‘Shock,’ said my mother, yanking her Medkit from the hatch where she’d stowed it. ‘He must have been feeling faint -’
‘He’s been vomiting,’ Sadira remarked, with a wince.
‘There should have been an alarm.’
‘There probably was. We just missed it, in all the fuss.’ Mum pushed her Medkit across the floor to Sadira. ‘It’s all right, Tuddor, we’ll get him checked out. Sadira will take him to MedLab.’
‘It’s not some kind of radiation sickness, is it?’ Sloan asked quietly, before anyone else could. A good half of the Bridge crew had paused in their work, anxious to find out what had happened. Arkwright and Firminus didn’t appear to have registered the disturbance. They were still squinting at readouts.
Mum shook her head.
‘It’s fluid loss,’ she replied, ‘on top of nervous shock and the effects of – I mean, he’s had a bad reaction. To a drug.’ Her sudden embarrassment made me wonder if the drug in question might have been happy gas. ‘It’s a combination of things, but none of them is cause for general concern.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Dad. He spoke levelly. ‘I want to be sure, Comet.’
‘We’ll check him out,’ my mother promised. ‘We’ll give him a thorough scan, don’t worry. There’s no evidence of cellular breakdown at this point.’
‘So am I cleared to go?’ Sadira was laying some kind of patch over Landry’s wound: one of Mum’s regeneration patches, no doubt. Mum and Dad exchanged glances.
Then Dad gave a nod.
‘All right,’ said Mum. ‘Sadira, you’re cleared to go. I’ll be along soon.’
‘I’ll help,’ Sloan offered, stepping forward. But his mother stopped him with a glare.
‘You stay put,’ she commanded. ‘I don’t need help.’
She didn’t, either. Although she was smaller than Landry, she got him to his feet without any trouble – perhaps because he was becoming more alert. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, and ‘Ouch!’ when he touched the patch on his forehead.
‘Leave that alone.’ Sadira braced herself, propping his weight against her shoulder. ‘Come on.’
‘I’m fine. Really. I just slipped and hit my head -’ ‘Right. And there’s a procedure for head injuries, like everything else.’
‘I was feeling sick.’
‘I know. It’s all right. It’s an adverse reaction.’
Over his feeble protests, Landry was led from the room as, one by one, the Bridge crew returned to their checklists. I caught Sloan’s eye.
‘Happy gas?’ I mouthed, jerking my head at the door. Sloan shrugged. Then he cleared his throat.
‘Arkwright?’ he said loudly. ‘I need an Array. I can take over the Micro-organic reports for you.’ There was no response. ‘Arkwright?’
‘You do that, Sloan.’ My dad had heard him, even if Arkwright hadn’t. ‘Use Landry’s station. Lais -’
‘I’m on it,’ said Lais. Suddenly, everyone was feverishly busy again. Even Mum was back on an Array, frowning at readouts.
I wondered what I was supposed to do.
‘Uh – Dad?’
No one heard me. Sloan had dashed across to Landry’s empty chair. The well-checks were rolling in, each more reassuring than the last. Okay for power . . . full integrity for port shields . . . we’ve got normal status on all processing support systems . . .
Lais announced that word had come through from Technical Fault Protection. Those energy surges had stopped, she said.
‘Dad?’ I repeated – and this time he heard. This time he looked around. ‘Can I do something?’
‘Not right now, Cheney.’ He threw me a distracted smile. ‘In a minute.’
So that was that. I wondered how long it would be until the last status report came through. When that happened, no doubt, the red alert would be over. I settled back into my chair with a sigh.
Once again, the expected crisis hadn’t occurred. We were still safe, and living in a completely stable environment. The thought crossed my mind that nothing really bad could ever happen on Plexus.
What a fool I was.
Red alert or no red alert, it would be some time before Arkwright remembered me. That much was clear. My gaze travelled from the back of his head to the back of Sloan’s, then across to my mother. I saw fingers fluttering over consoles. I saw glowing digits – layers and layers of them – twinkle and fade and flow through pockets of plasma at various speeds. Voices blended in a complex web of sound, as people exchanged comments or murmured into the Audio Interlink Network.
The Public Address System had been shut off.
I was just wondering whether I should give Merrit a call – and Dygall too, perhaps – when my wandering gaze snagged on something peculiar. I sat forward, squinting. Then I got up and went to study the bulkhead more closely.
Over near the toilet cubicle, a patch of white wall seemed to be slightly smudged. There was a faint discolouration. At first it looked almost like a scorch mark, with a flush of pale pink at its centre instead of pale brown. As I watched, this pink colour deepened. Or was I seeing things? I blinked several times – were the edges of the stain expanding? Yes. No.
Yes.
Discolouration was a stress signal. I knew that. The fabric of Plexus was designed to display visual changes if its integrity was under threat. Polymer layers responded with optical signals to excessive heat, UV light, chemicals and other damaging agents. A blue flush acted as a red flag.
But a pink flush? What did that mean?
‘Dad?’
Once again, no one heard me. After a moment I raised my voice and tried again.
‘Dad?
’ ‘What the hell is that?’ said Conal. I was standing near him; he had turned at the sound of my voice. ‘What have you got there, Cheney?’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Tuddor! Look at this!’
The stain was definitely expanding. It was now the size of a basketball. It also had a funny sheen to it – a kind of wet sheen, quite different from the matt finish of the bulkhead.
‘Cheney?’ said my dad, from somewhere behind me. I pointed.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘What’s that?’
No reply. Glancing around, I saw people converging from everywhere: Dad, Mum, Haido . . . even Sloan was heading my way. All eyes were fixed on the pink flush.
‘Shit,’ said Dad, and bumped into the back of someone’s chair.
‘This can’t be good.’ Conal addressed my mother. ‘It’s a stress signal, isn’t it? Colour change? It’s an integrity warning.’
‘It can’t be,’ Sloan murmured. He was pressing against my shoulder. ‘A warning stain would be blue. This isn’t blue.’
‘Arkwright!’ Dad whirled. ‘We’ve got a problem here!’
‘Don’t touch it!’ Mum exclaimed, as Sloan bent closer to the bulkhead. ‘Nobody touch it, stand well away! Cheney – over here! Now!
’ ‘What is it?’ Dad was talking to Arkwright. He seized my arm, pulling me back into the centre of the Bridge. ‘There’s gotta be input, Arkwright, this looks like an integrity breach. So what is it?’
For the first time ever, I saw Arkwright at a complete loss. He goggled across the room, his fine, lank hair in disarray.
‘There are no alarms,’ he insisted faintly.
‘There have to be.’
‘There are no alarms, Tuddor. Look for yourself. All the readouts are normal.’
Dad released me, and strode over to the nearest Interface Array. Meanwhile, Firminus had got up, and had joined his son near the spreading stain.
‘Sibber 24 linkup.’ Arkwright spoke into his collar. ‘Sibber? It’s me. Do you have any integrity alerts coming in? Any abnormal readings at all?’
I didn’t hear the reply, because Mum was talking from beside the toilet cubicle.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘this looks organic.’
‘It does,’ Sloan agreed.
‘If CAIP hasn’t registered this,’ said Firminus, ‘
then there’s something wrong with CAIP. Arkwright?’
‘I heard.’ Arkwright sounded ever so slightly testy. He addressed Lais. ‘We’ll have to run a full diagnostic,’ he ordered. ‘Cyclic redundancy checks, process scans – the lot.’
‘Roger that,’ said Lais, and set to work.
‘We’ll have to isolate the analysis program,’ Arkwright explained to my father. ‘I don’t know if the problem’s in the peripheries, or in the links, or in the CPU itself – I just don’t know yet.’
‘How long will it take to find out?’ Dad asked.
‘Full diagnostic? About . . . seven, eight minutes?’
‘That’s a long time, Arkwright.’
‘We got another one!’ somebody cried. ‘Report’s in from the Health Centre! Discolouration on the bulkhead!’
I swallowed. The Health Centre? That was on the other side of the ship, practically.
‘Sibber’s in the same boat,’ Arkwright announced. ‘Pink patches in the Depot and pump station three. You’d better talk to him, Tuddor – I’m busy here.’
Dad took up the signal link while Arkwright signed off. Sloan had produced a gauge pen, to measure the pink flush. ‘It’s definitely getting bigger,’ he declared.
‘Sloan, will you stay well back, please?’ My mother was getting irritable. (The happy gas must be wearing off, I decided.) ‘There could be spoors. Fumes. Keep well away.’
At that point, glancing around the Bridge, I spotted something else. Something very, very unwelcome.
‘Uh – Dad?’ I quavered. ‘There’s another one.’
CHAPTER
SEVEN
It was right overhead, on the ceiling – a blurred pink ring with a darker centre. Everyone looked up.
‘Oh hell,’ somebody said. ‘We’re in trouble now.’
‘None of that!’ my father snapped. ‘Sibber, should we lock down pressure cells?’
‘It’s contraindicated,’ Sibber replied, through Dad’s voice patch. He was Chief Engineer, stationed at the Depot. ‘We’ve got more reports coming in from all over the ship -’
‘On flash logs?’
‘On linkups and Vindow only. If it’s an outbreak, we can’t contain it any more, it’s moved too fast.
’ ‘Are there no system alarms? None at all?’
‘Not one. Tuddor – we’ll have to do manual checks, if CAIP’s down. ’
‘It’s not down,’ Dad replied. ‘It’s living in a dream-world. Lais! What’s the status, on that diagnostic?’
‘Zip.’ Lais’s voice trembled. ‘Not a twitch. It’s reading total integrity. Arkwright, this doesn’t make sense!’
I’d moved away from the pink patch on the ceiling, but I hadn’t taken my eyes off it. Like the first, it was growing. Not only that . . .
‘It’s dripping!’ I squeaked. ‘It dripped!’
‘And this one’s excreting too,’ said Sloan urgently. ‘Tuddor, I have to get to BioLab. This is organic. This has to be analysed. Suppose it’s a mutant thiocystis bacteria? Suppose it’s eating away the fabric of the ship? This looks like organic acid, to me.’
I saw Firminus glance at his son and frown. But he said nothing. Behind them, the glistening pink patch was now almost as big as a man. It was creeping towards the floor. It was . . . bubbling slightly?
‘Sloan’s right,’ Mum suddenly declared. ‘This is a job for Ottilie, and BioLab. That radiation’s affected the bacteria in the hull.’
‘Ottilie 403 linkup!’ said Firminus. ‘Ottilie? It’s Firminus. We’ve got a problem. Ah . . . You too?’
At that moment, my own voice patch beeped. It was Merrit again.
‘Cheney?
’ ‘Merrit, this is such a bad time -’
‘I know. I realise. But listen -’
‘Have you seen it? The stuff on the walls?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it. It’s here. But listen – I just got a funny call from Yestin. He was talking about his rodog -’
‘I’m here,’ Yestin broke in. ‘I’m linked in. Cheney, there’s something wrong with Bam.’
‘Yestin!’ I couldn’t believe it. ‘There’s something wrong with the whole ship!’
‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying. I think it’s the same thing.
He’s gone all yellow and soft -’ ‘He wants to take Bam to BioLab, Cheney,’ Merrit interrupted. ‘I don’t even know if he’s allowed to, is he?
’ ‘Uh – hang on.’ I had just realised: Sloan was leaving. He was heading for the door. Dad must have given him clearance. ‘Sloan! Wait! Where are you going?’
‘BioLab,’ he replied.
‘But -’
‘It’s all right, Cheney.’ Firminus spoke from behind me. ‘He won’t be going alone.’
I looked around in surprise as Firminus brushed past me to join his son. They regarded each other with level gazes. They were exactly the same height.
‘It’s not necessary,’ Sloan pointed out.
‘Perhaps not to you,’ Firminus answered, in a voice that was quiet but firm.
‘Cheney?
’ ‘Merrit, could I just -? Let me get back to you, okay? There’s a lot happening up here.’
I wanted to say something to Sloan – I’m not sure what. But he was already stepping through the door, ahead of his father. I noticed something odd as the panels met behind them.
Surely those two panels had never come together so fluidly before?
‘I think we should seal up again,’ Mum was saying. ‘We don’t know what this stuff is.’
‘The atmospheric readouts are fine . . .’ Haido remarked.
‘Yes, but since CAIP’s not functioning properly, that might not mean a thing. Tuddor!’
But Dad was talking to one of his Navvies: the broad-faced girl with the tattooed hairline. ‘You don’t need me,’ she was insisting, an edge of hysteria in her voice. ‘This is all data routing stuff.’
‘We’re still at emergency stations -’
‘For a cosmic encounter! I do charts! I don’t have to be here!’
‘Look, I’m not going to argue. I don’t have time,’ Dad said shortly. ‘You do what you think is best.’
The tattooed girl seemed close to tears. From his Interface Array, Arkwright suddenly remarked, ‘If she doesn’t want to be here, we don’t want her here.’ He wrenched his gaze from the diagnostic readouts. ‘She won’t add value,’ he explained matter-of-factly.
The tattooed girl gasped; it was as if she had been struck. A call came through from Sibber on Dad’s voice patch, and he turned away from her. Mum laid a hand on her shoulder.
‘You go,’ said Mum, quietly. ‘Now.’
‘I -’
‘Go on. Quickly. Go to your husband. I know that’s where you want to be.’
So the tattooed girl went. And watching her, I was sure of it – something had affected the door. The two panels didn’t simply slide apart any longer. They seemed almost to stretch apart, as if they were slightly elastic. As if something was pulling each of them from the middle.
‘Dad?’ I said, and this time he listened. This time everyone listened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw blurred faces swing towards me.
‘Hang on, Sibber – what is it, Cheney?’ said Dad. ‘Have you seen anything else?’
‘The door . . .’
‘What about the door?’
‘It’s . . . it’s changing.’
‘It looks yellow,’ someone piped up.
It did, too. There were yellowish streaks on the white – a kind of blurring around the edges. ‘It’s not moving right,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s kind of . . . look.’ I advanced towards it, cautiously. When I crossed the pressure pad, the two panels in front of me practically peeled back.
‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Conal.
‘Sibber!’ Dad barked. ‘We have major structural changes on the Bridge, here! We’re talking mechanics, Sibber!’
‘Arkwright, we have to seal up!’ Mum exclaimed. ‘At least until we get some results fr
om Ottilie! Arkwright? Are you listening?’
Then Lais shrieked. She jumped from her chair.
Everyone stared – even Arkwright.
‘It’s sticky!’ she wailed.
‘What?’ said Conal.
‘It’s sticky! My chair! The armrest! Look!’
I was trying to see what she meant when my voice patch beeped. I gave a clear-to-send, absent-mindedly. I wasn’t expecting Dygall.
‘Cheney, what’s going on?’ he demanded. The signal seemed a little rough. A little fuzzy. ‘Why are the walls changing colour?
’ ‘I – we don’t know yet -’
‘Something’s eating up the ship!
’ ‘They’re onto it, Dygall.’
‘I’m fzzchzz . . .
’ ‘What?’
‘. . . coming over there . . .’
‘Dygall -!’
‘I’m not sitting around here, waiting for the sczzzz . . . ’
‘Dygall! Wait! You can’t! They won’t let you!’
‘How are they going to stop me? I’m coming.’
‘Dygall . . .!’
But he had signed off. And when I tried to call back, he wouldn’t give me a clear-to-send.
Dad, meanwhile, was feeling the back of Lais’s chair. I heard a slight tearing noise as he pulled his hand away.
‘It’s tacky,’ he said, in complete astonishment. He looked up, and his gaze met Mum’s.
‘Look,’ she said, pointing. ‘Look at the base.’ Where the shaft of the chair met the floor, there was a puddle of almost translucent pink material, shot with something hard and yellowish. ‘It’s everywhere.’
‘Arkwright, get up!’ Dad exclaimed. ‘Everyone get up!’
‘The floor as well,’ Lais whimpered, and she was right. When I raised my left foot, there was a slight – a very slight – resistance. As if I had honey on the sole of my boot.
Suddenly, I was terrified. Truly scared. This was different from the burn. From the emission wave. From anything I’d ever known before.
This was real.
‘Mum . . .?’ I croaked, like a little kid, and she came to me. She put her arm around me. I thought: Get a grip on yourself. Now.
I took a deep, calming breath.
‘I’ve got a stand-by alert from BioLab!’ Haido said, in shaky tones. She, too, was out of her chair, dabbing gingerly at the console. ‘Ship-wide standby! Stand by for analysis data . . .’
Living Hell Page 6