by Dayle, Harry
Contents
Title
A Note To Readers
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Author's Note
Also By The Author
Copyright
Harry Dayle
Note To Readers:
This book is as British as its author. Readers used to American English may find some spellings and phrases differ slightly from those they are more familiar with.
Prologue
HE HEARD THE propeller spin up, its blades beating out a rhythm as they sliced through the water, faster with every turn. They were on the move once more. Lifting his head, he caught the glint in the eye of the other man. He knew that glint. It was a glimmer of hope, a hope they both shared, but a fading hope. Moving meant there was a chance, no matter how slim, that they would be found. He hung his head again, knowing the other man was doing the same.
They were all doing the same.
Most weren’t even conscious. There was only so long the human body could keep going when deprived of food and drink. Sure, he’d been given water, even a little rice, but it wasn’t enough. The only reason they were alive at all was because their bodies were hardly burning any calories. How could they? Tied up, chained to a bulkhead, any movement beyond turning the head was virtually impossible. He could actually feel his muscles beginning to atrophy. It was like someone had wrung the strength out of them. His eyes, denied daylight for so long, were watery and weak. He could see the other man just a metre or so away, but no further than that. The others were little more than vague shapes in the darkness.
His other senses had been dulled by his imprisonment too. This was a blessing. Having been left to fester in their own excrement, he had no doubt the stench in the confined space must have been powerful, but he was spared that particular horror as his nose had long since given up its regular duties.
Escape was impossible, of course. The ropes were strong; they were designed to hold down equipment on the deck of the ship. They were well tied, too. Proper knots, made by experienced sailors. And now, in his weakened and disoriented state, the bindings were as good as redundant. Even without them he knew he would struggle to make it as far as the door.
And then what? Where could he go? There was nowhere to run.
The propeller reached its operating speed and became a drone, fading into the background. The sound was soporific, and guided him gently back into a trance.
In his mind, he saw the asteroid. He often saw the asteroid; it wasn’t the sort of thing one forgot in a hurry. He would remember that day for the rest of his life.
He recalled how, standing on the back of the ship, he had watched its approach. They’d all seen the final broadcast, they knew what was coming. He was resigned to their fate, prepared to die, unlike some of the others. He could see them now as they leapt over the handrail, preferring to take their chances in the freezing waters of the Arctic Ocean rather than face certain death on the deck. And then there had come the moment he would never forget. That magical moment when the giant space-rock had begun to climb. For every metre of altitude it rose, he had gained an ounce of hope. They had watched in disbelief as it passed right overhead. By some kind of miracle, they had been saved.
Life hadn’t been easy since that day, but they had kept on surviving against all odds. They were possibly the only survivors remaining. They had pulled together, old arguments forgotten, determined to find a way to feed themselves, and to locate land untouched by the terrible toxic ash that had smothered the planet. Spirits had been high. He smiled as he remembered how at one point they had almost blown up the ship because of a silly accident, but they’d got through even that.
And then it had all gone terribly wrong. An unseen menace had stepped out of the shadows.
The hypnotic droning drilled deeper into his head, and his memories began to fade. A bottomless sleep was trying to claim him. He welcomed it. He had no desire to revisit the memories that came next. The memories of being tied up and hidden away in the bowels of the ship. The memories of being kept barely alive. He no longer cared if he ever woke up. Perhaps he had been cheating death since the asteroid had screamed overhead, and death had finally caught up with him. He hoped so, because if this was what living looked like now, he wanted no further part of it.
One
CHIEF RADIO OFFICER Lucya Levin looked back one last time at the pulverised ruins of Portsmouth. They had known there was very little chance the seaport would have survived the asteroid, but she couldn’t help feeling that another tiny ray of hope had died. It had been the same at the HMNB Devonport naval base in Plymouth. It was the same wherever they went.
Lucya was surprised at just how sad she felt for the loss of the place. In the four years she had worked for Pelagios Line, the town had become home — in as much as anywhere could be called home when spending so much of one’s life at sea. There had even been a time she had imagined settling down there with Jake, and perhaps starting a family. The fact Jake had a wife never dampened those hopes; she knew his wasn’t a happy marriage.
Now, ironically, she was with Jake. But the home of her daydreams was something they could never have. They did had a family though, of sorts. In a matter of mere weeks they had both developed a deep and loving bond with Erica, the girl they had informally adopted since her father had fallen victim to the virus that had swept the ship.
“No great loss, I say. Never liked the town. Too much of a mess, and too many military types,” said Dave Whitehall, navigation officer.
Lucya turned to find him looking over her shoulder, staring out of the rear-facing window.
“I lived in Cambridge once, for a while,” he continued. “That was nearly as bad. University town. All those bloody students everywhere you go, thinking they own the place. At least they were intelligent. Half of those military lot knocking around Portsmouth didn’t have two brain cells to rub together.”
“I wouldn’t let Coote hear you say that. Actually, I wouldn’t let anyone from the Ambush hear you say that. Not if you want to keep a full set of teeth.”
“Exactly my point. They think violence is the answer to everything.”
“I might remind you I was in the navy. And I might also remind you I am your superior officer.” Lucya smirked.
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t count. The Russians were more picky about who they let onto their boats. Anyway, what I’m saying is I’m not going to miss Portsmouth. The further south we can go the better. Bring on the sun.”
Lucya walked away from the window and wandered slowly back among the rows of grey consoles to the front of the bridge. She settled down in the captain’s chair, looking forward instead of back.
The bridge was quiet. Dave was manning navigation and communications. The only communication now was with HMS Ambush, the Royal Navy nuclear submarine that was the source of their power, tethered t
o the Spirit of Arcadia and sailing alongside her, partially submerged for the sake of efficiency.
Chuck Masters, trainee helmsman, was at the wheel, which in reality was a set of controls that told the computer how to steer the ship. The asteroid had knocked out the GPS satellites, but close to land they could safely rely on radar to navigate on autopilot. Chuck still took his responsibility seriously, and remained as vigilant as if he was in full control.
McNair, a submariner on loan from the Ambush, completed the skeleton crew, acting as lookout on the shift. He was far better qualified than Chuck to be at the helm, but Captain Jake Noah had impressed upon everyone the importance of having a number of people capable of doing every job on the bridge. That meant giving Chuck as much hands-on time as possible. They’d already lost one helmsman; losing another could be catastrophic if there was nobody to take their place.
“Crozon isn’t that much further south, Dave,” said Lucya, sighing. “If you’re expecting sunshine and orange groves you’re going to be disappointed.”
“I’ll settle for just the sunshine. I suspect orange groves are a long shot anywhere now.”
“How long is it going to take us to get there?”
Dave hesitated before answering. “I would have said eighteen to twenty hours, keeping it slow and steady.”
“Would have?”
“Yeah. There’s going to be a bit of a delay though.”
“Go on?”
“I’m picking up a distress signal, and it looks an awful lot like another one of those mysterious life rafts.”
• • •
The lights were off in Max Mooting’s deck-six office. The only window in the room looked onto the corridor outside, and the blind was shut. The office was in almost total darkness. Max preferred it that way. It meant people tended to stay out, thinking he wasn’t there.
Max didn’t like people, as a rule. He was deeply suspicious of them. It was a trait that had served him well in his capacity as head of security. Now things were different, and Max had to try and be nice to people on a regular basis. Not the community at large; they still got his gruff, public face. He had to be nice to his team.
Back in what Max liked to think of as the ‘good old days’, a couple of months ago, before the asteroid wiped out almost all life on earth, his job was simple. In spite of his impressive-sounding title, he had a team of precisely one: Reeve Canela. They had worked well together. Reeve did the being-nice-to-passengers thing, and Max dealt with the trouble makers. Then Reeve had disappeared, presumed dead, probably killed by Flynn Bakeman or one of his deranged ‘disciples’.
Max would happily have continued in his role all alone, but the committee had been handing out jobs for everyone on board, and security was no exception. Now Max found himself in charge of a team of twenty Community Security Officers, a term that made his skin crawl. It made it sound like his men and women were there to protect and serve the community. Max didn’t see it that way. As far as he was concerned, he was there to protect the ship and the crew from the community. Max was a company man through and through, and the fact the company had gone, along with the rest of the world, wasn’t going to change that in a hurry.
His office was tiny. He couldn’t fit even half his team in there. If he needed to address them all at once, he had to borrow one of the conference rooms outside of school hours, as they had recently become classrooms.
With his feet up on the desk, Max had begun to doze. There was probably paperwork to be done. A report to write, or some other pointless document to prepare for the next committee meeting. He could find someone else to do that for him. If he was to be encumbered with a bunch of subordinates, they could at least do his job for him.
He was rudely jolted awake by a voice booming through the door, accompanied by a determined knocking. It was the sort of knocking that wasn’t going to go away.
“Security? I require the assistance of security!” The voice penetrated the flimsy door and wound its way directly and irritatingly into Max’s ears.
“Security’s closed. Come back tomorrow.”
“This is an emergency. You can’t be closed: you’re the law.”
That, Max thought, was a fair point. Out at sea, he was the law. He was pleased someone else saw it that way too. He swung his size-thirteen feet off the desk, stretched, and waddled to the door.
On the other side he found a tall, elderly man with thinning white hair.
“Right, sir,” he said as politely as he could reasonably force himself. “What’s the emergency?”
“It’s my friend, Giles. He’s gone missing.”
Max groaned. “With all due respect, sir, nobody can go missing. We’re on a ship. In the ocean. Where is your friend going to go?”
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
Max trudged back inside and flopped into his chair. He didn’t invite his visitor into the office. “Could he have been killed by the ash? That’s what happened to most people who are missing, you know. Have you consulted the list of unknowns? There are photos of all those who weren’t identified.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, man. The ash was seven weeks ago. I’ve been playing bingo with young Giles every day since then.”
“When did you last see him?”
“A week ago. When we left Faslane. Poor chap was struck down with that terrible virus, but he pulled through. He was right as rain by the time we set sail.”
Max considered the man’s request. He knew the drill. The quickest way to get rid of him would be to go along with it, to go through the motions and make out he was doing something. He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a notebook and pen. The book was entirely empty, but he didn’t let his visitor see that. Instead, he flipped through the pages, nodding to himself, before settling on a blank page a quarter of the way through. He lay the book flat on the desk. “Right, I’d better take some details. Your friend’s full name?”
“Giles Moran.”
“Age? Appearance?”
“Sixty-four years old. Completely bald. Wears horn-rimmed spectacles, and a suit. Always a suit. Very well dressed, Giles.”
“Cabin number?”
“923.”
Max nodded again. That stood to reason. Deck nine was home to the largest state rooms. Giles sounded to Max like a snob; exactly the sort of person he’d expect to find in the nines. Exactly the sort of person he loathed: privileged; moneyed. Probably thought he was better than those on the lower decks, and certainly thought he was better than the crew. He disliked him already. As far as he was concerned, Giles wasn’t any great loss. He hoped he wouldn’t be found. Someone more deserving could take his cabin. Someone who had been assigned an important job, like a medical assistant, or a farmer. “And your name is?”
“Tom Sanderson. Cabin 907.”
Max’s pen scratched at the paper, scrawling down the information. “Something of a hero aren’t you, Mr Sanderson? Saved us all with your magical medication?”
Tom waved a hand dismissively. “That could have been anyone. The lovely Mrs Hanson and the rather clever Mr Vardy, they’re the real heroes. Although, I did stop the engine room from blowing up and sinking the ship. That was quite heroic.”
Max sighed. He’d heard all about that incident as well, but he wasn’t one for hero worship. Sanderson was another rich, privileged passenger; that was all that mattered. “Well, I think I’ve got all I need here. I’ll open an investigation and we’ll be in touch. Thank you, Mr Sanderson.”
“That’s it? You’re not going to send out a search party? He could be anywhere. He could have been taken prisoner, or fallen overboard!”
Max stood and walked to the door, closing it as he spoke. “If he fell overboard, rushing a search team out isn’t going to help. And in the very unlikely event he’s been taken prisoner, he’s still somewhere on the ship, isn’t he? Time is not of the essence, but I assure you we will do all we can. We’ll be in touch, Mr Sanderson. You go and get some lunch rations
and relax.” The door clicked shut.
Max sat back down and flipped the notebook closed. He tossed it into the chair on the other side of his desk, the one that was supposed to receive visitors, or ‘customers’ as the committee insisted on calling them. If someone from his team dropped by, he’d give them the book and tell them to take a look if they had some spare time. If he remembered. He doubted he would.
He closed his eyes again, heaved his feet up onto the table, and pictured a sun-drenched beach with cocktails, music, and señoritas. A minute later, he began to snore gently.
• • •
The look on the face of submariner Ewan Sledge told Jake all he needed to know. He’s seen the same expression before, at Gare Loch.
“There’s a body in there, isn’t there?” Jake said, screwing up his face.
Ewan nodded, and pulled the canopy of the life raft all the way back. Jake, Captain Gibson Coote, and Doctor Janice Hanson crowded around the inflatable, jostling for position on the little platform normally used for boarding the Spirit of Arcadia’s tenders. They all wanted a better look, although with the exception of Janice — who had intense professional curiosity — they didn’t really want to get too close.
“Well, there you are, old chap. Another fellow with no head!” Coote observed.
“How do you know it’s a fellow, Captain Coote? It could be a woman,” Janice said. She got to her knees and leaned inside the raft, rolling the headless corpse closer towards them. Ewan turned white and withdrew.
“Call it intuition. It certainly looks like the frame of a man to me. Ewan, you and Eric can help get our friend here down to Mrs Hanson’s…working area. Discreetly, if you could.”
Eric O’Brien, who had been standing guard with a rifle — just in case — nodded, and disappeared inside the ship.
“I was so hoping we’d seen the last of these rafts,” Jake said. “This is what? The fourth one now? And the third body. Where are they coming from? And are they following us? Or is it coincidence that we keep coming across them?”