by Adam Baker
She read about snake bites, reef knots and edible insects. She enjoyed the fantasy of desert sand and jungle heat. There were cut-and-keep plans for bear traps, squirrel snares and high- velocity slingshots. She made a mental note to search the boathouse for bungee line.
Jane made herself a sandwich. She sat in the observation bubble and read about bamboo jungle shelters. She learned the best way to cook a tarantula over a campfire. Ghost called her on the radio.
'It looks like you'll be doing another funeral, I'm afraid.'
'What do you mean?'
'Mal didn't show up for dinner. I got worried. We went looking. We found him in a laundry cupboard. His throat was cut through.'
'Do you think there is an infected passenger creeping round the crew quarters, hiding in the ducts? Someone you missed?'
'We're doing a sweep. We're armed, moving in pairs. Nothing so far. The barricades are intact. None of the grenades has tripped. Besides, Mal was hidden in a cupboard. These diseased freaks maim and kill. They don't clean up afterwards.'
'So what's the deal? What are we looking at?'
'We found a kitchen knife with the body. He had it in his hand. Blood on the blade.'
'Do you buy it? Did he kill himself? What's your instinct?'
'Dead man holding a knife. Hard to argue it was anything but suicide. I guess I will have to tell the lads. It'll be bad for morale, but I can't lie to them.'
'I suppose I'll have to give an address. God knows what I'll say. I barely knew the man.'
'Another day, another shroud. Do you think there'll be any of us left by spring?'
Punch and Ghost wrapped the body in a sheet. They dragged the corpse outside and laid it on a bench. Moans and snarls. Infected passengers watched from the promenade decks beneath them.
They searched Mal's pockets. A torch. A lighter. A packet of mints. No suicide note.
'Take his boots,' said Ghost. 'We don't need his coat, but we need snowboots.'
Punch inspected the neck wound with a flashlight.
'Cut through his windpipe. Cut down to vertebrae.'
'Did you speak to him much? Did he seem depressed?'
'Talk to Nail. Mal was his buddy.'
They bound the shrouded body and laid it in a lifeboat to chill.
Punch and Sian retired to their cabin. A four-room suite with a king-size bed, home entertainment system and kitchenette. The previous occupant must have been a senior member of the crew. Punch had cleaned out the man's possessions. He swept clothes, letters and photographs into a garbage bag. The guy was probably wandering mindless and mutilated below deck. Better not think too much about his fate.
Punch propped the door closed with a chair.
'Are you worried there might be an infected sailor slinking around?' asked Sian. She was running a bath.
'You saw the wound. It was a clean slice ear to ear. These rabid bastards bite. They like to rip and tear.'
'Maybe Mal couldn't stand the isolation. All that stuff going on back home. No daylight. I'm surprised more blokes haven't succumbed to depression.'
'His head was virtually severed.'
'What are you saying?'
'I'm not sure. Probably nothing. Despair can build into a type of mania, a type of super-strength. A person could do themselves a lot of damage if they put their mind to it.'
Punch stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He picked up a toothbrush and pretended to slit his throat.
'It could be done, I suppose. That kind of gash. A person could slice through their own jugular and windpipe if they did it hard and fast. They would have to be pretty determined. Only someone desperate to be dead could carry it through.'
'Murder? Is that what you are suggesting? A fight gone bad?'
'I don't know. From now on you better not walk around on your own if you can help it. And always carry a knife.'
Sian stripped and climbed into the bath. Punch kicked off his shoes and started to unbutton his shirt.
Sian had yet to comprehend that women had become a rare and valuable commodity. The years ahead were likely to be brutal and lawless. Punch used to be everyone's friend, but now he was envied and hated by the crewmen around him. If he wanted to possess Sian he would need to fight, and maybe kill, to keep her.
DSV
Ghost crossed to Rampart. The refinery was now joined to the island by a sheet of ice. He ran, swerved infected passengers, made it to the platform lift face steaming with sweat.
He and Jane sat in Rawlins's office.
The refinery was equipped with submerged cameras so the crew could monitor the integrity of the great floatation legs, and the status of the seabed pipeline and manifold.
They switched on a wall screen. They powered up the underwater floodlights and selected camera views. Pan and tilt.
The crumpled shell of D Module, lying on the silted moonscape of the ocean bed.
Jane selected a different camera position. Steel rope coiled on the seabed.
'That's all right,' said Ghost. 'The remaining tethers are intact. Pretty vicious riptides round here, but we'll hold firm.'
He swivelled a joystick. The camera angled upward. The floatation leg.
'What a fucking mess,' said Jane.
'A big dent, but no puncture,' said Ghost. 'Should keep us stable. Should keep us afloat.'
'We hope.'
'Your average liner is a series of hermetic compartments. Half the ship could flood and we would still be able to sail it home. Maybe we can get the mini-sub in the water. Take a look at the hull top-to-toe.'
Jane summoned Nail from Hyperion. They sat in the canteen.
'How's your arm?'
'Better.'
'You can work the mini-sub, yes? You and Gus. You can drive it, pilot it, whatever.'
'We used it to inspect the seabed pipeline.'
'How would you like to take a look at Hyperion's hull? There's a hole in the plate. It's taken on water. It would be good to know the extent of the damage. There's no way we can check structural integrity from inside the vessel. Too much opposition. We need an under-sea survey.'
Nail rocked back in his chair. He had found some fancy clothes aboard Hyperion. He wore a black leather shirt. He wore a heavy gold bracelet and a Tag Heuer watch. He stank of booze.
'The sub hasn't been used for months. Strictly speaking, it should go back to shore for an overhaul.'
'I'm sure you want to get home as much as anyone. Hyperion is all we have left.'
'I'll mull it over.'
Deep Sea Vehicle Mirabelle.
Nail and Gus climbed through the roof hatch. Gus took the pilot's seat. Nail was co-pilot. They put on headsets.
They slapped rows of toggle switches and powered up the sub. Banks of instrumentation winked into life.
Gus took laminated sheets from a wall pocket. Pre-dive checks. Battery life. Ballast pressure. Air. Telemetry. Thrusters.
They packed sandwiches, mineral water and a piss bottle. They checked their escape suits.
They saw Jane through the cockpit bubble. She stood and waved. Nail tested the manipulator arms. He snapped the serrated titanium claws in front of her. She stood her ground.
'Reckon she and Ghost are actually fucking?' asked Gus. 'Not a pretty picture, is it?' said Nail.
Jane and Ghost spent a night in the observation bubble. They laid sleeping bags on the deck. They lay naked and looked at the stars.
'You think they can see us from here?' asked Jane. 'Who?'
'Guys on Hyperion. We'd better keep the lights off. They might have found binoculars.'
'Tempted to give them a flash.'
'You should stay here,' said Jane. 'I don't know why you hang out with those idiots on Hyperion. Brain-dead as the passengers. They haven't raised the average IQ a single point.' 'Shitty thing to say about Punch.'
'You know what I mean. You guys should come over here. You, Punch, Sian.'
'It would be a cosy little club, but if we let that kind of us- and-them situati
on develop things could get nasty pretty quick.'
'So you're going to leave me out here with Mal?' 'Lock a couple of doors if it creeps you out.' Mal's body had been brought back to Rampart prior to burial at sea. The guys took a vote. The rig had been his home. It seemed appropriate to stand between the great floatation legs of the refinery and commit his body to the waves.
'Come back with me,' said Ghost. 'The staterooms are spectacular. The upper-echelon crew lived like kings.'
'And thousands of lunatics the other side of the door.' 'It kept me awake nights at first. But this is our life now. Europe is overrun. If we get back home we will have to spend the rest of our lives behind castle walls, one way or another. Might as well get used to the idea.'
'I can't help feeling it is a honey trap, a gilded cage. We'll fritter away our time. Get fat. Get drunk. Die out here at the edge of the world.'
Nail and Gus sat strapped in their seats as the DSV was lowered into the sea. Winch-judder made the flesh of their faces tremble. Nail hugged his bandaged arm.
Jolt and scrape as the submersible broke through the ice crust. Clunk of the winch release.
Nail and Gus unlatched their harnesses and sat forward.
Brief vent from the buoyancy tanks. Water bubbled past the portholes as the vehicle submerged.
Gus took control of the fly-by-wire control column and vectored forward and down.
'Kick in the arcs.'
Nail flipped a switch and the arc light array at the front of the vessel lit incandescent. Blackness beyond the portholes was replaced by swirling sediment, and air bubbles rippling like globules of mercury.
'Down fifty. Trim good. Forward point five.'
Gus checked an overhead screen. An acoustic beacon mapped their bearing from the rig.
Nail zipped his sweatshirt. He pulled on a woollen hat and fingerless gloves. Condensed breath trickled down the chilled metal of the pressure hull.
'Heading hold.'
The sub ran on auto-pilot.
Gus sipped water. Nail swigged from a hip flask.
'You've been hitting the sauce pretty hard these past few days,' said Gus. 'Better if you kept your head.'
Nail toasted him with the flask.
'L'chai-im'.
'Is it Mal?' asked Gus. 'Is that what's eating you up?'
'Fuck Mal.'
'Is it Nikki?'
'Just drive the fucking sub.'
'You're losing it. You're out of shape. Yeah, you broke your arm. But you're drunk all day, every day. The guys look up to you. They don't give a shit about Jane and her little gang. They're waiting for you to take a lead.'
'Fuck you,' said Nail. He took a long swig. 'Fuck the lot of you.'
They monitored the system screens. They didn't speak.
'Damn,' said Gus, breaking the silence. 'Take a look at this.'
A slow pass of D Module.
Buckled walls. Empty windows. The DSV thrusters stirred swirling debris.
'That's my old room,' said Gus. 'That one there.'
Nail took another swig. Gus looked at him in disgust.
'Jesus. Just sit back there, all right? Just keep out of the way.'
Jane and Ghost sat in Rawlins's office.
'Rampart to DSV, do you copy, over?'
'Go ahead.'
'How are you boys doing?'
'Approaching Hyperion. We should reach it any minute.'
'Can you give us a camera feed?'
'Should be coming through now.'
Jane switched on the desk screen. Blue murk. Darting particles of sediment. They sat back and waited for the sub to reach Hyperion.
'I'll give you another reason to move to the ship,' said Ghost.
'What's that?'
'The ice around Rampart has reached the island. Those fucks from Hyperion are right beneath the refinery. We can't zip back and forth between the rig and this ship without risking our necks. You're marooned.'
'All right. You sold me.'
Jane wanted to move in with Ghost, but she didn't want to seem too eager. She wanted to be wooed.
'DSV to Rampart.'
'Go ahead.'
'Big sonar hit. Coming up on Hyperion.'
Jane and Ghost leaned closer to the screen.
'Well, there it is,' said Ghost.
'Jesus.'
A massive, bronze propeller, as high as a house, emerged from the sediment fog.
The DSV passed the length of Hyperion's keel. Gus and Nail looked through the overhead porthole. Nail sipped black coffee from a flask.
Riveted hull plates. Nail held up a video camera. Additional footage for review when they got back to Rampart.
Gus checked range estimation. The ping of the Sunwest sonar increased frequency until it became a steady tone. Collision warning.
'Here comes the rock wall.'
A jagged basalt cliff emerging from the gloom.
'Full stop.'
Gus brought the sub to a standstill.
'All right. Let's take a look.'
Gus re-angled the arc lights so they could check for damage below the waterline.
'There,' said Nail. 'A big split in the plates.'
Gus swivelled the thrusters and tilted the DSV to face the hull. Nail squirmed closer to the cockpit bubble and filmed the damage. Weld-seams had torn when Hyperion hit the refinery.
'Get us closer,' said Nail.
They approached the fissure. Plates peeled back like petals.
'Can we get more light in there?'
'Probably looks worse than it is,' said Gus. 'If this split ran the length of the ship we would be in trouble. Jane, are you getting this?'
'Yeah, we see it. Looks like we lost a couple of compartments, but it's still sound. If we wait until the spring thaw, then throw the engines in reverse, it might float free.'
'What's that?' said Nail, pressing closer to the glass.
'Where?'
'Right there.'
Gus re-angled the arc lights.
'Christ.'
Beyond the fissure, deep in the shadows of the flooded compartment, was a body. It floated, arms outstretched. A man in a boiler suit. Some kind of mechanic.
'Drag him out the way,' said Nail. 'Let's see how deep the damage runs. I'd like to check for structural issues.'
Gus shifted position and took hold of a joystick. He unfolded the starboard manipulator arm. The multi-jointed limb reached inside the hull. Titanium tweezer-claws swivelled and opened. Gus gripped the dead man's head and pulled him through the fissure.
Gus brought the mechanic closer to the cockpit window. The dead man's hair swirled in the current. His face was framed by steel fingers.
'He hasn't been dead long,' said Gus. 'I doubt he was killed when Hyperion ran aground. I bet he stumbled into the flooded compartment during the last couple of days.'
'No sign of infection.'
The dead man opened his eyes and stared directly at Nail. Jet-black eyeballs.
Gus pressed Close. The claws scissored shut. The mechanic's skull popped in a cloud of blood and brain tissue.
The Voyage
Nikki rode the swells. Seven days at sea. Seven days of perpetual starlit darkness. It was like sailing through space.
She had barely slept. Snatched moments of rest. She worried she would fall asleep at the tiller and quickly freeze.
The boat was frosted with ice. Fierce cold. Gentle waves. The weather had begun to turn. The brilliant dusting of stars was slowly eclipsed by cloud. Turbulence chasing her from the north, gaining fast. The boat was designed to survive a storm. As soon as bad weather hit, she could lower the sails and seal herself below deck. She would bob like a cork as the boat rode mountainous waves and troughs. If the bolts and welds held fast, she would survive.
She stood in the cockpit and ate dry cereal from the packet, washed down with sips of water. The rudder was locked in position with nylon cord.
A cold, blue haze began to lighten the southern sky. Somewhere, far over the hori
zon, it was daytime. Navigation was easy. No need for a compass. All she had to do was head for the light.
Nikki wore three fleece jackets and a foil blanket. Two weeks at sea. She stank. She couldn't wash herself or her clothes.
She rode the swells. Later, if the weather stayed calm, she would seal herself below and snatch an hour of sleep. The steel and aluminium hull of the boat had been lagged with polystyrene packing blocks to trap heat.
Grinding, growling plates of ice.
'Nikki? Nikki, can you hear me?' Jane's voice.
The radio was hung in a canvas bag beneath the hatch. Nikki spoke into a handset like a Bakelite telephone.
'How's it going, Jane?'
'The crew transferred to Hyperion. I'm alone on the refinery.'
'Nobody cares about your little gestures. Get over there and have a good time.'
'Got a name for it yet?'
'The boat? It's a pile of nuts and bolts. Things are what they are.'
'A boat has to have a name.'
'I don't want to find the poetry in my soul. I don't want to rediscover my lost humanity. I'm trying hard to keep things real, which is probably why I'm part way home and you're still trapped in that steel tomb.'
'What will you do when you reach land? Have you thought about it?
'Survival. The sovereign state of me. It'll be bliss.'
'How's the weather?'
'Calm enough. The wind cuts like a knife. Seem to be making good time. Hard to judge speed, but the current is strong.'
'Position?'
'By my reckoning I'm north-west of Murmansk. The current should funnel me past Norway the next few days. I'll be out of radio contact long before then.'
'Keep well. Keep lucky. Ill speak to you tomorrow.'
Nikki slept in her bunk. The hull was packed with supplies. Boxes of food, bags of clothes. She had shoved them aside to create a tight coffin space in which she could stretch out in a sleeping bag. The aluminium roof of the hull was directly above her head. She lay in the dark and listened to her breath, loud and harsh in the confined space.