Splintered

by Laura J Harris

  But, looking at the list it seemed that the Aryan-looking Scouser had been right. There were quite a few names he recognised; artists, musicians, a couple of actors, wags and fag-hags.

  Figures, he thought, sardonically as he continued to scan the names.

  But on the plus side, with so many celebs about, if he were to be recognised it would be easy enough to convince people that his fame was derived from something other than his handful of true professions; Gangster / Drug-lord / Trafficker / General Crime Boss!

  Besides, he was feeling the winds of change. A man could change, couldn’t he?

  And he had never felt more changed, yet — oddly — more true to himself than when he had announced to Marc Davies, only moments earlier, that he was an Artist.

  Yes, Doctor Drunkard was bungled. Merely a first step. An overhasty experiment.

  But, Stacey, she was his first true work and now — even now — he longed to complete a second. Here, inside this tin-can, adrift on the open ocean — his stomach protested even as he thought of it — he could form a great cannon of work.

  He would be appreciated.

  Scanning the list still, his eyes came to rest upon a name in the third of four columns. He smiled. He had found the one person who he knew would appreciate his work more than any other.

  But, first things first.

  He needed to stop the ship.

  16:40

  Saturday 14th May, 2011

  After their breakfast-come-lunch-come-afternoon-tea, Kelly had left Christine with so many questions and, while she had been acutely aware of the psychologist inside her clawing to over-take their conversation, she’d managed to keep the intellectual beast at bay.

  Though only just!

  Now, alone on her balcony with her old friend, White Zinfandel, and her journal she could no longer contain the animal that longed to analyse the portfolio Kelly had kindly left in her possession.

  They had talked for hours. About all sorts.

  Even their more serious discussions concerning Kelly’s own works, as well as those of other artists, had been punctuated with random conversation, small talk and memories. And Christine had given back as much as she had received, which was unusual for her. Normally she would listen and analyse — yes, analyse as always — but, would very rarely give anything back.

  Then again, that was her job. Or had, at least, been her job for so many years now.

  Had it simply become part of her?

  It seemed that people had come to expect it of her and, oddly enough, it seemed that she was pleased to oblige. No doubt an extension of her in-built perfectionism; wanting always to do her best, to be the best that she could be and to please everyone, bar herself.

  And why was that?

  God! She was a psychologist’s field day on her own!

  But, with Kelly it was different.

  Kelly expected nothing of her. Demanded nothing of her. She was one of the most calming, patient and — despite her outward signs of disregard for certain things — one of the most caring people Christine had ever met.

  And yet her art was filled with incredibly violent images and ideas, devastating metaphors and allusions. Her use of colours, bold strokes, shapes and splatter-patterns were — from a psychological point of view — more than a little disturbing.

  It concerned Christine. And not just in the usual psycho-analytical sort of way. It concerned Christine because she had already begun to think of Kelly — though she had known her for such a short time — as a friend.

  If she were truly honest with herself, she thought of Kelly as more than just a friend. But she still wasn’t certain of where she was going to go with that particular train of thinking and feeling.

  She sipped at her wine and placed the glass back on the table. It caught the sunlight, sending a prism of colour across a piece of work entitled Girl with Two Faces.

  The image was interesting to say the least. It cast one half of a young face in a dark blue graphite and ink shadow, while the other was physically lifted from the page using layers of paint that swirled together in a violent mixture of red and orange and yellow hues, punctuated with black streaks and slices.

  This ‘second face’, a grimace racked with pain and guilt, seemed almost hideous in the light now cast by the glass. And yet it was pitiful and touching; crying out — absolutely — for help, for understanding.

  For a friend.

  ‘There you are.’ Christine said.

  She stared at the image for several moments before returning to her journal, where she began scribbling furiously once more.

  17:12

  Saturday 14th May, 2011

  Gary Blakely; the emaciated, 29 year-old Deputy-Chief Engineer of the Ianus. He had been with Golden Star for three years now.

  During a somewhat strained conversation that they had had a little earlier, Leigh had learned a fair amount about the particular engine system that powered the Ianus along with all the certain intrigues and odd little kinks it bore.

  For example; were the engine room itself to become caught-up in fire it would seal itself off and fill with carbon-dioxide in order to contain, minimise and ultimately extinguish the fire before it could cause too much damage. Sensible.

  Only, that feature on this ship didn’t seem to work too well.

  Actually, the way Blakely had told the tale, it was the opposite that was true.

  Since the take-over of the new anti-smoking policy and the introduction of all the devices installed to enforce such a policy on all levels of the ship, the engineering ‘lock-down’ facility now worked a little too well. They’d already had several close calls.

  Yes, it had been a very interesting conversation indeed.

  Now, Gary Blakely lay whimpering in the corner of the of the small generator room. Bleeding, burned, branded and bruised, he shivered in his boxers and stained, torn t-shirt; bound and gagged with strips of old uniform.

  Leigh looked down at him in disgust, pulling on Blakely’s own blue overalls and pocketing his swipe-card. He would certainly be needing that.

  From what Gary Blakely had — eventually — told him, the main smoke detector was situated at the far end of the engineering control room. He had also — with a little persuasion — been convinced to relinquish the codes and details on how to reroute control to the secondary computer in this outer generator room, which had apparently been built to act as a back-up control room in the case of the main room being sealed.

  Normally this would all be done by Blakely or the Chief-in-Command, once everyone was evacuated. But, not today.

  Leigh would have only the tightest window of opportunity in which to operate. It was literally do or die!

  He swiped the ID card through the reader and entered the corridor, feeling completely giddy. The secret mission, the change of clothes, the codes and a man tied-up in the next room adding to the feeling that he was now starring in his own Bond film!

  He worked furiously at the various keyboards for what felt like an age, avoiding the eyes of the engineers that passed him and noting how helpful and incredibly accurate Blakely had been in his descriptions.

  The man certainly knew his stuff!

  Entering the final codes, Leigh hit the command execute button and it was done.

  All around him the computers began to lock-down.

  Quickly, he struck a match and stuffed it inside the sensor housing above him before sprinting up the corridor towards the exit.

  Surging past several engineers, he grinned, knowing what they did not yet know as they ran in the opposite direction to discover the source of the problem. They had a hint that it lay with the main computer room.

  Little did they know that this really was the least of their problems.

  In the next moment klaxons were screeching, warning lights flashing a terrifying red as Leigh rounded the corner and threw himself through the air-tight door that was already descending.

  It crashed down behind him, almost on his heels, and
he lay panting on the floor for several moments as the CO2 cylinders on the other side of the door began to release their deadly mist.

  Climbing to his feet, he watched the rooms beyond begin to fill. He smiled once more as the engineers struggled back towards the door, towards him, begging him to help them as they drove their fists — pointlessly — into the reinforced glass window until their knuckles bled.

  ‘You lied to me.’ he said, re-entering the small generator room. He removed Blakely’s gag, kneeling before the skinny engineer, stroking the side of his face before clamping his palm across his mouth and squeezing his cheeks tightly as he continued, ‘You said I’d have nearly forty-five seconds, but that was barely thirty. Anyone would think you didn’t like me.’

  Before Blakely could answer Leigh struck him hard with the back of his fist, sending his head crashing against the iron wall. He bobbed and bled and slumped to the ground.

  Leigh then turned his attention to the computer and, stepping into a phone-box-like booth, quickly set about typing in the codes and instructions that Blakely had — once again — so kindly revealed to him earlier.

  As he struggled with the final sequence he happened to glance up and to his absolute surprise and horror, discovered that his reflection was not the only one staring back at him.

  Ducking to the right and spinning, pressing his back against the booth, he kicked at Blakely who suddenly slashed at him with a small knife. He hadn’t counted on that!

  Stumbling from the booth, Leigh collided painfully with the floor. His thigh stung suddenly as a ribbon of blood spilt from the fresh wound.

  The bastard had caught him!

  Blakely was trying to stop the shut-down sequence.

  No! He couldn’t let that happen.

  Throwing himself at Blakely, he drove the engineer’s head into the computer screen, glass and plastic splintering around them. But it wasn’t enough. Blakely shook him off, shooed him away like an annoying insect. He was certainly a lot stronger than he looked, this intelligent bag of bones!

  Falling to the floor for a second time, Leigh’s hand pressed into the sharp point of a solitary screw. He recoiled instantly, reacting to the pain. Then, taking up the threaded piece of metal, he jumped onto Blakely’s back, tearing at his face with his hand before driving the screw into the engineer’s left eye.

  He screamed in agony, slashing wildly at his assailant.

  But, Leigh was too quick.

  He ducked and weaved, catching Blakely’s knife arm and twisting it suddenly, ferociously. He felt Blakely’s shoulder pop as he dropped the knife yelping once more, stumbling, half-blind, out of the little booth.

  Grabbing the knife, Leigh forced open the metal cabinet doors beneath the monitor and keyboard. Inside were the motherboards and cooling fans, the power supply and a thousand other things he didn’t understand. Not to worry.

  He picked up the broken Blakely, hurling him forward into the electrical Narnia with delight!

  The brief lightshow that followed was an unexpected pleasure, causing Leigh to laugh out loud as he tore a sleeve from the blue overalls and bandaged his bleeding leg. Just a flesh-wound. Nothing to worry about.

  Then — music to his eager ears — the ventilation system ceased to whir, the lights blinked to nothingness, the engines, pistons, injectors and propellers; all fell silent.

  Absolute silence.

  It was a beautiful thing.

  In another moment the emergency power kicked in. Blakely’s body twitched in the eerie dim light, his head firmly embedded in the powerhouse of controls; his melted face clinging to the boards around him.

  Leigh cocked his head, admiring his work. Taking a mental picture.

  ‘Man Machine.’

  He smiled, slipping his hand into his pocket and finding the piece of paper that he had acquired not so long ago. Though that chance meeting now seemed so strangely distant and unreal somehow.

  Unfolding the paper, he scanned the list once more, finding his target without distraction. ‘You’d like that.’ he said, fingering the name, ‘You’d appreciate a piece of work like this . . . wouldn’t you?’

  Checking that the coast was clear, he slipped from the room. Slipped from engineering.

  ‘Yeah, I bet you would.’ He grinned, closing the door behind him. ‘You’d get it, wouldn’t you . . . Miss Livingstone. You’ll get it. Oh, yes you will.’

  17:20

  Saturday 14th May, 2011

  ‘That’s it! I’ve had it with that prick!’ Andrews yelled, rounding on Prior as though it were his fault. ‘I said he couldn’t be trusted. You need people you can depend upon on a ship like this.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’ Prior said, clawing his opportunity to speak now that Andrews had finally paused to take a breath, ‘He’s been under some personal pressure recently. It doesn’t excuse him. But, he has had . . . problems.’

  ‘And now we all have problems. Stupid bastard.’

  ‘Sir, with all due respect, he could be dead.’

  Andrews stopped mid-pace. ‘Don’t you think I know that?’

  ‘I think you’re aware of the possibility — sir — but, I have to say that I find your sense of compassion for another human being to be somewhat lacking.’

  ‘How dare you — ’

  At that moment the lighting on the bridge flickered, spluttered and cut out. The constant drone of the engines faded in a downward scale until it was little more than a bass hum. Then there was no more sound.

  Only silence.

  ‘What the hell is happening?’ Andrews demanded.

  Several moments passed and the emergency power kicked in. The engines did not.

  ‘Sir, we’ve come to a full stop.’ came the report from a fair-haired helmsman, ‘The engines have been completely disengaged.’ He moved from console to console, to screen, to control board and back again, checking and doubling-checking, trying to discover the reason for this, ‘It looks like a fire broke out in engineering; the emergency procedure engaged and the seal is holding, but there’s some sort of malfunction. The engines simply aren’t responding.’ he paused, confused by the readings before him, ‘They’ve been taken off-line and locked. We’re completely locked out of the system, Sir.’

  ‘Who has the authority to do that?’ asked Commander Roberts.

  Prior shook his head, ‘Rachel does.’

  ‘Rachel?’ Andrews raised an eyebrow, ‘I didn’t know you and the Chief were so close.’

  At that moment he wanted nothing more than to smack Andrews right in his smug, lean face. But he refrained.

  Instead, he met the Captain’s querying stare with an equally iron resolve, thankful for the sudden decrease in lighting as his cheeks burned. ‘Chief Adams and I spent some time together when we were on leave.’ he said, ‘Do you have a problem with that? Sir.’

  The young Captain made a strange noise and a face that Prior couldn’t help but notice smacked more than a little of jealousy. He stifled the overwhelming urge to grin from ear to ear.

  ‘Get Adams on the phone.’ Andrews said, turning away from him.

  The fair-haired helmsman rushed to the corner of the bridge, lifting the receiver and dialling furiously. He waited. Tried a second time. Waited.

  He shook his head. ‘There’s no response, Sir.’

  Shoving his hand into the knee-pocket of his trousers, Prior pulled out his mobile; lucky number eight. He quickly flicked through the options to find Rachel Adams number and was holding the phone to his ear as the helmsman tried to reach engineering for a third time.

  ‘She’s not answering her personal phone either.’ Prior said, listening to the opening syllables of her soft and alluring pre-recorded voice before hanging-up.

  ‘What the hell’s going on down there?’ Andrews spat.

  ‘Captain?’ It was Roberts. ‘I think you should take a look at this.’

  Everyone in the control room crowded around the terminal that Roberts occupied. He pulled up various sets of numbers tha
t looked, to Prior, like some sort of time indexes. Though he couldn’t be certain.

  ‘Look. There.’ said Roberts, offering little help to the Security Chief as he watched one set of numbers count down into another. ‘The timing sequence that automates the emergency seal-off hatch has been altered.’

  ‘Drastically altered.’ Andrews cut in.

  ‘And then this.’ Roberts continued, ‘This is the delay on the CO2 release sequence. Again, it’s been radically shortened. And look,’ he pulled up yet another screen, ‘these are the codes that enabled the override. Now, I don’t know what all of them correspond to, but this section,’ he pointed to a group of numerical digits and letters embedded within the sequence. ‘That’s a personal ID code.’

  ‘So we can discover who altered the timings?’ Andrews asked.

  Roberts nodded.

  ‘Well, get on it then. I want to know who that code belongs to, Mr Roberts.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And Prior.’

  He was already at the door as Andrews called his name, but turned his head to acknowledge the young Captain.

  ‘Go a find out what’s happening down there.’

  ‘Already on it. Sir.’

  One thing Prior simply couldn’t stand about Andrews was his it was my idea attitude.

  It never failed to wind him up. But, he had other concerns right now.

  Why hadn’t Rachel answered her phone? Something wasn’t right.

  He suddenly felt that same bad feeling, that same churning in the pit of his stomach that he had suffered on the day of the ill-fated warehouse raid.

  As he turned the corner he broke into a cautious jog, which then become an urgent sprint. He was eager to reach engineering. Eager to discover the crew busy and stressed out with trying to fix all of these anomalous problems; eager to find that it was so loud down there that no one had even heard the phone, let alone having the time to answer it. That that was reason for no one picking up the calls from the bridge.