bang bang bang. We couldn’t stop.’

‘Ooh Sven, have you ever tried Elfor juice?’ Sam asks. ‘Pretty Penny gave us some last night.’

‘You tried Elfor juice?’ Sven laughs. ‘That’ll put hairs on your chest. We used to joke that the Gagarin was fuelled by Elfor juice.’

‘What’s Elfor juice?’ Janey asks, conjuring an image of Yasmine having the time of her life in a nightclub surrounded by beautiful people.

‘It’s just a drink that’s kinda spiked with drugs to…’

‘Whoa. I took drugs?’ Sam asks. ‘I’m an airlock security operative. I could get in trouble.’

‘Give me strength,’ Yasmine mutters, rubbing her forehead. ‘It’s fine, Sam. Honestly.’

‘We get tested for drugs.’

‘Nobody ever failed a drug test from Elfor juice,’ Yasmine replies. ‘Can we focus on this please?’

‘Stop you there, Yasmine. Lots of people failed drug tests from Elfor juice. That’s why it’s banned everywhere else,’ Sven says.

‘Oh don’t tell him that,’ she groans.

‘Oh my god, I’m a drug addict,’ Sam moans.

‘Right, listen. We need to focus.’ Yasmine says, prodding the table. ‘This is what we’re here for. Yes?’

‘I’d like to try Elfor juice,’ Janey says, shifting in her seat. ‘Maybe we could all go down and…’

‘Oh god no,’ Yasmine says. ‘Just no. I’ve had enough of the Elfors for a very long time. We score big and…’

‘Excuse me,’ Sam says as his wristband bleeps. ‘That’s my new friend Abdul the Angry calling me. Abdul, who we met last night and who gave us a basket of…’

‘Answer the fucking call, Sam,’ Yasmine snaps.

‘I am!’ Sam says moving off a few feet.

‘Sam! How are you?’ Abdul asks, his face blooming up in the holo-feed as Sven and Janey share stunned looks. ‘Sorry to call you back so soon. Things move pretty fast sometimes. Everything okay? Did you ask Yassy if she was hurt?’

‘I think she’s fine,’ Sam says, turning to look at Yasmine. ‘Are you okay?’

‘No, my head fell off.’

‘She’s okay,’ Sam relays.

‘Haha! You two are the best,’ Abdul laughs. ‘Cute couple too.’

‘We’re not a couple,’ Yasmine calls out as Janey blinks and clenches her jaw.

‘Sure you’re not,’ Abdul says, winking at Sam. ‘Women are complicated creatures, Sam. Let me tell you that for free. Now, sorry to push to business, son, but did you speak to Mr Carlson?’

‘Yep. he’s right here and I think he’s okay with it,’ Sam says glancing at Sven giving a thumbs up.

‘Is that Sven? Who’s the red haired woman? Sven said yes? That’s great! Great news. That means a lot and you know what, son, my team are telling me we could do with someone with advanced IT skills -- get a few of those adverts you did up and running. We’ll talk on that later, Sam, but you shouldn’t be opening airlocks for a day job. See you tonight.’

‘Wow,’ Sven says when the call ends. ‘What a connection, Sam. And this is just from getting chased in the Elfors?’

‘Lucky you,’ Janey murmurs. She was going to tell Yasmine how she and Sven chatted for hours last night, and you know, that there might be a connection growing and in her mind it would have been juicy gossip to share and discuss, but it suddenly pales against the wild adventures Sam and Yasmine have had and she wishes she could have run through the rain being saved by famous politicians and drinking Elfor juice in nightclubs.

‘We need to go over the plan again,’ Yasmine says, but suddenly she isn’t so happy and thinks maybe they should stop because right now there are too many things happening. Then she thinks it’s just nerves and a bit of exhaustion. Everything is fine. Do the job. Score big and run off to the Ab-Spa.

Ah, there it is. That’s the thing bugging her. She doesn’t need to run off now. There is nothing to escape from and no need to run away. Dmitri will still want to get back at her, but even he won’t risk going against Abdul. Not for a while anyway. That means the pressure and urgency have gone.

She glances round, thinking of the last week or so working here and having fun with Janey and Sven and wonders what the future would be if they didn’t do the job.

Then she thinks of the Ab-Spa and swimming in gorgeous blue waters while staring up through a glass roof at the stars and eating fruit and real food and having massages with enough credits to do what they want. They could be there in just a few days doing exactly that, but instead of running away she will be going there because she wants to.

‘Yassy?’ Janey asks. ‘You’ve gone quiet. Do you still want to do this?’

Yasmine smiles slowly while thinking maybe they could take the vacation to the Ab-Spa and still come back because she has options now. She has a life and decisions she can make and friends to make them with. ‘I’m fine,’ she adds, grinning wider. ‘We’re up for it, aren’t we, Pretty Boy?’

‘Don’t ask me. I’m a drug addict.’

‘Such a dick.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

‘Oh my god I give up,’ Yasmine says, gasping for air. ‘Seriously, it’s the worst plan ever.’

Sven sags and wipes the sweat from his face. ‘I’m with Yasmine. We can’t keep going. Not like this; I’ve nothing left to give.’

‘We have to stop,’ Yasmine adds. ‘Janey, see sense. It was a bad idea.’

‘Um, so some people want porridge,’ Sam says, bustling into the café to see Yasmine draped over the counter and Sven sagging behind it.

‘Sam, what did we say about this?’ Janey asks while hoiking one breast with the underside of her wrist as she flicks her head to rid it of stray hairs hanging down.

‘Did you actually just shift a boob over?’ Yasmine asks.

‘They’re really heavy. Anyway, Sam. You can’t just say some people need porridge; you have to say how many they want and what table they’re on.’

A day of days that started early with people having seen the outrageous adverts on the net and popping up in the retail zone as everyone buzzes about trying the porridge place before it closes, but this was in the plan because Janey said they had to make it a cool venue so Mahatma would come. They had to create demand, and so now they work like crazy as the morning swooshes by and becomes afternoon in what feels like five minutes, and with it comes a sense of nerves and excitement because getting through the day is one thing, but the coming night is the main even. So as late afternoon hits, Janey gets Sam to knock up a new holo advert to suspend in the entrance to the walkway.

Sven’s Eatery is now closed and will re-open tonight at 7pm

‘THANK FUCK,’ Yasmine says as the last customers drift off.

‘Right, we’ve got a couple of hours,’ Janey says, clapping her hands. ‘We’ll break for showers, change of clothes and back for the evening. Hi, sorry. We’re closed for a bit,’ she adds at an attractive woman peering down the walkway.

‘Penny?’ Yasmine asks, turning around.

‘Hi, Yassy,’ Penny says, walking towards them with a box in her hands. ‘Hey, Pretty Boy!’

‘Hi, Penny,’ Sam says. ‘That’s my gangster name,’ he adds in reply to the looks coming from Sven and Janey.

‘Guys, I’m sorry to disturb you and wow, this place is just amazing,’ Penny says. ‘But Abdul wanted me to drop this off and say that you guys are the best and he so appreciates you letting him come tonight and as a way of saying thank you he got you these.’ She smiles and pops the top of the box to pull out a black dress. ‘Yassy, that’s your size and you must be Janey? Hi, I’m Penny. I’m old friends with Yassy.’

‘Yes, she said,’ Janey says, taking in the black woman’s slim refined elegance. ‘Pretty Penny,’ she murmurs, not realising it came out loud.

‘Ha! Nobody has called me that in years. Anyway, so this is for you, the style and cut will really suit your curves, which are lovely by the way, and Sven, Sam -- black trousers and shirts for you guys. Abdul figured you’d be casual tonight, but he thought heck! Why not go smart and look good. You know?’

‘Wow,’ Janey says, holding her expensive dress up that looks simply beautiful until she glances over and realises her dress is twice the size of Yasmine’s.

‘Anyways, Abdul is offering my services to you, so I will be here to work with you guys.’

‘Penny means she has to make sure nobody pisses in Abdul’s porridge,’ Yasmine says.

‘Working here?’ Janey asks. ‘Tonight?’

‘It’s fine,’ Yasmine says, giving Janey a look. ‘The busier the better, right?’

Janey wants to say no, that it’s not okay. That this is her night and her plan and she doesn’t want Pretty Penny here but she can’t voice that and she doesn’t know why she’s having that reaction either and withdraws into herself, suddenly feeling petty and stupid.

‘I’ll leave you to get ready,’ Penny says. ‘The first security team will be here from eighteen thirty hours to sweep through and remain in place, but you won’t even know they’re here. Yassy, it’s so great seeing you again. We need to talk properly. We’ve got so much to catch up on --you look amazing too. So beautiful.’ She reaches out to smooth a stray hair back behind Yasmine’s ear like she always did when they were young. The years falling away. The familiarity coming back so strongly.

‘Piss off, Penny,’ Yasmine scoffs, smiling as she rolls her eyes.

‘She always hated compliments,’ Penny tells the others. ‘Right, see you later.’ She leans in to kiss Yasmine’s cheek before heading off with a wink at Sam, and Janey feels that surge of jealousy come back. Why can’t she have that? Why can’t she be natural enough to touch Yasmine’s hair and kiss her cheek?

‘I guess Mr Abdul wants us looking nice then,’ Sven says into the stunned silence.

‘I guess Mr Abdul wants something,’ Yasmine mutters. ‘This is now his show tonight. Trust me, he will literally take over, but that’s good because all eyes on him mean no eyes on us. Right, are we going to get changed? Sam, okay if I wash and change at yours again?’

‘You can come to mine if you want,’ Janey says quickly, thinking they can get ready together, maybe listen to music and laugh and she could tell Yasmine about her chat with Sven last night.

‘I would but I hid loads of the creams and pots Abdul gave us in Sam’s underwear drawer.’ Yasmine stage-whispers at Janey. ‘Besides, Sam did the whole naughty shower hacking thing.’

‘Yeah, of course,’ Janey says holding a frozen smile. ‘See you tonight then,’ she says, taking her dress and walking off as Sven sorts his shirt and trousers before heading off after her.

‘Sam?’ Yasmine asks. ‘You coming?’

‘I’ll follow you down; just doing this,’ he says, absorbed in reprogramming a wristband.

‘Don’t be long,’ she calls, heading out and feeling that strange sense of freedom at being able to move about without needing to look over her shoulder. It all feels so weird, but nice at the same time and she hums as she heads down the stairwell and out onto Sam’s level, smiling at people walking by and even pausing to sniff the flowers blooming in the middle section.

A little while later, Sam positions the special holo-feed he programmed in the walkway outside the cafe and stands back to check how it appears.

‘Looks good,’ a man says, walking into the alley and Sam turns to see a handsome Asian man smiling at him. Lean and fit looking with a mop of black hair, casual trousers and untucked shirt. A bruise on the side of his jaw and Sam blinks, trying to place him. ‘That for tonight?’

‘Yeah, I just programmed it,’ Sam says.

‘It’s cool,’ the man says, coming to a stop to stare up. ‘That’s some serious clarity and rendering. What are you using? Holostyle three-zero?’

‘Three-zero’s a good programme but I prefer DosDot Linear,’ Sam says, instantly absorbed into a techy conversation as he looks at the Asian guy.

‘DosDot Linear? Oh man, that’s some skills right there. So you must be writing the code huh? But on those old wristbands? What are they? Series eight? Can they handle that?’

‘Yeah, once you break the encryption and strip out the pre-loaded formatting to free space they’re really good. You know, I actually prefer the series eight for that.’

‘I’m hearing that. Back in the day I used to hack into the movie posters and make them talk to people walking past. Cracked me up. I’m a series nine man myself though. They’ve just got that extra punch.’

‘Oh, I love doing the movie posters. Did you hack here?’ Sam asks, thinking he’d know of someone else hacking like that.

‘No, sir. On another ship. I transferred here for work,’ the man says, staring up at the holographic 3D perfect rendering of four men in black jeans, white shirts and black ties frozen in place while holding musical instruments. ‘You remember me yet?’

‘I’m trying,’ Sam says with a smile. ‘Had a long night though.’

‘Yes sir you did,’ Zhang replies. ‘Tell me when you remember. Is that The Dead South up there?’ he asks, pointing up at the band.

‘Yeah. Only the best Canadian bluegrass folk band ever. I figured it would be cool having live music tonight, but we didn’t book one so I did that instead.’

‘It’s a good choice,’ Zhang says.

‘The cop!’ Sam blurts, finally remembering. ‘I saw your taser gun at my airlock and you showed me your badge.’

Zhang smiles, realising Sam doesn’t remember him from the fight. ‘Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Zhang Woo,’ he says, holding a hand out for Sam to shake.

‘Sorry, took me ages then.’

‘It’s fine,’ Zhang says, looking back up at the band. ‘But you know what? Maybe push it back a little way? You’re going to be busy tonight and you want people to see them.’ He walks over to stand underneath the band and cranes his neck to stare up. ‘See? I got to look right up and although I love Nate Hilts I do not want to see his backside.’

‘Ah okay, so maybe if I…’ Sam trails off, accessing his system to make the four frozen men slide down the walkway.

‘Keep going,’ Zhang says. ‘Right to the end.’

‘Yeah?’

‘For sure, try it and see.’

‘Okay, hang on and I’ll…’ Sam starts reprogramming the code to push the image down further. ‘You here for the porridge? We’re closed and Sven’s not here but you can come back tonight if you want. I think it will be really busy but I can probably get you in.’

‘That’s good of you, Sam. Appreciate that.’

‘Is it cool being a cop?’

‘Sometimes,’ Zhang replies quietly. ‘I came to see you actually, Sam.’

‘Me?’

‘Your name is popping up. Hacking and things. Don’t look so worried, it’s cool. I just heard a few things and checked you out and I’m wondering why a man who has worked the same airlock for over ten years is suddenly friends with Abdul the Angry.’

‘Oh he helped me and my friend in Neon City last night when Dmitri attacked us.’ Sam says.

Zhang nods, somewhat surprised at the honesty and thinking Sam really has no clue that he stepped in last night. ‘Maybe don’t go broadcasting that, but listen, sometimes people like Abdul want you to do things, things you might not be comfortable with and if that happens I want you to know you can talk to me, quietly if you want, confidentially. You know. Even if you want to sound something out to make sure it’s legal. You give me a shout and we’ll talk it through.’

Sam’s wristband bleeps and flashes up with Detective Zhang Woo’s contact details. ‘Yeah sure,’ Sam says. ‘Wanna hear a track? I need to test the volume.’

HALF AN HOUR later and Zhang walks out of the walkway and heads towards the stairwell, tucking up to one side as he calls to update Helga.

‘Go on,’ she says shortly, working in her office and offering only the briefest of smiles. What a change from the woman who gave him croissants.

‘I just spoke with Sam Gablinski, ma’am.’

‘Oh,’ she says with disappointment evident in her voice. ‘I thought you were calling with good news. Tell me about Sam Gablinski. Anything there?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He seems genuine. I think Abdul is after his coding skills.’

‘Coding skills?’ Helga asks with sudden interest. ‘What for? What did he say?’

‘There’s a café closing down. Sam has created these adverts for it and done some minor coding on Fleetbook to increase traffic.’

‘Right,’ she says, losing instant interest. ‘And what about our code? That’s the priority.’

‘I spoke to Mahatma this morning and stressed how…’

‘Get it done! Today, Detective Woo.’

She cuts the call, leaving Zhang feeling the rebuke while running in his head how strong her reaction was when he said the word ‘coding’. The need to know comes back. The instincts of a cop wanting to pull on threads until all the secrets come out.

He sets off down the stairwell, running it all over in his mind. He has so few facts. Nothing really. Helga sent a code to Scrabel. Scrabel ran and sent it to the Financial Services. Scrabel then died for it.

He reaches his cabin and goes in to slump on his sofa and prop his feet on his table while he thinks again about Scrabel. A minute later he swipes his system and brings FleetBook up, staring at the interface for a while. He avoided doing this to stop himself being drawn in. To prevent any connections forming, but more than that, he didn’t want to look at the life of the guy he killed.

He does it now. Typing in Alexei Scrabel. Finding the profile and tapping the air at the virtual account to go in. And there he is. The man he murdered. Zhang stares at the few pictures for a while. Most of them unsmiling selfies. Scrabel looks like a loner. A hard man with a scowl, but then growing up in the Elfors would do that. He did well though --- at least for a while. He was one of the lucky ones and was registered from birth, which meant he got out and got educated enough to get a job on The Ark. What did he do? Zhang knows he was a technician on the mainframe but there are literally scores of them, coming from all over the fleet.

He clicks into Scrabel’s personal updates and sighs heavy and long, seeing he was right about Scrabel being a sad loner and seeing how easy it was for the press to think he committed suicide.

We all need to just slow down

We’re all going too fast to think

Is the fleet alone all we have? Is this all we are or is our speed relative to our minds?

Are we the last few?

THE SAD MUSING of a lonely man that speaks of mild paranoia. And Zhang knows Scrabel was heavily into gambling too, and in some serious debt. Debt strangles people and drags them down into the depths of misery and suddenly they think the world about them is moving too fast. Zhang has seen it over and over. That’s how Helga must have got into him. As she did with Zhang, she found a weakness to exploit.

Zhang scrolls on but seeing nothing that can help. He goes back to read the ramblings, figuring everyone gets like that now and then. The fleet is travelling at an absurd speed. Tens of thousands of miles an hour and that speed is increasing all the time. Slowly, but steadily nonetheless. Scrabel would know that from working on the mainframe computer system which controls the thrust, speed and direction of the whole fleet. He’d see that speed going up and up with every passing hour. Must have driven him mad or something not far from it. Maybe the numbers got to him – that the fleet feels static yet every second that passes is a new world record for the fastest speed human beings have ever travelled.

Zhang scrolls on, seeing nothing that helps, and the urge comes back because that’s the thing with addicts, the need comes on when it wants and his mind drifts from Scrabel as he starts thinking about Mahatma and Carla Big Lips and he rests his head back, wishing he could control it.

‘AT LAST!’ Yasmine says as Sam rushes into his cabin to turn away and walk into the wall at seeing her in bra and knickers on his sofa, bent forward applying make-up while staring at her digital 3D reflection. ‘You need to hurry up, we open in a few minutes. What took you so long?’ she asks with a laugh at seeing him trying to feel his way to the shower corner without looking. ‘Dick, open your eyes.’

‘I was getting the music ready and this man came down and we got chatting.’

Yasmine pauses and pulls the digital eye-liner pen away while frowning lightly. ‘What man?’

‘Er, Zhang Woo, said he’s a…’

‘He’s a cop, Sam. A detective.’

‘Yeah, he said so.’

‘Okay,’ she says, shrugging then carrying on. ‘Let me guess, he said he wants to make sure you’re okay? And that if Abdul asks you to do anything you’re worried about you can call him?’

‘Panels out. Yeah, exactly that. Is it like a normal cop thing then?’

‘Yep. It’s fine. I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘He seemed really nice actually.’

‘That’s because everyone likes you at the moment, Pretty Boy, and he’s angling for a way to get shit on Abdul to pass on to some other corrupt fucker to discredit Abdul before the elections. Nah, Zhang is okay. I’ve met him a few times. Actually, he gave me heads up that Dmitri put the mark on me so he’s not all bad for a cop,’ She pulls a face. ‘Don’t tell me you invited him tonight?’

‘Er…’ Sam says, stripping off. ‘Er so I kinda forgot what we were doing tonight for and I may have said he should come down. Shower on,’ he adds, feeling the blast of water as Yasmine chuckles at him forgetting to make the panels opaque again. ‘He’s got good taste in music though.’

‘Yeah?’ she asks, watching him from the corner of her eye as he turns to present himself front on without a clue and starts washing his groin.

‘I’ve got The Dead South rigged up.’

‘Have you really?’ she asks, snorting a laugh. ‘Wash it thoroughly now, Sam.’

‘Eh?’ he asks, looking up to see her smiling and he even smiles back from habit and frowns for a second before the realisation hits. ‘YASMINE! OPAQUE. FUCK’S SAKE.’

‘Bless,’ she laughs, before realising she is now suddenly very turned on, shaking her head again and thinking to just go over and get in but she holds still, not wanting to rush something like that, and besides, this is nice. Whatever this is, whatever this is that’s happening, it’s nice. Don’t fuck it up then. Don’t rush and ruin it. ‘You okay if I stay here again tonight?’

‘No!’ he shouts.

She laughs. ‘Okay, fair enough.’

‘You saw me washing my willy.’

‘I did, you’re right. Would you like to see me washing mine to make up for it?’

‘No way, have you got a willy?’

‘Jesus,’ she mutters, going back to applying her make-up.

‘I’m not fancying you if it’s bigger than mine,’ he calls, making her snort and smear digital eye-liner up her cheek.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Sam used to sit in the suicide booth under the pretext of hacking it for fun, but really just to try and connect with something.

Then he would go to work and spend hours staring into space, feeling nothing inside before going home to stare at the walls of his cabin.

Those were the bad times when there was no hope and no future to look forward to, but now, as he steps from his cabin, feeling like the luckiest man in the whole fleet, so he gives thanks that he had those bad times, because without them he would not be here now.

Yasmine feels it too. Wearing her new figure hugging black dress with her hair pinned up. She swallows, feeling strangely nervous, and moves to put her hands in her pockets, then remembers she doesn’t have any and flinches when his hand finds hers to hold. On they walk, sharing almost shy smiles.

‘So can I stay at yours again tonight?’ she asks to break the weird flow of energy.

‘Sure,’ he says politely.

‘Thanks,’ she says.

‘It’s cool.’ He smiles. She smiles back at him. Sam thinks she looks breath-taking and radiant. Yasmine thinks he can’t be the same guy she saw that morning in the café. They smile again and he clears his throat to ask, ‘You don’t really have a dick, do you?’

‘No! Idiot. You bloody do though. Giving it a good old wash in the shower.’

‘Don’t start that again,’ he says as they verbally descend to a suitable level of comfort and familiarity.

‘You were the one doing it, pal. Anyway, enough about that. Are you ready, because this is going to be nuts tonight and we might not be able to talk later?’

‘Dunno. Might be busy wanking. Yes, I’m ready. How about you?’

‘I think so. I mean, the last week or so has been, you know, different for me and I did wonder what it would be like just working in a café and like, being normal and me and you getting a bigger cabin, you know what I mean? Piss off! Don’t look at me like that. You so think I’m going to dump you after the job don’t you? I’m not. I like you, Sam. A lot. Okay? Jesus, I’m gabbling. I must be nervous but I don’t know why. I start swearing more when I get nervous. Oh god, don’t let me call people goat-fuckers tonight. Seriously, if I start gobbing off then just…holy fuck! What the shitting hell?’

They come to a stop, gawping at the thick crowd gathering near the entrance to the walkway. A hubbub of noise, of chat and voices and people moving about that makes Yasmine’s heart beat a little bit faster while Sam just grins.

‘Oh my,’ Janey says a few seconds later, coming to a stop next to them with Sven at her side. ‘That’s a lot of people.’

‘I’m not making porridge for all of them,’ Sven blurts.

‘Huh?’ Yasmine asks, dragging her eyes from the crowd to look at Janey shifting about uncomfortably. ‘What’s up with you?’

‘I look like a fat ginger boy in a dress.’

‘Boys don’t have boobs that big,’ Yasmine says, staring at Janey’s chest. ‘You look beautiful, Janey.’

‘I bloody don’t.’

‘You bloody do. Your hair is gorgeous -- did you curl it? And Penny was right, that style really suits you.’

‘Said the model,’ Janey says.

‘I’m not a model. I hate models.’

‘Have you seen yourself, Yasmine? I didn’t think you could look any better. You’re like someone from a movie.’

‘It’s just looks,’ Yasmine says, waving a dismissive hand. ‘I don’t give a shit about that sort of stuff. But have you seen that crowd? Holy shit, son.’

‘Yeah,’ Janey says, slowly pulling her eyes from Yasmine.

‘Aw now look at you, Pretty Boy. All dressed up looking good enough to eat.’

The four turn with Sam grinning as Janey and Sven blanche at the sight of Clara in a strapless dress that shows the definition in her muscular shoulders and the veins bulging from her biceps, with Boris towering at her side.

‘No way,’ Yasmine says. ‘Never thought I’d see you up here.’

‘Could say the same about you, Yassy, but damn, Pretty Boy, you look cute as a button, you come here and let me ruffle your hair and squeeze those cheeks. Good lord I’m gonna eat you up. Yassy, you’d better stake your claim because if you don’t someone else will and if I wasn’t married I’d be carrying me some Pretty Boy home.’

Sam smiles and casts a look at Boris, but the big man just smiles without a hint of malice at his wife’s fawning.

‘Now I hope you told Yasmine how beautiful she looks tonight,’ Clara says, beaming at Sam. ‘Because I know for a fact that Yasmine hates compliments about her looks.’

‘Go bench-press a goat. Are we going in or what?’

‘You want to get in?’ Clara asks jokily.

‘Don’t you dare,’ Yasmine says urgently as Clara stretches her huge arms out to bring Sam and Yasmine together.

‘All set? Let’s make you shine!’ Clara says, beaming at them both.

‘What are they doing?’ Janey asks, frowning at Yasmine and Sam being positioned in front of her and Sven.

‘MAKE WAY PLEASE,’ Clara’s voice booms out, like Moses demanding the seas part by righteous order. The crowd peels back, murmuring with excitement as they first spot Boris and Clara then see Yasmine and Sam. ‘YOUR HOSTS ARE COMING THROUGH. MAKE WAY PLEASE.’

‘Shall we?’ Sam asks, holding his arm out for Yasmine who feigns a look of irritation before grinning and taking his arm.

Janey watches that perfect moment like a detached spectator as Yasmine and Sam start walking side by side. A beautiful couple shining in the lights and it invokes that surge of jealousy again. That things are happening too quickly to keep up with. That Yasmine’s exotic, wild life is reaching out to pull Sam in, but not Janey or Sven. That Yasmine and Sam can have crazy escapades in the bowels and come out not only unscathed but as friends with Abdul the Angry and drinking Elfor juice with Pretty Penny.

‘Can I offer you my arm?’ Sven says, smiling at Janey.

‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ she says, forcing a happy face while sweeping her gaze over the crowd and seeing not one person looking at either her or Sven. ‘It’s your café.’

‘Pardon?’ Sven asks.

‘It’s your café, it should be you in front.’

‘It’s fine, it doesn’t matter.’

‘It does matter,’ Janey replies, the tone a little harder than she thought but lost in the buzz of the moment. She shakes it off and puts her reaction down to nerves and stress, then looks at Yasmine’s back showing through the deep drop of the dress. The narrowness of her waist and her near flawless skin. Her arse too. Jesus. Her whole backside is probably smaller than one of Janey’s bum cheeks. An exaggeration of the mind for sure, but it’s not far off the truth. But still, this is Sven’s café and it really should be him in front.

‘WAIT FOR THE POLITICIAN PLEASE!’ a huge voice bellows, rich, strong and coming from someone well-versed in speaking to a crowd, and Janey looks over to the grinning face of Abdul the Angry. His bald head gleaming in the lights. The goatee beard so dark.

Janey watches as Abdul strides in to wrap his arms around Sam with a hug and a laugh then pulls back to grip Sam’s shoulders and share words of warm greeting before moving to kiss Yasmine’s cheeks. A quickening in her gut and Janey feels weird watching it, like she is part of the crowd watching the privileged lives of beautiful people.

Then the point of focus shifts as Abdul moves over to shake Janey’s hand and press his cheeks to hers, murmuring something she doesn’t hear or remember. Then he’s gone, and gripping Sven by the hand to turn him round to face the photographers and switching to Abdul the politician.

‘…and I’m telling you now folks, I am disgusted that my friend, Sven Carlson, a hard-working small business owner is having his premises taken back because of the greed of the system. It must be challenged and I for one will be standing up for Sven’s rights in the forthcoming elections. If you want real change, if you want real fairness then vote Abdul for the Captaincy.’

‘Hey,’ Yasmine says, somewhat breathlessly, slipping back to Janey. ‘Don’t look but Matty the Twatty is on your right side staring over. Now would be a good time to laugh at something funny I just said.’

‘Oh you are joking,’ Janey says, laughing at the funny thing Yasmine just said while casting a casual look over to see Mahatma with her group of friends staring at Sam and Yasmine and ahead to Abdul and Sven, even to the guards. But not one of them looks at Janey. Not one.

Into the walkway and a sudden lessening of the noise and Janey stops to frown at the long table set up outside filled with glasses and bottles of booze with a man and woman serving team standing behind it being spoken to by Penny.

‘What’s all this?’ Janey asks, walking over.

‘Well hello you,’ Penny says. ‘Oh you look stunning, Janey.’

‘Thanks, but what’s this?’ Janey asks, pointing at the new ad hoc bar.

‘Oh just a little thing from Abdul. I went back earlier and said you guys have got such a lovely little place, but you might struggle with drink service tonight, what with so many people coming, and higher-up people too. You know what I mean. So these guys are just here to help out. Guys, this is Janey, she is totally in charge tonight.’

‘Hi, Janey,’ they both say politely.

‘And what’s that up there?’ Janey asks, pointing down the walkway. ‘Sam? Did you do that?’

‘Er yeah, The Dead South. I thought we should have music, but you’d gone so I put that in.’

‘Right. And you couldn’t call and ask?’

‘Does it matter, Janey?’ Yasmine asks, looking at her with a questioning expression. ‘It gives everyone something else to look at, right?’

‘Janey, you must be exhausted. You just relax if you want,’ Penny says, laying a hand on Janey’s arm. ‘I can run this.’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ Janey says primly.

‘What’s up?’ Yasmine asks, moving to speak quietly to Janey.

‘Nothing, it’s just it’s Sven’s café and Abdul is taking over.’

‘I said he would. Who gives a shit. Mahatma, remember? That’s why we’re here. Score big. Get credits. Have a holiday. Buy a new café or do whatever you want.’

‘Yeah but -- no, you’re right,’ Janey says. ‘Okay, I’ll make sure Sven’s set up in the kitchen, though actually, maybe we should forget the porridge tonight. I mean nobody is really expecting to eat it. Sven should just mingle and make connections like you and Sam are doing.’

‘What? No! We need the porridge. We need people busy and eating and drinking with as much mess and noise as possible. That’s why Sam put the band in there, so nobody is looking at us.’

‘Funny that because right now everyone is looking at you.’

‘Christ, they would have looked at a sack of porridge mix being carried through.’

‘Is that some kind of dig?’

‘What! God no, what’s got into you, Janey? This is what we planned for. Come on, get your head in the game.’

‘Please don’t speak to me like that, Yasmine.’

‘What the fuck? Easy, Janey. I’m on your side. I love you and you’re my friend. Okay, listen. I know it’s been a long week but just say stop and we’ll stop.’

Janey sags, shaking her head, her mind running too fast and her emotions swinging too wild. ‘No, no it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll get a grip.’

‘It’s those huge boobs doing it,’ Yasmine jokes. ‘Everyone looking at them making you feel weird.’

‘They’re really not looking at my boobs, Yasmine.’

‘Phwoar, I bloody am! Come on. Let’s go be criminals and execute the Harrington master-plan.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

It was said that some farmers back on Earth possessed an almost spiritual connection to the land. That they had a depth of understanding about nature and the cycles of the seasons that went far beyond that which could be explained with words or taught in a classroom. But then the same could be said for anyone born into a certain way of life. Warriors and sailors. Artists and builders. People who never looked at their working life as a vocation but as a part of their existence.

Helga has that with politics. She was born into it with a lineage she can chart back to Earth. where her family held positions within the Icelandic parliament. It was their connections, influence and power that enabled the Sveinsson family to gain space on board the fleet. Becoming elected officials on the higher levels.

Her parents died on the famous shuttle crash a good few years ago, part of a delegation returning from a meeting on The Ark about the mainframe navigational computer system. But Helga knows they would be proud of her. She has gained the highest elected position a Sveinsson has ever gained. A vice-captain no less, but for her it is not enough. Helga wants more. She wants the top job, and she will be the captain of the WS Humility. Then, when the Virtue ships forge an alliance, she will seek to be in charge of them too, and when they finally reach the planet, if indeed it is habitable, she will be the first president. There is no limit in her mind, but only what can be taken. She is Icelandic, and despite the warm smiles and adept political thinking, she has Viking blood pumping through her heart.

That said, she still feels more than a jab of humiliation at being summoned by Pierre. Not invited. Not requested. Summoned.

She strides along the corridor, smoothing her pale green shirt and peach coloured blouse down. This is a power play. Helga knows that. This is Pierre reminding her he is still the captain. She stops at the door to his office and draws a breath to bring forth an amiable countenance before swiping her wristband to gain entry.

An aide greets her in the otherwise empty offices. Smiling politely with a touch of apology. ‘This way please, Vice-captain,’ she says, leading Helga through the large office filled with old Earth art and dark furniture, all combining to imbue a masculine aura.

Another set of doors in the end wall already open and the aide steps back, holding a hand out for Helga to go through into a structure made entirely of glass, with the roof and the sides giving spectacular views of space. Plants everywhere. Green leafy tropical things. Flowers blooming that hold their scent in the warm air. A paradise that normally makes visitors stop and gawp, but Helga looks only ahead as she follows the path through the high ferns and bushes to a central open area. Pierre sitting back on a soft-cushioned moulded lounger, wearing only a silk robe.

She comes to a stop, folding her arms. In turn, he opens one eye and blasts air from his nose. ‘Stop fucking glaring at me, Helga. Is it done?’

She pauses, forcing calmness into her tone. ‘It is under control.’

‘GET IT BACK,’ he roars, sitting upright. ‘I’ve had them calling me constantly. Carlos wants to send his own people over. Sully is nearly shitting himself with worry and Fei is questioning our competence.’

‘Pierre, I…’

‘Do not cross the fucking line here, Helga. I want it back tonight.’

‘We said by Monday.’

He stands up from the lounger, pulling the sides of his robe about his body. ‘I very strongly suggest, Helga, that if you wish to retain a future in politics, or any future at all, then you resolve this issue. That code needs to be in the mainframe. The people you are dealing with will sit around a table and smile at you while poisoning your food or paying someone to lock you in a fucking suicide booth. Do not underestimate them, and do not, for one second, underestimate me. Get that fucking code tonight, or find another ship to live on.’

He walks off, leaving her in silence. She tilts her head back to look out into the great void of nothingness. She draws air and crosses to sit down on Pierre’s vacated lounger while swiping her wristband to activate a call.

‘Ma’am,’ Zhang says, his image blooming up into the air above her wrist.

‘I need that code back tonight, Zhang,’ she says calmly.

‘Tonight?’ Zhang pauses, thinking fast.

‘Zhang, if you fail then I will kill you. Are we clear on that?’

‘Fuck,’ he gasps.

‘Indeed. Don’t take it personally, Zhang. I like you, but this is politics. Get the code back by tonight.’

She cuts the call, still thinking hard with the mind of a politician. Zhang is good, but he’s still a cop, and a good cop at heart too. This needs someone more ruthless. Someone far more ruthless; as Pierre said in the last conference meeting, so what if a few more people get murdered and create a media stink?

Another plan in mind. A way through it. Messy for sure. But it will guarantee results. She swipes her wristband again to make another call.

ZHANG CLOSES his eyes in his cabin as the call cuts off. Feeling the pressure growing by the hour. Feeling it all mount and bear down on his shoulders. The risk to his life. The need to know what the code is and what it’s for, while all the time he needs to fuck. An addiction demanding to be fed. A voice in his head that never shuts up with an urge constantly gnawing at his insides. Like an itch that he can never reach.

He opens his eyes and swipes to access his contacts, jabbing a finger into the air at the holo-screen to make the call.

‘Hello!’ Mahatma answers quickly. Her gorgeous face blooming into the air in front of Zhang. ‘Mr Woo, did you know I was naked?’ she asks with a chuckle.

‘No, listen to me.’

‘Wanna see?’ She giggles before holding her wrist out to expand the view and show him her naked body.

‘You need to listen,’ he says, his face tensing at seeing her nudeness, the urge inside rearing up. He swallows, looking away. ‘I need that code. It has to be tonight.’

‘Ooh are you going to that party? I’m so going. The porridge place? It’s like totally closing down and like so exclusive but I’ve got VIP access and…’

‘Matty! Listen to me. I need that code back tonight. Tonight. Do you hear me?’

‘Yeah fine, whatever. Tonight,’ she says, waving her hand as she looks down at her own naked body. ‘I’ve got this beautiful dress.’

‘FUCK!’ he snaps the word out, finally getting her attention.

‘What’s up with you?’

‘That code,’ he says, imploring her. ‘Please. I have to get it tonight.’

‘Okay. Sure.’ she says simply, finally and for once holding eye-contact with enough serious intent for him to think she is actually listening. ‘Wait there a sec.’

He frowns, watching as she moves her hand to detach his image from her interface and move him before swiping to make another call. ‘You’re on invisible mode,’ she tells Zhang as her manager Randolph Simpson blooms into view.

‘Matty!’ he says, looking instantly worried as Zhang watches on, feeling like a weird voyeur.

‘So you need to do the audit tonight and get that code to me otherwise I’m telling your wife you fucked me.’

‘Matty, please.’

‘Oh stop crying. You were happy enough poking your dick in me. I’ll tell her tomorrow if you don’t do it. Bye!’ She ends that call with a big smile then turns to bring Zhang back while making him visible again. ‘Did you hear that?

‘I did,’ he says, feeling right now that he could kiss her, and maybe some other things too. ‘Thank you,’ he adds earnestly, thinking she might have just saved his life.

She smiles again, ‘Sure thing. It’s fine. Come to the party though so I can like totally suck you off or something. Bye Detective!’

Jesus. He sits on his inflatable pop-up sofa thinking he needs to make absolutely sure Mahatma sees it through. He’ll go to the party and keep the pressure on. That’s what he’ll do. He nods to himself, rubbing his jaw, wishing he could have fucked Mahatma, wishing he never got into this mess, wishing he never worked for Helga, wishing for many things. Wishing he knew what the code is and why Helga needs it so badly.

He washes and gets ready. Dressing in a black self-sealing shirt and trousers. The shirt tails pulled out to hide his taser pistol, and heads out of his cabin and up the stairwell to Level 30, seeing the smartly dressed people heading towards the side walkway, spotting the security guys standing sentinel at the entrance.

He slips into the party, needing to be around people but needing more than anything to know when the audit happens, and so he stalks through, searching for Mahatma.

‘Zhang, you’re looking good.’

‘Penny, you okay?’ he asks, as she wanders over carrying a tray of drinks.

‘I’m fine,’ she replies. ‘Synth-bubbly?

‘Thanks.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Sam invited me.’

‘Yeah, he keeps on doing that. Listen, Abdul saw what you did last night. He said to say thanks if I saw you and he won’t forget it.’

‘I didn’t do it for Abdul,’ he replies flatly.

She smiles, frowning lightly for a second as though caught out by his reply. ‘Sure. Well, you have a good night. Just shout for me if you need anything.’

He stays to the side, hovering discreetly to people watch. It’s busier than he thought too. A lot busier. But then Sam did a good job with the adverts and set the bot accounts just right too. Where’s Mahatma? He cranes this way and that, trying to spot her.

‘Got you some porridge.’

‘Yassy,’ he says, looking at the serious intent face of Yasmine Emile Dufont stepping in front of him. ‘Thanks. Doing okay? Heard the mark was lifted.’

‘I’m good, Zhang. Yeah, it’s sorted for now. Listen, Sam said you gave him the chat earlier. You don’t need to. He’s clean.’

‘Ain’t nobody clean, Yassy.’

‘You’d know,’ she quips, earning a look in return. ‘Whatever it takes to get through the day, detective. No judgements here.’

‘All credits are good credits right. But I never thought I’d see you working in a café.’

‘Just helping out. Seriously, I appreciate the heads up you gave me, and Penny just told me you waded in last night. She said Dmitri was going for Sam and you took him out.’

‘Ah, you know,’ Zhang says, shrugging it away. ‘Are you asking me to leave Sam alone, Yassy?’

‘I am,’ she says honestly. ‘He’s good. I mean that. He’s not like me.’

Zhang stares at her, wishing with all his life that he had someone to say that about him. Someone as loyal and as fierce as Yasmine to watch his back.

‘Zhang, you okay?’ she asks, seeing a flicker of emotion play across his features.

‘Yeah. All good. Thanks for the porridge.’

‘You take it easy; you still look strung out’ she says, giving him a last look before heading off.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Every stairwell on the ship has at least two guard stations.

On Level 20 the guards restrict access to the levels above them, and those guards dress smartly and conduct their business with manners. They are armed but they also understand the majority of people passing through their stations are of a higher class.

On Level 37, the guards also restrict access to the levels above them, but they don’t dress so smartly and they certainly don’t conduct their business with manners. There’s no point keeping your uniform perfect when at least once in any given working day you will get spat at and have liquids or even piss thrown at you. Not to mention the blood. There’s always blood.

The guards on Level 20 tend to be a bit older too. Patient and worldly. The Guards on Level 37 are young and full of encouraged aggression. Mostly recruited from the Elfors with a single focus on stopping other unregistered Elfors from going up. So when Dmitri the gangster steps onto the Level 37 platform of a stairwell it triggers a palpable reaction. A silence spreads as the other Elfors arguing with the guards clock the gangster and draw back, suddenly deciding, in that very second, that maybe they have some place else to be. The guards show reaction too. Sharing looks with each other to see who took the bribe to let Dmitri up. They shrug, shake heads and come to the realisation that Dmitri hasn’t bribed anyone to come up.

‘I’m going up, Jack’ Dmitri says, sweeping his gaze over them before resting his eyes on the guard supervisor.

‘Pay up,’ Jack says.

Dmitri smiles, showing teeth as he stands with his arms hanging at his sides. ‘No,’ he says simply as the sound of a heavy clump clump comes to the fore from Guphy Gupherson trudging up the stairs with Mad Eyes Ken, Chatty Simon, Karen Big Feet and a few others all spreading out behind Dmitri.

‘Not a fucking chance, Dmitri,’ Jack says, pulling his voltage-stick from his belt. The air fills with the click and pre-charge crackles as the other guards do the same. Eyes growing hard. Bodies tensing. But Dmitri, still bruised from the big fight, stands passive with his arms at his sides.

A chirp on the Jack’s wristband breaks the heavy silence. He frowns, thinking to ignore it.

‘You need to answer that,’ Dmitri says.

Jack scowls and takes the call, moving away to speak in private with repeated glances at Dmitri and his crew before cutting it off and sighing heavily while rubbing his forehead. ‘Let them through.’

‘All of them?’ another guard asks. ‘Are you fucking joking?’

‘From up high. They can go through,’ Jack says as Dmitri moves off with a sudden forward motion that makes the guards flinch.

‘Wankers,’ Mad Eyes says, walking through them all.

‘Aright, Jack,’ Guphy says, lifting a hand in greeting to the supervisor.

‘Guphy,’ Jack replies, watching them all disappear up the stairs. ‘What the fuck’s going on? Who the hell is letting them go up?’

‘SAM!’ Pasha says, grinning at him as Clara, Boris and Colin step back from chatting in a rough circle of obelisk-like humans positioned at the mouth of the walkway outside Sven’s Eatery.

‘Brought you some porridge,’ Sam says, handing the bowls round.

‘Thanks, Sam,’ Boris rumbles.

‘So deep,’ Sam says, looking up at him.

‘He puts it on,’ Clara says. ‘He speaks like a girl at home. Now, you gonna feed me some porridge? Let’s make this sexy.’

‘Clara,’ Boris tuts mildly, holding what now looks like a tiny bowl in his enormous hands.

‘You know, son. That’s what I like about you,’ Abdul says from behind, prompting Sam to turn.

‘Porridge? Got one left,’ Sam says, holding it out.

‘You see that,’ Abdul says, taking the bowl as he looks at Clara and the others. ‘That’s humility, that is. If I could bottle it I’d sell it,’ he adds, taking a mouthful of porridge and chewing thoughtfully for a second. ‘This is just synth mix right?’

‘Yeah,’ Sam says.

‘Thought so. Detective Woo popped by huh?’

‘Nice guy,’ Sam says. ‘He helped me get the band positioned.’

‘He give you the talk?’

‘Yeah. Yasmine said it’s a standard gangster cop thing.’

‘Sure is,’ Abdul says quietly, studying Sam before eating more porridge. ‘But I’m a trader and a politician, not a gangster, Sam,’ he adds as Clara and a few others suddenly find other things to look at. ‘Yassy say what he’s likely to do with that information?’

‘Er, she mentioned about giving it to people up top so they can discredit you.’

‘That’s right, son. So whatever we discuss should stay between us, right?’

‘Sam, we’re getting busy!’ Yasmine calls out.

‘Yassy,’ Abdul says in the bedlam. ‘Come and talk with me. Penny, get someone to help that girl with the red hair. I’ve got people I want to introduce to Yassy and Sam.’

‘Did you hear that?’ Janey asks Sven in the cafe. ‘I’m just the girl with the red hair. He actually said that.’

‘You do have red hair,’ Sven says.

‘I also have a name.’

‘Sorry!’ Yasmine says, striding into the café. ‘Fucking Abdul trying to dominate everything. Right, where do you want me?’

Janey smiles with a rush of guilt at being cross with Yasmine, and again puts it down to nerves and stress.

Zhang watches from a few metres away, keeping a close eye on Mahatma getting drunk at a table. Why the fuck hasn’t Randolph called her yet? Why the delay? He waits for a chance to speak to her, not wanting other people to see the connection between them. The pressure mounts, growing heavier by the second. Helga will kill him. She’s already shown she is more than happy for people to die at her hands. He takes a breath, steadying himself, and spots Sam nearby, operating the system to get the band going and walks over.

‘Hit them with Honey You,’ Zhang urges. ‘And crank it up.’

A vibe. Yasmine laughs, bustling out to dance a quick circle arm in arm with Penny as Sam dims the main lights to add coloured ones flashing and strobing in time to the music, and the booze flows faster as Sven decides he now hates porridge more than anything in his life.

‘Osmosis!’ Sam says, spotting the mini cluster of nerds, geeks and introverts openly gawping at every woman they pass.

‘Samuel,’ Osmosis says, wild-haired and wearing old Earth style denim shorts with a black blazer over a yellow t-shirt. ‘I am here to inform you that your membership to the Kingdom of Osmosis is hereby revoked for being too cool. Everyone shush, the cops are here,’ he adds, pulling an innocent face at Zhang.

The evening moves on. Louder, faster, more booze drunk, and people encouraged to dance, and there is too much happening, and too many elements at play. Sam’s sudden popularity, being dragged about by Abdul and smiling that shy grin at people while Yasmine darts about, clearing tables, serving drinks and telling people to fuck off while dancing with the fun of it all.

Janey watches her while feeling that swing of emotional reaction again and wondering how Yasmine does it. If Janey ever tells anyone to fuck off, it comes out halfway between shrill hysteria and primly aggressive. and that weird feeling comes back again. The concept that she is not part of this. That she is nothing more than an onlooker to the lives of the beautiful.

Everyone talking, flirting, dancing, laughing and living and Janey just watching it all. Not part of it. Not within it, and she feels increasingly detached and isolated while Sven’s violent urge towards porridge only grows worse, so the very reason for them being there becomes the last thing on their minds.

Then Zhang finally spots Mahatma dancing on her own and heads towards her.

‘Oh it’s you!’ Mahatma says, flinging her arms around him, drunk and happy while planting a huge kiss on his cheek. ‘I need a wee, help me find the toilet.’

‘Call your boss, find out if…’

‘What? I can’t hear you. I need to pee,’ she sashays on, leading him down the walkway, turning every few steps to dance into him with a big grin. He tries shouting but she just laughs and pulls him by the hand. ‘Toilet!’ Mahatma squeals, rushing in through the door still holding hands with Zhang. ‘Just going to pee,’ she calls, going into the single cubicle and not bothering to close the door as she yanks her skirts up and pulls her knickers down before sitting to piddle. ‘Oh I needed that,’ she tells him. ‘Look at you watching me pee, you dirty man.’

‘Have you heard from him?’ Zhang asks, his voice low and husky from the urges ramping inside his body. The need to fuck. The absolute craving of it.

She shrugs drunkenly and tries to wink. ‘I told him. You heard me: I said, I said he has to find that thing you need or I’ll so tell his wife and ruin him.’

‘And?’

‘He’s being a pussy, keeps crying and saying it’s unfair and I’m blackmailing him and blah blah. Who cares? Come here.’

‘I’m not going in there with you, Mahatma. I said no! Get the fuck off me.’

‘Jesus, Zhang, you’re getting boring you know that.’ She sneers, pulling back, before thinking of a new plan and she drops to her knees, unfastening his trousers to free his penis, taking it in her mouth while he pushes his hands through his hair in a show of absolute stress. Helga will kill him. His life is on the line right now and he’s getting sucked off in a toilet but he can’t stop. He has to stop. ‘FUCK!’ he shouts out and with every ounce of resilience he pulls away, dressing himself while breathing hard.

‘Whatever,’ she says, standing up and wiping her mouth while swaying drunkenly on the spot.

‘I need that code,’ he whispers.

She shrugs, cold, uncaring and unbothered by the needs of another human being. ‘Go get it then. Make him do it. He’s a coward. Then when you’ve calmed down come back and we’ll fuck properly.’

She plants a kiss on his cheek, ruffles his hair, smacks his backside and dances out into the party, swaying and moving her hips, instantly forgetting Zhang and bouncing off people with laughs and giggles. She’s more drunk than she thought but it’s so nice the way Jane and that pretty girl that looks like her keep giving her drinks. Like so nice. Jane is actually so nice too. She should totally be friends with her now. She’ll find her and tell her and they can like, swap pics on Fleetbook.

‘Whoa, I think someone needs a sit down,’ Yasmine says, sweeping in from the side when Mahatma tries turning too sharply and almost falls. A deft grab of her arms to steady her and she guides her, applying just a little too much pressure that makes Mahatma stagger into a table, sending a few glasses flying. But she laughs and pushes back into Yasmine who laughs with her. ‘Come on, let’s get you sat down, shall we?’

‘Zhang is really hot,’ Mahatma slurs at Yasmine.

‘Zhang? Yeah he’s okay I guess. Here we are. You sit down and I’ll get you another drink.’

Yasmine steps back and disappears into the crowd, leaving Mahatma bobbing and dancing in her chair. A few steps and Yasmine’s heart races as she finds Janey and locks eyes with an expression that holds Janey still. A nod. A glance down and Janey nods back, her own heart quickening as she rushes into the café.

‘Sam,’ Yasmine says, reaching his side through the next cluster of people talking to him. ‘Need you for a second,’ she takes his hand, guiding him into the café and the pensive expressions of Janey and Sven.

‘Have you got it?’ Sven asks.

‘Right here,’ Yasmine says, showing them Mahatma’s wristband.

‘Oh,’ Sven says. ‘I thought maybe we’d given up or something.’

‘I thought that too,’ Sam says.

‘It’s up to you guys,’ Yasmine says, looking at them all. ‘I can take it back. She’s got a broken one on right now.’

A moment of silence because this is it. This is where the decision is really made and outside the music plays and the people dance and make noise.

‘Okay,’ Janey says, thinking of everything that happened to them being here and thinking mainly of the hurt caused by Mahatma and her friends. ‘We do it. Go for i.…’

‘Are you sure?’ Yasmine asks, the air charging. ‘There’s no going back once we do it.’

‘I’m sure. Sam, do it.’

‘Go,’ Yasmine pats him on the arm as Sam rushes to drop behind the counter, taking Mahatma’s wristband and opening his interface to start the hack while Yasmine crosses to the door to stop anyone coming in.

The longest five minutes of their lives stretches out as Sven gives up making porridge and stares down at Sam typing with a blur of movement, entering system after system to delve deeper into the interface, tricking the software and ramming codes in to change and tweak.

‘Yasmine, need your arm,’ Sam says, as Yasmine and Janey swap positions for Yasmine to put the wristband on while Sam tells the system she is now Mahatma Goudier. The seconds tick on to become minutes until Sam blinks, pulls his head back and smiles up. ‘Done,’ he says simply.

‘Fuck,’ Yasmine says, staring at her wrist. ‘Okay …’

‘Go,’ Janey urges. ‘Do it.’

‘Fuck,’ Yasmine says again, pushing up to look at Janey, needing that final confirmation.

‘Do it,’ Janey says again.

Thirty seconds later and she’s gone, leaving Janey, Sven and Sam standing silently in the café, while in the walkway Abdul leans closer to Penny. ‘Go with her, see what she’s doing. Stay discreet.’

‘On it,’ Penny replies before slipping out into the dark, quiet lanes, tracking Yasmine across the width of the ship.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

A crazy, stupid plan.

A crazy, stupid idea with Yasmine lurching from disaster to catastrophe, and with each twist and turn she felt her life spiralling out of control, and now she runs across the retail zone, remembering the plan Janey outlined that evening in the café a few hours after she came out of the suicide booth.

‘Step one: we create a buzz by getting Sam to knock up some of those funny adverts and drop them all over the place while I maximise and promote the existing online traffic from the tourist ships. I’ll then shape and drive the bot accounts Sam said he can rig up to make sure my colleagues in Financial Services see them.’

Yasmine glances round, checking she is unobserved, not seeing Penny watching as she runs into the public toilets near the stairwell on the far side and into the end cubicle. There the service panel pops out so she can grab the bag she stashed earlier before tugging the black dress off.

‘Step two: getting Mahatma here is one thing, but we’ll need loads of noise and chaos so we can get Mahatma drunk and swipe her wristband.’

Yasmine dresses fast, tucking the shirt in and adding a touch of perfume from a bottle in the bag. She unpins her hair and lets it fall down over her shoulders. After that she takes the digital make-up stick and re-works it to match Mahatma’s lighter, more subtle style. Once done she places her evening dress in the bag, stuffs two wristbands in her pocket and rushes out of the cubicle.

‘Step three: Sam hacks the wristband so it thinks Yasmine is Mahatma. Yassy, you then slip out of the party and find somewhere to get changed into a financial services uniform I’ll get from work. Put your hair down, put the perfume on, change your make-up and go up to level 25 and just walk to the security doors. But not fast! Mahatma never rushes anywhere.’

Outside, in the darkness at the edge of a lane leading into the retail zone, Penny watches Yasmine run from the toilet in a green financial services uniform and head up the stairwell to level 25 where Yasmine slows her normally fast pace. Her heart beating a drum as she reaches the first real test and raises the wristband to the scanner at the security door. A pause. A second at most. It won’t work. Too many things have gone wrong, and at that very second Yasmine thinks they were all messages from the gods of fate telling her to stop and not do it, but the momentum gained is accelerating, and before she can stop to think the door opens and Yasmine Emile Dufont draws a breath before Mahatma Goudier steps into her work place late on a Friday night and heads down the main corridor.

‘Step four: once you get through the main door walk to the far end, but be prepared because people do work in the offices late at night. Shy people, introverts, people working late on projects. If you do see anyone, tell them you are sick and you have some urgent updates to apply so you can take time off. Anyone there will understand that. You’ll smell, look and act like Mahatma but don’t stand and chat for longer than absolutely necessary.’

‘Mahatma? That you?’

A female voice from behind and Yasmine half turns, tapping her throat in a way to draw attention from her face. ‘Got a bug,’ she croaks, her voice hoarse and low while her hair hangs down covering some of her face. ‘Got some updates to put on so I can go sick,’ she trails off into a rough whisper, still rubbing her sore neck.

‘Sucks,’ the woman says, losing instant interest. ‘Hope you feel better,’ she adds dully, moving on about her business.

‘Step five: go into the manager’s offices and go to Mahatma’s office at the back. Mahatma’s terminal is on her desk. Run your arm over the top and hope to hell it activates.’

Yasmine stands at the desk, staring at the small box on the top of it and glances back to make sure the door is closed before moving the wristband over the top. She grins as multiple 3D holo-screens shine up in the dark room. Pausing but a second before pulling another wristband from her pocket, she and swipes to activate the call, biting her lip as Sam’s face pops up.

‘Are you in?’ Janey asks, her head pushing next to Sam’s with Sven behind them and the noise of the party so distinct in the background. ‘Where are you?’

‘In her office at the back.’

‘Did you close the door?’ Janey asks. ‘Did you see anyone?’

‘Door’s closed, I saw a woman but she didn’t pay any attention.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Janey says, drawing a steadying breath. ‘Show me the screens and I’ll talk you through it.’

Janey leans forward, peering at the feed in the café as Yasmine waits, biting her lip again and casting furtive looks about the room and back to the door behind her.

‘Okay, rotate the screens and let me see them. Not that one; next one; no, not that one -- yes, that one. That icon at the top marked accounts. Open that…’ She trails off, studying Mahatma’s unfamiliar set-up. ‘Move the screens on, go left to right: data processing, system settings, invoices, credit flows -- there! Departmental budgets. Go in that one.’

Yasmine jabs at the folder icon, wincing as yet more screens pop up, seeing titles on folders for maintenance, med-services, fleet-police and hundreds more for just about every service and function within the fleet.

‘We need outsourcing,’ Janey mutters as Sam and Sven both lean in closer while Yasmine starts moving the screens on again.

‘There,’ Sam says. ‘Go back. That was it.’

‘Got it,’ Yasmine whispers, tapping the virtual icon. ‘Shit,’ she mouths, pulling her head back as more screens open, each filled with thousands of lines of code scrolling down.

‘It looks frightening but it’s fine,’ Janey says, matter of fact. ‘Each one of those codes is a sundry payment made to anything that isn’t in a normal department. So say Abdul bought that alcohol for us tonight and these clothes he gave us, he can probably claim the cost back through that system.’

‘Great lesson -- can we just get on with it?’ Yasmine whispers frantically, making Janey smart at the rebuke.

‘Go to the top of the first screen, right to the top,’ Janey says. ‘There. See that sub-folder marked CB. Open that.’

‘Fuck,’ Yasmine hisses as another screen opens filled with more lines of code. But these are different. These are Crypto-Bonds.

‘We go for the Crypto-Bonds,’ Janey said that day. ‘There are dozens of ships in this fleet all using different credit systems. Our system is different to the WS Beijing and the WS Vladivostok, and they use different systems to each other too. So they came up with Crypto-Bonds. Businesses can buy into them and trade them throughout the fleet on a separate system. Businesses group together to buy stock from The Ark and in turn, The Ark trades them on --it’s guaranteed, too, because the funds are already held within the Crypto-system. You trade them in and convert to credits, and get this, one Crypto-Bond is worth between three and five hundred thousand credits, so we only need one. But, we cannot trade them in on our ship.’

‘They can trace them right?’ Yasmine asked, seeing Janey nod. ‘Okay, this is my expertise and something Sam suggested. We transfer the code into the account of a dead woman I bought from a dealer and then move it on through lots of other accounts to slow the trace down before we can get to another ship and trade it back for clean credits. Money laundering 101.’

Stealing is easy. Anyone can steal, but Yasmine Emile Dufont is more than a petty thief. She is a professional, and in the silence of the dark office she opens the account of the dead woman and reaches out to pluck a line of code from the air as Sven, Sam and Janey all lean forward. Watching as she simply moves it over to drop in, and the job is done. The theft is complete.

‘Done,’ Yasmine whispers, feeling a weird anti-climax, like there should be a fanfare or a light show.

The other three stay silent, each lost momentarily in their own dreams. Sven thinking of opening a new café and never seeing porridge again. Janey thinks of quitting her job and working with Sven. Sam just generally thinks about Yasmine and her boobs, while acknowledging that when he thinks of her boobs, he is actually appreciating the whole of her as an entirety.

‘I need to get gone,’ Yasmine adds, snapping them all out of their reverie.

‘Close the screens down and exit her system,’ Janey reminds her quickly. ‘They might not even notice for ages.’

‘Will do. Switching off,’ Yasmine says, turning the feed round to smile at them. ‘We’re going to get so drunk when I get back. See you in five.’

She kills the call, exhaling slowly while looking up and thinking that’s it, they’ve really done it. She’s scored big and as she looks down and reaches out to shut the screens off, so she spots there really are an awful lot of those Crypto-Bonds on that screen and surely, they won’t miss another one. She plucks a second from the air, thinking you either go big or go home and drops it into the account.

A noise from behind in the other office. The outer door opening then closing and she flinches, turning fast to look at the door behind her.

‘No! You listen to me,’ a male voice. Hushed and angry. She stares at the door, frozen to the spot, knowing there is only way out of this office. ‘I cannot just run an audit!’ the voice continues. Yasmine cocks her head, trying to hear if there is someone else in the room with him, or if he’s on a call. Then she remembers the screens behind her and turns with a start, wincing at just how many there are. ‘Hang on, I said hang on. I think she’s here,’ the voice adds, ever quieter this time. ‘I can smell her perfume.’

Yasmine moves too fast with a flutter of panic and misses the kill button at the top of the first few screens and ends up snagging them to rotate and spin and open even more.

Finally, she shuts one down and forces herself to move diligently, knowing the virtual screens are a sod if you don’t grab them in the right way. One closed, another shut but so many more to do and she listens to the outer door opening and closing, thinking the man has gone. Then he clears his throat noisily, and she realises he’s only pretending to have just walked in.

‘Matty?’ the voice calls, soft and friendly now. ‘I can smell your perfume.’ She goes faster, closing them down one after the other and tenses at the tapping on the door behind her. ‘Matty? Hey, it’s me. Open up.’

He can’t get in. That means Mahatma must be superior to him, then her heart jack-hammers again when she hears the bleep of the scanner and the door swishing open behind her.

‘Got a bug,’ Yasmine coughs the words out. ‘Doing updates so I can go sick.’

‘Listen, Matty. We need to talk,’ he says in a serious tone.

‘Not now. I’m sick. I feel like shit.’

‘Matty, that thing we spoke about -- a man just called and threatened me.’

‘Talk later,’ she whispers, keeping her head down and adding a cough while urging herself to stay calm.

‘You’re a fucking bitch, Matty. You’ve got me over a barrel haven’t you? You sick fuck. Filming us? Who even does that? Okay, no, I’m sorry,’ he switches tone mid-sentence, from angry to whining. ‘You still turn me on which is the most fucked up thing. Anyway, listen, I’ll do it, okay? Tell them I’ll do it. Then it’s over and nobody tells my wife anything and they don’t ask for anything else, right?’

Yasmine winces, wanting only to get away quickly.

‘Matty! Stop ignoring me,’ he says with a hint of temper as she kills the system, instantly closing all of the glowing screens and plunging the office into a much greater darkness.

‘Gotta go, feel sick,’ she turns while bringing her hand up to cover her mouth and yelps from walking into him.

‘One last time yeah?’ he whispers, reaching out to touch her hip, his breathing faster.

‘I’m going to puke,’ she says, turning for the door. A hand on her wrist, a strong grip clamping on.

‘I said one last time,’ he says again, his voice harder.

‘Get the fuck off me,’ she snaps and tries to pull her arm free and for one awful second he holds on and her mind fills with images of the Russian doctor pawing at her.

‘Oh god, what am I doing?’ Randolph sags back, shaking his head. ‘Jesus, Matty. I’m sorry.’

She wrenches free, staggering to the door that pulls back, spilling light in from the bigger office and in that second, he looks at Mahatma with a wretched expression of lust mixed with self-pity and then blinks.

‘Who are you?’ he asks, suddenly confused. She bursts to run, already mid-way through the door when he springs after her, one hand lashing out to grab a fistful of hair, yanking her back. ‘What the hell is going on?’

She uses the momentum gained to ram the side of her head into his nose. An explosion of pain in her skull makes her cry out and he staggers back, clutching his bleeding nose with one hand while hitting out wildly, striking her face with an open-palm that slams her into the side of a desk, cracking her knees. She pushes off with an instinct to hurt him before he hurts her, and goes into him, slamming her hands into his ears to stun his senses, then drives a knee up into his groin and steps back before kicking his shins.

He tries defending himself from the blows coming thick and fast and surges into her, lifting her up to dump her on a desk, pinning her down, but she grunts and kicks, writhing and bucking and frees herself, rolling away to come back with harder hits, making him sink down and curl into a ball. She kicks once and hard into his stomach, then falls back for the door and out into the corridor, bouncing off the wall, gasping for air and feeling hot blood on her face and hands.

Then she runs because everything has suddenly gone very, very wrong.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

In the toilet at the end of the walkway, Zhang takes the kisses, hair ruffles and bum smacks as Mahatma dances, feeling as though he has just stopped dead while the fleet moves on without him. Like the room is spinning round and round. Like everything is wrong and only getting worse.

He killed Scrabel and Helga will hang him out to dry for it. She’ll kill him and plant evidence. He’s dead. He is absolutely going to die unless he can make Randolph do that audit.

He goes out and threads his way up through the crowds and watches as Yassy rushes out of the walkway, followed a few seconds later by Penny. Something is happening, but he doesn’t care. He’s dead if he doesn’t get the thing Helga wants.

He leaves the party and heads to find a quiet spot, walking away into the shadows and pausing to make sure nobody is about. A few minutes to settle his nerves. To think it all through. Then he sets his system to pixelate his face and deepen his voice, before activating the call. Staring at the features of Randolph Simpson when it connects.

‘Hello?’ Randolph asks stiffly, glaring at his own feed and seeing only a blurred image.

‘You are Randolph Simpson, the manager of the fleet financial services centre on level 25.’

‘Who are you?’ Randolph demands, listening to the deep sinister robotic voice. ‘What is this? How did you get my contact details?’

‘I am about to send your wife the footage of you and Mahatma Goudier fucking in her cabin.’

‘What?’ Randolph asks, his face turning ashen and slack with instant panic. ‘Who the? But…’ he swallows, summoning resolve. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Why haven’t you found what we need, Mr Simpson?’

‘I’m here now.I’m here to do it, but please, it flags up. I can’t run an audit and remove a line of code. It’s stealing! What the hell is that?’ he asks as Zhang opens another screen to show Randolph the footage of him and Mahatma having sex in her cabin. ‘Oh god no. Turn it off! I’m calling the police.’

‘We gave you a chance. I’ll send it to your wife, all of your friends and your employer. Maybe post it online too but you can tell the cops that yourself…’

‘No! You listen to me.’

‘There is nothing you can say to stop this. Find what we need and this goes away. Trust me, not doing what we want is by far the greater threat here because otherwise I will ruin you.’

‘Hang on, I said hang on -- I think she’s here.’

Zhang frowns, thinking he can’t mean Mahatma. ‘Mahatma?’

Randolph nods, his face stricken with worry. ‘I can smell her perfume.’

‘No, wait,’ Zhang says.

The call ends and Zhang stays where he is, thinking what to do. Randolph said Mahatma is there, but Mahatma is drunk at the party, which means Randolph is clearly mistaken.

Randolph is scared of being caught. If Randolph runs that tracing programme it can leave an audit trail that can bite him on the arse later. Especially if a line of code came in then went back out without reason. It could look like he stole credits and that would open a can of worms. But right now, the only thing Zhang cares about is not being liquidised and turned into plant food.

There is no choice. He sets off across the retail zone, reaching the stairwell as a woman with dark hair wearing a green financial services uniform runs into the toilets just behind it.

He goes up to level 25 and holds his wristband towards the door scanner that identifies him as Detective Zhang Woo. It swishes back to allow entry.

THEY STAND GATHERED in the mouth of a dark walkway, listening to Guphy Gupherson sucking air from walking up the stairs.

‘Lose some weight you fat shit,’ Karen Big Feet mutters, shaking her head.

‘Yassy said I’m just big boned,’ Guphy wheezes.

‘Yassy also stabbed you in the face. She in there?’ she asks, standing next to Dmitri and motioning towards the small walkway to the side of Sven’s Eatery.

Dmitri nods. His eyes fixed and staring hard. A need inside to hurt Yassy. To hurt her bad for humiliating him. For rejecting him. For staying good while everyone else got rotten.

‘What’s the party for?’ Guphy asks.

‘It’s the porridge place Yassy’s been working at,’ Karen says.

‘Yassy’s been working there,’ Mad Eyes Ken says. ‘Apparently it’s shutting up after tonight,’ he adds, earning a baleful look from Karen.

‘You are such a cunt,’ she mutters. ‘Fuck it. Whatever. We going in then or what?’

Dmitri shakes his head. ‘Not yet. We do the other thing first. Then that,’ he says, pointing at the café, ‘is the reward.’

‘WHAT THE…ARE you all praying or something?’ Abdul asks with a smile, stepping into the café to see Sven, Janey and Sam standing in silence after discreetly watching them hunched over, talking with Yasmine on a live holo-call. ‘Where’s Yassy?’ he enquires lightly.

‘Toilet,’ Janey says.

‘Having a poo,’ Sven adds at the same time.

Abdul blinks at the answer, absorbing not only what was said but the defensive speed in which they said it. He smiles as though entirely ignorant. ‘Sam? Can I borrow you, son? Got a journo here that wants to say hi.’

‘Sure,’ Sam says, walking round so Abdul can reach an arm across his shoulders.

‘You remember that news story said I spoke with Pretty Boy the hacker who turned the grav-drives off in protest? Well, the journalist I spoke to is here tonight, and I’ve agreed they can speak with you. You okay with that, Sam? What you say is that you sneaked into level 40 and turned the grav-drives off to show how poorly maintained they are and how the entire wireless network or whatever the hell it’s called is open to hacking, then I used my connections to make contact and you agreed to stop. You happy with saying that?’

Time seems to slow as Sam looks from the grinning face of Abdul the Angry to the flawless features of blonde haired, blue eyed Kristi Carter. The Kristi Carter from the morning fleet news. That Kristi Carter. The one smiling at him and saying something as Sam gawps and stares and finds her hand in his shaking it and he looks down, thinking that is Kristi Carter’s hand in his, then looks up to see he wasn’t imagining it and yep, that’s definitely Kristi Carter.

‘I just shot my load,’ one of the nerds, geeks or introverts mutters from nearby as Kristi frowns in gentle puzzlement at Sam, who realises she’s waiting for an answer to a question he did not hear. He panics. Not knowing what to do and so he smiles and nods instead.

‘Told you,’ Abdul says proudly, looking at Sam. ‘Strong silent type and a damn good man.’

‘I can see,’ Kristi says, widening her eyes at Sam. ‘Most men tend to gabble when they meet me.’

She carries on speaking but Sam doesn’t hear because Kristi Carter’s hand is currently resting on his arm. ‘This okay with you?’ she asks.

‘Sure,’ Sam says, not knowing what the hell he just agreed to.

‘Excuse me, Sam? You okay with Kristi?’ Abdul asks, spotting Penny coming back into the walkway with an expression that tells him they need to talk.

‘Oh I’ll take good care of him,’ Kristi says, leading Sam off to a quieter spot. ‘We’ll go over here a little, so we can hear you. You come with me, Pretty Boy. Guys we’ll set up here.’

Sam notices several men and women bustling to activate wristbands with 3D images of video cameras popping up in the air that they glide and position while Kristi moves in closer to Sam’s side. ‘That good? The light okay, Roger? Sound: testing, testing. You getting me, Rona?’

‘Minute,’ Rona says.

‘So this is the porridge place, huh?’ Kristi asks as Sam grapples with the notion of making small-talk with Kristi Carter, while clocking Janey staring over from the café with a weird expression.

‘Okay, Kristi we’re going live in --’

‘Live?’ Sam asks in alarm.

‘Five, four, three,’ Rona says, counting with her fingers as bright lights shine and Kristi Carter switches from the woman standing next to him to the actual Kristi Carter doing the actual news.

‘Well folks. Guess who has braved a trip to the dangerous and violent World-Ship Humility? That’s right. I’m on board right now after councillor Abdul the Angry told me I could get an exclusive with Pretty Boy. The hacker who took down the bowels. And here he is, standing right next to me. Now you folks watching this will see a blurred image right here,’ she says, waving her hand in front of Sam’s face. ‘But let me tell you this,’ she pauses, grinning and winking the famous grin and wink she does. ‘He is one hell of a pretty boy, and you can’t see it but he has one cute shy smile going on,’ she adds with a mock shiver as Sam stares at the lights and the 3D cameras that aren’t actually cameras but holographic representations of a digital system. ‘We’re protecting his identity because hacking any systems within the fleet is a serious offence, and although I do not ever condone breaking the law, as a serious journalist I must be prepared to protect my sources to find the truth. You can also probably hear some music and noise, folks. That’s because we’re at a very exclusive party that Pretty Boy has been invited to with his good buddy Abdul. Now, Pretty Boy, tell me how you entered the dangerous world of level 40 and accessed an encrypted system to target the grav-drives.’

Sam stares at Kristi Carter nodding as though urging him to speak. ‘Um, just kind of…like…ran down there really, and then, um, turned them off.’

‘Thank you for sharing that with us, Pretty Boy. We’re told level 40 is a very dangerous place. Were you scared at all? Oh hey, can you move back please? We’re doing a piece here.’

‘Go fuck a goat,’ Yasmine snaps, pushing past her to grab Sam’s wrist. ‘We need to talk.’

‘HELP YOU?’ a woman asks, stepping out from a side office in the main corridor of the Fleet Financial Services centre.

‘I’m here to see Mr Simpson,’ Zhang says, flashing his police detective holo identification in the air.

‘Down there,’ she says, walking off.

Zhang moves down the corridor. A familiar scent in the air that fills his mind with memories of fucking Mahatma but he shakes it off, focussing on the task now. He reaches the managers' offices, pausing to listen to gasps coming from inside and enters to see signs of disturbance with the contents of one desk top strewn over the floor and Randolph Simpson trying to heave himself up while clutching his belly.

‘What happened?’ Zhang asks, closing the door behind him.

‘Who are you?’ Randolph asks in fear.

‘Detective Woo,’ Zhang says, the air in front of him showing the 3D police identity.

‘Oh thank god,’ Randolph says with a second’s worth of palpable relief before a wild look of panic steals back through him.

‘Ask you again, what happened?’

‘Nothing! You …you can’t be in here. The police need a warrant to access and you have to leave. Now please. The police have no jurisdiction within--’

‘I’m the man who called you. I’m the man that has the video of you fucking Mahatma Goudier and I am the man who will ruin your life if you do not find me that code. Now I will ask you again: what happened here?’

‘A woman here, I thought it was Matty, but I…’ Randolph’s eyes glaze with confusion as he sinks back against a desk and tries to rub his face, his hands trembling and coated with blood from his broken nose. ‘Why are you doing this to me? You’ll ruin me. Do you hear that?’

Zhang moves closer, listening to the ramblings spilling out before remembering why he is here and that he doesn’t have time for this. Get the code back or die.

‘I want the code.’

‘But…’

‘Now.’

‘Listen to me! I can’t…it’ll show up and -- what are you doing?’ His voice cuts off as Zhang grips his throat and bends him backwards over the desk.

‘Give me that fucking code,’ Zhang whispers before dragging him off the desk and through the door into the other office that Yasmine used, where he pushes Randolph hard, sending him sprawling. ‘Now.’

Randolph complies. There isn’t much else he can do, and he rushes to Mahatma’s terminal, bringing up a virtual keyboard that he starts jabbing at with shaky hands. ‘Please, don’t show my wife.’

Zhang ignores his babblings. Something in his mind about whoever was here and Randolph being injured. Matty? Matty is at the party. Is it linked? Does it matter? Maybe Randolph is so panicked he got confused and thought Matty was someone else, so where did the injuries come from? He draws air to ask as Randolph turns to face him, having already initiated the audit programme that automatically detects every line of code to check for anomalies.

‘It’s done,’ Randolph whimpers.

Zhang blinks at him, focussing on this second now with everything he has. ‘Where is it?’

‘What?

‘The wrong code. Where is it?’

‘There is no wrong code,’ says Randolph, aiming a shaky hand at some lines within the reams of numbers on the screens. ‘Those are error claims and there’s a few irregularities but no wrong codes.’

‘No, you don’t understand. You were sent a code that does not relate to a claim or a credit or a payment. It has to be there.’

‘It’s not.’

‘Look again. Run it again,’ Zhang says, moving in a step with such menace it makes Randolph turn quickly to run it again.

‘Nothing,’ Randolph says weakly.

Zhang thinks, his face a mask. ‘Search for any wrong codes that came in and went back out?’

Randolph runs the programme with Zhang watching in dismay as the screens rapidly fill with error alerts, each one relating to a wrong code. He could try and narrow the search down but he still doesn’t know what he’s looking for, and that feeling comes back, that there are invisible strands in his mind that he cannot quite grasp, that he is missing something. That something is hidden from him.

He pushes in to navigate the system himself, needing to see it with his own eyes. A few seconds to learn how it reads and he scrolls to the last error alert in question. A Crypto-Bond titled 01/ASGDC/01.

He tries opening the line of code but it’s empty. 01/ASGDC/01 is just the reference.

This was the last error code sent in and he clicks on, accessing the back-data with a rush inside at seeing the sender. Alexei Scrabel. That’s it. This is the code. Scrabel sent it disguised as a Crypto-Bond. But someone else took it out. Who? He works on, digging for the digital signature of the user that took it.

Randolph watches in horror. Zhang will see it was Mahatma that took it. Only it wasn’t Mahatma but someone else pretending to be her, and in his panicked mind he thinks he will be complicit in whatever has happened here. His life will be ruined, and in that second, driven by terror, confusion, fear, pride and greed, he lunges past Zhang, battering him aside and running for the door.

Zhang grunts in pain from the sharp corner of a desk digging into his side and goes down hard before recovering his balance, and seeing that Randolph will make it out into the corridor, he draws fast. Bringing his taser pistol to fire a single crackling, buzzing shot that sends a thin, pre-charged super sharp needle flying through the air into Randolph’s back. It detonates with an explosive charge of fifty thousand volts, spreading through his body, making the man drop instantly, spasming as the charge works.

Zhang moves fast, crossing the room to Randolph, leaning down to pull his head back with a grip on his hair. ‘You see me again, you act like you don’t know me.’

Zhang goes out, striding out to run for the stairs and down to level 30, stepping from the platform to stand in the gloomy shadows, gathering his wits and thoughts. Breathing hard.

‘Fuck!’ He didn’t see who took the code out from the system. 01/ASGDC/01. What did that mean? What’s it for? He can’t go back now. Not after that. This is a mess and he needs to report in and tell Helga the code is gone, but the need to know burns in his mind. The need to know what the code is for. What it’s about. Scrabel tried to hide it but someone took it out. Why? What for?

He inhales deeply, steadying his nerves and catches that scent again. The unmistakable aroma of Mahatma’s perfume. He smelt it in the corridor and offices. But she’s at the party. It must be someone else wearing it, but then Zhang has been with many women and he doesn’t know anyone who wears that particular perfume. It’s so distinctive. A gut feeling. A claxon in the back of his head. Think. Stop and think clearly. Someone came through here wearing that same perfume.

The toilet. Zhang saw someone running into the toilets right here at the base of the stairs. He heads over, drawing his taser pistol as he enters and sniffs the air, scenting the perfume is stronger here.

He moves down the cubicles, pushing the doors open to the last one where the smell is the strongest and spots the flecks of blood on the floor and goes to the service panel at the end and pops it free. A bag inside. He pulls it out, opening it quickly to see a green uniform financial services shirt, black trousers and shoes, and he finds the bottle of perfume too and sprays it in the air, smelling Mahatma’s scent.

AS ZHANG RUNS into the toilet, so Dmitri strides out from a walkway at the head of his crew. Leading them to the stairwell and up to level 25, to the Financial Services Door where he stops in front of the scanner.

A second passes during which Dmitri and everyone else turns to look at Guphy sucking air and wiping sweat from his face. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Hot.’

Dmitri tuts, faces the scanner and lifts his wrist, not expecting for one second that it will work.

‘Holy fuck,’ Karen says when the light flashes green and the door opens, giving them access to the Financial Services Centre. ‘Someone likes us.’

In the office at the end, Randolph rises slowly to his feet. Gasping and wincing from the pains in his body. Crap strewn everywhere from the fight with Yasmine, then again with Zhang. Blood dripping from his nose and other cuts and his back in agony from being shot by a taser pistol. He thinks to call the police but remembers what the detective said. Then he thinks of his family and his job and his social standing. He thinks of many things and hopes to hell he never sees Mahatma Goudier again and that this will all go away. He doesn’t even care what the code is they are looking for. He doesn’t care about anything other than not being caught for any of it.

He reaches the door, waggling his wristband at the scanner while on the other side Dmitri does the same and the door swishes back with Dmitri and his crew staring in while Randolph stares out.

‘Can I help you?’ Randolph asks weakly.

‘Yep,’ Dmitri says. Stepping aside to let Guphy steam in to grab Randolph’s neck, heaving the man up off his feet and down hard onto the top of a desk, pinning him in place with one hand.

Randolph gibbers in terror. He tries to break free, but Guphy is too big and too strong, and his cries of terror grow quiet as the space above his head fills with the awful features of Mad Eyes Ken staring down at him with a sick grin.

Karen and Chatty Simon move in, each gripping one of Randolph’s hands in their own as Dmitri joins Mad Eyes in staring down at a stricken Randolph who can’t talk or form thoughts. Too many things are happening. Too much panic in his head, and he blinks dumbly when Dmitri lifts a hand to show him a voltage-stick clicking on with the pre-charge crackle filling the air and his whole body goes rigid when Dmitri drives it into his groin, at the same time as Karen and Chatty Simon wrench hard to break his wrists while Mad Eyes clamps a hand over his mouth.

A few seconds of absolute, consuming agony before Dmitri leans in, gripping Randolph’s chin with one hand. ‘I’m here for a code that was sent in by Alexei Scrabel. Give it to me or I will kill you, then give your family to Mad Eyes Ken.’ He zaps him again. ‘And hurry up. We’ve got a party to get to.’

ZHANG SITS on the seat of the toilet in the last cubicle on the left, holding the bag and trying to think. Someone broke into the Financial Services Centre tonight wearing Mahatma’s perfume. Randolph thought he saw her and even Zhang scented her perfume and found this bag. So somebody is pretending to be Mahatma Goudier. Why? What for?

For the code? It has to be the code. The coincidence is too great.

How would someone who isn’t Mahatma get into the offices in the first place? They’d need her wristband. But even if someone took her wristband they couldn’t use it because they’re biometrically linked. You’d have to hack it, and hacking wristbands is very hard. Especially something like a crosslink. You’d have to strip out the pre-formatted encryption software using DosDot Linear or -

‘Oh shit…’

A lightbulb burns bright in his head as the realisation finally comes. DosDot Linear. The Dead South. The band playing in the walkway. Sam Gablinski turned the grav-drives off in the Elfors. Sam uses DosDot Linear. Sam is a hacker who created all the adverts and bot accounts. Yasmine told him to leave Sam alone. Yasmine and Sam are together. Yasmine is a shoplifter that knows about this stash point.

He’s been so blind. So wrapped up in his sex addiction and working for Helga. Yasmine is a thief. Sam is a hacker. Sam could crosslink the wristbands to make a system think Yasmine Dufont is Mahatma Goudier. They even look the same. Shit. How did he not see it before? Stupid useless worthless idiot. He slams a palm into his forehead, hating himself for being so dumb, so tainted and slow. Yasmine stole the code. She broke in using Mahatma’s wristband and took the code.

But why would Yasmine steal an important code? Yasmine’s a petty thief. She’d go for a Crypto-Bond and try and clean it or cash it in on another ship. She’s been saying for years that she wants to score big and get off this ship. It’s been a running joke in the Elfors for years. Yasmine even stole from the dead Russian doctor. She’s just a thief.

Zhang sits upright. His eyes widening. 01/ASGDC/01 was disguised as a Crypto-Bond. It was right there. Right in front of him. Scrabel sent it in to hide it. Yasmine stole it. Yasmine thought it was a Crypto-Bond. She doesn’t know.

He bursts out of the cubicle, running hard to get to the party because Yasmine doesn’t know she’s just stolen something Helga Sveinsson will kill to get back.

IN THE FAR end room at the back of the Financial Services Offices, Guphy Gupherson holds Randolph Simpson up. The manager’s wrists broken. Burns all over his body and the hilt of a short bladed knife poking out from his stomach as he gasps for air, breathing shallow and fast.

‘Open…that…screen…’ he whispers. His mouth so dry.

Dmitri watches as Chatty Simon opens the screen. Dmitri doesn’t understand any of what he is seeing. Only a bunch of holo-screens all holding lines of code. Chatty Simon is good with this stuff though.

‘Scroll down,’ Randolph gasps.

Chatty Simon scrolls down the screen as the others watch on. He reaches the bottom as they all turn to look at Randolph again.

‘Last one,’ Randolph says.

They all look back to the screens as Chatty Simon plucks the last line of code from the screen and brings it out. 01/ASGDC/01.

‘What is it?’ Dmitri asks.

Chatty Simon points to a title as Dmitri leans in. ‘Crypto-Bond? Is that it?’ Dmitri asks, turning to look at Randolph. ‘Is that it?’ he asks again.

Randolph nods. ‘She took it.’

‘Who took it?’ Dmitri asks as Chatty Simon accesses the back-data, showing that someone called Mahatma Goudier took that line of Crypto-Bond code out just a little while ago. ‘Who the fuck is she? This the woman you said about?’ he asks Randolph. ‘The woman you thought was someone else?’

Randolph nods as Chatty Simon swipes his own wristband to bring Fleetbook up, entering the name to bring 3D images of Mahatma Goudier up as everyone other than Randolph frowns.

‘Looks a bit like Yassy,’ Karen says.

‘I think she looks like Yassy,’ Mad Eyes Ken says.

‘She fucking does look like Yassy,’ Dmitri adds as Simon opens a screen to show a post from Mahatma Goudier saying she’s at Sven’s Eatery for the closing party.

‘That’s the porridge place,’ Karen says.

‘That’s the porridge place I think,’ Mad Eyes Ken says straight after her.

‘Stop it,’ Karen says.

‘You stop it.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Dmitri snaps. ‘Where’s the fucking code thing gone then? Has this Mahatma bitch taken it?’

‘Holy shit,’ Karen says, looking from Randolph then to the images of Mahatma and then back to the screen showing the back-data as a slow grin spreads across her face. ‘Holy shit, I think I’ve got it.’

‘I’ve got it!’ Mad Eyes blurts.

‘Oh my god you are so fucking annoying,’ Karen says.

‘Ken. Shut up,’ Dmitri snaps before pointing at Karen. ‘Go on.’

‘Yassy’s working at that porridge place and that woman, Mahatma is there now. Yassy’s swiped her wristband and got her hacker boyfriend Pretty Boy to crosslink her. It was Yassy that this guy saw,’ she says, pointing at Randolph. ‘This is the job Yassy’s been going on about. She’s just knocked over the Financial Services.’

‘I reckon Yassy just did this place over, Dmitri,’ Mad Eyes adds. ‘She’s probably got that code we need.’

‘I’m going to kill him,’ Karen mutters to Chatty Simon who shrugs.

‘Fuck,’ Dmitri says. ‘Clever bitch.’

‘Can I go now?’ Randolph asks.

‘Huh? Yeah sure,’ Dmitri says, nodding at Guphy who wrenches hard to the right, snapping Randolph’s neck as everyone stares at the body slumping on the floor.

‘Sorry,’ Guphy says. ‘Did you want him killed, Dmitri?’

‘Bit late if I didn’t. Let’s go. We’ve got a party to crash.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

‘Janey, Sven,’ Yasmine says urgently, rushing into the café with Sam to see them by the counter. ‘It’s gone wrong.’

‘Why?’ Janey asks. ‘What did you do?’

‘I didn’t do anything. Some guy came in -- tall with dark hair. Must be her manager or something.’

‘Randolph?’

‘I think Matty was blackmailing him. He saw me and thought I was her.’

‘Please tell me you didn’t hurt him,’ Janey says.

‘Are you being serious? He grabbed my wrist and asked for a fuck.’

‘Of course he did. I mean everyone wants to fuck Yassy don’t they?’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ Yasmine asks, her head spinning, her mind frantic. ‘Why are you being like this?’

‘You should have just got out. Why were you even talking to him?’ Janey asks, hating herself for being so confrontational but unable to stop it.

‘Oh my god, Janey. Can you hear yourself right now?’

‘You two need to calm down,’ Sven says, wiping sweat from his forehead.

‘The point is, Janey, that I cannot be here now. I have to go -- he saw me. The cops will be crawling all over this place any minute.’

‘So dramatic,’ Janey says, looking away with disdain. ‘Just hide in Sam’s cabin until you can buy a ticket. Hey, maybe you can run down and drink Elfor juice in a club.’

‘What the fuck is wrong with you? Dmitri will string me up, remember?’

‘Or just ask one of your famous friends to help you.’

Yasmine blinks hard, struggling to understand and staring in shock. ‘Janey, if I don’t go we will all be locked up.’

‘How? On what shuttle? With what ticket?’

‘Maybe I can help with that.’

‘Jesus!’ Yasmine snaps as all four turn to see Abdul in the doorway.

‘My advice,’ Abdul says mildly, walking into the café, ‘is to close the door if you’re discussing secrets. What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ Yasmine says quickly, folding her arms and shooting looks at the others before dropping her head. A feeling inside that everything is going too fast and the world about her is starting to blur.

‘In which case forgive my intrusion. It’s just that there is one shuttle left tonight,’ he says, looking at Yasmine as he speaks.

The silence stretches out. Janey staring at her feet. Sven’s lips pursed, his face worried. ‘Where? I mean, where’s it going?’

‘The overnighter to the Beijing,’ Sam says.

‘That far enough for you?’ Abdul asks.

Sam looks back at Yasmine who closes her eyes, feeling like she just stepped off the edge of an abyss.

‘The Beijing is on the far side of the fleet,’ Sam adds helpfully.

‘I know where it is, Sam,’ she says quietly. Everything was fine. Everything was going so well. They did it. They scored big and now this. A robbery with assault. She’ll be locked up for years. She has to get out. She swallows, feeling tears prick her eyes with too many thoughts inside her head. Why is Janey being so nasty? Why is Abdul helping?

‘I’m not registered,’ Yasmine says quietly, not looking up for fear of everyone seeing the tears. Her legs shaking, her whole body trembling. ‘Sam was going to…I mean I was going to get a new identity.’

‘It’s fine,’ Abdul says calmly. ‘Leave it with me.’

She closes her eyes for a second, knowing there will be a price because there always is.

Abdul rubs his beard, moving further into the café and deeper into their lives. ‘Here’s the plan. Sam, you take Yassy up to level 20.’

‘We won’t get through the guard station on 20,’ Yasmine says. ‘I just said I’m not registered and we don’t have tickets.’

‘It will be arranged. Sam, you keep your wristband on so I can contact you.’

Yasmine finally looks up, locking eyes with him. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asks, plaintive and scared. Needing to know. Needing something to cling to.

Abdul pauses before plucking a cloth from Sven’s shoulder, making Yasmine flinch as he reaches out. ‘Because I’m guessing you’ve just knocked off the financial services centre and you’re now covered in blood, which suggests something has gone wrong,’ he says gently, wiping her face to show her the red smears on the cloth. ‘I’m going to ask you one question and I want a straight answer. Did you kill anyone?’

Janey draws air as the tension in the room increases.

‘No,’ Yasmine says honestly, tears spilling down her cheeks.

‘But you need to go, yes?’

She nods. Staring into his eyes. Sam frowns as he watches them.

‘The price is that I want Sam working for me. He has skills I will be needing soon and it’s very obvious he’s devoted to you. So, keeping you safe, keeps Sam safe. Now clean yourself up,’ he passes her the cloth and steps back. ‘That shuttle goes in less than one hour, so you need to move. You can buy what you need on the Beijing. If you need credits, you call me. If you need anything, you call me. This is a relationship of trust now.’ He pauses, giving Sam and Yasmine long looks in turn. ‘Janey, Sven, I suggest that you carry on about your evening and if asked, you say they ran off giggling into the night. I’ll leave you to say your farewells. I’ll be in touch.’

Abdul steps out and disappears into the crowd, plunging them into a heavy, charged air -- with things that should be discussed and understood, and emotions playing out. But it’s all too confusing and happening too fast.

‘Janey,’ Yasmine says.

‘You need to go,’ Sven says. ‘Talk later.’

Another silence. Heavier and harder. None of them moving.

‘We still did it,’ Yasmine says. ‘We scored right? The plan is still there. Me and Sam will clean the Crypto then meet you on the Ab-Spa when it’s safe. We’re all good. It’s all good,’ she adds weakly, her head spinning. ‘Janey?’

‘We need to go,’ Sam says into the awkward silence when Janey doesn’t reply.

Too many things happening. Too many things to think about, and Sam pulls Yasmine out into the dancing crowds and the flashing lights. Passing Osmosis and spotting Kristi Carter talking to Abdul as Yasmine looks to the tables and chairs she has come to know so well. The feel of the place. Like a home almost. Then she thinks of the crypto-bonds and reminds herself she’s done it and scored big. A few days from now they’ll be swimming on the Ab-Spa and eating real fruit and sleeping in real beds. This was the plan. This is what she wanted. Why does she feel so rotten inside then?

ABDUL PUSHES THROUGH THE CROWD, guiding Penny away from talking to Kristi Carter. ‘Something’s gone wrong, Yassy’s covered in blood.’

‘Okay, what do you need?’ Penny asks, seeing Sam and Yasmine rushing by.

‘Go with them up to the VIP lounge on Level 20. Get them on that shuttle and get Yassy registered for me.’

‘I’m on it,’ Penny says before pausing with a look at her boss. ‘You’re doing the right thing, Abdul. I’ve been telling you for ages I need help with the workload. I’ll keep you updated.’

‘Go on,’ he says, rubbing his beard as she moves off. So many things happening. So many things to think about and he can’t help the chuckle coming up and the grin showing. Yassy just knocked off the Financial Services, right under the noses of so many people. Audacious for sure, and bloody brilliant too. ‘Unbelievable…’

‘IT’S JUST UNBELIEVABLE,’ Yasmine says, walking briskly at Sam’s side as they exit the party and head towards the quiet walkways. ‘I can’t believe we did it. We actually did it. Can you believe it?’

‘Er,’ Sam says.

‘What’s going on with Janey though? Did she say anything to you? I don’t know why she’s being like that.’

‘Um.’

‘Like all angry. Like she’s jealous or something. And Abdul. What the fuck! Can you believe that? He just steps in and he’s like yeah you two can go to the Beijing. Fuck me. I mean, wow. Am I gabbling? It feels like I’m gabbling.’

‘You are,’ Sam says, hardly believing himself this is all happening while most of his mind is taken up with three main facts. The first being that he is holding Yasmine’s hand, which feels super nice. The second that he is about to go on the overnighter shuttle to the Beijing, and the third that he is actually going to the World-Ship Beijing. And then after that he also thinks about the robbery, about going to prison, Sven and Janey, Yasmine fighting some man in the robbery, Abdul, Kristi Carter, porridge and lots of other things. But mainly the first three.

‘…I really don’t know why. What did she say to you?’ Yasmine asks.

‘We’re holding hands,’ Sam replies, still thinking on his three main things.

‘What?’ Yasmine asks, blinking at him as they near the stairwell platform.

‘Hold up!’ Penny calls from somewhere behind them, rushing from a walkway to catch them up while flapping a hand to show she’s out of breath. ‘Jesus, you two walk fast.’

Yasmine and Sam stop to look back at Penny as the sound comes of someone big and heavy running down the stairwell. As Yasmine and Sam turn their heads to look up, Dmitri comes into view.

‘Yassy,’ he says, locking eyes on her.

‘Yassy!’ Penny gasps, seeing Dmitri and his crew steaming down the stairwell and hearing the pre-charge crackle of voltage-sticks turned on.

Yasmine turns to flee, already pushing Sam ahead of her as Chatty Simon launches from the stairs, slamming into her back and taking her down hard. Her hand is still holding Sam’s and he topples with them, crying out as Karen runs in, slamming punches into his sides and back to drive him down onto the ground.

‘SAM, RUN!’ Yasmine shouts, kicking hard into Chatty Simon’s face before twisting to grab Karen’s ankle, wrenching her off her feet as Dmitri drives a voltage-stick into Yasmine’s back. Making her scream out and arch her spine with veins pushing through her neck and face.

‘GUESS WHO?’ Dmitri yells, grinning with sick delight before lunging to jab Sam’s thigh. Laughing as Sam screams out and tries to roll free, only to be grabbed and pinned by Guphy.

‘YASSY!’ Penny screams out. The years fall away and she’s back in the Elfors seeing her mate down and fighting. Seeing her mate being hurt. She clenches her fists as she runs. Her upper lip snarling.

Karen sees her coming. Karen Big Feet, who was never as attractive or as interesting as Yassy or Pretty Penny, springs to her feet, slamming Penny down mid-charge with the two rolling over and over. Penny fights wildly, screaming and bucking, but she’s out of practice and Chatty Simon rushes in to help Karen as Penny feels a rush of fear inside.

A faint pop and sizzle. Chatty Simon’s body goes rigid as he flies backwards. Karen snaps her head up, her face a mask of pure rage as a super-sharp pre-charged needle embeds in her chest, sent through the air by the taser pistol held by Zhang.

He had heard the shouts but ignored them and headed for the café. The only thing in his mind was to get the code back from Yasmine. To save himself. To save her. To save them all because Helga will not stop until she has it back. Then he heard Yasmine’s name being shouted and he veered hard, hearing the crackle of voltage-sticks and the screams of pain as he sped up to a sprint and drew his pistol as he ran. Snatching glimpses ahead: Penny on the floor being beaten on by Karen Big Feet and Chatty Simon; Dmitri behind them driving a voltage-stick into Yasmine; Mad Eyes Ken and Guphy grabbing Sam Gablinksi. More of Dmitri’s crew in amongst them.

Zhang thought fast, his mind racing with tactics and strategy. A taser pistol is great but the effects only last for a few seconds. He started firing. Sending needles across the air, missing with the first few before getting two into Chatty Simon, then another one into Karen.

Now he fires the rest into the mass of people. Hitting Dmitri who yells out as he falls. Getting Mad Eyes in the leg and one into Guphy’s arm and more into the others, including Sam who grows rigid from the charge zapped in his body.

Penny flinches as a strong hand grips her wrist to drag her free before she sails up onto her feet with Zhang gripping her waist. ‘GET OUT OF HERE.’ He pushes her on and away, still firing until the pistol starts clicking dully, the needles all gone.

Dmitri roars, on his feet as Chatty Simon and the others lurch up, and Zhang holds still, his chest heaving, his pistol empty. Penny behind him. Yasmine and Sam down. Everyone else getting up. Zhang thinks to run and get clear. To draw back and call for back-up. He thinks of many things in the blink of an eye and the beat of a heart.

Dmitri stands tall, the voltage-stick gripped in his hand. ‘Get that code from Yassy, then kill ‘em both!’ He barks the order to his crew, making Zhang focus harder. Dmitri knows Yasmine has the code. Helga has brought Dmitri in. That’s how serious this is now. Helga has brought hardened criminals into the upper levels for the code that Yasmine and Sam are about to die for.

‘You’d best fuck off, pig,’ Dmitri says, pointing the voltage-stick at Zhang. ‘This is nothing to do with you. Go fuck a hooker.’

Zhang stiffens. He’s dead already. He knows that. He’s failed. Helga will kill him now no matter what happens. What a mess. Yassy was right. They are all tainted and broken. He thinks of Yassy telling him to leave Sam alone. He’s good. He’s not like us. Zhang wishes he had someone to stand for him, but then he’s meant to be a cop. He’s meant to be the one who does that.

‘What’s the code for?’ he asks, needing to know.

‘Who cares?’ Dmitri snaps. ‘Now fuck off. Trust me, the people I work for don’t give a shit if I kill a dirty pig.’

A moment frozen in time. Zhang is corrupt. Zhang is a sex addict. Zhang is many bad things but right now, in this place, he dislikes being called a dirty pig. So fuck it, he might as go out doing something decent.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Dmitri says as Zhang starts striding towards them with a wild look of violent intent. ‘Dumb prick. Someone sort him out.’

A few go forward, eager to impress Dmitri and earn a place on his crew to make better money to fuck better women and take more drugs. They charge at Zhang who feints left then goes right, pivoting on the spot to drive a foot into the knee of an attacker on his left before lashing out with a hard punch to the one on the right. Another pivot and he goes round the back of the guy he kicked, flipping him over his hip to dump on the floor, gripping his arm as he goes, twisting and snapping the elbow joint.

A step back and he turns fast, dancing to slap the incoming hits away. Trained, hard and skilled. Weaving and moving until he sees the opening and he goes fast, giving withering hits to the guy’s face. Another one comes at him, but Zhang twists and goes low, leg-sweeping him down then kicking hard into the ribs. A hand on his shoulder. He drops as he turns and grips the wrist, wrenching left then right, snapping the joint with two distinct crunches as more screams fill the air. He turns and finds his view blocked by the enormous girth of Guphy Gupherson, and slowly looks up as Mad Eyes Ken pokes him in the back with a voltage-stick, making him collapse to writhe on the ground.

Guphy leans down to pull the detective up with an arm around his throat before turning to face the others.

‘What the fuck was that meant to be?’ Dmitri asks, holding his voltage-stick out from his side.

‘Reshqew,’ Zhang replies, his voice strangled by Guphy’s arm cutting into his windpipe.

‘Thanks for trying,’ Yasmine says, gripped between Karen and Chatty Simon. ‘Was a shit rescue though.’

‘Shorry,’ Zhang whispers.

‘Dmitri, let Sam go. Please.’

‘This Sam?’ Dmitri asks, pointing at the figure still lying on the ground. ‘This Sam yeah?’ he asks, driving the stick into Sam’s leg, making him scream in agony.

‘GET THE FUCK OFF HIM,’ Yasmine screams as Zhang bucks and heaves, trying to break free. ‘You cunt! You fucking cunt. Leave him alone. You coward, you dirty filthy rapist fucking coward. Shy Dmitri, gentle Dmitri, stuttering FUCKING RETARDED DMITRI.’ She screams the abuse, her face flushing red, saying anything in her mind to push his buttons. Dmitri snarls and crosses from Sam to her, driving the voltage-stick into her belly.

‘GO ON PUSSY,’ Zhang yells out, his words distorted and broken. ‘You like hurting women. COWARD.’

‘FUCK YOU!’ Dmitri roars, striding over to stab the voltage-stick into Zhang’s stomach. ‘FUCKING PIG.’

‘PUSSY,’ Yasmine yells. ‘Rapist stuttering twat, and your dick is tiny. TINY DMITRI. LITTLE DMITRI.’

‘BITCH,’ Dmitri bellows, running back to punch her down to the ground before grabbing Karen’s voltage-stick, using both to jab into Yasmine’s legs and arse.

‘New name,’ Zhang yells. ‘Tiny Dick Dmitri.’

MUSIC BLARING IN THE WALKWAY. The lights flashing. The party in full swing and Abdul the Angry stands talking to Kristi Carter and a few others. Glasses of synth-bubbly in their hands and he hides any trace of worry while stealing glances at Sven and Janey still inside the café unit, watching Janey down drink after drink.

A bleep on his wristband. He smiles at his group, stepping away to answer the call.

‘ABDUL!’ Penny screams, her image blooming up wild and crazed. ‘DMITRI --.HE’S GOT SAM AND YASSY. HE’S HURTING THEM.’

‘Where?’ Abdul barks the word. Colin and Pasha snapping their heads over. Clara and Boris the same.

‘Stairwell, still on level 30. He’s going to kill them.’

‘Aw hell he ain’t,’ Clara growls, flinging her glass of synth-bubble away as she turns to set off. ‘MOVE!’ She shouts the word, her voice deep and hard as the crowd parts to let her through, her pace rising from a walk to a run to a sprint with Colin, Pasha, Boris and Abdul right behind her.

‘Go with them,’ Kristi Carter yells to her filming crew, flicking her shoes off to run hard, sensing a story is about to happen.

A hard run. A fast run. A wild, crazy run with Clara in the lead. Her huge arms pumping as her massive legs pound the floor, driving her on as she sprints hard in her figure- hugging black dress. The veins in her skin pushing out. Her face a mask of seething violence with the single image in her mind that someone is hurting her Pretty Boy.

‘I’M COMING SAM,’ she screams the words. Telling them she’s on her way. Colin behind her. Abdul keeping up. Pasha and Boris, both trying hard to run fast despite their size. Kristi Carter bare foot and sprinting easily with a thrill inside as she swipes her own wristband, bringing up a shining holo-video camera that she activates to record.

‘This is Kristi Carter, live on the World-Ship Humility with a breaking story of an attempted murder in progress.’

‘PUSSY,’ Yasmine roars, fighting wild and crazed, biting into Chatty Simon’s hand as Karen jabs her with a voltage-stick.

‘TINY DICK DMITRI,’ Zhang shouts, Guphy slamming him back down as Mad Eyes goes at him, driving kicks into his stomach as Dmitri jabs him over and over.

‘RAPIST FUCKING COWARD,’ Yasmine screams. Both of them shouting anything they can think to keep the attackers focussed on them and not Sam. It becomes a thing. A challenge to take punishment and to take the pain. To take the hurt. To do something decent for once in their tainted lives. So they bleed and scream but they take it.

‘THE CODE. GIVE IT TO ME,’ Karen screeches at Yasmine.

‘Don’t do it, Yassy,’ Zhang yells before cutting off with another scream of pain.

‘Give me that fucking code,’ Karen grips her hair, holding her head back.

‘What fucking code?’ Yasmine asks, spitting in her face.

‘BITCH.’ Karen slams her down, wiping the saliva away and zapping her again before standing back to think, turning to see Dmitri laying into Zhang. They need that code. Whoever Dmitri spoke to said they’ll get rewarded if they get it. They said they can do what it takes. Kill whoever they need to kill. Fine. Fuck it. Karen moves to Sam, wrenching his head up with a fistful of hair. ‘Yassy, give me that fucking code. I swear to god I will hurt him. I will cut his dick off and make Mad Eyes eat it. GIVE ME THAT FUCKING CODE.’

‘What code? I don’t have a code!’

She doesn’t know. Zhang can see the honesty in her eyes. She doesn’t know what she’s stolen.

‘He’ll speak,’ Dmitri says, moving to Karen to heave Sam up onto his feet, wrapping an arm about his neck. ‘Code…NOW!’

‘WHAT FUCKING CODE? Crypto, I stole Crypto -- that’s it. Have it. It’s on…’

‘CODE,’ Dmitri cuts her off, squeezing harder as Sam’s face flushes deep red.

‘WHAT CODE?’ Yasmine screams in panic, tears falling down her face. ‘Please. I stole crypto. I’ve got it.’

‘It’s in the crypto,’ Zhang yells out. ‘She doesn’t know, Yassy doesn’t know. Yassy, where’s the crypto?’

‘On the wristband. Please Dmitri, don’t. Not Sam, please. SAM!’

‘Fuck you,’ Dmitri mutters. ‘I’ve got permission to kill who I want. Who’s a retard now, Yassy? Who’s shy now, Yassy? Who’s the man now, Yassy?’

‘Sam,’ she gasps. ‘Please…’

‘AW HELL NO,’ a deep roar and every head snaps over to Clara running full pelt from the mouth of a walkway. Penny screaming and pointing.

‘Oh fuck,’ Karen mutters.

‘INTO THEM,’ Dmitri shouts. Chatty Simon releases Yasmine. Mad Eyes and Guphy drop Zhang and they all go for Clara who steams in hard, fists swinging and knocking them down and aside. Voltage-sticks used but the woman fights on. Lashing out and slamming Chatty Simon away before headbutting Mad Eyes Ken then turning on Guphy. The man so much bigger than her but Clara bunches her fists and starts hitting and hitting, driving blows into his midsection. Guphy grunts and lashes out, snapping her head over as Boris bellows at seeing his wife hit, and he and the rest steam in.

Abdul in the lead. Colin, Pasha and Boris with Penny yelling out and Kristi Carter coming to a sliding stop to film it all. A wild brawl breaking out with Abdul the Angry in the middle of it all.

Zhang shakes his head, on all fours and he snaps his gaze up to see Dmitri backing up and away from the mass brawl with Sam still in his arms. Yasmine heaving up. Her body shaking like a leaf but she goes after them. Zhang joins her, the two staggering side by side towards Dmitri.

‘Fuck you,’ Dmitri says. ‘FUCK YOU.’ He throws Sam at them, thinking to buy time to break for the stairwell and head down to the safety of the Elfors. Yasmine catches Sam but Zhang dives fast, snagging Dmitri’s foot and taking him down.

They land hard with Dmitri twisting onto his back to fight upwards, kicking and going wild as Zhang pounds down with hard punches, taking hits back in his head and body as the two men topple and start sliding down the first flight of stairs.

‘Sam!’ Yasmine grabs him as he falls, holding him in her arms. ‘Sam, SAM!’

‘I’m okay,’ he gasps, sucking air in. ‘I’m okay.’

‘Oh my god, oh my god…Sam…’ she drops down, kissing his mouth and cheeks and forehead. ‘You’re okay.’

‘Um,’ Sam says, now finding his head filled with something else to think about, namely that it’s worth being almost strangled by a mad gangster to get kisses from Yasmine.

‘CUNT,’ Yasmine yells, pulling back.

‘Eh?’ Sam asks, confused.

‘I’ll fucking kill him,’ she seethes, nodding at Sam before kissing his forehead again. ‘Stay there, be right back.’ She pushes up and staggers off to get down the stairs to see Dmitri now on top of Zhang and rushes to wrap her arms around the gangster’s neck, locking on hard. ‘Tiny Dick Dmitri,’ she gasps. ‘COWARD.’

‘PENNY, GET THEM OUT,’ Abdul shouts, staggering back from slamming fists into Mad Eyes Ken. Bedlam all about him. Pasha and Boris tag-teaming on Guphy who has had this hiding coming for years. Chatty Simon and Colin going at it while Clara teaches Karen manners by slamming her knee into her face.

‘We’ve got a fully blown Humility riot underway here folks,’ Kristi Carter relays, venturing into the brawl with her holo-video camera as one of Dmitri’s crews surges up to his feet to charge at her. ‘SHIT!’

Abdul spins round, seeing the threat and goes fast, punching the guy away with a spray of hot blood spattering over Kristi Carter who stands frozen for one full second.

‘And that was Councillor Abdul the Angry saving my life. You saw that here on Fleet NewsCast live on board the WS Humility. Where are the police? We’ve got innocent people being attacked and murdered and a councillor and his private security team are the only ones here helping out. Where’s Captain Jefferson? Where’s Helga Sveinsson now? Look at this! That is Abdul beating a man away from attacking that woman.’

‘Penny! For fuck’s sake. Get them up to that shuttle,’ Abdul shouts, clearing a path for Penny to get through.

‘I’m trying,’ Penny shouts, rushing down the stairs to see Yasmine and Zhang trying to kill Dmitri. Yasmine’s arms wrapped around his head. Zhang’s hands on his throat. ‘Yassy! We have to go…now! Zhang, get off. You’re a cop and there’s a film crew here. LET HIM GO,’ she prises and pulls, heaving Zhang away, seeing the wild bloodlust in his eyes. She clasps his cheeks, moving close to dominate his vision as he seethes and tries to get past her. ‘No, no,. Zhang, no. Look at me. You are not a killer. Look at me,’ she says it over and over, driving the words into his head as the fight comes to the stairwell with Dmitri’s crew trying to escape. ‘You are not a killer,’ Penny says again, seeing sense and reason stealing back into Zhang’s eyes and he nods, showing he understands.

Penny moves swiftly, finding Yasmine in the chaos and dragging her through the mess to find Sam, both of them pulling him to his feet to drag on up the stairs. Everything wild. Everything crazed. Everything a blur.

CHAPTER FORTY

Chests heaving. Knuckles bruised. Blood everywhere. A few Elfors lying unconscious about the floor while Clara, Boris, Colin and Pasha come back up the stairs from chasing Dmitri’s crew.

Abdul sucks in air while rolling his sleeves up, showing the old tattoos and the knotted brawny muscles. His face sweating. A few hits taken. A fat lip and an eye already swelling, but he’s had worse before. He looks around, finally clocking Kristi Carter being filmed by her team.

‘That was something else. I am telling you folks, I have blood on my face. Real blood,’ Kristi says, smearing it across her cheek to show her wet red fingertips to the viewers, noting with a thrill that tens of thousands are now watching with even more logging on. The numbers increasing every second. ‘For those of you just joining us, I was at a private party to interview the hacker Pretty Boy over his campaign to raise awareness of the suffering in the Elfors. In fact, it was Councillor Abdul the Angry who invited me and arranged that interview. And then, while we were enjoying the amazing porridge from Nordic master-chef Sven Carlson, Abdul received information of an attempted murder in progress. That’s right folks. That is how little trust people have in the police that they call Adbul first! And he responded. Leading his own private security team to tackle a full on riot. I was with them. I saw it -- and there he is folks. Right there. Councillor Abdul the Angry rolling his sleeves up. Councillor? A word if we may?’

Abdul nods hard. His face showing the stress of the fight while his mind works fast, clocking those about him. Seeing it all. Seeing everything. ‘I’m glad you’re okay Kristi. Were you hurt? Do you need medical help?’

‘Oh my. Will you look at that,’ Kristi says into the camera, watching the viewing figures surging up. ‘The man is bleeding. He’s been hurt and he’s asking after my welfare first. Abdul, what happened here?’

He takes a deep breath, nodding as he does so to buy time to think, then spots Zhang Woo walking up the stairs, wiping his bloodied and battered face. Abdul senses something else is happening here and that Zhang is part of it, but he also remembers he owes the detective a favour.

‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ Abdul says, looking at Kristi then at the camera. ‘My PA was walking through this area when she observed several desperate criminals from the Elfors attacking innocent people. She also saw that heroic police officer, Detective Zhang Woo, tackle them single handed, without any back-up. She called me and we went in to help the police officer, and together we were able to chase the attackers off.’

‘What the fuck?’ Zhang asks walking out onto the platform of Level 30 to see nearly everyone staring at him, including Kristi Carter and her film crew. ‘Oh shit…’

Smoke and mirrors. Create a scene. Cause a fuss. Make the story work for you. ‘They were armed too,’ Abdul adds. ‘With stolen voltage-sticks. Several of my own private security team have been hurt. Including Clara.’

‘What was that now?’ Clara asks, turning around to face them, looking breath-taking with her muscled body gleaming with sweat in the tight black dress. Blood on her knuckles and spattered across her chest. A sight to see. A sight to behold. ‘Me and Boris working for you now, Abdul?’ Clara asks, cocking her head over.

‘You do now,’ Colin mutters. ‘Welcome to the team.’

‘Well, sure as shit I do like a regular income,’ Clara says, striding over to beam a huge smile at Kristi. ‘What do you want to know, honey?’

Zhang watches the attention shift from him to Clara with a deft move played by Abdul, and once more the two men share a silent nod and the detective melts away, heading up the stairs to find Yasmine and get that code back.

‘IT’S PENNY, Abdul’s PA. He asked you to register an Elfor,’ Penny says into a private call on her wristband as they go up the stairs. Sam and Yasmine arm in arm are helping each other up while gasping for air. ‘Yep, okay hang on,’ Penny says, reaching for Yasmine’s arm to wave her wristband into a scanner shining from her interface. ‘That was her wristband; she needs registration ASAP. Great! Thank you.’

Up another flight as Penny makes another call.

‘Hi. It’s Penny. Abdul’s PA. I need two seats on the overnighter to the Beijing. Sam Gablinski and Yasmine Emile Dufont. Wait five minutes before you process Yasmine’s ticket. She’s having a registration reset as we speak -- got it? Great! Thank you.’

‘Jesus,’ Yasmine says.

‘Not Jesus, just Abdul,’ Penny says. ‘You two okay? Not much further.’

‘What the hell just happened?’ Yasmine asks.

‘Shush, talk in a minute,’ Penny says as they ascend the last flight towards the security station on Level 20.

‘Shit, guards.,’ Yasmine says, worrying at their battered and bloodied appearance.

They turn and start up the next flight to the security point. Another marked difference from Level 37 – no admonitory signs on the walls and no battered metal desks. Even the air here smells clean and fresh, but Yasmine steels herself, hardening her features and getting ready to argue and shout.

‘Penny, good to see you again,’ a uniformed female guard says, walking towards them with a warm smile that changes to show concern at seeing the blood and cuts all over them. ‘Oh god, what’s happened? Do you want me to call med-services?’

‘We’re fine, Patricia, but thank you,’ Penny replies. ‘Abdul says hi.’

‘Well you say hi right back,’ Patricia says as they go through. Only frowning slightly at the state of them. ‘Are you sure you’re all okay?’

‘Fine, honestly. Just a little fight at a party. Some guys got drunk,’ Penny says, rolling her eyes while leading them out onto Level 20.

‘Fuck me, this is nice up here,’ Yasmine says. Gorgeous décor and soft-styled benches. Plants growing everywhere, climbers and genetically de-thorned rose bushes in every corner.

A small eatery to one side with lights glowing inside. Yasmine stares in through the window at the respectable looking people in nice clothes. A feeling of envy at glimpsing a life that will never be hers. Then her focus shifts and she spots three more people. A man with blond hair in dark trousers and a fitted dark shirt walking with two women. One black. One dark skinned. Both beautiful and in the shadows she can’t see the bruises or blood and it takes a full second to realise it’s a reflection of them walking through.

‘Evening,’ a man says in polite greeting, coming out of the eatery with a woman.

‘Hi there,’ Penny says, smiling as they walk on through the lanes bordered by exquisite boutique and high-fashion stores. They reach a private door and pause as Penny swipes her wristband over the scanner and leads them into the VIP lounge of the Level 20 shuttle port. A plush waiting room filled with deep sofas and soft chairs arranged around tables fitted with free-to-use data points and terminals. Business people from all over the fleet engaged in muted conversations or swiping at screens glowing in the air while others type on virtual keyboards. Hardly anyone looks up or even glances over as Yasmine feels her mind spinning and the blooms of pain growing harder as the adrenalin wears off. Her legs trembling and a sick feeling in her gut. Zapped over and over by voltage-sticks, punched, kicked and beaten.

‘Hi Penny,’ the man behind the bar says.

‘Ricardo, great to see you. Sorry about our state; we’re going to Abdul’s private room. Can you let me know when the shuttle’s boarding please?’

‘Sure thing, Penny.’

‘Thanks!’ Penny says, leading Sam and Yasmine off down the side of the bar to a corridor lined with doors. Some of them open, showing business people talking over tables or lounging back on deep soft sofas. She stops halfway down on the right, activating the door that slides back.

‘This is private. Go inside and sit down,’ she says, nodding at the sofa.

‘This is nuts,’ Yasmine says, sitting down with a wince.

‘Just a bit,’ Penny replies quietly, opening a locker set into a wall. She takes a bottle and three glasses, pouring three small shots of bright yellow Elfor juice and handing them out. A gulp. A gasp and a few seconds later the drugs kick in. Spreading warmth and easing the pains, lessening the intense shock by a few degrees.

‘Here,’ Penny says, handing Yasmine a packet of pills. ‘Pain meds, good stuff. Just take one. Fuck’s sake, Yassy. I said one.’

‘Got a high tolerance,’ Yasmine says, dry swallowing two at once before popping one into Sam’s hand.

‘Why do I only get one?’ Sam asks. ‘Are we on the Beijing yet? I really liked it when you kissed me.’

‘That’s why you’re only having one,’ Yasmine says. ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt?’

‘He’s okay,’ Penny says, opening another door to pull a rack of dresses out. ‘Sam, close your eyes. Yassy, come and get changed.’

‘Huh?’ Sam asks, blinking slowly as Penny peels her dress off to stand in black underwear as Yasmine joins her. Doing the same thing and he blinks again, shaking his head. ‘Whoa, I am so tripping out right now.’

Yasmine snorts a laugh. Smiling despite the pain and fear and worry.

‘Seriously. This is the best night ever,’ Sam says with such raw honestly it makes both of them chuckle with a tension breaking the surface that could easily turn to tears.

‘I have no idea what’s happening,’ Yasmine says, looking about the room. ‘This place is so posh. I feel like a right mess.’

‘Show mirror,’ Penny says, bringing up a digital 3D reflection of them both as Penny produces a digital make-up stick that she hands to Yasmine. ‘I use this all the time. This room, I mean. To meet people for Abdul. That’s why I put clothes and things in here. But I know what you mean,’ she adds, setting to work to sort her appearance out. ‘I felt like that the first time I came here, Yassy. Like everyone else was better than me and I didn’t belong. Know what Abdul said? He said fuck my old life and he told me I suit this place.’ She pauses to look at Yasmine’s reflection. ‘You’re beautiful, Yassy. You suit this place too. You suit this life.’

‘Hardly. I’m covered in blood after having a massive fight with everyone going nuts about a code. I didn’t steal a code. I stole some Crypto.’

‘I don’t know,’ Penny says honestly. ‘Let Abdul sort it out. On that note, do you know what Abdul wants?’

‘He wants Sam to work for him.’

‘And you. This is about both of you. And Abdul always gets what he wants.’

‘Me? A petty thief that fucks everything up?’

‘No. He wants loyal people that can think fast, swing fists and get dirty in the Elfors, then put a dress on and represent him up here.’

‘Oh,’ Yasmine says, thinking for a second.

‘Fuck your old life, Yassy. This is better. Working for Abdul is the best thing I ever did.’ She pauses again, smiling at Yasmine using the make-up stick before turning away to select a clean dress.. ‘This one should fit you. Abdul will run this ship one day. His business interests are expanding and there’s too much work for me. I’ve been saying for ages I need help and we think you’re the right person. He wants you to work with me.’

‘With you?’ Yasmine asks, struggling to take it all in. ‘Doing what?’

‘Whatever he needs. Like I did today -- sorting out your café, then up here organising your trip. Me and you will have so much fun together. Sam too, of course; all of us. Pasha, Colin, the guys -- they’re good people, and you know what? We get clothing allowances and food allowances. Abdul claims it all back. We visit other ships. We go with him to make deals. We see life, Yassy, not just the fucking Elfors.’

Yasmine listens and frowns. Struggling to keep up. Thinking she just committed a robbery, assaulted a man, ran away, got in a huge fight and is now in a posh toilet being offered a job by a woman she hasn’t seen for a very long time. At least the pain is easing now. Jesus, even the meds they have up here are better. That and the Elfor juice are working wonders.

She tugs the dress on while looking back at Sam politely averting his eyes from two near-naked women in his presence. Too many things to think about. Too many things happening.

A bleep on Penny’s wristband. An incoming message. ‘The shuttle’s boarding, we’d better go. Ready?’ She opens the door as her wristband bleeps again with another message, but this one from Abdul. You’ve got Zhang on his way to you. Get Yassy and Sam away.

‘Let’s get you loaded shall we? Penny smiles, ushering them down the corridor into the plush high-end VIP lounge. Too many things happening. Too many things to think about as Yasmine moves towards the airlock with Sam. She won’t get through. She’s not registered.

‘Okay guys. I’ll leave you here,’ Penny says. ‘You go on and have a safe flight. I’ll be in touch,’ she reaches out and pulls Yasmine in for a hug. ‘Everything will be fine. It’s a lot to take in but Abdul’s got your back, Yassy. Just get rid of whatever you stole,’ she adds in a whisper. ‘Sam, you take care of Yassy. Go on now. Talk soon.’

They set off with Yasmine staring ahead to the airlock and the uniformed man on duty. His uniform the same that Sam wears. Her mind fugged and slow. Drugs in her system. Elfor juice too. The shock of it all nearly too much to take and she glances back to Penny nodding at them to go on.

‘Sir?’ the airlock operative says. ‘Your wristband please. Thank you, Mr Gablinski. Ma’am?’

Yasmine’s heart thunders. Her stomach churning as she lifts her wrist, staring at her wristband as the guy scans it. She’s not registered. It won’t work.

‘Miss Dufont, thank you, you’re all booked on. Have a pleasant flight.’

ZHANG REACHES THE GUARD STATION, pausing to lean against the railings. The adrenalin from the fight wearing off and the pain kicking in. Everything hurts. He wants to puke and weep and curl up and die but then he doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want Helga to kill him or Yasmine, or Sam or anyone. He needs that code. He has to have it back.

‘You okay, detective?’ Patricia asks.

Zhang nods at the uniformed guard, unable to summon words to speak and he lurches on, spilling out onto Level 20 to stagger along the walkways with one hand clutching his ribs and the pain so great it brings tears to his eyes. He inhales shallow and fast because even breathing causes agony.

He has to get the code back. That’s all that matters. Helga might kill him, but if he gets the code back she might not go for Yassy and Sam. Fucking Dmitri. She brought Dmitri in. She brought a knife to a fistfight. That alone tells him how serious this is. He needs to go faster and tries speeding up, but the pain is too bad and so he shuffles on, cursing himself for being too slow and stupid.

Something in his mind. A memory. The word slow. Who said that? Someone said things were slow recently? He frowns, his mind struggling to process it all, slipping into shock. Limping hard as he walks. His breath coming in gasps. Slow? Who said that?

Scrabel. That was it. He smiles drunkenly. His wits draining fast. Alexei Scrabel was mad. Scribbling all over Fleetbook about being slow. No. That’s not right.

‘Hey, you okay?’ someone asks as Zhang staggers by.

‘Slow,’ Zhang slurs in reply, chuckling weakly as he goes on through the dark walkways. Scrabel thought everything was going too fast. He was right. It does go too fast. Everything is too fast. Poor Scrabel. Mad Scrabel. Idiot Scrabel. Dead Scrabel.

Zhang killed him. He’s a murderer. Penny was wrong. She said he wasn’t a killer, but he is. He’s dirty and corrupt. Addicted to whores. He needs to go faster to stop Yasmine and get it back. Get what back? He struggles to think. The code. The crypto she stole. Helga will kill her if Zhang is too slow.

Scrabel said they needed to slow down. He said that.

We all need to just slow down

We’re all going too fast to think

Is the fleet alone all we are?

IMAGES FLASH through Zhang’s mind as he reaches a door, slumping against it while pawing at the scanner. Images of Scrabel. Of the things he wrote on Fleetbook. Get the code back. He has to get the code back. Scrabel had it. Helga gave it to him.

The door opens, Zhang falls in, landing hard on the floor of the VIP lounge but he starts pushing up, refusing to stop now. He has to get the code back. He has to stop Yasmine. Yasmine has the code. Scrabel had it. Scrabel was an inputter on the mainframe navigational computer.

‘Easy,’ a voice at his side. Hands on his arm helping him up.

‘Give it back,’ he slurs, thinking it to be Yassy.

‘Sure,’ the voice says, soft and warm. ‘Ricardo, help me please. Just get him down to Abdul’s room…’

‘Give it back,’ Zhang says again.

‘It’s okay, Zhang. Everything is okay.’

Zhang shakes his head, wanting to tell Yassy it’s not okay. She needs to give the code back. He rallies with a surge of energy, trying to turn and do something without knowing what.

‘Slow down,’ the voice says, soft and gentle.

Scrabel said to slow down. He said the fleet is going too fast. He’s an inputter and could see the speed the fleet is moving at. He said it. He said to slow down. He had the code.

‘Sit down, Zhang.Just rest now. Thank you, Ricardo.’

Scrabel was mad. Scrabel was an idiot.

‘Drink this, Zhang; come on. It’s just Elfor juice, it’ll help you.’

Pain in his throat. Pain everywhere. He gasps from the liquid.

‘Take one of these -- open your mouth for me. That’s it. Swallow it and drink this water. You’re going to be fine. We’re just going to wait here okay? There’s no rush. Nice and slow…’

The fleet needs to slow down. Scrabel said so. Scrabel was mad. Warmth in Zhang’s belly spreading out. Lessening the pain and horror.

Slow down. Shit. His eyes snap open to see Pretty Penny sitting next to him on a sofa in a room he doesn’t remember entering. Slow down. Scrabel had the code. He’s an inputter. Helga told him to put the code into the mainframe. The Gagarin didn’t come back empty. The Gagarin found something and Yasmine stole what was in front of her because she’s from the Elfors. She took whatever she could get.

She took the code that was meant to start slowing the fleet because the Gagarin has found something.

It can take months for vessels of this size -- travelling so fast and holding so many people -- to reduce speed without killing everyone.

He swallows, breathing fast and focusses on the concerned face of Penny staring at him intently.

‘What you did tonight, Zhang, was the bravest thing I have ever seen.’

He swallows again. His mind spinning.

‘You are too good to keep paying whores.’ He looks down to her hand on his knee. Pretty Penny. Beautiful, refined, elegant smart Penny. He blinks, the urge there, the urge right there but different now. The need to do something else and he reaches out, pulling her in and her eyes close, thinking they will kiss but he simply holds her. Bringing her close. Inhaling the scent of her. Feeling the warmth of her body, he closes his eyes, whispering softly.

‘I think they’ve found a planet.’

For the first time for as long as he can remember, Detective Zhang Woo does not think about sex but instead enjoys the simple contact of holding a beautiful woman in his arms, not seeing Pretty Penny’s eyes snap open to stare in shock.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

‘This is nuts,’ Sam says, his heart racing as he nears the shuttle doors. He’s here. He’s going on a shuttle into space and he passes inside, trying to see everything at the same time. Slightly drunk, drugged, beaten and shocked but still. He’s going on a shuttle into space. This is happening. This is real. And he’s with the most amazing woman he has ever met in his life.

‘Sir, ma’am, please go up the steps to the executive lounge,’ a shuttle crew worker says, pointing forward.

Sam goes first, glimpsing ahead to the main seating area and the rows of seats that all look nice and plush. He finds the stairs and goes up to see bigger seats with greater gaps between them and a large holo-display positioned at the front already showing adverts and trailers before a movie starts.

Yasmine guides Sam over to the window seats, knowing he’ll want to look out. ‘Here okay?’ she asks.

He doesn’t answer. He cannot form words or thoughts from the almost absurd delight he shows at everything about him. She sits next to him, smiling at his reactions, also drugged, drunk, shocked and beaten.

‘Champagne?’ A uniformed woman asks, placing two drinks on the small table in front of them. ‘Abdul’s account is taking care of everything. Just sit back and enjoy the flight.’

Minutes later they feel a faint thrum as the nuclear powered engines build power, then they’re off and accelerating out into space and away from the Humility with barely a tremor felt.

‘This is the Shuttle Magellan,’ Sam tells her, his tone excited. ‘The one with the roof.’

‘Roof?’ she asks, blinking at him then looking up sharply to see the ceiling panels dissolving from solid metal to transparent and she grips his hand harder, tensing in fear.

‘It’s fine,’ he says, grinning up. ‘They’re like the front of the cabins -- they’re just screens projecting digital images.’

Now even more things are happening, with more things to think about. She’s in a cocktail dress on a shuttle, making a run for it after committing a robbery during which she beat some bloke up who was being blackmailed by the woman she was pretending to be, and also after a mass brawl during which she was zapped like a dozen times. And now she’s here.

‘Wowzers,’ she mutters, trying to find order in it all. Trying to think of a hundred different things at once. ‘Was that Kristi Carter you were talking to back at the cafe?’ she asks, as the memory pops into her head.

‘Yeah,’ Sam says, marvelling at seeing the WS Humility grow smaller in the viewing screens as he looks up and around, still trying to see everything at once because he is in space. He is in a shuttle flying over thousands of miles across the width of the fleet. From one far side to the other.

Yasmine empties her glass and finds it replaced with a full one within seconds. She drinks that one too while staring up and out.

‘That’s the WS Abstinence,’ Sam points out. ‘See the bubble bit on the top? That’s the Ab-Spa.’

‘Oh yeah,’ she says, moving closer into his side. ‘What’s that one over there?’

‘That’s the big Russian one, the Vladivostok. And that’s the Japanese one. See that shuttle over there? Just docking on the Abstinence, that’s the Kepler.’

‘Tell me more,’ she urges, picking her glass up while Sam points this and that out and explains the Humility and the Beijing are the two furthest points in the fleet, and that the distances between each fleet vessel is vital to prevent collision, in case any of them ever develops a malfunction and veers off course.

‘And the speed too, that’s vital too because, actually, the ships are all different sizes, so the power to weight ratio and the thrust needed to ensure we’re at the exact same speed to keep us together is really complex.’

She nods seriously, draining her glass. ‘That’s fascinating. How do they make them all fly at the same rate then? Some of the ships hardly even talk to each other.’

‘There’s a mainframe computer they’re all connected to that controls the flight, speed, trajectory. We’re meant to be aiming at what they thought was a solar system capable of holding life but it was only a theory and never proved. That’s why we send the Shuttle Gagarin out. It’s got the most highly developed engine humanity has ever produced and can leave this fleet standing. It’s rammed with sensors too, trying to find a new planet. There are conspiracy theories all over the place that claim they found one but we’re still looking. He shrugs, pulling a face. ‘Oh see that? That’s the Shuttle Columbus. I actually went on that once but only to help drag some trolleys off when one of the crew was sick.’

She watches, mesmerised, as he talks, listening intently to things she had never even thought about. Things like this never really mattered in the Elfors. Everyone knows they’re on spaceships looking for a planet but that’s it. Everything else is just background noise and doesn’t help feed you.

‘Ooh another glass, thank you so much,’ she beams at the woman before scowling at her new wristband bleeping. She swipes to take the call, already guessing it will be either Abdul or Penny.

‘Yassy,’ Abdul says. ‘How’s the flight?’

Yassy lifts her glass and nods while telling herself to show some fucking gratitude because Abdul just saved her ass. ‘It’s fine, thank you,’ she says, smiling more naturally.

‘Good. I’m glad you’re away safely. I’ve taken the liberty of booking you into this place we always use for business. I’ll send Sam the information.’

‘What?’ Yasmine asks, looking at Sam to see him still entranced with the world outside the shuttle. ‘No, this is too much. We really appreciate you getting us off the Humility but…’

‘Yassy, it’s fine,’ Abdul cuts in. ‘I claim it all back under expenses. I’m an elected councillor. Relax. Have some more champagne. It’s synth but still nice, right?’

‘Okay,’ Yasmine says, exhaling slowly.

‘Honestly, relax,’ he leans closer, speaking lower. ‘We’ll talk properly soon, okay? You take care now.’ He cuts the call as Yasmine sits back in the seat and does as told by drinking more synth champagne. ‘It’s still nice, right?’ she murmurs. A disquiet inside. A nag. A worry. Too many things happening. Too many things to think about. ‘Holy fuck,’ she mouths, looking up as they start passing the underside of The Ark. The thing is so big. So bloody vast. ‘What are those spinning things?’

‘Satellites,’ Sam says with a chuckle.

‘Don’t mock me,’ she says, whacking his arm gently.

‘They’re trapped in a gravitational orbit while still holding a forward momentum. Just that alone is a staggering feat of engineering.’

‘Oh. How long does this flight take anyway?’

‘Anything from four to eight hours, they told us when we took off.’

‘Did they? I didn’t hear it. Why so long?’

‘It depends if the port is free when we arrive. The Beijing’s ports keep getting snarled up. It’s actually a nightmare because it has a knock-on effect throughout the whole fleet. We get this e-newsletter at work and they’re always going on about it.’

‘Ex-work,’ she says, drinking more synth champagne. ‘We work for Abdul now apparently. What am I saying! What the actual fuck. We just stole two lines of…’

‘Shush,’ Sam says, waving a hand at her.

‘I said,’ she whispers. ‘We just stole two Crypto-Bond thingies. We’re rich! Fuck Abdul. Fuck everyone. This is our vacation -- we’re on holiday, Pretty Boy. What do you say about that? Are you even listening?’

‘No. Look at the size of it,’ he says, admiring the underside of The Ark instead.

‘Fine,’ she grumbles, staring into her empty glass with a slightly petulant frown as another full one is placed on her table, prompting a huge smile. ‘Actually, I love working for Abdul. From now on we’re telling everyone we work for Abdul. You’re still not listening. Fine. Whatever. Was gonna show you my boobs tonight and everything. Oh you heard that all right…’

ALSO BY RR HAYWOOD

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In 2061, a young scientist invents a time machine to fix a tragedy in his past. But his good intentions turn catastrophic when an early test reveals something unexpected: the end of the world.

A desperate plan is formed. Recruit three heroes, ordinary humans capable of extraordinary things, and change the future.

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THE UNDEAD DAY ONE

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ONE

My name is Howie. I was named after my father Howard, but it became too confusing to have two Howards, so I became Howie.

I am twenty-seven years old and I work as a night manager in a supermarket.

This is my account

Day One

Friday

One

‘The unseasonably hot weather has caught us all out, not just our store but stores right across the region. Head Office are working round the clock to get the summer seasonal stock out to us. In the meantime, if we get customer enquiries please remind them they can still purchase online and collect in store…’

My god, this is boring. I’m hot and uncomfortable. Being the night manager means most of this doesn't apply to me. I can’t see our usual quota of taxi drivers, drunks and whatever other poor sods coming into the store at night asking why we don’t have Bermuda shorts on offer yet, or why have we only got ten different sun creams instead of over bloody thirty of them.

‘…Onto other news,’ the general manager drones on. ‘The morning managers have reported a definite improvement on the readiness of the store for the daily trade. That, in my opinion, is down to the appointment of the new nights manager…’

Shit, that’s me. This is like being in school when the teacher suddenly stops and looks at you, then everyone else looks at you and you get that fluttery panicked feeling of missing the question.

‘Er…’ I sit up properly to see the other managers are all smiling at me, apart from Paul that is.

‘We have seen an increase in trade during the hours of darkness too,’ the general manager continues. ‘And a drop in staff sickness and absence,’ he peers down at a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Wastage has been reduced by over twenty percent and,’ he looks up at me with that genial smile, ‘unbelievably, we have seen an actual increase in sales of our promotional offers, which, ladies and gentlemen,’ he casts his eyes around the room, ‘is unheard of for a twenty-four-seven store...’

I hate that fucking phrase. Twentyfourseven. It’s just so, so…

‘So, Howie, the floor is yours,’ the general manager looks to me, ‘please impart how you have achieved this within three months of being appointed.’

Paul is glaring. Can’t blame him really. He was the night manager for twelve months and sat in these meetings every two weeks moaning about how it was all so different at night and “you don’t understand the pressures we’re under.”

Different? Pressure? The only difference is that it’s dark outside and as for pressure, the bloody store hardly has any sodding customers cluttering the place up and making a mess.

‘Ha!’ I start off with a blurt of laughter then inwardly curse at myself for doing it. Yeah great start Howie, really great. ‘Um, well we kind of er…just worked a bit harder?’ I offer while feeling a blush creeping up my cheeks.

‘Specifics Howie,’ the manager says, urging me to share my excellent managerial skills, ‘Head Office are interested and want to know what is being done differently.’

Ooh, that causes a ripple through the shark pool. These career hungry bastards have just heard the words Head Office and interested in the same sentence. To have Head Office interested is either the precursor to a death sentence or something glittery and gold.

Paul isn’t glaring now, the poor sod has dropped his head and looks beat, completely beat, like he’s ready to start making a noose.

‘Specifics,’ I say slowly while rubbing my jaw to try and look all clever and serious, ‘well, er…staff absence is down because er…’

What do I say? The night staff have been the night staff since time began. A collection of misfits and slightly odd folk who, for many reasons, just don’t like working in the day. Be that because they have a general hatred of humanity or an almost vampire-like existence, where the sight of the sun would burn them to death, no one knows. I can’t tell the general manager it’s down to the quick poker session we have during the lunch break either. That’s really not allowed, like really not allowed.

‘I think it’s only too easy to see the staff simply as resources and not as humans with feelings and emotions.’ Oh shit, stop Howie, ‘so in order to maximise the efficiency of the night staff, I simply make the working environment a nice place to be.’ Howie stop, really stop now. ‘We all get on with each other and er…well I may have bent the odd rule, not broken I hasten to add.’ Jesus, Tesco rules are carved in stone and carry a sentence of death by firing squad.

‘What rules?’ The general manager barks, suddenly losing his enthusiastic persona.

‘Er well, the spreading of breaks is the main one really. I know during the day you have to make sure the break times are staggered but on nights we go down to a skeleton crew which is rotated, and we take our breaks together which helps build a feeling of camaraderie.’

‘Right,’ the general manager says slowly as though he’s just been told the secret to immortality, ‘wastage?’

‘Wastage?’ I shift again. The reduction in wastage is down to getting barred from the poker game if you break anything, ‘er, just being like, really careful…’

‘The increase in promotional sales?’ The general manager prompts. Everyone is staring at me now, apart from Paul almost weeping into his hands.

Yeah, the promotional sales. Whoever sells the most gets the first hand for free in the following nights poker game. ‘Promotional sales? Well, that’s just down to er, an increase in promotional awareness and outlining the benefits of maximising sales and how those benefits cascade down to everyone.’

‘Good,’ the general manager nods with interest, ‘very good. A rising star in our midst ladies and gentlemen, and someone to watch out for,’ he beams round the room, happy again.

Cheers for that, I’ll be testing my tea for poison now and watching out for trip wires next to the big waste crushing machines.

‘Keep it up Howie and you’ll be back on days before you know it,’ he adds before finally turning his attention to the produce manager for an update on why sales of turnips have gone down. Thank fuck that’s over.

I hate these meetings, but the good thing is that they earn me an extra night off. I’ll stick around until my lot start at 9pm then be off home for junk food, sofa and maybe even a couple of beers.

Eventually, the meeting ends and suddenly I’ve got a whole bunch of new friends. Even the gorgeous cashier manager gives me a smile which just makes me blush and walk into the back of a chair.

‘Well done Howie,’ Steve the home deliveries manager pats me on the back.

‘Head Office eh?’ Someone else nods meaningfully at me. Duty managers, shift managers, staff managers, more managers than you can shake a stick at but Tesco work to a formula and as much as we all moan about corporate greed, they are bloody good at it.

The other problem with the big meeting is that all the managers are required to be at work at the same time, which translates to no spare office space, no free computers to work from and not even a spare desk to sit at while the rest of them polish their name badges and slick their hair down.

Instead, I stroll about the store and smile at people while carrying some bits of paper. Always works that does.

Five o’ clock soon comes, sparking a mass exodus of office people running out the store to start doing whatever normal people do on Friday nights.

I get some office space and a computer and get my shit together as the evening rolls on while listening to my small FM radio broken out of my drawer now the other tie wearing bastards have all gone home.

By Nine O’clock I’m pretty much finished and stretching back looking forward to me pizza and beer.

‘…reports from Reuters suggest the riot was sparked by one assailant biting into several members of the public within the shopping centre…’

Did he just say biting? Bloody hell. I grab the radio and twist the volume knob up.

‘Details are still still coming in, but we do know the area is being flooded with police in an effort to bring order…’

‘Evening Howie,’ glancing up I miss the rest of the report as Bert the night-shift security guard walks into the office, prompting me to quickly roll my sleeves up properly.

‘Bert, how are you?’

‘Smartness makes the man,’ he smiles, giving me a smile that suggests he saw my scruffy half-folded sleeves.

He’s a grey-haired chap in his sixties but Bert screams ex-army. His shoes gleam from being relentlessly bulled and his trousers have razor sharp creases running down the front. His sleeves are either down and fastened properly or rolled up above the elbow with exact precision, something he likes to remind me about when he sees me looking scruffy.

‘Meeting okay was it?’ He asks, taking a radio from the charging unit.

‘Fine, profits up, wastage and sickness down…they’re very happy.’

‘Didn’t mention the poker games then?’

‘Funny that, no I didn’t,’ I laugh as he adjusts his black tie. He holds the coveted position of CCTV controller, staying within the secure room to watch the millions of live feeds from the millions of cameras dotted about the store, unless he’s popping out to play poker that is.

‘Oh well, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. You’re off tonight aren’t you?’

‘Oh yes,’ I grin, locking my fingers together behind my head as I stretch out, ‘pizza, beer and my sofa.’

‘Young man like you,’ he tuts, ‘should be out finding yourself a nice woman. Or a bad one,’ he adds with a wink.

‘Yeah, one day… I’m still holding out for the cashier manager, she actually smiled at me today.’

‘Did she now?’ he chuckles, ‘you’d best go buy a ring then.’

‘Yeah alright,’ I laugh, ‘here, have you heard the news? Something about a riot and someone biting…’

‘Caught the tail end of it as I was leaving home, er…somewhere in Europe I think…’

‘Oh, not here then?’

‘God no,’ he shakes his head, ‘storm in a teacup somewhere.’

‘Oh.’ Losing interest, I put my radio down and start getting ready to go while listening to the night staff gradually filing in and smiling at the difference in them now.

Three months ago they were sullen, withdrawn and stayed in horrible little cliques. Now I can hear them laughing and sharing jokes while avoiding mentioning the poker game for fear of the late shift staff hearing them.

That’s all it is really. We have something the others don’t. A secret thing that we can all enjoy with a sense of doing it together. The poker games are only ever for a couple of quid and the biggest the pot ever won was only a fiver.

‘Evening.’ Stepping out the office I call down to the men and women gathered by the lockers, getting a chorus of replies in return. Happy people smiling and joking, and it almost makes me want to stay at work. Almost.

‘Mr Howie,’ turning around to see Dave, one of the night shelf-stackers standing there.

‘Dave, how are you?’ I don’t bother trying to correct him calling me Mr Howie, I’ve said it to him loads of times, but he still does it.

‘Fine thank you, Mr Howie,’ he nods briefly then walks past towards his locker.

‘Dave, we had a meeting today, performance is up, wastage and everything bad is down so er…’ he stares at me with a completely blank face, ‘well the offer is still there if you want to move onto working days.’

‘No, thank you, Mr Howie,’ he replies dully. A hard-working man, exceptionally quiet and he never joins in with the banter or jokes. He works hard. His breaks are kept to a minimum and even during his hour long meal break, he takes enough time to eat and then goes back to work. Mind you, no one ever takes the piss out of him either. He might be small, but something about him discourages stupid comments.

‘Okay, well let me know if you change your mind.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

‘I’m off tonight.’ He stares at me without expression, ‘so er…have a good night,’ I smile. He walks off.

Wishing them a pleasant evening and getting some mild well-meaning abuse for having a night off, I make my way out and start the walk home.

It’s a beautiful warm night, sultry even, and it feels more like somewhere in Spain than the south of England.

Boroughfare is a nice enough town, close to the sea but inland enough to avoid being classed as a resort town. Mid-size and it’s the same as anywhere else with lots of houses surrounding a town centre.

My place is just off the centre. Noisy, but cheap. I have the top half of a house with a young couple living underneath me. A residential side street with brick built houses and slate roofs. Average as average can be.

The quickest route is through the side streets, but it shaves a minute off the journey and the night is lovely, so I walk back through the High Street watching the crowds of people moving from pub to pub.

It’s packed, really busy. I guess the hot weather is drawing everyone into the centre. People laughing and singing noisily makes me think of my sister living in London. Sarah is a PA for one of the big investment banks. She moved there a few years ago I know she loves the weekend networking parties, as she calls them.

I kind of feel like I want to join in and be out with the crowds drinking having fun. It’s not really my scene though, I’m not fashion conscious or stylish and I don’t go in for whatever the latest trends are.

Twenty-seven and still shy as hell round pretty girls, and it’s only been the last few years that my hair has started looking even remotely decent. Dark, curly, too long and permanently messy. I don’t work out or do anything other than work and piss about at home.

Pausing at the door of the pizza place I spot fat-bloke inside. I’ve never learnt what his name is, but I know he likes drinking. He comes into the supermarket most weekends tanked up and swaying while he buys loads of junk food, crisps, chocolate, pies and frozen chips.

I feel bad calling him fat-bloke as he’s a nice man, always polite and jovial, willing to share a joke and he’s never aggressive like some of the drunks are. Looks professional too from the nice suit he’s always got on.

It’s just one of those things, time rolls on and you end up meeting people time and again until suddenly it’s too late to be asking their name.

‘Hello mate,’ I say with a grin, joining him at the counter.

‘Hi,’ he grins and even holds a hand out, ‘supermarket man, yeah hi! How are you?’ He’s sober but still really friendly and this early in the evening I can see his tie is done up properly and he looks sharp and switched on.

‘Fine,’ I nod back amiably, ‘night off.’

‘Good for you, having a pizza eh? Don’t blame you, they’re nice here. Have you tried the meat feast?’

‘Oh yes,’ I give him a knowing grin.

‘You enjoy it then? Working at Tesco I mean, I heard they look after their managers quite well.’

‘Yeah it’s not bad,’ I shrug, ‘lucky to have a job these days.’

‘True,’ he sighs, ‘so you out then or off home?’

‘Pizza and home for me.’

‘Really? Young bloke like you on a Friday night? Come and have a beer with me if you like,’ he means it too, not a fake, polite offer but a genuine one.

‘Nah, thanks anyway.’ As much as I’m sure it would be nice, the town centre at weekends really isn’t my scene. Too many pumped up lads wearing t-shirts two sizes too small for them and women screaming into mobiles phones.

We make small talk until the pizzas are handed over in their lovely warm cardboard boxes, and after exchanging polite farewells, I make my way through the town to the side street and down to my building and up to my first floor flat.

Television on, quick change of clothes, couple of cold ones from the fridge and within minutes of walking in, I’m sat on the sofa eating the first slice of thick crust meat feast while flicking through the channels.

I check the movies out first but they’re all old ones I’ve seen many times. Next, I check for something funny, but again it’s all repeats, dramas, repeats, documentaries, repeats.

Out of sheer desperation, I flick higher through the numbers until I start hitting the news channels and see footage of the riots they mentioned earlier on the radio.

Some of the footage is awful, and I mean awful. Poor quality, grainy and obviously snatched by low-resolution cameras in poor light.

Some of it, however, isn’t awful. Some is high definition and taken by someone using a modern phone who at least knows how to hold their hand still. Full colour, full audio and utterly shocking, filming people with awful injuries, wounds to their faces and necks, bleeding with noses or ears ripped away. The most shocking thing is seeing police officers and people in uniforms fire handguns into crowds of bystanders, then more police officers using shotguns and assault rifles.

Then more footage is shown, showing Swat teams and riot police deployed onto streets. Shooting and using huge sticks to batter people writhing on the ground. Gunshots and screams in nearly every segment shown. Injuries too and so much blood. Blue flashing lights on cars. Sirens warbling and people running, and as it goes on so I start to recognise some of the places they are talking about.

Riga in Latvia. Cities in Lithuania and Estonia. Then Poland and the German border towns. Footage from Moscow in Russia. Budapest. Rome. Zurich. Famous landmarks glimpsed in the backdrop. I’ve never seen anyone being killed before, but right now it’s been shown without censorship, making me flinch and screw my eyes closed. An Italian cop firing a handgun into a group of people running after him, except they look weird, like stiff-legged and jerky. He still shoots them, and they still keep running.

The other thing I see are people biting each other. Savagely too. Like they’re high on some kind of drug and just going nuts, biting into necks and arms, into anything they can reach. It’s bloody gross and just the thought of being bitten by a drug-addict repulses me.

What sickens me even more, however, is the sight of the news anchors in obvious glee at having something so meaty and awful to report on. You can see it in their faces, and I bet the notes they are making on the bits of paper in front of them are in preparation for whatever awards news agencies give each other, while pausing dramatically with fingers pushed into ears as they take fresh information in.

When the main news channels show disasters, they seize on one or two bits of footage and loop it over and over while going through their lists of experts to either phone up or get them into the studio.

This is different because I don’t see the same bit of footage twice.

The funny thing is that I was quite calm at first, thinking all these places were a billion light years away and just weird, crazy European cultures having a squabble that would never, could never, affect this country.

England, however, has a long history with rioters and it isn’t long before I’m starting to think maybe all those council estate kids in London might flare up again and starting looting JD Sports and Argos.

Then the footage starts showing the same things happening in Luxembourg, Belgium and France.

France? Bloody hell. That’s only a few hours away from where I live. Yeah fair enough you’ve got to get a ferry or a train under the channel…The Channel Tunnel. The tunnel that connects France to England.

Shit. The realisation seems to hit across the board and I watch the news anchors loosen ties and unbutton the top buttons of shirts or rolling sleeves up.

There’s no mistaking the next bit of footage, the bloody Eiffel Tower is in the background with masses of people running and screaming. More gunshots; pistols first then the sustained firing of automatic weapons.

Suddenly the reasons given for it change.

The anchors start talking about pandemics, contagions and a fast-acting virus spread by airborne particles or transferred by bodily fluids. Time and again witness reports state people were being bitten to death, only they didn’t stay dead, they got back up and started biting other people.

This isn’t the Friday night I expected to be having, slouched back with my feet on the coffee table.

Instead, I’m on the very edge of my sofa flicking up and down the channels trying to see the difference between the news reports, but it’s all the same and when the first channel starts to transmit the technical error message I don’t really pay too much attention, but flick past it in a hurry to see the developments.

Then Euronews goes down and Sky News reports they are losing contact with outside agencies. BBC News loses satellite connections.

Things start breaking, phone calls drop out and for the first time in what is probably television history, the news anchors start to panic.

With a shock I realise it’s gone one o’clock in the morning, I’ve been glued to the television for hours then it dawns on me just how fast this thing is spreading.

‘…still we have received no government updates. This is a live request for any government official with knowledge or advice to be given to the people of the United Kingdom to make contact with either our news department or any of the main broadcast news agencies…’

Fuck me. They’re asking for the government to get in touch, literally asking if anybody is watching to phone them.

Flicking through the channels, the same request is being made live by multiple news anchors as they beg for someone to tell them what to do.

My stomach starts churning and I feel sick with worry. Sarah, my sister, will be out in some swanky central London wine bar. Paris is only about an hour train ride from London.

I’ve got to call her and tell her to get home and lock the doors. I grab my phone but there’s no signal. I live right by the town, the coverage here is excellent. I turn it off and back on hoping it’s my phone playing up.

It isn’t. Still no signal. Landline then. I dust the thing off and use my mobile to find Sarah’s number, and I’m halfway through before I realise there is no dial tone on the landline. Nothing, just an empty faint hiss.

I press the clicker down several times but that makes no difference and I glance back at the television with my stomach dropping again at the sight of the blank screen.

Sky News, BBC News, ITV News, all of them gone. Just blank screens from one channel to the next. Even the technical error messages are gone.

What do I do? No mobile, no landline. No contact with anyone. My parents live in the next town along, just a few miles away but at this time of night, they’ll be tucked up in bed. Maybe I should get to them. I bite my bottom lip, trying to think what to do when I hear noise coming from outside. Footsteps. Someone running.

I get to my lounge window and look out to see a guy running from the direction of the town. A big man too by the looks of it, but he’s still shifting quickly despite his size. I spot him giving fast furtive glances behind him, like someone is chasing him.

Fat-bloke. Definitely him. Running down my street in his smart suit.

Leaning out I can see several more people running in the same direction, only they are going much faster than he is and gaining quickly, which in turn seems to be making him panic more, and even in the streetlights I can see his face is flushed bright red as he gasps for air. Poor bastard will have a heart attack if he doesn't slow down.

The groups dynamics start screaming out in my head. The way they people chasing him are running stiff legged and weird with no clear cohesion to their movements. Just like on the footage, but this is Boroughfare, a small market town in the middle of bloody nowhere. Then I hear fat-bloke whimpering in panic as he snatches a glance behind him.

‘HERE,’ I yell out, reacting from instinct and start waving my arms to draw his attention as he looks up with an expression of utter terror.

My front door is locked, he won’t be able to get through. A couple of quick steps and I’m out my lounge and into my tiny hallway opening my flat door. Down the stairs, pass the door to the downstairs flat and I get to the main front door and go out into the street.

I run down the garden path and into the street, waving my arms for him and shouting for him to keep going. They’re bloody close to him now, maybe five or six of them, men and women and all of them dressed like they’ve just come from the town.

The next few seconds are a blur as fat-bloke seems to realise he’s done for and comes to a sudden stop. A second of nothingness, of near silence and he turns to see them coming in hard and lashes out with a weak punch, but they dive in as one, ripping him from his feet in the blink of an eye.

Fat-bloke screams with a high-pitched wail full of pain that freezes the blood in my veins. I start moving towards him but even from this distance, I can see the people are tearing at his flesh with their teeth, ripping him apart with their mouths, tearing into his face, neck and arms. Blood spraying everywhere, soaking their faces.

‘WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?’ An old man in his pyjama’s shouts, striding out of his front door. ‘I’M BLOODY SICK OF YOU PISSHEADS FIGHTING EVERY NIGHT.’

The speed they move from fat-bloke to the old man is frightening, like a pack of animals that suddenly want the fresh meat instead of the carcass on the ground and they burst up and into him with the same frenzied manner.

I’ve got to do something. I feel compelled to help but there’s nothing I can do. I start creeping backwards towards my front door with the overwhelming instinct to go slowly in case they see me.

Lights come on a few doors away from the group and a thickset man comes flying out the front door in his boxer shorts while brandishing a baseball bat. He doesn't hesitate but goes straight at them, battering them off the old man with the sickening thuds of wood beating into hard skulls.

He gets some good shots, really good shots. The sort of shots that would see the average person going to hospital with a fractured skull, but they don’t flinch, and within seconds he’s off his feet and on the ground too. I didn’t see his wife come out but there she is, phone in hand while she screams at them to leave him alone. She even tries grabbing one of the attackers to pull him away, but he launches up to bite into her face. She holds her ground and for a second the pair of them stagger around while thrashing violently until her legs give out and she drops as more join in, biting at her legs and arms while screams and howls fill the air, and yet more people rush from their homes with lights coming on all up and down the street.

I stop at my gate, transfixed at the sight, frozen in utter shock of seeing people running out from houses clutching phones as they scream and shout before being taken down amidst trashing limbs. Confusion everywhere. Instant chaos and I spot a blood-soaked man stagger up the path of a house and in through the open front door, followed by awful screams a few seconds later.

Movement to my right and I snap my head over to see fat-bloke going from prone to upright in what must be his first sit-up in fifteen years. He gets slowly and awkwardly to his feet then staggers about, his legs heavy and awkward. Blood streaming down his face, and as he turns towards me, I get the creeping realisation of how utterly stupid I am.

I just watched hours of footage of people being bitten to death and getting back up and here I am, gawping like a bloody fool at fat-bloke’s head lolling about in a jerky manner and his arms hanging loosely at his side.

Having watched hours of footage of people getting bitten to death and getting back up and here I am, waving like a bloody lunatic. Like he’s got no control over his fine motor skills. Then he finally turns to face me and I saw the red bloodshot eyes in the sodium streetlight as his lips pull back to show his teeth.

That does it and I leg it away, sprinting for my front door as Simon, my downstairs neighbour, comes out of his flat.

‘What’s going on?’ He looks half-asleep, dressed in tracksuit bottoms with no top on.

‘Get back inside,’ I whisper urgently.

‘What’s up with you?’ He asks, ‘what’s going on?’

‘Get the door shut and keep your voice down.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ he snaps. I’ve not had much contact with my neighbours Simon and Laura, but what little I’ve had has left me thinking the bloke is a bit of a prick.

‘Mate, seriously, close the fucking door,’ I glance back while Simon keeps a firm grip on the handle of the outer door, refusing to let me shut it.

‘Are you drunk?’ he asks, scowling at me.

‘No! Close the fucking door…’

‘Simon, I’m trying to sleep,’ Laura appears in the doorway of their flat in her bra and knickers.

‘Howie’s pissed,’ Simon says as though it explains everything.

‘No, I’m bloody not,’ I reply, still trying ineffectually to get the door closed. Thing is, being an average English bloke, I don’t want to physically push him away, so we end up playing tug of war with the front door.

‘Well I’m telling the landlord tomorrow,’ Laura shouts, ‘I’ve had enough of this…’

‘Shut up,’ I hiss, turning to see fat-bloke staggering through our shared garden gate.

‘Don’t you fucking tell my bird to shut up.’

‘I’m not your bird, Simon!’

‘Oh fuck…please…get this door shut, he’s coming…’

‘Who?’ Simon asks, looking past me to the garden path while we swing the door closed and open. ‘What him? What’s he gonna do? Sit on ya?’

‘Who’s he on about?’ Laura asks, stepping out to join Simon looking down the path. ‘He’s covered in blood. ‘Ere mate, you alright? Simon, ask him if he’s alright.’

‘You alright mate?’ Simon calls out, ‘you been hurt?’

‘Oh god,’ I murmur backing away from the door.

‘Fucking pussy,’ Simon says with a tut, giving me a filthy look as he goes out the door to stand on the garden path. ‘Christ mate, what happened? You get beaten up?’

‘Did he get beaten up?’ Laura asks, ‘Simon, ask him if he got beaten up.’

‘I just did.’

‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ she says, disappearing inside her flat before coming back with her mobile held in front as she jabs her thumb at the screen.

‘Simon, get back inside,’ I plead.

‘Oh man up,’ Laura snaps while staring in frustration at the phone, ‘bloody network’s down again…’

‘SIMON,’ I scream in warning but it’s too late as fat-bloke suddenly speeds up and charges with incredible speed for the last couple of metres giving Simon no time to react. Slamming in hard with his teeth biting into Simon’s neck as he screams out, taken off his feet from the weight of the impact and hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

No time to think and I run towards them, grabbing at fat-bloke in an effort to pull him off but his sheer weight prevents me doing anything. In desperation, I start beating down on the back of his head as he bites deeper into Simon’s neck.

‘GO BACK,’ I shout as Laura comes running out screaming in panic, she goes straight for the man attacking Simon, grabbing at his arms in a vain effort to pull him away.

Growling behind me, like the sound of a dog and I turn fast to see more of them charging across the street towards us.

‘Laura, now…GO NOW!’ I try pulling her arm but she lashes out, striking me in the face, sending me staggering back a step. I try again and grab her arm but she pulls it free, screaming at me to get off, screaming at Simon to get up. Noise everywhere. Howls and screeches, people in agony. A car screeching past, smashing into other cars further up the street. The sounds of breaking glass. Chaos and bedlam and everything happening so quickly, but within that utter mayhem, I notice Simon has gone quiet and still with his eyes closed as fat-bloke slowly lifts his head to stare at me through those red bloodshot eyes with blood pouring down his chin. The blink of an eye. The beat of a heart. More of them coming in through the gate and Laura still pulling at fat-bloke. There’s nothing I can do and feeling like an utter coward, I get inside and slam the front door closed, catching a glimpse of the attackers lunging at Laura as the door shuts.

I get up into my own flat, locking and bolting the door before moving into the lounge to stare down out the window.

The sight is incredible and will stay with me forever.

Laura on her back wearing just bra and knickers with a huge group of people pushing their heads into her body biting down into any part of her flesh they can access; legs, arms, neck, torso. One even bites deep into the top of her breast, tearing a chunk of flesh away. If she screams out I don’t hear it, and in shock I look up and out to see my street looks like a war zone, like a huge movie set.

Bodies all over the place and people running about screaming and being chased. Several get taken down as more of the attackers start charging into front doors. The screams and wails of women and children mix with the deeper, harsher tones of men.

Then another noise comes to the fore and I look back down to hear the flesh being ripped and torn from Laura’s body. Like dogs eating a bone. Gnashing, growling, wet sucks and tears.

The first heave comes without warning and the vomit propels from my mouth onto the ground below, hitting with a wet splat. Half-digested pizza, beer and bile all mixed in, burning my throat and making my eyes water.

I drop to my knees and heave the rest of my guts onto my lounge carpet. Retching and gasping for air with tears stinging my eyes.

Minutes go by. Long minutes. My throat burns. My head spins and then, finally, I kneel up and peer down to a sea of red bloodshot eyes staring up at me.

‘Bollocks,’ I mutter at the sight. What do I do? Shit. Shit shit shit.

Grabbing a coffee mug from the low table behind me, I go back to the window and pull my arm back, which just splashes the cold coffee in my face and makes me yelp in fright while staggering about for a second before I launch the mug hard at the old man in the pyjamas. It hits him straight in the face knocking him back onto his arse.

I look for something else to throw. The remote control for the television is the closest object so that gets launched out too and smacks Laura on the shoulder, but she doesn't flinch. I don’t even think of how the hell she’s back on her feet after being chomped on by so many people.

Instead, I grab anything within reach. Books, DVD cases, even an empty vase gets launched hard and hits a woman on the head, shattering into fragments. She goes down and I watch in horror as more of them walk over the broken glass, the shards lacerating their feet, but they don’t stop moving.

Missiles get launched one after the other, doing nothing whatsoever to stop them as the flimsy cheap outer front door gives way and they start pushing into the communal hallway.

‘Cock it,’ I run back to my flat door to make it’s locked, but it’s cheap and flimsy too. This is southern England. Doors don’t need to be fortified. Arse. ‘Barricade,’ I mutter the word as the idea pops in my mind and cast about for something to use, but my hallway is small with no furniture.

Into my bedroom and I grab my bedside drawers to carry it back, putting it behind the front door before standing back to proudly view my barricade: One small chest of drawers.

Maybe I need more. Howls and screeches from the other side. Thumps as they run up the stairs.

I definitely need more.

Into the lounge and I sweep the flat screen television off the solid, wooden cabinet and start to drag it towards the door, but the DVD player and satellite box are still in the cabinet, plugged into the wall. The cabinet refuses to budge, the wires taut and holding. I open the glass doors and yank them out, forcing the leads to break while I swear foully under my breath.

The cabinet is stacked behind the door and I spend the next few seconds trying to position the chest of drawers on top of it before realising that one cabinet and one chest of drawers won’t be stopping anyone.

The coffee table is added and I keep going, dragging or carrying whatever I can find. I even get my heavy double mattress and stuff that into the pile. It’s not great, but it will slow them down and it’s about all I can do.

I head back into the lounge and look out with a gasp of frustration at the huge crowd pushing beneath my windows, all of them pushing forward trying to get to the front door, groaning and hissing, howling and screeching.

There must be dozens of them, crowding towards the front of the building, with more coming from across the street.

Nothing else for it so I go back to missile launching. I look around and see my old DVD player on the floor, pick it up, raise it high, then slam it down into the middle of the crowd as hard as I can. It smashes into the head of one of them. I can’t tell if it was a man or woman, but I see it go down and its space is quickly filled as they all push forward again.

Then I do the same again with the satellite receiver box, smashing it down into the middle of the crowd.

In the kitchen, I spot the kettle. It is an electric, stainless steel one, nice and heavy. I grab it and start back to the lounge, stopping after a few steps to turn back to the kitchen where I quickly fill the kettle with water and switch it on then grab everything I can. Pans, plates, cups, bowls, the sugar and coffee pots and the bread bin. All of them ferried into the lounge to be dumped by the open window.

Back and forth I go until the kitchen fills with steam, making me realise I’d forgotten to put the lid on when I filled the kettle. Grabbing at it too hard, I splash hot water onto my hands, scalding my skin and which just makes me swear even more.

Back at the window and I slowly pour the hot water down onto the upturned faces, watching as the water sizzles onto bare skin sending small clouds of steam up, which has absolutely no effect, other than washing some of the blood from them.

In desperation, I raise the kettle above my head and throw it down as hard as I can. It strikes with a loud whack and another body drops out of sight.

Yeah, that’s better, much better. Blunt trauma beats hot water.

I take a heavy ceramic pot from the pile and throw it down hard. It strikes a shoulder and the impact is enough to make the body stumble and fall from view, trampled underfoot as the space is quickly filled.

A frying pan is next, and I launch it down; it hits one on the head with a metallic dong.

It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. I’ve never been in a fight or caused physical injury to another person before in my life, but I am now. I’m slamming everything I can find down and watching as they impact on the heads beneath me.

Some shots are good. The toaster was great, nice and heavy and straight onto the bald head of a man – he goes straight down but, again, the space is quickly filled.

I keep going, fury and anger driving me to scream abuse at the ragged faces, but within minutes my pile is diminished and the front garden is littered with household objects while still more of them stagger in.

I run back to my hallway and stare at the door, listening to the loud bangs and noises coming from the other side. The door rattling in the frame and the first sounds of wood starting to break is soon hard. They’ll be through in minutes and even my super awesome barricade won’t stop them. I have to get out.

My bedroom and lounge both look out over the front. I could probably get down, but there’s too many of them outside. I’ll be dead within seconds. Maybe the back then? I run into my kitchen then the bathroom, shouting in anger at seeing the windows are too small to climb through.

I search for anything left to throw and my gaze falls onto the gas hobs as I think about the hot water. Then I remember reading books about medieval times when they poured hot oil from castles onto the invaders.

Finding a bottle of vegetable oil in the cupboard gives me a small sense of victory before I realise all my saucepans are now in the front garden. I have nothing left to use to heat the oil. My microwave is still there, but I have no pots or bowls.

I could lob the microwave at them. It’s nice and heavy and might drop one, but what good would that do against so many?

A sense of doom comes over me as I head back into the lounge and over to the window. My lighter is still in the corner of the sill, taunting me. I gave up smoking a few weeks ago as I was getting hard looks from the senior managers every time I popped out for a smoke. Jesus, I could do with a smoke right now.

I might not have any cigarettes, but I have got alcohol, and maybe that will lessen the horror of what’s to come. I head into the kitchen and reach up for the bottle of brandy on top of the fridge and give thanks that I didn’t think to grab it in my hunt for missiles.

I take the bottle back to the lounge window and look out as I lift the bottle to drink it straight. Taking a big glug then grimacing from the harsh bite hitting my throat. Jesus, it’s like paint-stripper.

One thought leads to another and I stare at the bottle with fresh interest. Brandy is flammable.

I could use it like a Molotov cocktail … it might burn the house down but I’m pretty much dead already – it’s only a matter of time before they get in.

I dash into the bedroom and tear some strips from my pillowcase, stuffing them into the brandy bottle to soak the amber liquid up. I’ve seen this done in movies and feel confident of how to do it – you light the end and throw the bottle, what could be harder?

At the lounge window, I hold the bottle with the brandy-soaked strips of material dangling limply from its mouth and light the end, grinning evilly as the flames take hold.

‘Have some brandy, fuckers …’

My cool and witty one-liner quickly becomes a yelp as the wick bursts into flames making me panic and throw the bottle down into the crowd; it hits one on the head and bounces off to roll about unbroken, cushioned by the stupid fat-head that it struck on the way down.

That’s it. My last good idea cocked up. But within a few seconds, I see smoke coming up from the crowd, then a whooshing noise with flames licking up between the bodies and I watch as the flames start licking up. Not that they pay any attention or even try and move away. Even when a couple of them set on fire with the flames climbing up over their clothes.

The stench of burning meat hits my nose, making my gag and move away from the window as thick, black smoke billows up into the lounge carrying that smell of cooking meat. I cough and retch again, heaving on my knees once more, puking bile.

A faint noise penetrates the sound of my coughing. A car horn, and coming closer by the sound of it. Lurching to the window I try and look out but the smoke is too much, so I go into the bedroom and pull the curtains down to see an armoured cash-in-transit security van in the middle of the road.

I open the window as the horn sounds out again, loud and clear in the still night air, and the reaction is swift as the infected people in my garden jerk round and start staggering towards it.

‘HERE, OVER HERE,’ I lean out the window screaming and waving at the van in the road as it rolls forward a few feet while sounding the horn on and off with a line of infected stumbling and jerking after it.

They stream out of my garden and I hear the thump as they go down the stairs then appear running up the path and out into the street with more of them staggering from houses and appearing in the night, and within seconds there’s a massive crowd of them.

The van stops and seems to wait for them to get close, then the reverse lights come on and the van goes backwards at speed, slamming into the dense crowd, causing a backwards ripple effect. Then the van shoots forward again sounding the horn, leading them on and away like a pied piper.

Within minutes the street has cleared.

TWO

I wait at the window, listening to the noise from the van ebbing away. Stunned and silent, the after-effects of the excitement and adrenaline making my hands tremble as I rub my face.

I can’t stay here, it isn’t safe. They have gone for now, but they could come back.

No phones. No way of calling for help, and this, whatever this is, is happening everywhere. That makes me realise the police won’t be rushing to my rescue any time soon.

My parents have a detached house in a nice, quiet area. They always go to bed early and I know they lock the doors, so maybe they’re okay. I don’t stand a chance of getting to London, not right now anyway. Fuck it. I hope to hell my sister is okay, but right now, all I can do is get to my parents’ house.

I look at my watch. It’s almost 4.30 a.m. Being mid-July, the sun will be up in half an hour or so. I need to get moving while I’ve got a chance. I don’t own a car, so unless I can find something to drive, I will have to walk.

In the hallway, I stand staring at the barricade. I don’t know if any of them are left out there and I’m too scared to remove the barricade and look.

I go into my bedroom and pull the sheet from the bed, then another sheet from the airing cupboard, then tie them together with a duvet cover. I go to the window and look outside to make sure it’s still clear then tie one end onto the leg of my double bed and drop the sheets down. They reach to a couple of feet above the ground.

Weapon, I need a weapon if I’m going out there. I root through the kitchen drawers to find my biggest carving knife with a nice sharp pointed blade.

I put the knife into my belt with the blade resting against my leg. Then an image of me lying on my back with the knife sticking in my leg fills my mind. I need a sheath, but kitchen knives don’t have sheaths.

I find the small rucksack that I use for work and put the knife into the main compartment, leaving the top open, and I try to wedge the knife into the top zip so that the handle is left out, with the blade in the bag.

I put the bag on my back, but it hangs down too low – I can’t reach the handle. I tighten the straps and raise the bag further up my back, so I can reach back with my hand and grasp the handle.

An old claw hammer is added to my pathetic arsenal but at least I have something that I can use. I think back to the man in boxer shorts hitting them with a baseball bat. He hit them hard and they got knocked away, but they came back. So I know that hitting them won’t kill them, but maybe it will buy me a few seconds to run.

I go back to the bedroom window and start to climb over the sill, grasping the bed sheets with both hands. I wait, sitting astride the window ledge, listening and looking up and down; no noise and no movement. The night’s veil is just starting to lift. Only a few minutes until sun up. I don’t know if that is a good thing or not.

I need to go but I’m bloody terrified and the final act of leaving the safety of my home is almost too much for me to contemplate.

Staying here isn’t an option. They could come back and my front door won’t take another battering, and so, while shaking with fear, I clamber over the ledge and start lowering myself with my hands.

I feel extremely vulnerable with my legs dangling beneath me, and I keep looking around, imagining that one of them will come out of the door and run into the road with the hammer out of my waistband and in my hand.

The sight is worse at ground level. The micro-detail so very much worse as I get a close-up of the frenzied attack. Blood stains are everywhere and a white car parked just a few feet away has bloody handprints smeared across the bonnet and a corpse trapped under one of the front wheels.

A crash occurs behind me and I see one of the things stagger out from my front door. That’s enough for me. I’m off giving it billy big legs, sprinting until I feel my lungs will burst and my legs are hurting. I slow down and look back, but he is gone from sight.

I keep walking fast, sticking to the middle of the road, looking left and right, my ears straining for any noise. The quickest route is straight through town and down the High Street, then onto the dual carriageway.

A few minutes later, I reach a side street that feeds into the town centre and edge forward slowly until I reach the building line. I pause, listening intently and trying to summon the nerve to keep going. I’ve never been so terrified. Why is it so silent? Is that good? My mind starts imagining the infected things are all waiting somewhere, ready to jump out and eat me.

At least the sun is almost up now as the night sky gradually ebbs away. Even the birds are singing and I spot seagulls flying overhead, calling out in the early dawn.

Come on, Howie. I force courage where there is none and move towards the junction of the High Street, cautious and slow. I step out and see the right is clear and almost breathe a big sigh of relief until I look left and see an enormous crowd of them gathered around the armoured security van that led them away from my house now stopped in the middle of the road.

Why did it stop? It hasn’t crashed from what I can see. Maybe there were just too many bodies to drive through? I think to run back and start easing away when the hatch on the roof of the van opens and a man climbs out to stand looking down at the crowd as they swarm around him like fans at a rock concert.

Then the man looks up and spots me staring over while I stand still, unsure of what to do. ‘RUN,’ he shouts at me.

I take a step forward and he shakes his head. ‘NO, RUN … RUN NOW.’

I don’t know what to do. He saved my life and I can’t just leave him to his death. Maybe I could get a vehicle and do the same as he did – lure them away with the sound of a horn.

I look back at the van and can see that there are hundreds of the things surrounding him, spread out in a wide circle, all pushing forward. The man looks safe enough now, but it won’t take long for them to either climb up or use each other to trample on and gain height.

I run down the road to the closest car, but it’s locked and secure. This is the town centre and no one in their right mind would leave a car unlocked here. With a jolt, I see the pizza restaurant further up the road and remember the conversation I had with fat-bloke just a few hours ago.

He was right there, chatting like normal as we ordered food. Dressed in his smart suit and getting ready for a few drinks. The images of his torn flesh flood through my mind, of the blood loss, the arteries opened up, of the horrific noises they made. Pain inside. Other feelings too. Too many of them. Confusion. Denial even. This can’t be happening. It can’t be real. This stuff happens in movies. Not in real life. Yet here I am, as real as anything. I even blink and look back up the road to see the horde of infected things and the guy still on the van roof waving at me to keep going. A surreal moment that makes me pause and hold still as my frazzled brain struggles to process it all.

Then, in the middle of that slack-jawed, confused moment, I spot the pizza delivery moped lying on its side outside the restaurant. The distinctive white box on the back, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m running over and wrenching the thing upright, wincing at the sticky blood on the handles.

An old thing with a twist and go grip to keep it simple for the students and teenagers who use it to earn a few extra quid. Thank fuck the key is still in the ignition.

I wheel the moped out into the road and wave up to the guy on the roof of the van a few hundred metres away. I point at the moped and gesture that I’ll drive away and try to get them to follow me. He shouts back and waves, maybe trying to tell me something but the distance is too great to hear the words.

I get on the moped and turn the keys to the off position and then back on before pressing the start button as the moped splutters noisily to life. The loud noise so familiar to me from all of the times I have had takeaway delivered and heard the moped coming up the street.

As the sun rises and daylight fills the street, I look back to the van, expecting the infected people to be already coming for me as my hand readies to twist and go and lead them away, but something is different.

The outer ring of the crowd have turned and started towards me, but they are moving slower, much slower. Shuffling and dragging their feet. They were fast and wild just a few minutes ago, like predators after prey, relentless and sustained. Now they are stumbling as if they are walking through deep water with each step a struggle.

I look all about, fearing some kind of trap, but they are all the same. Some are turning and heading my way, others remain standing around the van and whereas before they had a menacing aura, now they are a stumbling mess. The steps they take are thudding with straight legs and arms hanging limp with heads lolling about. They keep knocking into each other too, bumping away and going off course, seemingly unable to follow a straight path.

The look to the guy on the van and raise my arms with the international signal for what the fuck?’

He raises two arms, palms up, the international signal for fuck knows. Then he starts doing something else, waving and gesturing but I can’t get what he means.

I step off the moped and push the stand down with my foot, leaning the bike over to rest in situ with the engine still running and ready to go.

Taking a couple of tentative steps towards the mass crowd I watch them move and shuffle. What’s happened? Why have they changed?

The crowd is still too thick to attempt a rescue; there are hundreds of them and only about half are turned in my direction, the rest are still surrounding the van. I need to get them away too.

I go back to the moped and press the horn. A feeble warble sounds out, but I keep my finger pressed down on the button. This appears to focus the direction of their stumbling and I notice more of the crowd turn away from the van towards my direction.

I keep pressing the horn and twist the accelerator grip, thinking that I will rev the engine, forgetting the bloody thing is twist and go and the moped shoots forward, pulling me along. In my panic, I twist the grip more and the moped pulls away faster with me still hanging on.

The kickstand bangs into the road surface, propelling the moped off to the right. I slip and fall over as the moped veers off and crashes into a parked car with a loud bang before clunking over to the ground with the engine spluttering for a few seconds before it dies out. I scrabble up and twist around to see the horde is still shuffling slowly and the guy on the van is covering his face with one hand, and even from this distance I can see him shaking his head.

‘I’m okay,’ I call out while grinning like a bloody fool, bounding up to my feet as though nothing happened. I run over to the moped and lift it up again. It starts first time and I wheel it back into the road, pressing the horn and waiting until they get closer. Staring at them and taking in the awful details of the injuries and the blood. At how they are people, but not people.

The closest one is maybe twenty years old and dressed in his designer jeans with his t-shirt muscles bulging from his tight top and his all hair gelled up in the middle in that messy-on-purpose style that I hate. A torn ragged wound in his cheek flaps open to show rows of teeth and there is dark red blood all over the front of his once white t-shirt and down his arms. There is also a dark stain across the crotch of his blue jeans, but it doesn’t look like blood. He must have pissed himself when they got him – which makes me feel better. I was terrified, but at least I didn’t wet myself.

I’m not much older than him, but I’ve always hated the weekend town centre crowds. Preening, strutting fuckwits. My hair is curly and always messy, without the need for gels and sprays.

I think back to the times when I had been out in the town at weekends, getting barged into by idiots like this who flared up with their arms puffed out.

I’ve always worked. Maybe it isn’t the best job, but I’ve held it down and made duty manager and I know that if I do the hated night shifts there will be a chance for promotion.

No, there was a chance for promotion, but that’s gone now; it’s all gone … everything has gone. Jesus. This is it. I saw it happen on the news. Every country. Everywhere. I saw it happen in my own street, how fast it spreads. The end of the world. There’s no going back from something like this. Not now.

A deep sense of sadness fills me and I start breathing hard as I think of my workmates being savaged by monstrous, preening, pretty boys like this. They were always coming into the supermarket at night, especially after the clubs had kicked out, throwing stuff about and taking the piss out of the staff.

I think about fat-bloke and the life he must have led. Maybe he was deeply sad at his obesity, a reject from society like the rest of us, but he was polite and friendly, and always willing to stop and exchange a few pleasantries and he never looked down his nose at us either.

I look up and watch the pretty boy with a weird anger rising up inside. Anger like I have never known before. I can feel my breathing becoming deeper and harder, my heart hammering in my chest. A feeling I have never had before. Consuming my mind. Something in me snaps with a feeling of such ferocity it drives my actions without conscious thought and before I know it, I’ve drawn the hammer from my waistband, stepped forward and smashed the hard metal end into the side of his head. He drops instantly and I go down too, pounding the hammer into his head, shattering his face and crushing his skull, driving the blunt-ended weapon into his head. Blood and brain matter spray up and coat my arms. My hands become slick and glistening, terror and rage mixing into a deadly cocktail. All reason is gone.

I stop suddenly, becoming alert to my actions. What is left at my feet is not recognisable. The head is pulped, gone, destroyed. I destroyed it. I killed it. I killed one of them and my chest heaves as I struggle for air and stagger backwards.

A sudden movement to my right, another one lunging at me and in reflex, I lash the hammer out in a backswing as it leans in with teeth bared. The force drives the thing off to the side, spinning into a woman wearing a nice blue dress. Full-figured with a heaving cleavage and long brown hair, but her face is slack and her eyes are filled with blood.

She staggers toward me, leaning forward from the waist, lips now pulled back – ready for the bite. I feel repulsed and step backwards while thinking it’s wholly wrong to hit a woman. That’s how I was raised from a child. You never hit a woman.

I blink and move away a step as I look at the woman. She appears uninjured without a bite mark or blood on her, until I look down and see a chunk of muscle in her right thigh has been bitten away.

A groan from my left and a young man with tribal tattoos all over his arms and neck shuffles in then suddenly lunges quickly as though surging to bite. I lash out and slam the hammer into the side of his face. He goes down hard but keeps moving and rolls onto his back before sitting up. I strike him again, harder, and I see his head snap to one side as he’s flung over and feel and hear the crunch of bone in his cheek break. Yet, within seconds, he’s back to sitting up.

I spin the hammer round so that the claw end is now the weapon and drive it down into the top of his skull, cleaving through the bone. The force I use pushes the claw into his skull too hard and it sticks. I try pulling it out, but all I do is pull him towards me.

I put my foot onto his chest and pull harder, and the strength of my pull forces his body into my foot. I stagger backwards and fall down with the hammer left sticking out the top of his head, at which point I become aware of just how close they all are now and still shuffling in. Every one of them staring directly at me with hundreds of pairs of red, bloodshot eyes watching my every move. Groans sounding out. Feet shuffling. Bodies moving.

Then the sight of fat-bloke snatches my breath away. He’s right there, waddling along with the rest of them as he staggers towards me. Pretty boy is on the ground right in front of him yet fat-bloke goes straight over him, trudging his big feet into the corpse. Fast, conflicting emotions course through me. Just seconds ago, I felt an overwhelming sense of shame and guilt at the anger which drove me to kill that thing.

My fingers scrabble for the zip to the bag’s main compartment. I get my hand in and feel the plastic handle and pull the long kitchen knife out.

Still moving backwards, I look at the shiny blade, then at the mass of infected people, then back to the blade.

‘Fuck this,’ I mutter.

I’m off, running away as I throw the knife off to one side, then regret the action immediately. I go back, grab the knife and start running again.

Towards the end of the street, I slow down and look back to see the top of the armoured van is empty.

I scan about for a few seconds, but I can’t see him; there is just a mass of infected people on a slow march like a zombie protest through the town.

I keep moving and, after a few minutes, I see a mountain bike propped up against a wall with no lock. I grab the bike and start pedalling like crazy down the High Street and onto the main road, leaving the crowd far behind.

THREE

I know it’s still very early in the morning, but there would normally be delivery trucks, milkmen, commuters, all slowly emerging as the day wakes up.

Now there is nothing. It’s so quiet. One of the pedals starts to squeak with each rotation of the cog and it’s that single noise that keeps me company on the quiet road.

I haven’t cycled in a long time and it doesn’t take long before my thigh muscles are hurting.

My life consisted of working all night then sleeping in the day, eating crappy food and drinking too many beers in front of the television. I’m paying for it now as I feel exhausted and drained.

My parents’ house is a fifteen-minute drive away from mine. How long will it take to cycle to them?

I try to work it out: a car going at about thirty mph would take fifteen minutes, so if I cycle at fifteen mph it would take me half an hour.

I have no idea what speed I am doing, but it must be at least fifteen mph, then I try to remember what speed normal walking pace is. I’m sure it was on TV once … I think it was four or five mph, and I reckon I am going much faster than walking pace.

My arse hurts and my legs are on fire, feeling weird and pumped up. I think ahead, trying to choose the route I should take. One takes me through the side streets, residential roads with houses, and the other would take me on the motorway. Cycles are not allowed on motorways, so I would be breaking the law, whereas the alternative would take me via the houses and all the things lurking about.

I think I’ll risk being arrested, in fact, being arrested would be the best thing in the world right now. A nice safe cell in a locked police station.

The squeaking pedal and I cycle down the junction and onto the motorway.

It’s still early but hot as hell and the sweat is pouring from my face. I hold the bike steady with one hand while I pull the bottom of my t-shirt up and start wiping the stinging sweat from my eyes and face.

A noise from behind; a car engine, loud and fast. I drop my hand to look back over my shoulder, and see a red car coming up behind me, the engine screaming out into the quiet air. I immediately put my hand up and start waving.

I’m in the outside lane closest to the middle section, which is the same as the car and it’s coming bloody quickly so I start to move over, towards the middle. The car does the same so I start swerving back to the outside lane, but again, it changes course. For a second it feels like the car is aiming for me but at the last second it swerves to the side and goes stonking past at such a high speed the slipstream causes me to wobble. I catch a glimpse of a woman driving. Then as it pulls ahead, I see someone in the back seat, but it looks weird, like the passenger is lurching forward to speak to the driver.

Then the car veers off and strikes the safety barrier with a loud crash. The speed so great and the angle of impact so hard it immediately flips the back end up and out, causing the vehicle to roll over and over in the air. The noise is incredible, a thudding awful boom followed by near on silence as the vehicle sails for long seconds before crashing back down to earth. Rolling with terrible, wrenching metallic screams, glass imploding and a whole wheel shorn off to go bouncing down the road. Debris flying far and wide and the vehicle scoring a long deep gouge in the tarmac before it comes to rest on its roof

All is instantly quiet again, apart from the squeaking of my pedal as I cycle faster towards the wreck.

The car is utterly destroyed. The front end is crumpled in and the remaining front wheel looks buckled. The windows have shattered into thousands of tiny pieces glittering on the road and I catch scent of burning rubber mixed with chemicals in the air, petrol too.

As I give a final burst of speed, I hear a loud crunch and feel a sudden loss of pressure from the pedals. The chain snaps audibly and twangs off to snarl into the rear wheel, which causes me to lose control. I squeeze the brakes and steer to the right to avoid a collision but the bike hits some of the liquid and the back tire loses grip, causing me to fall off and slide along the debris-strewn road.

How is that possible? How is it possible that on an empty motorway I fall off my bike to smash into the only pissing car here?

Noises coming from the car snap me back to reality and I’m up, scrambling towards the driver’s window as a slender arm drops out, the fingers clenching into a fist.

‘Fuck,’ the movement makes me jump back, fearing one of those things is about to come flying out at me.

‘Help.’ A female voice, low and weak and I go lower onto my stomach, crunching over broken glass to see a woman with blonde hair upside down being held in place by the seatbelt as the deployed airbags sag down at her sides and from the steering wheel.

‘Hey…are you hurt?’

She snaps her head over, staring at me with relief through normal blue eyes filling with tears.

‘I’ll get you out…okay? My name’s Howie…can you move?’

I try and remember what should be done now. She could have a neck or spinal injury so should stay still until the emergency services get here. Only there aren’t any emergency services now, no firemen to cut the roof off and no paramedics to get her onto a spinal board.

Fluids are still leaking from the car, chemicals and the pungent stench of fuel. Can it explode like they do in the movies?

‘I’m going to pull you out,’ I say it as gently as I can but there really isn’t any choice. She has to get out of the vehicle.

‘Okay,’ she replies quietly, obviously shocked. Grasping her hand I start applying pressure, but out of fear of hurting her, I don’t pull hard enough then realise the seatbelt is still on.

‘The seatbelt, can you undo it?’ She looks at me then slowly turns her head to grope for the clasp. ‘Hang on,’ I say, fearing she will fall on her head. I lie flat on my back and push my hands up against her shoulders. ‘Okay, do it now,’ I say and hear the click as she pushes the button down and drops on my head.

‘Sorry,’ she gasps from somewhere on top of me.

‘S’fine,’ I say, somewhat muffled as we wriggle and writhe with poky bits of broken car digging into our bodies. I slide out of the wreck and twist around to start pulling her out by her arms as she seems to revive a bit with colour and life coming back into her face.

‘Just, a bit, further,’ I say as she slowly comes out of the mangled window.

‘Okay…keep going…’ she replies, her voice a little stronger now.

‘Does your back hurt?’

‘No…I think I’m okay.’

‘Thank god for that, what about the other person?’ I ask tentatively, thinking the person in the back might not have survived.

‘Gordon!’ She gasps as her upper body is pulled free and stares up at me before letting go with an ear-piercing scream. I drop her in panic as she starts thrashing about violently. ‘MY LEG…MY LEG…’

‘What the…’ I blink and swallow, my heart once more going like the clappers as I drop down and edge in closer, thinking there must be a shard of metal stuck in her leg. ‘Let me see…please just…’

‘MY LEG….MY FUCKING LEG.’

Wiggling closer I try and get a view of the inside, then spot the back of a man’s head moving in the gap between the seats.

‘I think he’s alive,’ I shout, my words trailing off with sick realisation at the same time as he lifts his head up to show his mouth dripping with blood from the hole he has bitten into the back of her calf muscle. He growls once like a dog then sinks back down to bite again, causing a fresh burst of agonised screams.

‘Fuck!’ Pushing myself out of the vehicle I get free and grab her wrists. ‘Hold on,’ I say through gritted teeth. She screams in complete agony but slides free from the car. With her leg shifted, the man immediately starts writhing towards the gap left by her exit.

A quick glimpse shows me that one of his arms has been removed at the shoulder joint, shorn clean off with thick blood pumping out. Even in the midst of such carnage, I can’t help but notice the blood flow is nowhere near what I would expect. It falls out in thick globules rather than pulsing out in a stream.

‘My leg … fuck … it hurts … oh … fuck … it hurts …’ she screams in agony.

I look down at her leg and the blood pouring out from the wound. The bite must be down to the bone. I need to stop the bleeding, but I don’t have any bandages. I take the belt off of my jeans and start to wrap it around her thigh.

‘We’ve got to stop the bleeding,’ I say quickly.

‘Okay,’ she gasps. Glancing up, I figure that the man inside the car is moving slowly enough to give us time.

Wrapping the belt around her thigh, I thread it back through the loop and start cinching it tight as she stares down at the wound. ‘I’m bleeding out,’ she gasps. ‘Pull it.’

I wrench back on the belt trying to form a tourniquet but the muscles in her thighs are too hard. She still screams out from the pain and starts clutching her belly too, writhing in agony.

‘Shit, I’m so sorry,’ dropping down again, I loosen the belt and push it further up her thigh, feeling very awkward at seeing her smooth expanse of skin and her knickers, ‘god I’m so sorry, so sorry.’

‘It’s okay…’ she says, her voice ragged and harsh, ‘do it, just fucking do it.’

Wrapping the belt round again, I pull on the free end and gradually apply more pressure. I stare down at the pulsing wound but there is no change.

‘Fucking pull it then,’ she growls. I heave with all my strength as she screams out, her hands reaching up to grab at my arms. Harder and harder I pull the belt, and I even get my foot onto her thigh for leverage as I cinch it tighter into her flesh.

‘Almost,’ I pant and keep going, determined to get enough pressure so the blood stops coming out. If I can stop the blood flow, I can dress the wound and try releasing the tourniquet a bit; maybe it will clot on its own. Fuck it, I should have signed up for the advanced First Aid course.

She falls silent as I slowly ease my grip and the belt holds in place. The bleeding now much less than it was.

‘I’ve done it,’ I say hoarsely.

No response. I twist round to see she has gone quiet, like she’s asleep. Her hands out to the sides.

‘Hey…hey…wake up,’ I gently move her head but get no response. Tapping the side of her face, I try and wake her. Still no response. I lower my head so that my ear is next to her mouth and I can feel very soft breath on my cheek.

A groan sounds behind me from the infected man trying to crawl out of the car, stretching his remaining arm out towards us. I rush in and drive my right foot down onto his head, sending a jolt up through my leg, but I keep going, stamping over and over as he gargles and snaps his mouth. I am for the aim the neck and finally feel a crack under my foot.

Hobbling back to the woman, I drop down to rest my ear against her mouth. There’s no breath this time. ‘Wake up, come on, please wake up,’ I plead feeling for a pulse in her neck, but there is nothing. I try her wrist … no sign of life. I lift her eyelids; I don’t know what I am looking for, but they always do this in the movies … it must be the pupils, to see if they dilate. There is no movement, just blank eyes looking a bit bloodshot.

In desperation, I lower the side of my head to her chest, trying to hear a heartbeat. I stay for a few seconds, attempting to calm my breathing so that I can listen properly. Nothing. Just silence. She’s dead. A sigh deeply, swallowing and thinking to rise when I hear the single thud and hold still. Another. Then another. A heartbeat for sure. She’s alive.

An explosion of motion and her arms grab hard, pulling my head into her chest as her heart-rate goes nuts and my world fills with soft breasts squishing into the side of my face. Which at any other time would be quite nice.

Not know though and I try to pull away but her grip is too strong and her fingers dig into my scalp, clawing at me. I can’t get leverage to move so I try and prise her fingers from the back of my head, but they are so strong I can’t move them.

I can hardly breathe from her boobs going in my mouth and covering my nose and I start panicking at hearing the growls coming from her throat. God knows how but I get a hand up into her hair, fix a grip and yank hard enough to snap her head back and manage to slip out from under her vice-like grip.

I fall back, rolling away and catching sight of her eyes now horrifically red and bloodshot. Her lips pulled back showing me her perfect white teeth with drool spilling out and no sign whatsoever of the person I just tried to save. Nothing. No recognition. Just an animalistic beast snapping its mouth open and shut.

‘Fucking bitch … you fucking bitch!’

I get to my feet and kick her in the face then do it again, pulling back like a footballer, ramming my foot into her nose. I feel the bone crunch and her head snaps back. Terror grips me; I’m in shock from seeing her die and come back, but what came back wasn’t the same as the woman that died. My foot slams into her face again and again, and she takes a remarkable amount of blows before she finally lays still.

I stagger away with my hands to my head, deeply in shock. My vision blurring with hot tears stinging my eyes. The shorn-off wheel on the ground, the buckled vehicle upside down amongst the glittering shards of glass, and the pooling liquids mixing with the blood from the two dead bodies. The two bodies I killed.

That woman was alive in my arms, pleading for me to save her life. She spoke to me and we shared something, maybe only a few seconds in time but we shared a connection; two living people. She was alive and spoke to me and I failed, I failed to save her.

If I hadn’t fallen off that bike, if I had got up quicker and moved faster. If I had pulled hard enough the first time, I might have saved her, but I didn’t do those things and she died.

It’s my fault. She looked at me, spoke to me, we made eye contact and I told her that I would help her.

The sickening action of kicking her replays in my mind – the image of my foot connecting with her face. This is awful, the most awful thing I have ever done and nothing will ever be the same again.

I tried to save her, and I failed.

But then she came back and was attacking me; the strength in her hands and arms was incredible. She turned and became infected, or whatever those things are, and I had to stop her … didn’t I?

My mind whirls as I try to make sense of what’s happening, justifying the actions to myself, reasoning and rationalising … if I didn’t kill her, she could have got me or someone else. But we’re in the middle of a motorway with no one else nearby. Who could she have hurt? Did I kill her through defence, or was it murder with an act of vengeance carried out through fear and rage?

I have to change this thought process. She was not a she when I kicked her, she was infected. One of them.

The woman from earlier on was not a young lady out for the evening, getting excited about wearing her new low-cut, blue dress. She was not a she. It was infected, and it wanted only to make me the same as them.

The quicker I get that into my head, the safer I will be, and the greater chance for survival I will have.

I lower my hands from my head, resolute, changed and hardened.

I walk away without looking back.

FOUR

Half an hour I’m still on the motorway with fields on both sides. I haven’t seen or heard anyone, and with the adrenalin all gone I feel totally and utterly drained.

I need to find a vehicle. Walking will take too long, but then there isn’t exactly a good supply of cars on the motorway. I see houses in the distance over the fields and clamber over the crash barrier and down a ditch to cross the land.

After the smooth surface of the motorway, the field is uneven and hard going. It looks to be pasture; I think that’s what they call it … the type of land that animals graze on. I realise that I have no idea what different types of land there are, or what different crops look like, or even if they can be eaten or not. I work in a supermarket, selling produce all day. We get training on certain things so that we can sound convincing to the customer and increase sales, but I can’t remember anything useful.

The field borders a lane, which I follow into the village. The first few houses are detached and large, but gradually they get closer together until a pavement starts running down both sides.

I reach the junction into the village and realise I’ve been here a few times before. Normally when the motorway was been closed off, or my Dad wanted to take the scenic route. I know there’s a garage workshop at the end of the main road, hopefully they’ll have something I can use.

I keep to the middle of the road, passing open front doors which look creepy in the silence. Blood on the ground too. Huge wet stains like someone was brought down here and bled out, but there is too much blood to have just been from one person. Then again, the human body has something like eight pints of blood in it. I try to imagine what eight pints poured onto the floor would look like, probably like that woman back on the motorway.

Then I spot a white UPVC door smeared with blood, and the more I look, the more of it I see. On windows. On doorsteps. Splashed up walls and across kerbs. Sinister and terrible. It stinks too with a metallic tang hanging in the hot air.

This was a mistake. I should have stayed on the motorway.

I reach the small collection of shops on the right are opposite a small village square where we used to park to visit the cake shop, and as I get closer, I get a feeling of impending doom just before the small square comes into view crammed full of infected people. The same as they were in my town. All of them shuffling and groaning quietly and all gathered in one place.

I come to a complete stop. There must be thirty or forty of them dressed in differing styles of nightwear: pyjamas, nighties, pants, knickers, and bras – some are naked. All of them are covered in blood.

I can’t understand why they are all here. Maybe they’re gathering from some remaining spark of intelligence drawing them to the heart of the village. Either way, I

slowly back away, one step at a time, watching for any sign that they’ve seen me.

Behind me, I hear glass bottles being knocked over and spin round to see an infected male shuffling out of a doorway, kicking milk bottles with his feet, making them spin off to shatter on the road.

If I move quickly, I can get past him, but another one comes out of the house opposite, staggering into the road, heading my way as the village square infected people all react from the noise and shuffle round to see me.

‘Shit, shit,’ I murmur quietly and start back, thinking that I can still make it through the middle of the two behind me, but more come lurching from houses further down the road, blocking my escape route. I turn back to the road ahead, but the village square horde are spilling into the road, coming at me.

I start running for it, aiming for the newsagents while praying that it’s open. As I run past the cake shop and the butchers, a quick thought enters my mind of the massive knives and cleavers they would have, but the door is locked and too solid to force quickly. I run on towards the newsagents shop.

The horde is across the road ahead of me, coming from my left, slow moving, and I pass them by a few metres as I reach the shop and bounce off the door. I slam at it again, glancing back to the encroaching horde getting closer by the second and start whacking at the door, begging it to open.

‘Shit, come on …COME ON!’

Looking down, I see the word ‘PULL’ marked clearly on the door in big letters and yank it open, stumbling through and pull it shut behind me. Slamming the lock in place, I look for bolts but there are none. Instead, there are two metal hooks meant to hold a bar – but I can’t see the bar anywhere.

I move away from the door as the infected get to the other side, banging into the door with loud groans. Their twisted, gruesome faces smearing blood and saliva over the glass panes, but at least they’re not launching themselves at it like last night in my flat.

I back away with my eyes fixed on them and stumble into a shelf full of chocolate bars and the sight of them makes me realise how just how hungry and thirsty I am. I grab a bottle of Lucozade from the chiller cabinet and start drinking, guzzling the sweet liquid down quickly before finishing off with a loud belch and feeling the instant rush of energy spiking inside. A Mars bar. A snickers. Another Lucozade and my sugar levels go nuts as my body starts thrumming and I stuff more into my bag.

That done I widen my eyes and think of what to do while my heart beats faster from the energy coursing through me. That’s when I see the cigarette display behind the counter.

All of the supermarkets have been fitted with sliding metal doors now, in a vain attempt by the government to hide cigarettes away. I thought smaller shops were covered by the same laws too.

I did give up smoking but hey, I’m surrounded by zombies and civilisation has fallen. Fuck it, time for a smoke.

I take some tobacco and rolling papers. Tailor-made cigarettes are too expensive, so I switched to tobacco some time ago; there was nearly always someone selling duty-free tobacco from their holidays. After smoking roll ups for so long, I couldn’t go back to normal smokes; the taste is disgusting.

I open the packet and roll a smoke with my hands shaking a little, but it’s quickly done and I use a lighter from a display pack on the counter.

I inhale deeply and feel the nicotine receptors joining the party held by the sugar dudes in my brain. All of which combines to make me feel somewhat lightheaded. Swaying a little, I lower down until my forehead is resting on the cool countertop while listening to the infected groan and bump into the door and windows.

The dizzy spell eases, leaving me with a pleasant buzz, and as I open my eyes I spot a baseball bat wedged under the counter. ‘Thanks very much,’ I say into the quietness of the shop and pull the bat out. These shops open early and could be easy targets, especially in the dark, winter mornings.

The smoke from the cigarette in my mouth curls up into my eyes, stinging them. I clench my eyes shut and wait for a few seconds before opening them gently and blinking the tears away.

As I focus again, I see someone standing at the back behind a bead curtain that separates the shop from the private area. He’s a big man too with a fat gut straining against the material of his short sleeve shirt now covered in blood from the ragged bite wound on his neck.

He moves slowly forward through the bead curtain with bloodied drool hanging from its mouth and his horrible red eyes staring at me while his head lolls about.

I look about for an avenue of escape, but the only way out is through him. Unless I use the main door, which right now doesn’t seem a viable alternative.

The shopkeeper shuffles on, his bulk filling the aisle as he heads towards the counter. I stand still and spit the cigarette away to the side, not taking my eyes off him.

As he gets closer, I watch his head lolling back and forth and to the sides but all the time the red, bloodshot eyes stay fixed on me. Then his head hangs down with his chin to his chest and he looks up at me, menacing and very scary.

He walks straight to the counter and I grasp the baseball bat at the base with two hands and slowly twist my upper body off to the right, raising the bat behind me, ready to strike.

We stare into each other’s eyes, fixed, unmoving, neither of us blinking, and long seconds go by. His lips peel back to show yellow, uneven teeth. He can just feel the bite, he can visualise sinking his dirty yellow teeth into my flesh.

I think to say something cool, but nothing comes to mind, so I just hit him in the head with the bat instead. It’s a good hit too, and he goes flying off to the side, colliding with some shelves and sending chocolate bars and tins of beans over the floor.

I put the bat down on the counter and pick the heavy till up, yanking it hard to pull the cable free before I raise it above my head and slam it down on the squirming man as he wrestles with the shelving on the floor. The till smashes into his head and I move out from the counter to see he’s now dead. Like properly dead. Like not coming back to life from some weird infection dead. Not with his brains leaking out like that anyway. I’ve never seen brains outside the head before in real life. They look weird, like little sausages all stuck together.

Stepping through with my bat raised, I see a small stock room and a flight of stairs going up. To the back of the stock room is a door – barred and bolted. I move over to the door and peer through a grimy window to a small backyard and a wall a few feet away. All empty and quiet.

I pull the bolts back, tug the door open, and peer out into the yard. It has a high brick wall and a wooden gate. I go over to the gate, raise the latch and lean out to see a small clear road.

Going left will take me towards the garage I was originally heading for, but an idea forms in my mind and I quickly turn back.

I close the gate quietly, head into the stock room and shut the back door, pushing the bolt into place.

With the bat raised and ready, I climb the stairs to the flat above the shop and check the rooms.

Once I’m sure it’s all clear I go back down into the shop and find the cans of lighter fluid on display with some nice big boxes of matches.

Back upstairs. The windows are old sash and already open in this sultry summer weather and I look down to about fifty infected all gathered at the front of the shop. I have flashbacks to last night when I was trapped and my ham-fisted attempt at making a Molotov cocktail resulted in me puking up. I don’t intend to stick around and watch this time.

I pull the little plastic spout on the first one, up-end the can and squeeze a jet of liquid out onto the crowd below. It takes quite a long time to empty each can, leaning out and bending over to prevent any spraying on me or the windowsill.

I open the box of matches and pause for a second, hardly believing what I am about to do … mass murder at any other time. I strike a match and flick it out, but it expires before it falls a few feet. I try another, and the same thing happens. The third time I lean out and brace my feet, ready to pull back in quickly. I extend my arms, strike a match and quickly shove it into the open box, pushing it into the dark heads of the little sticks. The box flares instantly: a bright light and stench of sulphur. I drop the box and pull myself in, ducking down below the window just before the whoosh hits and the flames sear up with black smoke already billowing up.

I risk a quick look out and gawp at the flames spreading quickly, leaping from body to body. Time to go before I puke from the stench and I’m off, running down through the shop and out the back door and into the alley with my new bat in hand.

Reaching the end of the alley I turn left again, which takes me out onto the main road. I look back down to the shop and see thick, black smoke and flames licking at the side of the building, but the weirdest thing are the bodies on fire just standing there, like they haven’t the sense or intelligence to move away. Even the ones standing on the outside aren’t moving away. They just stand and wait and then catch alight.

I move away and head towards the garage, thinking about how they seem to follow each other. Last night I watched as they massed at the front of my house and behind my front door. But I was screaming abuse at them from my window, alerting them to my presence. Then the armoured van went past, the horn sounding repeatedly. Was it the noise of the horn that pulled them away, or the already huge stream of other infected in its wake?

The thoughts give me hope. Maybe I can carry something that will distract them with movement or noise, something I can throw if I get cornered or trapped. There are plenty of children’s toys that bounce about with loud noises and flashing lights. I should have kept a can of lighter fluid and matches … I could set one of them on fire, which will draw others to it while I get away. The thought process makes me realise how much I need supplies and weapons. The bat is good; it’s longer than the hammer and means I can keep them away from me. A gun would be perfect, but I have no idea where to find one. The only guns in Britain are shotguns and farmer rifles. Even a double-barrelled shotgun only gives two shots at a time, but a shotgun is also long and heavy – like a bat.

I think of the movies and news reports of robbers using sawed-off shotguns. That would make them smaller and lighter to carry, but reduces their secondary use as a blunt instrument or a ranged weapon.

The police have guns. You see them quite a lot these days, armed police with pistols on their belts. They keep the bigger guns locked in armoured boxes in the car. I guess there must be armouries in the police stations.

That gives me another thought … maybe the police are holed up in their stations? If they have weapons and strong buildings, they could remain safely inside. Boroughfare has a police station in the town centre; maybe I should have gone there first.

Ridiculously, I wonder if they would arrest me if I was armed with a gun.

FIVE

Finally, I reach the sprawling collection of buildings, workshops and lockups at the end of the village.

Big, double wooden doors face out onto a hardstanding, oil stains on the ground and a single fuel pump in the middle, hardly used as the price is always so much cheaper at the supermarkets.

There are however, two cars parked up. One on a jack with the driver’s side wheel missing, and the other one a tiny silver Nissan Micra, which unfortunately, is locked.

I head over to the reception door, which is also locked and look through the window to see the lights are off and no obvious sign of movement from within. There might be an easier way in at the back so I trot off, looking for another door while hoping the Micra is just in for a service and isn’t broken down or something.

More doors at the back, but they’re all strong looking and the few windows are barred too. Back at the front, I check the double doors, but they are flush together and well secured. The reception door is the best option, as the top half is a large glass pane.

I stand listening for a few seconds, knowing I’ll have to be quick: smash the glass, get in, find the keys, get out and go.

I pull the bat back and swing at the glass pane in the door. The glass is toughened and fractures, but stays in place. Another swing and the bat smashes a hole in the glass, but the pane remains in place. It takes bloody ages and makes a hell of a noise too. I should have bust a door open, or you know, like shouted that I am here to alert every single infected person in a ten mile radius.

Eventually, and after much sweating, kicking, cursing, some sulking and some more swearing, I finally bust a hole big enough to climb through.

I slip my bag off and put it through the hole, then climb in, which is harder than I thought it would be, as the bottom ledge is too high to step over and I don’t want to enter head first, so I hop my right leg in and straddle the bottom of the frame, then shift my weight over to draw my remaining leg in. Which is all going swimmingly until the bloody burglar alarm goes off. Screeching merrily away after sneakily waiting for me to smash a massive hole in the door.

‘Bastard fucking shitty cunty bastard arsing cock faced fucking thing,’ I fall inside, grab my bat and smash the alarm box off the wall, which warbles sadly before cutting out. ‘Wanker,’ I mutter, giving it what for before heading deeper into the place, seeing a counter for fuel payment and stuff for sale. Oils and lubricants and other stuff. No keys though. Why would there be keys? It’s not anything is trying to be helpful right now, is it.

I go behind the counter and check drawers and cupboards – again, nothing.

A door leads into the workshop area and I go through. It’s very dark as the grimy windows are not letting much light in so I flick the lights on and wait for the fluorescent strips to blink on.

Tool drawers and various machinery are positioned around the outside with shiny red sets of sliding metal trays with cool logos on them – everything seems to have a ‘Snap-on’ sticker on it, but there is a small metal key cupboard on the wall. Which is locked. Awesome.

I search and find a large, flat-headed screwdriver. Taking this back, I force the end into the gap between the metal door and the frame, levering hard to prise the door open.

Inside are a few rows of hooks, with various keys hanging down and two sets of car keys on fobs. One of them has the Nissan logo on a metal clasp. I take the keys and head back into reception to see an infected woman trying to walk forward while leaning her head and shoulders through the hole in the door.

I use the bat and strike downwards on her head. The impact bends her over the frame and I quickly swing upwards, smashing her back out of the door and I gingerly peek out to see her stretched out and motionless with her head at an unnatural angle, the neck broken from either the force of the blow or the impact from hitting the ground.

I start to clamber through, but my rucksack gets caught, so I go back in and take the rucksack off, throw it out and try again, tripping as I go and nearly landing face first on the dead woman. I roll off with a yelp, grab my bag and bat and rush to the car before anything else happens.

At least I got the right keys and gain entry to the Micra without anything exploding or making noise. And while looking about I turn the key in the ignition and shoot forward with a jolt.

‘FUCK,’ I scream out in frustration at my own rushed panicked state and try again, but this time I keep my foot down on the clutch and make sure the manual gear stick is in neutral.

The car starts and I pull away from the village, glancing repeatedly at the rearview mirror and the plumes of black smoke billowing up into the sky.

The fire will spread quickly in the warm dry weather, and I think of all the damage being caused. No fire engines will come racing to the rescue. No police will cordon off the area, and no ambulances will ever arrive to treat the wounded and hurt.

It will just burn and burn until there is nothing left.

Seven

‘There are survivors, you are not alone.

Do not come to London, we are completely infested.

I repeat, DO NOT COME TO LONDON.

If you are in the south then we advise you head to the Victorian Forts on the South Coast.

Take whatever supplies you can carry: water, food, medicine and clothing.

Stay out of the cities and towns. Head to the forts on the coast.’

A DEEP, reassuring voice blasting from the radio on a loop that repeats over and over with a faint click between each repeat. I found it by turning the radio on and twisting the old style manual tuning dial until suddenly the voice was coming from the speakers making my heart race again.

I keep listening to it, hoping someone alive will cut in and speak, but it just repeats over and over.

It’s still calming though, and whoever recorded it did so without hint of panic of distress. I try to picture the man recording the message and my mind creates an image of an older, refined man; groomed and sophisticated, with a beard, definitely a beard.

I think of the forts on the south known as Palmerston’s Follies and what I remember from school history lessons. I know they were built during the 1800’s to fight off a French invasion that never happened. There’s quite a few of them I think, dotted along the coast.

Some of them have fallen to ruin, but then I’m sure a few have been preserved by historical societies and I curse myself for not paying more attention to my own local history.

The most famous are the three or four big, round things in The Solent, the stretch of water that separates the mainland from the Isle of Wight. They are amazing feats of engineering – used now as private hotels or left to decay.

If I can get to my parents’ I could send them to the forts and then try and find my sister.

The message on the radio says London is infested and not to go there, but I’m not leaving her. If there is a chance that she is holed up at home, then I have to try.

THE REST of the drive is thankfully uneventful and I soon reach my parents’ small village and slow down on seeing a gathering of people outside their local shop, wincing when I realise they’re just more infected and I tense up, praying that I don’t see my dad amongst them. He always goes down for the early paper and could have walked unwittingly into them without realising what was happening.

He’s not there, and I let the breath go, offering a quick prayer to any God listening.

Unlike the previous village, this shop is on the main through-road and it’s a modern, large convenience store, more like a mini-supermarket, and as I go past, I see movement inside. I think to keep going, then slow down and realise my dad might be inside. What if he went for his newspaper and managed to run and hide like I did. Maybe I should go home and check first, but if he is inside I could be too late if I have to come back, and I’d never forgive myself for that.

I slow the car and look back at the infected people. Five of them, three males and two females.

One of them looks like a delivery driver, wearing matching blue trousers and jacket, another is very old, even from here I can see his hunched-over thin frame and wispy grey hair with a white vest tucked into his sleeping shorts pulled up nearly to his chest.

The two women are late middle-aged and both dressed in sensible trousers, sensible trousers and sleeveless jackets with pastel-coloured shirts. They look like the early to bed and early to rise types who only drink sherry at the weekends and who always perfectly behaved and expertly trained small dogs. Fortunately, there’s no zombie dogs that I can see anywhere. Can dogs even get infected? I have no idea. The last one is a young male dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

I watch them all shuffling outside the shop, pressing their bodies against the door and windows. I can’t see any more of them anywhere. Just these five. Shit. I just want to go, but I can’t risk my dad being inside.

Right. Decision made, but if I’m going to do this then I have to be quick. The noise and movement might draw more and I don’t want to end up trapped inside too.

I ease out and leave the engine running for a quick getaway and take my bat as I head towards the infected. Then I stop and go back to close the car door with the image of an infected person getting and waiting for me on the backseat.

Too many movies.

I slam the door on purpose, so they hear me and watch as the old man turns round to start shuffling towards me straight away, then within seconds, they’re all moving towards me as though an unspoken message has passed between them.

I need to separate them as they are too close together for me to risk attacking them all in one go. Even with the range of the baseball bat, it would only take one of them to lunge quickly and I could get bitten.

I look at the area, noting the pavement has obstacles: a bike rack, litter bins, and a post box. There is a high step down from the pavement to the road. These are things which will impede my movements and could cause me to trip or fall, but the road is wide and clear, with no obstructions.

Moving off to my right, I lure them into clear ground. I’m choosing my battleground, selecting where to fight, and it feels strange. There is almost a sense of excitement, a weird feeling, like just before the roller coaster moves off. I am scared, yet exhilarated.

The old man is nearest; he saw me first and has the head start. I thought his old age would make him slower and the others would go past him, but they move at roughly the same speed. It appears the infected are not hampered by age or infirmity.

Watching the old man come towards me makes me uneasy – he looks very old and frail and I’m getting the same feeling as I had when the girl in the blue dress was in front of me. Attacking a woman or the elderly seems wrong. Then I remember how I felt after the motorway, when that woman tried to bite me and suffocate me with her boobs.

They’re not people. They are infected.

I raise the bat up, poised and ready – and wait for him to come, watching his red bloodshot eyes and the saliva hanging down his from his mouth and he pulls his lips back as I snort a dry laugh at the sight of his gummy, toothless mouth. What’s he going to do? Suck on me?

He should be carrying a blender, or a knife and fork, or maybe have a carer to help him make flesh soup. I almost feel sorry for him and then I see his hands curled up like claws with nasty jagged fingernails and remember the strength of the woman from the car accident was incredible, and he probably has the same strength too. His fingernails look like they could rip flesh open.

Fuck him. I step forward and swing the bat hard into the side of his head and he goes spinning off to my left.

I move to the right, going around the side of the small group as they all turn to follow me. I move back to the left and they all turn again. I move right and, again, they all move as one; synchronised zombies.

I lead them into the road before I run round the back of them, watching as they do a shuffling about turn and bump into each other, then I see my advantage and dart forward to whack the delivery driver hard on the shoulder, sending him into the two women, knocking them away and creating more space between them all.

The delivery driver goes down with one of the women, both of them groaning audibly as they start trying to get back up but hamper their own efforts by constantly pushing each other back down. The old man is still down, and the young lad is closest now.

I step out so that I’m facing his left side and smash the bat into his face. His nose explodes with a sickening crunch of bones that I hear above the impact of the bat. He stumbles backwards and falls onto his arse, but instantly tries to get back up, so I bunch power and strike the side of his head like a golf-swing and send him flying off to the side.

A growl behind and I spin round just as the other dog walking woman lunges at me with her lips pulled back, showing her yellowing teeth. I aim an uppercut but miss and stagger forward into her with the momentum of the swing. A mistake made and quick as a flash she’s into me, driving forward as I try and go back and trip over one of the others I knocked down. Sprawling out on the ground and suddenly, this was a very bad idea very poorly executed.

Growls and groans all about me as I lash out with the bat, whacking bodies but they keep coming in. The old man crawling at my side. I whack him hard with the bat then roll the other way into the other woman who tries to lunge in for the bite, and in the panic I just about get the end of the bat into the side of her head, pushing her away as the other woman staggers in and readies to drop on me. I get a foot up into her belly, holding her off while she dangles down, drooling spit down my leg while I whack small hard hits into the other one.

‘SHIT!’ I cry out as the delivery driver comes in from the other side and take a quick swing to keep him away. On my back with one leg up holding the woman at bay while hitting left and right, twisting from the torso while my stomach muscles scream in pain, and then, if that wasn’t enough, old gummy grandad joins in and starts crawling back. ‘FUCK IT…’ a nice healthy dose of fresh rage detonates, and I start lashing out with hard brutal hits before wrenching to the side and letting the woman braced against my leg fall down next to me, giving me space to get up and away. But no. That can’t happen because the young man, who should be bloody dead, is back on his sodding feet and coming in to join the feast. Wank it, and at the point I think I am royally screwed, so a young Asian lad appears behind the young man and swings a cricket bat into his head, driving him away.

‘Thank fuck!’ on my feet and I start laying about me with the bat, hitting heads and body parts while the Asian boy does the same, both of us bashing skulls until I stagger back, gasping for air and looking at the mangled corpses littering the ground while the lad carries on, battering down at one of the women, hitting her over and over.

‘I think she’s finished, mate,’ I say, as he carries on. ‘Mate, she’s definitely finished…or, you know, just carry on,’ I add as he unleashes a fresh barrage of blows.

Eventually, he stops and steps backwards, holding the bat with both hands down at his front, blood all over his shiny, white trainers. He looks young, no more than fifteen years old; dark-skinned with black, gelled hair; Indian or Pakistani, maybe Sri Lankan but his eyes are blazing from the kill.

Behind him, the shop door opens, and an older woman comes running out, angrily yelling at the boy. ‘What did you do that for? I told you to stay inside.’

The boy spins, seeing his mother coming and swallows quickly while darting a look at me.

‘He was trying to help us,’ the boy shouts back, squeaky and high-pitched, showing his age.

‘No, you could have been killed, you foolish boy, and don’t talk back to me … don’t you ever talk back to me!’ she shouts back at him with a mother’s fear-loaded anger and switches into a language I can’t understand until he finally hangs his head with a look of shame and starts back towards the shop. The woman stays and looks at me, and when she speaks, her tone is forcefully polite.

‘Thank you for what you did. I am sorry for my son, he is young and foolish…’ She trails off, looking about at the bodies, and the woman’s brains beaten out of her head. ‘I can’t believe what’s happened…what’s happening, this is … just so …have you seen more of them? We tried calling the police, but we cannot get through. 999 is not working. We cannot get hold of anyone.’

‘It’s everywhere,’ I reply, wiping the sweat from my face as the adrenalin once more wears off. ‘I’m from Boroughfare and the whole town is gone. I went through Littleton on the way here, that’s gone too…I er, I saw it on the news last night. I think it’s worldwide…’ I take my turn to trail off as the blood drains from her face and she presses a hand to her cheek.

‘I’m er…looking for my dad, Howard. He comes down every morning for a newspaper, have you seen him?’

She stays silent for a few seconds.

‘I’m sorry, what … what did you say?’ She looks back at me with a confused expression.

‘My dad…Howard? He comes down every morning for a newspaper, have you seen him today?’

‘Oh, Howard. Yes, we know Howard, always so polite. No, we have not seen him, there is just my family – my son and daughter and me, of course.’

‘Is your husband not with you?’

‘No, he is visiting family at home…In India…’ Her voice becomes very soft.

‘I’m sure he is okay, maybe it is just Europe that’s affected. Look, why don’t you go inside, it’s not safe out here in the open.’

‘Yes…do you want to come in?’

‘No, thank you, I have to go to my parents’ house, they live on the estate. Listen, I heard a broadcast on the radio, it said that people should go to the forts.’

‘What forts?’

‘The old ones, the Palmerston Forts, there’s quite a few of them all along the coast. The radio said London was infested and people should head over to the forts and take food, water and medicine.’

‘Oh, I think we should stay here and wait for help. We have enough food, thank you.’

‘I don’t think it will be safe here, those things are everywhere,’ I point at the bodies on the ground. ‘And other people might want to take your food, maybe you should take what you can carry and go. Do you have a vehicle?’

‘We have a van – my husband uses it for the Cash and Carry.’

‘Take your van, load it up with as much as you can take and then leave,’ I urge her.

‘What about my husband? What if he comes back and cannot find us?’

‘Leave a note for him and…also one that tells other people where you have gone so they can go there too, but do it quickly.’ She glances back at the shop, clearly unsure of what to do. I can see her dilemma; the shop looks strong and secure, a safe place. ‘I saw these things last night. They were different, they weren’t slow like these were, they were fast. If they change again, they won’t stop until they have got you … and your family.’

She stares back at me. The suggestion of a threat to her family has sharpened her instincts for survival.

‘Where are these forts?’

‘Check the Internet, if it’s still working. If not, look at local maps, do you sell maps?’

‘Yes…yes, we have maps.’

‘Check them and find the nearest fort, then load up and go, please don’t stay here, it’s not safe.’

She goes to move away then hesitates. ‘Will you come? We could travel together…’

‘I can’t, I’m sorry…I have to find my family. I’ll try and get my parents to follow you. I’ll ask them to come here first and see if you are still here, but don’t wait for them, load up and get going.’

She nods and walks back to the shop, still in shock. I’m worried that she’s not taken it in and will try to wait it out. Her son comes out of the door, walking towards his mother; a teenage girl comes out behind him and stands back holding the door open.

‘Hey, thanks for your help again, mate. I just said to your mother that people are going to the forts on the coast, she said you had a van. I really think you should load up with food and water and go there as soon as possible. Take anything you can carry.’

‘Are you going there too?’

His mother interrupts before I can answer. ‘No, he has to find his family, go back inside please.’

I turn and walk to the car and head into the estate. My parents moved here a few years ago; the old house was the family home. This is their new house and it feels different, still homely and welcoming, but not the same.

My dad retired two years ago. He was an engineer for a telecoms company and had a good retirement package, but he quickly got bored of playing golf and went back as a part-timer.

My sister and I bought him a new set of clubs for his 60th birthday. Well, I say we bought them, my sister paid most of it as she earns a fortune. I paid what I could, but still, it’s the thought that counts.

Their new house is detached and modern, but the large driveway is empty. Dad bought a new Toyota when he retired and always leaves it on the driveway, proudly cleaning it at every opportunity.

I leave the Micra on the street with the keys in the ignition and walk towards the house, seeing the front door and all the windows are closed.

The first bad sign is that the front door has been left unlocked, and I enter with my bat gripped and ready, pausing for a minute in the hallway, eyeing the stairs ahead of me. The lounge to the left. The dining room to my right. Silence inside, and I close the front door gently behind me.

I want to call out but don’t want to risk alerting any infected that I am here. I go into the lounge and then the dining room and finally the kitchen to see two half-drunk mugs of coffee on the side, both are cold.

I go upstairs with my bat raised, but find nothing in the two guest rooms. The bathroom is clear.

My parents’ bedroom is also vacant; the drawers are empty and thrown around and the wardrobe is open with clothes lying about. It looks like they were in a rush. I go back downstairs and check the rooms again, finally spotting the notepad on the dining-room table with a handwritten note in my mother’s writing:

HOWIE,

Dad got a phone call last night from an old colleague working in France, they said what was happening, awful things. Dad spoke to your sister. Sarah is safe at home, locked in and secure. The phone line went down when we were talking to her. We kept trying to call you, but all the numbers were engaged. We are going to come and get you, but I suppose if you are reading this, then we have missed each other.

Stay here Howie, we will try your place and come back here before we get Sarah. We left the front door unlocked, in case you left your key behind. You can lock the door though, we both have our keys.

Please stay here, Howie, we will be back soon.

Love, Mum and Dad.

I READ the note over a few times … Sarah is safe, thank God. The relief is massive and washes over me with a great sense of fatigue following close behind. Hunger too. I head into the kitchen and find a Cornish pasty in the fridge that I wolf down in seconds, following by another, then a mug of hot, sweet tea.

I try the home phone but find it dead – there is not even a dial tone. I check the router: lights flashing red, no Internet and no phone line.

After locking the front door, I go upstairs into the bathroom, strip off and have a hot shower, watching as the water runs red and black from the gore and grime while wondering how long it will be before the power goes off.

My clothes are too dirty to put back on, they’re covered in blood and need to be thrown away; the blood could be infectious, but then I would have nothing to wear.

I remember that there are some old clothes of mine in bin liners in the loft. I’d left them at the old house and Mum kept nagging me to go and sort them out, which I never did.

I wrap a towel around my waist and find the long stick to open the loft hatch and climb into the loft and turn the light on. The loft is boarded out and I can see a pile of black bags with white sticky labels marked ‘Howie’ on them.

I find an old pair jeans I used to live in years ago, then a white t-shirt to go with it until I stop and think that maybe white will stand out a bit, plus it shows the dirt and gore a bit too well. I put it back and find an old black jumper instead.

Finally, with nothing left to do but wait, I go into the lounge and lay down on the sofa, thinking through all that has happened. Thinking of the horror and carnage. Of the death and awful things I have seen, and for a second my mind buzzes with emotions and weird feelings and I think I’ll never be able to sleep again.

But then, within seconds, my eyes grow heavy and my breathing slows and eventually, after jerking awake a couple of times, I drift off to sleep.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Contents

Copyright

Also by RR Haywood

Also by RR Haywood

A Fleet Newscast Educational Podcast

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Also by RR Haywood

Also by RR Haywood

The Undead Day One

One

Two

Three

Four

Five