“That was self-defence.”
“The ultimate self-defence.”
Norton examined his right index finger. Half the missing fingertip had already grown back.
He used to imagine himself as a hatchet-man for the mob. It had seemed a very glamorous way of life. A way of life, a way of death. But what kind of person would take up such a career? Maybe it was through living so long that he’d come to realise life was precious. Killing people wasn’t very nice. His own life was important, and so was everyone else’s. Although not as precious and important as his own, of course.
“I want to talk about this,” he said, showing Diana his finger.
“Tomorrow,” she said, yawning.
The days had passed by, followed presumably by the nights. Day and night, light and dark, happened back on Earth. On board ship, there were no such things.
Twenty-four hours was the time in which Norton’s native planet spun upon its axis. Everything else had become metric (which he was sure he would never get used to), but hours and minutes remained unchanged.
He may have been bored, but as an undercover passenger Wayne Norton had a very easy job. That wasn’t the case for Major Diana Travis, undercover crewperson. One passenger, more or less, was of no consequence; but the crew were important to keep the ship operating. With the other shift steward dead, Diana needed assistance.
That was supposing Heart-of-Peace really was dead, which presupposed he’d really existed.
By now, Norton was beginning to wonder if the attempt on his life had ever happened. It had all been so fast, the details such a blur, that perhaps it was nothing but an illusion. There were no such things as Shams. There was no dead alien in his old cabin.
Diana could have arranged the whole event just to scare him, or to rouse him out of his lethargy.
Or because she wanted some help in the kitchen.
“Okay,” he said, “tell me something else.”
“What?”
“Why am I here?”
“I’m glad you don’t want to talk about trivialities, John. After a tough day at work, a metaphysical discussion is exactly what I need. Fix me a vodsky. A mega. Why are you here? Why am I here? What’s the purpose of life?”
“Not the purpose of life,” said Norton, as he poured the drinks the old-fashioned way: from a bottle into glasses. “Not you. Only me. Why am I here, now, on this ship?”
“Me, me, me. Self, self, self.”
“Tell—” He held the drink toward her, slightly out of reach. “—me.”
“It’s secret.”
He knew she’d say that. Even if she had given him an answer, he wondered if he’d have believed her.
“Do you know why, but can’t tell me?” he asked.
“Another secret,” she told him.
“Where are we heading?”
“Why all these questions? Why now?”
“Because I haven’t asked for a while, and I thought I might get some answers this time. Was I wrong?”
“That’s another question,” said Diana.
The spacecraft didn’t have a name. The only reason he thought it should was because ships from his time had names, ships which sailed on the ocean. It seemed that ships which sailed between the stars were more like buses, they had route numbers. And this starbus was on its regular journey.
“Thanks,” said Diana, and he realised he’d given her the vodsky.
“We’re going to Hideaway,” he said.
“You’ve been talking to the passengers. I keep telling you, they’re the enemy. It’s treason to communicate with them.”
“Are we going to Hideaway?”
“The ship is going to Hideaway.”
“So we’re going there?”
“The ship is going to Hideaway. First. Then it’s going somewhere else.”
“Back to Earth.”
“Not,” said Diana, sipping her drink, “necessarily.”
“Will I ever get a straight answer from you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“You expect two straight answers in a row?”
Norton shook his head. “I guess not.” He yawned. “I’ve sure earned my money today.”
“My turn for a question,” said Diana. “What money?”
“Don’t I get paid as a steward?” asked Norton.
Diana took a mouthful of her drink.
“Okay, then I’ve got my service pay,” Norton said. “Haven’t I? I do get paid, don’t I?”
“Yes… in a way.”
“In what way?”
“There are expenses, John. Your ticket has to be paid for.”
“By me?” It was as if he’d had to buy the gas for his LVPD patrol car—or maybe even pay for the whole automobile. “What about a refund from when I stopped being a passenger?”
“It’s best to keep on pretending you’re dead.”
“I’m dead, but I still have to pay my fare?”
“Your cabin hasn’t been vacated.”
“I have to pay to keep a dead alien in there?”
“Julius Winston is dead. If he asked for a refund, don’t you think it might seem strange?”
“I guess so.” Norton drained his drink.
“The accountants can fix it all, John. With profit-sharing and bonuses, escalators and fixed-price options, you won’t lose out.”
He had no idea what she was talking about, but that was not unusual.
“Another drink?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll have one, too.”
Norton poured two more vodskys.
“How did moles wear their hair?” asked Diana.
“How did who wear their hair?”
“In your era, underground women were known as moles, yes?”
“Underground women?”
“Women, girls, as you call them. Those who associated with the criminal fraternity, the underground.”
“Ah!” said Norton. “You mean the underworld, not the underground.”
He’d previously figured out that Susie’s father must have been involved, deeply involved, with the Las Vegas underworld. And Norton might have ended up underground, six feet deep underground, but instead he’d been deep frozen.
By now, he could remember all that had happened on the final day of his first life. His last memory was hearing a voice say, “Sorry, Wayne.” Then Mr. Ash had slugged him.
“The underworld,” said Diana, nodding. “Outlaws and bandits, hoods and hitmen, racketeers and bootleggers, gangsters and their moles.”
“Moles!” Norton laughed. “They were known as ‘molls,’ not ‘moles.’ ”
“Molls? Alright.” Diana ran her fingers through her green Mohican. “In your era, what kind of hairstyles did the molls have?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Life was good.
Kiru wished she’d been sent to the prison planet years ago.
She kept thinking it couldn’t last. Nothing like this could. Soon, she’d have to pay the price.
Unless she already had. Perhaps the years of misery and deprivation on her home planet had been her admission ticket to the penal paradise of Clink. She now had the best of both worlds. Not Earth and Arazon, but Grawl and Aqa.
Most of her days were spent with Grawl, who protected and watched over her. He couldn’t speak, but words were not necessary.
Most of her nights were spent with Aqa. Again, words were not necessary.
One looked alien, but was full of humanity—for her, at least. The other wasn’t from Earth, although his most important part—for her, at least—was human enough.
Perhaps, eventually, as she grew older, there might be time for painting and music and poetry. Even, when she was very old, philosophy.
She was right: It couldn’t last.
Because then the spaceship arrived.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Come on in, boy. Through here.”
Norton halted at the entrance, unwilling to go inside.