Jenna

JENNA

“ I really don’t know why you’re doing this to me!” the well-dressed man protests loudly in his nasally voice. “Don’t you know who I am ?”

“A pain in the proverbial,” my colleague, Dan, mutters under his breath.

I hide a smile.

“If you’ll just step into the scanner, sir ”—I put my hand on my holstered weapon with an easy movement—“then you’ll be on your way. Simple.”

The besuited man glares at me, but his shifty eyes flick briefly to where my hand sits on my hip, and with a huff of breath, he steps sideways into the contraband scanner.

It immediately chimes and the doors slide shut, leaving our latest smuggling client making goldfish faces and banging silently on the Perspex.

“You owe me a tenner,” I say to Dan, turning my back on Mr. Do You Know Who I Am .

“The machine hasn’t told you what he’s carrying yet,” Dan blusters.

“It’ll be paraxio.” I reference the current drug of choice among the inhabitants of the Star Cruiser Britannia . “And he’ll have it up his arse…” The scanner chimes to interrupt me. “Like the broom handle he had stuffed there at birth.”

One of Dan’s hands appears with a crisp ten-pound credit chip clutched between his index finger and thumb.

“Thank you kindly.” I pluck it from his grip and put it in my pocket.

“How the hell did you know, ?” he says as the security team at the rear of the machine extract our man. “I swear you’d make a great smuggler.”

“You don’t rise to the lofty ranks of security officer, Second Class on the S.C. Britannia without knowing a thing or two.” I sigh. “Or without having seen contraband stuffed into every orifice known to humankind and some which are entirely new.” I grimace.

Dan laughs. He’s fairly new to the post, having transferred from the admin section a few months ago. He has yet to see it all, but he will.

I have.

And good god, I am bored shitless. Which is why I’m laying bets on what we’re going to find next. It’s not fair to Dan, but it’s alleviating some of the tedium of my job.

And it’s highly illegal, so I should stop, only part of me seems to be on self-destruct.

“McMahon!”

I swivel as Commander Smythe bellows my name across the customs floor for Port No.3.

“Fuck!” I swear at the console and Dan snorts.

“Sir?” I reply smartly.

After all, I need this job, no matter how boring. The alternative is scrubbing the oxygen cleaners or something equally horrible. Not that I haven’t thought about it, but then there is a rumor one of the American ships has someone looking after a sentient tentacle .

“Do you know who that was?” The Commander strides up to me, all five foot three of him…and his mustache.

He’s a shade of puce I’m not keen on. Given the rationing on board the last best hope for England, you wouldn’t have thought there was enough junk food around to send someone to an early heart attack, but somehow Commander Smythe has managed to get rotund to the point I’d worry about his health, if I cared at all.

“Someone smuggling half a pound of paraxio in his colon, sir,” I respond evenly, facing front and not looking at him. “As per orders, he’s been detained, sir.”

“That was St. John Cholmondeley!”

I shrug. “Doesn’t ring a bell, sir.”

To my left, just out of sight, Dan takes in a breath.

“The Prime Minister’s attaché!” the commander says through gritted teeth.

“So, the paraxio is for the Prime Minister?” I say and instantly regret it.

Commander Smythe is on his tip-toes and right in my face.

“I didn’t hear that, McMahon,” he snarls. “And you’re lucky my hearing is failing me today because you’re on your last warning,” he hisses. “Get Mr. Cholmondeley released and apologize.”

“And the paraxio, sir?” I ask. I clearly hate myself.

Commander Smythe goes from puce to magenta. If it wasn’t for the fact my career is already DOA, I’d be hearing bells tolling.

“Release him and consider yourself on leave. Two weeks, no pay,” he grinds out.

“Sir,” I respond through gritted teeth. “I’m only doing my job, sir .”

“Three weeks.” He’s virtually vibrating with anger.

I open my mouth, but self-preservation finally kicks in with Dan moving into my eye line, shaking his head from side to side.

“Sir, yes sir.” I respond dully as the commander executes a swift about turn and marches off.

“Fuck! ,” Dan commiserates.

I take in a deep breath and let it out as a sigh.

“It’s the way this place works, Dan. Some of us get shit on from a great height because we don’t have names which are spelt completely differently to the way they are pronounced, and some with silly names get to carry large quantities of narcotics up our bottoms and no one bats an eyelid.”

“If it helps, I didn’t recognize him either.” Dan says, unhelpfully.

“At least I got your credits,” I respond with a wan smile. “I’ll send over your relief, I’m sure the captain will assign you a new partner.”

“Take care, ,” Dan calls after me as I make my way across the customs floor and out through the staff exit.

I release the idiotically named St.John Chlomondeley and force out an apology, only to have him threaten me with just about everything under the sun.

Too bad for him I already have naff all for him to take.

After I’ve endured twenty minutes of his behavior, he finally makes a very odd face and quickly departs. I suspect he will shortly regret his decision in terms of where he put the paraxio, but it’s little comfort to me. Or to him.

I trail my way home, through three levels of the crumbling star cruiser.

S.C. Britannia was supposed to be England’s savior when she was launched into space as the tides rose and consumed the country inch by inch.

Instead she’s become a prison for us all, especially me.

“Hello there!” A very heavily made up woman accosts me from behind a pillar.

Her clothing is verging on garish as she shoves a small vid-screen into my hands.

“Have you considered signing up for the Starlight Lottery? You can win a new life on another planet,” she says brightly. “Far away from here.”

“Are you kidding me?” I point to the insignia of the security service on my lapels, tossing my dark hair back over my shoulder. “When I have such a stupendous life here?”

“Everyone loves a bit of change now and then,” the woman persists. “Ten pounds entry fee, and you could find yourself sipping cocktails on a pink beach next to an azure sea on planet Kalen where it’s always summer.”

I roll my eyes. “Or I could find myself in a star fuel mine on Planet Krud.”

“Absolutely not!” she trills. “All our prizes are carefully vetted. Nothing like that would ever happen.” She adds earnestly.

My hand closes around the credit chip in my pocket. Sure, I’ve heard the rumors about the Starlight Lottery like every woman on the ship, but can it be that bad if the authorities allow it to run on board?

The S.C. Britannia is like old England—there’s nothing progressive here. I might have made security officer second class, but I’m never going to make first class, because my name isn’t St.John Cholmondeley, and I don’t have a dick between my legs.

At thirty-two years old, with a stagnant career on a ship which is likely to fail at any time, what have I got to lose?

“Okay.” I flick the chip at her. “Where do I sign up?”