Inside Out

by Thorne Moore

  ‘It’s never quite what you expect,’ said Addo. ‘You imagine you’re going to feel elated, triumphant.’

  ‘I’d settle for feeling anything at all. Why don’t I? You’d think, after all this time, I’d be delirious.’ Tod raised his head. ‘Are we getting too old for this?

  ‘Yes.’ Addo smiled. ‘Are we going to stop?’

  ‘No.’ Tod leaned across to consult the scanner again. ‘Not till we get the Tarquin. Fourteen years, we’ve never been this close. He’s there somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, and if we chance upon him, we’ll get him. Or he’ll get us. But we settled the rules, Tod: we get the cubs safely to Triton first. The hunt is for the journey back.’

  ‘You might like to reassure Miss Gwynne of that. She’s not convinced.’ Tod pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘Anyway, we’re not in a position to do anything till we sort out the ship. Has Tucker reached a verdict on the damage?’

  ‘We’re not totally crippled, just limping. Tucker’s doing some emergency patching for now. I’ve told him to disconnect the problem lateral altogether. Risky, but it’s the fastest way to get a decent repair done.’

  ‘Granted.’

  ‘After that, we’re going to have to decide. We head for the nearest repair dock, which will advertise our problems to the whole world, or we keep going, fingers crossed that we don’t run into trouble, while Tucker takes his time on full repairs.’

  ‘Nothing he likes better.’

  ‘True. But we haven’t got Silas anymore. He was on the ball, whereas Mich is on God knows what. He’s better than nothing when his head’s not spinning, but how often is that? It’s going to be a long job.’

  ‘Let’s deal with the lateral first. It’s time I took over from you here. How long have you been glued in that chair?’

  Addo glanced at his watch. ‘A while.’

  ‘You were ever precise. I think I’ll call Tim up here. Give him a chance to talk through his first mass murder.’ Tod addressed the intercom. ‘Tim, leave those seals now. It’s our watch. Come up to Flight Control.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Ship’s Boy! Wake up.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Throwing up in a corner I expect. I can’t leave him there.’

  Addo nodded. ‘Go and find him. I’m okay here for a while longer.’

  Tod took the elevator down to D-Deck. The doors slid open, revealing Smith, shaken, stirred and breathing hard.

  ‘Ah. Commander.’

  ‘Ah, Smith. Caught you in the shaft? That elevator moves fast, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not as fast as me.’

  ‘Obviously. Have you seen Tim while you were sneaking around?’

  ‘I don’t sneak. And no, I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Then you can help me find him. I don’t want him wallowing in private misery, and I don’t want you on the loose where I can’t see you.’ Tod opened the door of a workshop and looked in. All was silent.

  ‘How about we split up,’ said Smith. ‘I go that way and—’

  ‘Keep going.’

  Smith pushed open the next door, and then the next.

  ‘Tim?’ called Tod. ‘Maybe he’s gone back to his cabin.’

  ‘No, I passed it. His door was open.’

  ‘He’s not here. It’s too quiet.’

  They looked at each other. D-Deck was silent. It shouldn’t have been.

  ‘Keep going,’ repeated Tod crisply.

  They were intent on what they might see or hear, but it was the sense of smell that got them first. The sour abattoir odour, faint at first, rolled over them in its full reeking strength as they opened another workshop door.

  Smith stopped on the threshold, staring in. However nimble his brain, it couldn’t instantly compute what his eyes were seeing. ‘What is it?’ he said stupidly.

  Tod pushed past him and looked down at the floor. The darkly drenched floor. The spattered walls. The gore. He didn’t move or respond in any way for a moment. Then he said calmly, ‘It’s Tim.’ He turned back to Smith. ‘Get out.’

  Smith stepped back, turned, and vomited in the corridor.

  Tod came after him. His knife was out, its sharp blade dangerously close to Smith’s jugular as he straightened. ‘You were down here.’

  ‘Jesus Christ! I didn’t—’ Smith retched again. Tod waited. ‘I didn’t do that! It’s Mich you want. He’s the only one insane enough to – Christ!’

  ‘Move.’

  Smith wavered. Movement was one option. Lying down was another.

  ‘You choose,’ said Tod icily. ‘Go ahead of me, or I leave you here, chained to this pipe.’ He was holding a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘What’s a little bondage between friends?’ Smith swallowed hard.

  ‘Move,’ hissed Tod.

  Smith obeyed, guided by prods from Tod’s knife.

  In another workshop they found Tucker. He was lying on the floor, his bald head in a pool of blood. A heavy cabinet had crashed down across his midriff. Tod was on one knee, feeling for a pulse.

  ‘He’s alive. Will! Look at me! Can you hear me?’

  ‘Took your bloody time,’ Tucker mumbled, before his eyes began to flutter and he slid out of consciousness.

  ‘Help me get this off him,’ said Tod.

  ‘Right.’ Smith shook himself.

  Between them, they manhandled the cabinet to one side, Tod taking most of the strain. Tucker groaned once, but otherwise remained unconscious.

  ‘We’ll get him up to B-Deck.’

  ‘Should he be moved?’ asked Smith. ‘Might do more damage.’

  ‘No choice with a lunatic on the loose. Wait.’ Tod strode to another cabinet still secured to the wall. He slammed the doors open, looked around for tools, found none of any use. He went back into the corridor.

  Smith got to his feet and checked the room nervously for concealed corners and dark shadows. His talents lay in high finance, pocket picking, cyber hacking, general mischief – anything requiring intelligence, agility and a sense of humour. Psychotic butchery was not on his C.V.

  Tod reappeared with an axe. Smith froze, but Tod’s attention was for the cabinet doors. He smashed through the hinges and wrenched a door free, letting it drop to the floor. ‘We’ll get him onto that.’

  Gingerly they manoeuvred the unconscious man out of the congealing blood and onto the improvised stretcher. ‘Stay here,’ said Tod. Again, he stalked off.

  Smith looked at their patient. The flow of blood from the evil gash in Tucker’s head was slowing, but he was a hideous rubbery grey colour.

  Tod returned with a small trolley. ‘Help me get him onto this. Better than trying to carry that thing.’

  Addo looked up in a fleeting moment of stupefaction, as they emerged into Flight Control.

  ‘Call Siegfried, if he’s sober enough to stand,’ said Tod.

  ‘Okay.’ Addo flicked the intercom control as they wheeled the trolley through and out onto B-Deck. They were manoeuvring along the corridor when Abigail appeared.

  ‘What’s going on?’ She saw Tucker and gasped.

  ‘Out of the way,’ said Tod. She retreated hurriedly. Reaching the infirmary, Tod nodded to Smith and they slid Tucker from the metal door onto the bed. It was a clumsy job and the unconscious man twitched ominously. Blood started seeping anew from the gash on his head. Tod threw open the medical cabinet, pulled out a dressing and flung it to Smith. ‘Hold it on!’ he ordered.

  ‘I’m not very good at this.’

  ‘I’d noticed.’ Tod looked out into the corridor, impatient. ‘Here, now!’

  Siegfried came at a drunken run. He stared uncomprehendingly at Tucker.

  ‘See to him,’ ordered Tod. ‘He’s got a head wound and maybe internal injuries too. Tony!’ His words cut through Siegfried’s inebriated daze.

  ‘Yes, right.’ Siegfried approached the bed.

  ‘You!’ said Tod, turning his white-hot glare on Smith. ‘Out. I want to know where everyone is.’ He had an unfriendly
grip on Smith’s arm, propelling him down the corridor.

  The other passengers, alarmed by Abigail, had gathered at the doorway of the observation lounge. They looked round, in anxiety or downright terror as Tod bore down on them.

  ‘What’s happened,’ asked Yasmin.

  Tod counted heads. ‘Tim’s dead.’

  There were gasps. Abigail gave a voiceless scream and clapped her hand to her mouth. Clytemnestra looked disgusted. Merrit sagged.

  ‘In your cabins, now!’ said Tod.

  Like obedient sheep they allowed themselves to be herded into their rooms, Seldon, Clytemnestra, David, Merrit.

  ‘Tod,’ said Yasmin, but he was already shutting her door. Abigail. Tod gave a final push to Smith and snapped the locks on the block. Then he strode back to Flight Control.

  Addo swivelled round to face him. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Tim’s dead.’

  Addo flinched. ‘Are you sure? Sorry, stupid remark.’

  Tod laughed, bitterly. ‘Believe me, there isn’t any room for doubt. Tucker’s injured, I don’t know how badly. See what Siegfried says, if he’s sober enough to make a judgement.’ Tod returned to the elevator.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Addo.

  ‘Find Mich,’ said Tod, knife in hand.

  Yasmin sat with her eyes closed, replaying words, actions, faces. She pulled out a bottle of vodka from under the bed, then she stared at it and put it down again. She tried the door. It wouldn’t budge. She pressed her ear to it. She could hear nothing.

  ‘Smith,’ she said.

  There was no response. She waited, counting to keep her head clear. She tried again. ‘Smith.’

  The silence continued unabated. She looked at the door controls in vague hope, but what was the point? She had no idea how to circumvent the lock. She tried once more. ‘Smith.’ Was there a stir? She knocked on the door. ‘Jo Jo, let me out.’ She waited anxiously. There was silence, then suddenly her door slid open.

  Smith looked ghastly. He spied the vodka bottle, came in and helped himself to a swig.

  ‘I thought you might be out and about,’ said Yasmin.

  ‘I don’t fancy being trapped behind a locked door when there’s a homicidal...’ He stopped and took another quick gulp.

  ‘What happened to Tim?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ He shuddered.

  ‘No. Tell me. He was murdered?’

  Smith nodded.

  ‘How?’

  ‘You really don’t want to know.’

  ‘Yes. I have to.’

  ‘He was eviscerated. Disembowelled.’

  Yasmin leaned back against the wall. ‘His guts spread out on the floor?’

  ‘Precisely. Christ!’

  She closed her eyes. ‘I’d better find Tod.’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. He’ll have gone back down to D-Deck to kill Mich.’

  ‘Mich?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘It’s not Mich.’

  ‘Tod,’ said Addo, on the intercom. ‘Have you found Mich?’

  ‘Not yet.’ The two words snapped.

  ‘You’d better come back here, now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Come up. There’s something you’ve got to hear.’

  Tod emerged in Flight Control, like one of the riders of the Apocalypse. He stopped, seeing Smith and Yasmin. ‘I locked you—’

  ‘Leave it,’ commanded Addo. ‘You’re looking for the wrong man. It was David.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. David isn’t violent. He’s utterly passive. He just does as he’s...’ Tod shut his eyes. ‘Go on.’

  Yasmin took a deep breath. ‘He was wet from the shower when he joined us. He’s an ET, Tod.’

  ‘So I guessed,’ he said bitterly. ‘Susceptible to suggestion.’

  ‘More than you could have known. His pills.’

  ‘Ventrix. You’re telling me they’re not Ventrix?’

  ‘If they are, they have something added. I think.’

  ‘You think!’

  ‘You’ve got analysis equipment. I can’t prove it but I’ve suspected it for – I should have spoken sooner. Sorry. I’m speaking now.’ She talked fast. ‘Years ago, Ragnox Pharmacology was developing a programme. Tibicen Hamelini. Researching a solution to ET syndrome. There were trials. It looked hopeful. Patients became responsive, started to show normal behaviour. Then the project was shelved. I’ve checked on the CJ findings in the library. They stopped the project because they realised it was nothing more than a cocktail of mind-control drugs and a brain implant. Patients weren’t developing normal awareness or communication, they were fixed, Pavlovian-fashion, onto a controller. Invariably the person who gave them their medication.’

  Addo looked uneasily at Tod.

  He stared stonily back. ‘I see.’

  ‘Tibicen Hamelini was banned,’ said Yasmin.

  ‘Ragnox research, so when you say banned, you mean the programme was moved out to Triton, and Pascal’s been working on it ever since.’

  ‘That’s my guess. A lot of ETs are thought to be phenomenally intelligent. If they could be harnessed, it would make them valuable tools. Michael Rabiotti probably thought the programme was David’s only hope of being "normal." Better a son who reacted like a trained dog, than a son who couldn’t communicate at all.’

  ‘So why didn’t he dose him up and keep him at home?’ Tod spoke between clenched teeth. ‘He obviously had the drug. Legality wouldn’t concern Michael Rabiotti.’

  Yasmin winced. ‘One of the things that alerted the MC about the programme; patients were resistant. Very resistant. It’s a sort of rape, I suppose. They’d run, retreat into dark corners where they couldn’t be dosed up. Torn between obeying their controllers and escaping from them. One starved to death rather than come out and be treated. David’s probably spent years hiding, trying to escape. Maybe Rabiotti thought he could be more easily controlled on Triton.’

  There was a prolonged silence. Smith shifted uneasily.

  ‘They might be wrong about this,’ said Addo.

  ‘Oh no!’ Tod stared blindly across the deck, as the invisible bricks dropped into place. ‘I’ve had David performing like a circus animal, and he opened Tim up like a can of spaghetti because I told him to.’ Too late, Tod realised that he was staring at Siegfried, standing in the doorway.

  ‘No!’ It was the only comprehensible thing that Siegfried said. The rest was an unintelligible babble of roars and screams, his bestial fury paralysing them all for a moment. He picked up a heavy metal-framed chair and raised it over his head like matchwood, preparing to swing it.

  Addo rose, pulled out a gun and shot him.

  Tod put his head in his hands, as Siegfried opened his eyes wide, then his mouth, then crashed down.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tod,’ said Addo. ‘I couldn’t let him—’

  ‘No, you couldn’t.’

  Yasmin dropped down and checked Siegfried’s pulse. Slow but steady.

  ‘Tranquiliser,’ said Addo, returning to his controls. ‘We don’t use bullets in Flight Control.’

  ‘No, we have far more imaginative means of self-destruction,’ said Tod. He lowered his hands and was back in control. ‘David. First we deal with him.’

  Yasmin looked at Smith, appalled. He stared back, the memory of the workshop on D-Deck still imprinted clearly on his mind, but he followed her out, catching up with Tod as he reached the door of David’s cabin.

  ‘Tod—’

  ‘Be quiet.’ He opened the door.

  David was sitting quietly on his bed. His pallor had a luminous quality. He looked what he was, a creature from another world. Without the deceptive spectacles, his eyes were still disturbingly large, their pupils unnaturally dilated. And they were instantly fixed on Tod.

  Smith stared at him in disbelief. This sad submissive creature couldn’t possibly have done what he’d witnessed on the lower deck. Smith tensed, as Yasmin picked up a coa
t-hanger from David’s dresser, the only thing to hand, though who she meant to attack he couldn’t guess. If things got violent, he planned to leg it, fast.

  ‘David.’ Tod’s jaw was tight, his fist clenched on the knife, but he made no move.

  David looked up, totally obedient, totally miserable.

  ‘No more pills,’ said Tod.

  David’s huge eyes widened.

  ‘No pills,’ repeated Tod. ‘But you remain here, in your cabin. Do you understand?’

  David receded, into himself. A curtain came down, shutting them out. The command was redundant. He was already out of harm’s way.

  Tod pushed Smith and Yasmin out, closing the door and locking it. He turned to Smith. ‘Go back to Flight Control and give the major any assistance he needs.’

  With huge relief, Smith turned and ran.

  Tod headed for the infirmary, towing Yasmin. Tucker was lying unconscious, the covers scattered, his face livid, his bruised eyelids quivering. A syringe and various bottles lay abandoned on the bed and the table.

  Tod lifted the soaked dressing from his head, swore softly, and reached for a new one. He took Yasmin’s hand and clamped it firmly in position. ‘Stay here.’

  He swept back to Merrit’s cabin, released the lock and opened the door. Merrit was crouched in a quivering posture of surrender or self-defence. Tod picked him up and pulled him out. ‘Come.’

  ‘Look. I didn’t do anything. Whatever it is—’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever you want. I swear, I didn’t—’

  ‘Move!’ Tod pushed him roughly back up the corridor.

  Merrit moved. ‘Please. I swear to you – anything you —’

  ‘Shut up and run.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Merrit ran, until Tod grabbed him and swung him sideways towards the infirmary. ‘Left!’

  Merrit stopped in the doorway, staring at Tucker stretched out, racked with laboured breathing. Yasmin was standing by the bed, looking helpless.

  ‘He’s got a head injury,’ said Tod. ‘Possibly internal injuries as well. He was crushed under a heavy cabinet. He’ll probably die. If you can prevent that, do it.’

  Merrit quailed. ‘Me? I don’t – look, I can’t—’