Virus

by S. D. Perry

  Steve shrugged, said nothing, and Everton turned towards the rest of them, looking angry but self-satisfied.

  “Richie, Woods, go down to the engine room and back up Squeaky; Baker, Foster, and I will take Hiko to the medical bay and dress that wound. Let’s move.”

  With that, he turned and walked away, headed for the foredeck. Hiko sat up, deciding that he definitely didn’t like the man—and he could tell from the looks on the others’ faces that they didn’t, either. Even Woods seemed unhappy with the order, and that made the captain lower than low in Hiko’s book . . .

  He let Foster and Steve help him to his feet, his leg already numb below the tight belt, and found himself wishing that he’d flown home after all. He didn’t like this ship, he didn’t trust Everton, and he wanted nothing more than to be on dry land, away from this terrible mess.

  Facing one’s fears was definitely not all it was cracked up to be.

  • 11 •

  Everton led the way to the stairwell, noting that at least some of the lights were working. It was still dim, the corridor deeply shadowed but decidedly empty. He shone the flashlight into the darker corners, Foster and Baker supporting the wounded man behind him.

  Everton kept a blank expression as they reached the stairs, but it was difficult to maintain. Woods and the two deckhands hadn’t openly defied him, at least not yet—but with Foster and Baker both trying to undermine his authority, he felt his control slipping. Splitting the troublesome pair away from the others should put an end to it, although suffering such disrespect didn’t sit well with him—and after he’d offered a more-than-generous percentage, too. It was unbelievable.

  The landing light was on, but the steps before them were still dark. He directed the beam down and led the threesome forward, wondering if their stowaway was likely to try a more direct attack than through a computer. Sinking the Sea Star had been a rather cowardly form of terrorism—he suspected that the perpetrator of such an act would stay hidden, not wanting to confront an armed crew. He’d stay on his guard, though, until the intruder was found; he wasn’t about to take any unnecessary risks, not anymore. There was too much at stake.

  The surveillance cameras were working, panning back and forth all through the A corridor and another in the well; practically every inch of the ship looked to be covered. They could use them to hunt down whoever else was on board, once they’d regrouped. He hoped that Foster could at least manage to do that much with a computer; she’d certainly failed in saving the Sea Star—

  A soft sound, somewhere in the dark ahead. Everton froze, but it was already gone, too slight to even resonate in the empty stairwell. He aimed the beam of his flashlight over the railing, but saw only more steps. A light clattering noise, metallic.

  He glanced back, but it was obvious that the others hadn’t heard it; the two hotheads were concentrating on getting Hiko down the steps. Everton decided that it was nothing, probably debris falling; the Volkov wasn’t exactly in top shape. Besides, it wasn’t loud enough to have come from anything as big as a human being; maybe the Russians had rats.

  His light fell across a mounted wall chart at the bottom of the flight and he stepped down quickly to examine it. The A deck had been mostly small laboratories, at least from what he could tell, but this chart seemed to be more diversified; the brightly colored squares indicated multiple environments.

  Foster joined him, studying the map. “I can’t tell the sick bay from the mess hall. Any suggestions?”

  Everton wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to let her know that. The fact that she’d bothered to ask meant that she recognized his greater experience—and that she was still willing to be led.

  He pointed to a midsized block of blue squares, careful to speak as though he were open to her take on the matter. “Probably here—or here,” he said, indicating a green pattern next to the blue. “We’ll have to look.”

  Foster nodded and went back to help Baker. Everton smiled inwardly; Foster seemed to think she was his peer somehow; he could use that. Perhaps it would work on Baker, too—if giving commands didn’t work, he’d try the we’re-all-in-this-together approach. It was ridiculous, a captain having to bother with such things, but he needed them to get the Volkov through the storm. He’d simply have to compromise, at least until they reached safe waters.

  He pushed the unsealed hatch open, revealing another dim corridor that stretched off in both directions. He waited for the others to catch up and they moved into the hall, headed for what he hoped would be sick bay.

  Get our man stitched up, lay out a plan for capturing whoever attacked us—and get back to what’s important here. Taking our find in and collecting our due . . .

  No one had better try to stop him. He’d been through too much already to let anyone stand in his way; the Volkov was his, and he’d do whatever it took to keep it.

  The door to the engine room was bolted, the shotgun was in easy reach, and Woods and Richie were coming—but Squeaky was still deeply uneasy. It was creepy, being alone in unfamiliar territory when there was some Russian crazy running around. And it didn’t help that every goddamn time he moved, the video camera bolted over the door tracked after him; rigged up to some kind of a motion sensor, which was interesting and all, but it still felt weird. Like someone was watching him.

  He had rummaged through his sack and found a half pack of cigarettes, left over from the last time he swore he’d never smoke again. Actually, it had only been a few days and he’d already cheated, but who the fuck cared? Steve was always getting on his case about it, but Steve wasn’t here—and besides, he was tense.

  He lit another and propped himself up on a stool, holding the walkie in one hand and looking at the main turbine. That was a lot of horses, no shit; the smooth hum of the impressive machine was soothing, relaxing to his nerves.

  He was thinking that he’d buy his own shop with his share of the salvage money, one that was outfitted for cars, boats, maybe even small planes—state of the art all the way. He could hire the best mechanics and supervise everything personally. He’d always liked mechanical stuff, even as a kid; there was a certain satisfaction that came with tooling around engines, making them run the way they were supposed to. He didn’t want to give that up just because he could afford to.

  He grinned, reminded of an old joke. Maybe I’ll run a charity clinic, free service for all the ladies—“Let me look under your hood and get your motor running—and I’ll fix your engine, too,” something like that—

  Someone was watching him.

  Squeaky’s smile faded and he turned slowly, gaze darting around the room. The video camera was still on him, but it hadn’t felt like that, hadn’t felt like that at all . . .

  Nobody. Nothing but machines, and he decided that he was definitely in need of a stiff drink; he’d have to hit Woods up for a belt, that weaselly dork always carried, and where were they, anyway? Leaving him down here to get all paranoid when there was a nut on the loose; it was practically inhumane.

  Squeaky took another drag off his smoke and wondered what Steve would do with his share; maybe they could go in together, that would be all right—

  A scuttling movement behind him. Squeaky wheeled around, searched the row of generators for the source, his heart pounding and eyes wide. Nothing, he couldn’t see anything, but the sound persisted. Like a spider with metal legs, skittering.

  “Hey! Somebody there?” His voice cracked.

  His gaze was caught by a sudden movement between two of the generators, near a thick bundle of cords and cables that ran through an access hole in the deck. The tail end of an electrical cord disappeared through the hole, as if jerked down by unseen hands.

  He stubbed out his smoke and put down the walkie, still scared but not as bad as when he’d first heard that weird noise. It couldn’t be a person, unless they were four feet tall or could breathe fuel oil; there wasn’t room under the deck for anything else.

  So what made that noise? And where did the cord g
o?

  Had to be a mechanical problem; one of the cords had gotten caught on something, that was all—maybe hooked onto a rotor or some such. Squeaky picked up the flashlight and clicked it on, walking over to the bundle of cables and feeling fike an idiot.

  Terrific, great—leave me alone for ten minutes and I turn into a fuckin’ mouse. Squeaky, that’s me . . .

  He stepped up to the access hole and shone the light down, seeing only the thick cables that led off to one side, distributing power to the ship. The hole was just big enough for the bundle, maybe three feet across, and packed to all sides with the heavily insulated cords.

  He crouched down and stuck his hand into the mass, spreading the cables as far as they would go. He squeezed himself forward, surprised at how easily they parted; he’d be able to get a pretty good look after all—

  —and the cables tightened suddenly, trapping his arms against his body.

  “What the fuck—!”

  He struggled against them, terrified, unable to get free. The cords pulled tight, tighter—and jerked him down through the hole and into the darkness, before he even had time to scream.

  Woods was dogging his heels like a scared woman; every time Richie stopped, the skinny blond tripped all over himself not to run into him. Richie thought it was pretty funny, actually; he’d stopped suddenly a couple of times just to watch the man dance.

  They were on C deck, and it was dark. Not pitch black, they had passed a couple of overheads, but the corridors seemed to be randomly lit; for every lamp on, there were three or four off. It made for strange patterns, tricking out Richie’s perspective so the halls seemed to stretch and condense in front of them.

  Woods had only protested their little side trip once, but Richie had set him straight. If they were gonna be wandering around in hostile territory, they needed to be ready for anything; he’d just told Junior that he was free to go down to the engine room solo if he didn’t like it. Woods had shut up quick after that, and had been breathing down his neck ever since.

  They’d already passed several storerooms with bedding and uniforms and shit like that, not to mention a couple of computer rooms that had been totally trashed. Richie knew they were close; the layout of the Volkov was similar to ships he’d heard about back in AIT.

  Research vessel, my black ass. Researching on weapons development, more like it, out here, all quiet like . . .

  Richie stopped in front of a heavy door, and Woods caught himself about an inch from running into him, his face pale and slick in the cool, shadowy hall. Richie smirked and opened the door, shining his flashlight into the room.

  He felt a slow grin spread across his face and took in the sight, deeply satisfied at what he saw. Racks of AK-47s and banana clips; Rocket Propelled Grenade Launchers, 58.3-millimeter thermite grenades, they looked like, and the Russian equivalent of a 16D antitank launcher to go with ’em. No way a spy ship wasn’t gonna be equipped to the teeth, he knew it.

  “Weapons locker,” he said, and stepped inside, Woods close behind.

  He snapped on the lights, still grinning, and reached for one of the AK-47s, checking the bore and nodding happily. Chromed and smooth, hadn’t been fired with any of that corrosive shit that the Ruskies had been so fond of for so long . . .

  “Is that . . . is that an AK-47?” Woods asked anxiously.

  “Yeah. Kicks all ass over an M-16, Woodsy—we’re talking rapid-fire capability, high muzzle velocity . . . Got a short sighting radius, but you don’t even need to aim one a’ these babies, just point and squeeze.”

  He tossed the rifle to the helmsman and watched him fumble with it, then turned and picked up a munitions pack, handing it to the other man. “Let’s load up.”

  Richie fell to the work with a vengeance, stuffing Woods’s pack with every clip on the rack; each curved black mag held thirty. The RPGs went in too, since the grenade launchers only held two missiles—he could see that they were finned, meant a nice, flat trajectory and slow rotation; excellent fuckin’ accuracy. He found a couple of sets of night vision goggles, not as good as a starlight scope but better than nothing; they went in on top.

  He stood up and looked around, nodding. They’d cleared the locker out, but there was another hatch at the end of the room that probably led to more. Woods had six AK-47s slung across his back and the grenade launcher sagging off one shoulder.

  “C’mon, Richie, that’s enough.”

  Richie shook his head, picked up the last AK-47, and slammed a clip home. “You can never be too rich, too thin, or too well armed,” he said, and opened the hatch. A stairwell, dark and empty.

  Richie pulled a joint out of his breast pocket and lit up, held the first toke in until his brain started to scream for air. He exhaled slowly, feeling at ease for the first time since the whole anchor incident. There was a watcher on this boat, maybe more than one; those goddamn video cameras all over, the back of his neck going cold every time one found him, fuckin’ with him—

  —but now we’re cookin’ with gas; ain’t no commie bastard gonna get the drop on me, no way no how . . .

  “Where ya goin’? Let’s get outta here, Richie.”

  Woods sounded like a cartoon. Richie took another hit and started down the dark stairs. Squeaky could wait, at least until Richie had scoped out the available firepower.

  He was a man with a mission. And God help the Russians, ’cause he was through bein’ fucked with.

  • 12 •

  The sick bay wasn’t where Everton had proposed, but it was close. Foster threw open the door and found the lights, the bright fluorescents chasing away the shadows and showing them a gleaming white medical lab. There were wide lockers, gurneys, stainless tables—it seemed to be one of the only places on the ship so far that hadn’t been wrecked.

  Foster walked in cautiously, Everton, Steve, and Hiko right behind. She heard the mounted camera in one upper corner swivel towards them and glanced up, felt a chill run through her; there were surveillance cams everywhere on the Volkov, probably standard equipment on a vessel like this—but she couldn’t help feeling like they were being tracked, their every move studied. Whoever had dropped the anchor on the Sea Star obviously had the skills to do it, too; they’d blocked the bridge console from them easily enough . . .

  They all stood for a moment, listening, but the lab seemed empty of life, as empty as the rest of the ship.

  But not empty, either—it’s like a ship of ghosts, invisible but always watching. We can’t see them, but they’re here with us now, sliding between us, examining us, touching us . . .

  She shook off the feeling and walked to a counter of drawers and cabinets that lined one side of the room, opposite the locker bank. Steve and Everton helped Hiko to one of the examining tables while she pulled open drawers, found gauze and boxes of rubber gloves. She crouched down in front of a cabinet and got lucky on the first—swabs, bottles of disinfectant, and suture kits. She grabbed up an armful and walked across to where Hiko lay, Everton leaning on the table. Steve was rummaging around for dry clothes in one of the lockers.

  The Maori deckhand watched stoically as she undid the makeshift tourniquet and wiped the nasty wound with an iodine solution. She threaded the surgical needle and took a deep breath.

  “This is gonna hurt, Hiko.”

  He shrugged. “Just get on with it.”

  Steve had found a set of scrubs and stepped behind a medical curtain to change. Foster hesitated with the needle, unable to help a quick look as he slipped out of his wet pants. From where she sat, she could see one well-muscled thigh, the heavy, wet material pushing down . . .

  Jesus, am I in high school again? Foster turned back to the work at hand, embarrassed at herself. She pierced the ragged edge of flesh and pushed through as gently as she could. Hiko didn’t even flinch.

  “You’ve got a high pain threshold,” she said quietly.

  “I usually do it myself,” he answered. She couldn’t quite tell if he was kidding, but looking at the depth
of the tattoo work he’d had done, she thought probably not.

  Everton had produced another handful of peanuts from somewhere and looked over at her, speaking conversationally as he munched.

  “Foster—what are you gonna do with your three million?”

  She concentrated on making another stitch across the deep gash, fully aware that the captain was trying to make nice and not particularly interested. “I don’t have it yet.”

  Everton continued. “Say you do. Seriously, what would you do?”

  She shrugged; she had nothing to say to the man, and in truth, she hadn’t thought about it yet.

  Hiko obviously had. “I’d open a school.”

  Steve walked out from behind the curtain in a loose set of surgical scrubs. He tossed another set to Hiko, smiling. “A school?”

  Hiko nodded. “Kura Kaupapa. You know, for little kids. Teach them to read and write Maori, that sort of thing.”

  Everton worked to keep it going. “What about you, Baker?”

  Steve was opening the wide medical lockers, checking the contents. “I dunno. I don’t have any attachments; always loved the sea . . .” He paused, then smiled. “I’d buy an island.”

  Foster considered that, finishing a third stitch. “Interesting idea. Does it have a beach?”

  “Yeah. Nice white sand.”

  Foster smiled. “And a house?”

  “With a thatched roof, overlooking a lagoon.”

  Hiko grinned. “When are you guys getting married? Ow! Foster, take it easy!”

  Foster looked over at Steve, saw him watching her thoughtfully as he reached for another locker. Interesting indeed . . .

  He pulled the handle up, and quite suddenly, all hell broke loose.

  Steve dove for cover as a shadowy figure opened fire from inside the deep locker, the popping sound of an automatic rifle shattering the stillness of the lab.

  Steve spun, saw Foster push Hiko off the table and Everton hit the deck as the Russian strafed the lab with the AK-47. Glass doors blew into fragments, the metal table where Hiko had lain pierced by ringing bullets.