Trident Force by Michael Howe

but something has happened to her the past six months. She seems to go through bouts of depression and almost suicidal clumsiness—or carelessness. The doctors don’t really seem to know what’s brought this all on, but it’s very worrisome to me. I’m hoping this trip will pull her out of it, but at the same time I worry that she might injure herself, either through carelessness or possibly even intentionally.”
    â€œEverything will be fine, Congressman. I’ll keep an eye on her.”
    I damn well hope so, thought Evans. I want as much media coverage as I can get, but I don’t want any of Penny flapping and floundering in icy water, screeching and screaming.
    Without ever having stopped jogging, Evans turned back to his machine and set the pace a little higher for himself. He then looked around the fitness facility, at the row upon row of treadmills and weight machines of various sorts, the majority in use. There was a lot of sweat being spilled, he thought. For many of Aurora ’s passengers, personal fitness was just as much of a moral issue as was environmental concern.
    Despite the brochures, he’d assumed, until he got aboard the ship, that Aurora would be a little on the Spartan side. He’d been wrong. The food, the bars, the exercise facilities . . . His eyes settled on a young woman bench-pressing a few pounds. Black hair, piercing blue eyes, black tights and a slender body that hinted at the faintest touch of substance in all the right places. She reminded him of Jackie, his always-willing assistant. He wished Jackie were there and Penny . . . and Penny someplace else. If Jackie were there with him, the whole thing would be a lot more fun. As it was, it was shaping up to be pure work.
    Â 
    Chrissie Clark, dressed in a sweater and jeans, stood with her hands on the rail, feeling the wind tear through the air. She watched with relaxed pleasure as the foamy whitecaps chased one another over the blue sea and the mid-morning sun shone down on her. It felt good to be alone for a change. There was no media in sight, and her current boyfriend, Brad, was busy drinking chocolate martinis and playing poker with two very sketchy couples—neither of whom seemed to have any interest in the environment. She looked behind her, noticed an empty deck chair and walked over to it. “Do you mind if I plop myself down here?” she asked the elderly woman in the next chair.
    â€œOf course not, dear. Do soak up a little sun before it’s too late.”
    As the woman spoke, Chrissie saw the glint of recognition in her eyes. Chrissie was grateful that she had the grace not to start the “Aren’t you Chrissie Clark . . .” game.
    The woman was right, she thought. It was already getting chilly and they said it would cloud over during the evening. She glanced out the corner of her eye at the woman, who was busy talking with the equally elderly man on her other side. She might very well be a somebody, but she wasn’t a big-time somebody, a somebody whom Chrissie would be expected to recognize. The realization was a relief. Chrissie had grown tired of big-time somebodies.
    Chrissie’s trip to the top of the charts had taken longer than those of some of her peers. She’d started in clubs that, during the day, smelled as if they could use a good scrubbing. She’d been spotted by Harold, a slick guy who was better connected than her then-current agent had been. Harold managed to put together a few small shows and she developed a regional reputation. She finally tired of Harold’s insistence that her body was part of the deal, and eventually found Buddy, and Buddy managed to do it. Big shows. A contract with a big label. An international following.
    Chrissie had been at the top of the charts now for almost five years, but she still wasn’t comfortable. She was reconciled to her royalties dropping because everybody was copying her stuff, and she almost