L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume 35

by L. Ron Hubbard

  No, once it was in my possession again, I would need to wait until New York. That meant retrieving the book as quietly as possible. A murdered crewmember couldn’t be left on the deck, or even thrown overboard, without complications. Second class would also have a gate and steward blocking my way into steerage.

  Killing had to be a last resort for now.

  I needed to return to the cabin and think on this.

  As I neared it, a wave of pure malevolence dragged me from my thoughts.

  All around, passengers went about their regular business. Nothing strange. I slowed to a stop and another man some thirty paces away did the same, making a show of searching through his pockets. In all outward manner he appeared a typical first-class passenger though overly tall and thin to the point of malnourishment. The clothes hung from his frame, yet one finger tugged at his collar as if the shirt were too tight.

  I continued forward, as did my chaperone, a consistent distance between us. There could be no doubt he was following me, and was the source of the terrible sensation as well.

  At my cabin door I stopped, turning to face the man who again came to an abrupt halt, his eyes darting. A full half minute we stood this way until he shook his head several times, like a man fighting to clear his mind, and stepped toward me.

  That loathsome sensation increased, wrapping around me like some great, constricting fist. Evil and corruption accompanied this man in an aura reminiscent of the one surrounding the book, coming off the man in erratic waves, like the heat from a fire.

  I was looking at one of the thieves.

  How had he found me though?

  Gripping the head of my cane, I was ready. The man stopped in front of me, staring down with piggy eyes. One sinewy hand reached over and rubbed at his opposite arm, but he made no move against me.

  This was no casual evil surrounding the thief. He was not a man who cheated the poor or beat his wife. No, he had a blackness to the centre of his soul and it was one I recognized.

  He had read from the book, just as I had, and he’d found me by following that shared link. The same link that allowed me to recognize him.

  Now what? He’d still made no threatening move.

  “We gots the book,” he said in the twang of the uneducated.

  A faraway quality rested in those eyes, worse than an opium sot, a look I recognized from years earlier after coming out of my own ravings.

  “We gots the book,” he repeated.

  Was he boasting? Taunting?

  No, he waited for a reply.

  “Yes, I know,” I improvised. “Where is it?”

  “Safe. Safe … yeah, safe.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said as if that all made perfect sense. “Where is your partner?”

  A glimmer of normalcy flickered in the man’s eyes and he spoke as if I were the lunatic. “Wit’ the book. Keepin’ it safe.”

  Of course he was. The other thief had not read from the book and could be trusted with its keeping.

  “Was lookin’ fer you. Goin’ to yer cabin.”

  “Right. My cabin.”

  Why would he …? A flash of insight hit me and I almost gasped with sudden understanding. This man wasn’t coming to my cabin at all. Another conspirator was aboard the ship. Because of our shared link and his confusion, this man thought I was the other.

  Thoughts swirled in my mind. This thief had knowledge that I didn’t. If I could get him inside the cabin … “We can’t talk out here.”

  The taller man gave his head one quick shake, eyes darting again as if surrounded by people trying to eavesdrop.

  No one who passed spared the briefest glance at my companion. It seemed that clothes, no matter how ill-fitting, did make the man. Was that how he’d been able to get into first class? Surely he needed more to get past the steward. Perhaps this unknown conspirator had greater influence than I did, enough to allow a steerage passenger into first class.

  I reached for my door handle.

  “Where you goin’?”

  “My cabin.”

  Confusion creased the expression of the thief’s face. “On A deck.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yer cabin. It’s on A deck.”

  Suspicion replaced confusion and his hand darted into the jacket he wore. The motion reminded me of Singh and I knew there was a concealed knife.

  Damn.

  “Oh yes. My cabin was changed at the last moment,” I tried. “Very inconvenient.”

  The mind worked behind the thief’s madness. My advantage was disappearing and I threw the cabin door open, backing inside. The thief followed, sniffing at the aroma of death within my cabin.

  “You ain’t him. You ain’t.”

  I shook my head, backing farther into the cabin. “No. I am not.”

  The man drew his weapon, a blade curved much like a snake. A ceremonial kris, and a better weapon for close-quarter fighting, but I didn’t dare draw my sword anyway. This man could lead me to the book.

  Dazed or not the man moved fast, rushing forward, bringing the blade up then down again. I dodged to one side, but not by much.

  The advantage of distance gone, I retreated, skirting the table. The tall man swung his blade again and I deflected it with my cane, though the blow was staggering. I scrambled to get the table between us.

  He launched forward and I took another step away, my back pressing against the wall. The blade swept down with savage ferocity and sunk deep into the wood tabletop. He worked the kris, trying to free it.

  Seizing the advantage, I swung my heavy cane around, the arc finishing in a meaty thud against the side of his head. It didn’t have near the force hoped for, but it was everything I could muster, and it was enough. The thief’s eyes rolled up and he dropped like a poleaxed cow, tumbling to the floor. The kris, now free, clattered next to him.

  I watched this unconscious man, expecting him to jump up and continue the attack.

  Now what? I had no rope to bind him. In my doctor’s bag was a hammer but no nails.

  The man groaned.

  Soon, this opportunity would be gone, but inspiration struck as I looked at the bed.

  Would it work?

  I threw the blanket off the top and pulled the sheet underneath from the bed. Laying it flat on the floor next to the unconscious man, I flipped him onto the sheet and started rolling, making the package as tight as possible. His arms needed to be pinned. When the job was done, he lay face-down, and I gave him one final roll.

  Open eyes stared back at me.

  He thrashed against his bindings, which were not near as tight as I’d hoped. I bolted to the table, grabbing his kris and returned to place the cold metal against the skin at his throat. He calmed, the disconcerting grin of a man dedicated to his cause, creeping across his face.

  Lucidity floated in those eyes for the moment. It wouldn’t last.

  The man’s smile widened, revealing missing teeth. “You’re him. The hider.”

  “Yes, I kept that damned book hidden.”

  “The blasphemer. The heretic.”

  The thought of that god I blasphemed gave me a cold shiver of repulsion.

  “The Ripper,” he whispered.

  “Enough! Where is it?” I demanded.

  The thief giggled, his sanity wavering again now that he was fully conscious. I added pressure to the knife in warning.

  “Safe from you,” the man said.

  “Who is the man you were looking for?”

  More gap-toothed grinning, nothing less than expected. Questioning this man could take hours, but I knew I could get the information I wanted. I thought of the second largest scalpel inside my doctor’s bag.

  What to put inside his mouth to muffle the screams?

  “Cthuuuuuuuuuulhuuuuuuuuuuuuu,” the man whispered in an eerie
echo of Stephen’s wail from last night.

  I pressed the knife still harder against his throat in warning, a bead of blood appearing under the metal. It was sharp as any scalpel and I fought the urge to just be done with this.

  The thief giggled, then shoved his head forward, pressing the blade more forcibly into the skin of his neck. He jerked his head quickly left, sawing through his throat and the artery there before I could react.

  A jet of blood spurted from the wound, covering me, the sheet and a good portion of the opposite wall, adding to the gore with each heartbeat.

  “Damn it!”

  Using the table’s edge I pulled myself up and collapsed onto one of the chairs.

  “What a waste.”

  I could have drawn so much more information from him.

  His dead eyes and lunatic grin mocked me. I felt seized with the urge to kick him, but that seemed like too much effort.

  “Stupid old man!” I said, slapping the table with both hands.

  So what information had I found out?

  The thieves were not alone in this. Someone in first class was their contact. Someone who had boarded in Queenstown? Maybe. This man would not be uneducated or psychotic. What else? Without this second thief it would complicate the two sides coming together. Both would wonder what had happened to him, assuming he was with the other. Would that give me time?

  I got to my feet and approached the thief, grabbing the sodden mess of sheet that tied him and cut it free with his own blade. Inside the jacket pocket was a scrap of paper soaked through with blood. I unfolded it, frowning at the now mostly obscured words.

  Mr. W—

  Cabin—

  A Dec

  Mr. W? Was this his first name or last? And how many men had boarded with names fitting either? No, there wasn’t enough information, and this Mr. W didn’t have the book anyway. Not yet.

  This left me where I started, needing to get to the remaining thief in steerage.

  After jamming this second body into my wardrobe and cleaning myself and the cabin, I took a bottle of rubbing alcohol from my bag and poured half on the thief’s remains, the other half on Stephen. That would mask the growing smell for now.

  I returned to the closest gate leading to second class and stood at a nearby rail, watching. This steward was most attentive to his duties. One couple who had taken a wrong turn, perhaps on purpose, arrived at the opposite side of the locked gate. The steward spoke with them pleasantly, explaining where they needed to go.

  If they’d arrived dressed in first-class clothing would the gate have been opened for them? Had the thief made his way through this way?

  Hours of watching, wandering from one entrance to another, I came to the conclusion that there was no simple way to get past those gates. There would be some way to get past that gate, but did I have the luxury of time to discover it? It was as expected, but I still returned to my cabin in a foul humour to change into dinner clothes.

  The dining room was a sea of tables on two levels, made all the wider by mirrors lining two opposing walls. The captain’s table was foremost. Serving staff weaved their way around tables, chairs and passengers, bringing food, filling glasses and being as unobtrusive as possible.

  Seated on Captain Smith’s left, I made idle chitchat throughout the many courses. The captain’s affable manner lulled me into relaxation and I found myself enjoying our conversation when he wasn’t engaging the other guests.

  “Mr. Wainright,” he said to a man who had done no more than push food around his plate since sitting down, “are you unwell?”

  Wainright? Mr. W?

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, Captain. I’m fine, thank you,” he responded, glancing up. “My first cruise. I suspect being on a ship takes getting used to.”

  The captain smiled, understanding, comforting.

  “I didn’t sleep well last night,” Wainright continued. “Strange dreams and all that.”

  Smith’s smile faltered and he stared at the man, nodding mechanically. I noticed around the table other guests had halted conversation mid-word at the mention of the dreams.

  “Yes,” the captain said finally. “Just need to get your sea legs, I’m sure. It will be better tomorrow.”

  Wainright seemed to accept this, though didn’t eat more than he already had. This would not be the Mr. W associated with the thieves. That man wouldn’t have suffered under the weight of nightmares.

  The captain steered the conversation away from the topic and the meal ran its course without further mention of dreams. After dessert the captain excused himself, needing to attend to duties of the ship.

  Before leaving myself, I made a quick tour of the room, overhearing conversations with three different Williams and a Wilson. Too many names starting with W to be of any use.

  The circuitous route back to my cabin took me past each of the gates once again. As expected, they were still well attended by the stewards. No plan presented itself for getting through, other than the desperate one of killing the ship’s crew.

  Annoyed I returned to my cabin, turning possibilities over in my head and discarding them as quickly. There would be some way below that wouldn’t lead to my incarceration. I just needed to find it.

  April 12

  The sound of knocking woke me, an insistent quality to it saying it had been going on for some time.

  “One moment,” I said, voice too low for anyone to hear.

  The deep slumber of morphine had left me with dry throat, as well as a certain fuzzy-headedness. Both would clear soon enough.

  “One moment,” I tried again, louder.

  The knocking ceased.

  With a muted groan I pushed my feet from under the covers, reaching out for my cane. Crossing the cabin provided enough time for my head to clear, and on opening the door found a ship’s crewman I didn’t recognize. The man shifted from foot to foot.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said in a quick, clipped tone. “The captain asks for your presence at his cabin.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been asked to escort you personally.”

  Why would the man be sending for me?

  “I’ll need time to dress,” I said.

  The man opened his mouth to reply, then took in my nightclothes and gave a nod. He stood, hands behind his back as the door closed on him.

  “Damn it,” I whispered.

  This was the sort of attention I was trying to avoid. How did Smith know which cabin I was in, anyway? No, forget that. The man was resourceful, and if the ship’s register had a different name assigned to the room, he would assume I had taken it from a friend.

  Quickly I dressed in day clothes, sparing a glance at the clock. A few minutes before nine. A longer sleep than expected, more than I’d been able to get in years.

  I opened the door. “Ready.”

  The crewman started up the passageway and I tried my best to match his brisk pace but soon fell back.

  “I apologize, Doctor,” he said, embarrassment sliding over his face as he slowed. “I’m anxious to get you to the captain.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “The captain is … distraught.”

  We continued on in silence another ten paces before he spoke again.

  “There is something about this voyage …” He shook his head, perhaps unsure how to complete the thought. This time his silence held until he led me into the crew’s section of the vast ship.

  A knock on one door was answered by it opening a crack, one eye filling the gap.

  “It’s Johnson, sir,” my guide said. “I’ve brought the doctor, as requested.”

  The door opened and Captain Smith appeared, gaze shooting left and right. The quiet dignity and affable demeanour were gone. What word had the crewman used? Distraught?

  “Doctor, come in. Come i
n,” Smith said, stepping aside to allow entry, then pulled himself to full height and settled his gaze on Johnson. “Thank you, Ensign. That will be all.”

  The command in his voice was unmistakable. Johnson snapped off a salute which the captain returned before closing the door. Smith deflated into a chair, waving an arm toward a matching seat across from him. I sat.

  “What has happened since last night?” I asked.

  “Doctor, I fear I am going mad. You heard Wainright at dinner. Dreams. Nightmares.”

  “You’ve had nightmares?”

  Of course he had.

  “No!” Smith laughed, a sound I didn’t like. It was too close to the lunatic giggle of the dead man in my wardrobe. “Calling them nightmares is like calling this ship a raft.”

  “And you want my opinion on these nightmares?”

  “Yes,” the captain said without making eye contact.

  I weighed the options. If the captain were incapacitated, would the ship return to England? No, more likely we would continue on with a new man in command. The attention on me would be gone at least, but was that the wrong way of thinking? This man could be a source of information.

  “Often dreams are the hidden topics of our subconscious, our desires,” I said.

  Smith jumped up with a cry and paced.

  “However,” I continued, “more often they are influenced by outside stimulus which we are unaware of.”

  Closer to the actual truth than Captain Smith would ever be aware. His romantic view of the ocean and sailing life made him more susceptible to this evil influence.

  “A rich dinner, for example,” I added, “can provide a night of vivid dreaming.”

  Smith came to a stop in front of the cabin’s one small window, watching the ocean outside pass by. Two full minutes passed while he, hopefully, absorbed the concept. He nodded once. Another minute passed before he would nod again and turn toward me.

  “You are telling me there is more of gravy than of grave about these dreams,” he said.

  Dickens has always been a favourite author of mine. The fact that Smith had been able to make a joke, as much as the joke itself, gave me hope for the man. The captain took a deep breath and exhaled the hold of last night’s dreams.