Event Horizon

by Steven E. Mcdonald

  “It’s holding,” Smith said. “She’s holding!”

  Calmly, a counterpoint to Smith’s excitement, Cooper said, “We’re still venting trace gasses. Gimme about twenty minutes to plug the hole.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, Coop,” Miller said. Relief flooded him. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes,” he heard Smith say. “We’re going home.”

  “About goddamn time,” Cooper said.

  Miller smiled, undogged his helmet, lifting it off. He took a deep breath.

  The air had a slight metallic tang to it, but it was nectar compared to the state of the Event Horizon’s air.

  “Back in business,” Miller said to himself.

  His ship. His rules.

  The Event Horizon could go to hell.

  Chapter Forty

  They were running out of time and she was getting nowhere.

  Peters frowned angrily at the sciences workstation display, tempted to smack the thing with her fist to see -if that would achieve anything. The log was stubbornly refusing to resolve into anything useful. She was tired and she hated spending her time doing this—she just wanted to get out of here and go home.

  She might even resign from USAC, try and make her way as an groundhog.

  Denny needed her.

  Rapidly, she typed in another set of. instructions and smacked the enter key with more force than necessary. She stood up, stretched, not that this helped her aching back in any way, and turned to Starck, who was busy at the other side of the bridge.

  “You got any coffee?” Peters said.

  Starck looked around, nodded. “It’s cold.”

  “I don’t care,” she said.

  She went over to Starck, picked up a mug, filled it halfway. If it was intolerable, she could probably find some way of warming it up. The bridge had to have a microwave, she figured, considering how much other stuff had been crammed into it.

  She turned back to her workstation. To her surprise, something was actually happening with the log video. The computer was finally managing to break through the signal noise, making something of the recording.

  The process was rapid now. Colors blurred, changed, solidified. Images began to form. There was movement. There was…

  Peters felt numb, boneless. The coffee mug slipped from her fingers, shattering on the deck, coffee spilling over her boots.

  “Starck,” she whispered.

  Starck turned, left her seat, stood by Peters, staring. “Sweet Jesus,” she said, her voice hushed. She turned again, got to the intercom. “Miller…

  Miller!”

  Peters somehow found a seat, sat down heavily, stared out of the bridge windows at Neptune. She tried to empty her mind and wash away the things she had seen, but she knew that would be impossible.

  She closed her eyes. Tears streamed down her face.

  Miller stood behind Starck, watching the screen.

  Starck had not been particularly coherent in her message to him, but she had somehow managed to get the point across—Peters had managed to clear up the scrambled log entry.

  Weir and DJ had arrived just after him and now stood to either side of him.

  Peters was sitting in another bridge seat, not looking at the screen. She could not bear seeing the log playback.

  He could not believe what he was seeing, did .not know quite how to react to it, other than with disgust and horror.

  The image on the display was flickering and rolling still, despite the best efforts of the software. As far as Miller was concerned, it was too clear.

  There were four of the Event Horizon’s crew in the image, including Captain Kilpack. To one side of Kilpack, a crew member was somehow contorting himself impossibly, his right arm twisted, his head tilting back. His features were unrecognizable.

  Starck blanched and looked away.

  Continuing the impossible motions, the man shoved his hand into his mouth.

  There was a distant wet sound. Miller could see the man’s shoulder loosening, dislocating.

  There was blood everywhere in the image. So much blood.

  Beyond Kilpack, a man and a woman were engaged in frantic sex, she wrapped around him as he rammed himself into her. Both of them were covered in blood.

  She had dug her fingernails into his back, tearing into the flesh, leaving gory tears that streamed blood down his back, though he seemed oblivious to either pain or injury.

  The other man had now forced a good part of his arm down his throat. More blood there, streaming out from his mouth, from his nose.

  Kilpack turned, smiling.

  The woman turned her head, opening her mouth. In a blur of motion, she drove her face into her partner’s neck, biting down, tearing. A chunk of bleeding flesh fell and struck the deck. Blood pumped freely, spraying her, drenching his shoulder, pouring down his arm. She drove into the wound again, heedless of the blood, tearing the wound wider. His head lolled to one side, loose in death. Yet he did not cease his maniacal thrusting.

  Miller wanted to turn away, to shut off the playback, to end it now, but he had to know, had to see it all if he had any hope of ever understanding what had happened here.

  The man with his arm down his own throat had continued his contortions.

  Miller, sickened, could not imagine what he was trying to achieve, what he was being driven to.

  The question was answered a few moments later.

  With soft, glutinous sounds, the man withdrew his arm. Blood bubbled up, a torrent of it. He had grasped a handful of his innards, pulling them up, releasing them to fall wetly at his feet while he swayed, dripping blood and flesh, dead eyes staring into the distance.

  The woman bit again and again as her dead partner continued his thrusting.

  She made no move to release him or push him away.

  Kilpack turned.

  Full fathom five thy father lies, Miller remembered, Shakespeare from high school or perhaps later, The Tempest coming to mind as Kilpack held out his hands, those are pearls that were his eyes….

  In the palms of Kilpack’s hands, nestled in blood, were his eyes, held out now like an offering. Where his eyes had been were empty sockets, lined with torn flesh. Blood oozed down over his cheeks, around his mouth, over his chin.

  Kilpack opened his mouth slowly, seeming almost exultant. His lips moved, forming words. In a deep, strange voice that was nothing like the one Miller had heard on the earlier log entries, Kilpack said, “Liberate tu-Temet ex inferis….”

  Miller could take no more. He reached out, slapping the workstation, shutting the video playback off.

  There was silence on the bridge.

  “We’re leaving,” Miller said, his voice flat.

  Weir stepped in front of him, determined. “We can’t leave. Our orders are specific—”

  “To rescue the crew and salvage the ship,” Miller said, wishing Weir would get the hell out of his face, the hell out of his way, maybe just cease to be.

  “The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them.”

  Weir was not about to be put off. “We came here to do a job.”

  “We are aborting, Dr. Weir,” Miller said, as coldly as he could. Weir had watched the log playback and he could still beg for the life of this evil ship? “Take one last look around.”

  Ignoring Weir, he turned to the others. “Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon’s computers. DJ, get Justin transferred to the Clark—”

  “We’ll have to move the tank,” DJ said.

  “Then move the tank.” DJ nodded and left the bridge, moving fast. “Peters, get the CO2 scrubbers back into the Clark.”

  Weir was in his face again, his expression agonized. “Don’t do this.”

  “It’s done,” Miller snapped.

  He turned and walked off the bridge.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Weir had a death wish, Miller was sure of it. The scientist just could not let things be, would not let go and get on with his life. Now he wa
s coming after Miller again, chasing him down the corridor.

  Miller let Weir catch up, then turned, staring at him.

  Without missing a beat, Weir snapped, “What about my ship? We can’t just leave her—”

  “I have no intention of leaving her,” Miller said, using the coldest, angriest voice he could summon up. It was a voice that could cow any crew member foolish enough to cause it to be summoned. Weir didn’t even flinch. “I will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been vaporized.” He glared at Weir for a long moment. “Fuck this ship.”

  “You can’t just destroy her!” Weir cried.

  “Watch me,” Miller said, and he turned away from Weir, hoping that this would be the end of it, knowing it was not.

  Weir lunged at Miller, grabbing hold of his flight suit and turning him around abruptly. The scientist had a savagely angry look to him. Miller lifted his arms, breaking Weir’s hold on him, slamming the scientist back into the bulkhead, leaning over him.

  Once again, Weir was not cowed. He stared at Miller, challenging, angry, willing to fight. Miller raised a fist, willing to end it there and then, even if it meant having to patch Weir up and ship him back under medical conditions. So it would be one more thing to try and explain to Hollis….

  The lights went out. After a very brief pause, the emergency lighting flickered on, turning the corridor into a place of shadows.

  “Miller, come in,” Starck, over the intercom, aggravated.

  Miller lowered his fist and pushed Weir away from him, backing away until he found the nearest intercom panel. “Starck, what the hell is going on?”

  “We lost main power again,” Starck said. More than aggravation now. There was fear and anger in her voice. She knew as well as he did that these power losses were nothing to do with the state of the Event Horizon.

  Weir was barely visible in the darkness now, though Miller could see his eyes well enough. Focused, burning with hatred.

  “Goddammit!” Miller snapped, more at Weir than at Starck. “Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship.”

  He backed away from the intercom.

  Weir was moving back into the shadows now, even his eyes fading into the gloom. Miller hated the lunatic design of this ship, hated the flying buttresses and faux-Gothic arches, casting pools of darkness everywhere under the emergency lighting.

  “You can’t leave,” Weir whispered, echoing in the darkness. “She won’t let you.”

  Miller walked toward the scientist, but he was having trouble seeing him now. “Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, Doctor, or you’ll find yourself looking for a ride home.”

  Weir was gone, like smoke in a breeze, vanished in the darkness. Inwardly Miller raged, wondering how Weir could pull a stunt like this, could get away from him.

  “I am home,” Weir whispered, but it seemed as though the voice came from all around him now.

  The main lights suddenly flared up, drenching the corridor in halogen brightness. Miller ran forward, stopped, looking around. Weir was nowhere in sight. He might as well have never been there.

  “Weir?” he called. “Weir!” .

  No answer but echoes.

  He went back to the intercom, slammed the side of his fist into it, not caring if he broke it. “All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and contained.”

  He set off jogging in the direction he had last seen Weir, not expecting to find the scientist, intending mayhem if he did.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Smith had joined Peters on the Event Horizon, racing through the ship to retrieve all of the CO2 scrubbers they had used to try keeping the air somehow breathable. They would still be useful on the Lewis and Clark, giving them enough time to get started on the voyage back home and to get help once they were close to Daylight Station.

  They worked their way steadily down into the Second Containment, both frustrated at the distribution of the cylinders, both aware that they would need almost every one of them. Spacecraft designers had not progressed far beyond the Apollo days when it came to processing atmosphere.

  Smith was yanking cylinders out of a wall compartment while Peters went down to retrieve the last of them. Perversely enough, the scrubber compartment had been placed directly under the Core.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” Smith was saying, pulling a last cylinder out, getting it boxed. “This place freaks me out.”

  “You want to suffocate on the ride home?” Peters called up to him. She ducked down, calling up to him, “Last one!”

  The cylinder was stubborn, refusing to come out as easily as it had gone in.

  “Come on,” Smith called.

  “Goddammit!” Peters growled, hauling back. The cylinder slipped free suddenly, offbalancing her. She lost her grip on the scrubber, missing it as it fell into the coolant around her feet, disappearing from sight. “Shit!”

  “Leave it,” Smith called down. “We don’t have time, let’s go!”

  The hell with it. She bent down and fished around, getting hold of the end of the cylinder, pulling it free of the muck. Not wasting time in gloating to Smith, she turned around and got back up to the storage boxes, packing the slick cylinder away. Smith had lost a cylinder in the sludge himself, but they could manage without it.

  They finished packing up as quickly as they could, each taking a case of the scrubbers and heading out of the Second Containment and into the corridor.

  The case was heavy, and Peters found herself falling behind Smith, who loped ahead like a man possessed. She decided she was not going to worry about it—Smith was halfway to crazy anyway, and only Miller was capable of keeping up with the man.

  She took a deep breath, praying that their ordeal would be over soon.

  There was a giggle behind her, childlike, echoing.

  She stopped, shocked. Her heart pounded.

  In a whisper, she said, “Denny?” She turned back to look down to the Second Containment. She could still see the Core from here, a dark shape within the darkness. There was nothing else to see.

  She started to turn back, aware that she had lost sight of Smith.

  At the corner of her vision, she saw a swift movement, a tiny figure that dashed across the Second Containment’s outer area. It couldn’t be….

  “Denny?” she said again, her voice barely even a whisper. Her head was filling with fog again. Something was wrong here, she knew that. She turned back. “Smith?”

  Smith was gone. He was more than likely halfway to the main airlock by now, unaware that she had stopped.

  She had to know.

  She put down the scrubber case and started back toward the Second Containment, looking from side to side. There was nothing to be seen.

  Another giggle. There was the scrape of metal upon metal.

  Peters crept forward, trying to see into the deep shadows. “Den…?” she whispered.

  There was an open access panel in the outer area of the Second Containment.

  Peters bent down, trying to see inside. It was dark in there, the length of the duct reflecting the little light that there was.

  She tried to clear her mind. How could Denny have been brought here? Miller was right, she knew that. The ship used the dark corners to get at them, and here was hers, in the form of Denny. She had loved him always… and she had fled from him too, gone back to space when she should have stayed with him, stayed around to help him.

  “Mommy…” A plaintive voice, so far away.

  She had left him behind on Earth and this evil ship had somehow reached out and brought him here, into its dark heart.

  She could not allow Denny to be taken by this monster. Her son deserved a better fate than this, a better existence than the one she had afforded him.

  She climbed into the service duct, ducking her head. “Den…?” she called.

  She had to move along almost crab-fashion, but her determination made h
er quick. Weir had been stuck in one of these service ducts, she remembered, cramped down and in the dark when the lights had gone out. She wondered what he had seen.

  She stopped at a junction, looking both ways before continuing. She wished, desperately, that she had thought to pick up a flashlight before coming in here. There was no way of knowing what else might be in here besides Denny.

  She had an involuntary flash of memory, the log playback cascading through her mind, and her stomach turned. She fought it down, kept going.

  There was a whisper behind her that could have been Denny’s voice. She turned around, seeing nothing. There was a sound behind her at the junction, something like running feet, and she turned back again.

  Nothing.

  This time the whisper was in front of her. She eased across the junction, looking to either side again.

  “Denny?” she called, moving on. “Denny, come to Mommy.”

  She knew the ship could be playing a game with her, but she could not be certain of that. If it had somehow brought Denny here…

  A child laughing, amused, echoing in the distance. She continued onward, trailing it. She came to a vertical shaft. The laughter echoed down the shaft now, clear and bright. She straightened up, looking up the shaft.

  No choice. She began climbing the ladder, moving steadily up the shaft. The laughter was becoming clearer and clearer the higher she climbed.

  “Hold on,” she said, “Mommy’s coming.”

  Her arms and legs ached beyond belief, but she would not let the pain stop her. Not now, not while she had a chance to save her son from the Event Horizon. ‘ The shaft ended at a catwalk. She pulled herself up onto the icy metal and stood up, looking around. She had no idea where she was in the ship, hoping only that she could get back to the Lewis and Clark once she had retrieved Denny.

  Great machinery rose on either side of her, humming with the ugly sound of harnessed energy. The machines were dark, shining dimly under low lighting.