Ship of the Damned

by James F. David

  The lights were dimmed and they lay in silence. Anita, Margi, and Elizabeth closed their eyes and began breathing deeply, following Wes’s instructions. Wanda still held a cigarette between her lips; she lay with her eyes open, blowing smoke rings into the air which Len systematically destroyed with waves of his hand. Wanda chuckled the first time he did that, enjoying Len’s irritation. Wes worried that she would keep the others awake, but Anita relaxed almost immediately, first showing Alpha waves on Len’s monitor and then the sharp bursts of electrical activity called sleep spindles.

  “Anita’s passing through stage four sleep,” Len whispered. “We’ve gone from two cps to four cps with spindles of fourteen to sixteen cps.” Then a few seconds later he said, “Here comes REM.”

  “We won’t wait for the others to sleep,” Wes said, knowing it wasn’t necessary. “Put them under.”

  One by one, Shamita intercepted their brain waves, then sent interference signals that shut down parts of their motor cortex.

  Margi lost her nervous shakes and lay still, eyes slowly closing. Wanda was still smoking when she was relaxed; Len snatched the cigarette from her lips before it fell, crushing it out violently. Elizabeth went under last. Wes watched on his monitor as their minds ceased to function independently, slowly coming to match brain wave activity. They were becoming one mind, and sharing one dream.

  INSERTION

  Six agents would enter Pot of Gold to scout for the Nimitz. Jett had declined Woolman’s offer of more. If it came to a fight, and it could, they would be fighting in narrow corridors, and under those conditions even six might be too many.

  Jett’s team was preparing in a series of cubicles along one wall, where each team member dressed and was fitted with equipment. Each agent was given a hip unit to be used for returning, and a weapon specially designed to operate in Pot of Gold. They had trained with the weapons before picking up Ralph, and been briefed on the layout of the ship.

  Jim Peters was in the first cubicle. He was nearly as tall as Jett, but leaner, with a lanky figure and white-blonde hair. His eyebrows were so light, they were nearly invisible, giving his face an open, expressionless look. He might have been skinny in high school, but now he had enough bulk to make him useful. A technician tightened the straps to his unit, and Peters looked up and winked. Jett nodded a greeting in response. Jett disliked people who communicated with various facial expressions. Peters was a reliable agent, however, and Jett had worked with him before.

  Billy Thompson was suiting next to Peters. Thompson was a black man, and Jett had strong feelings about people of color. Minorities were either a plus or a minus in his line of work, and rarely a wash. Black men like Thompson stood out in white communities, drawing unwanted attention; in mixed-race communities they gave you an advantage. This was one of those times when it wouldn’t matter what color Thompson was.

  Thompson had played professional football for two years, never getting into a regular season game. He was cut the third year and not picked up by another team. He had the size of a lineman, and near NFL speed. Those who had seen him in action said he would be a good match for Jett. Now Thompson was suited up, checking his weapon. He nodded to Jett as he passed.

  Compton was in the next cubicle, stepping into the fire-resistant coveralls Dr. Lee had provided. She wore snug-fitting underwear, designed by the same person who had created the fire suits they would wear. Thompson or Peters might have appreciated Compton’s figure, but Jett noticed only the lack of muscle mass. She wouldn’t last long against him despite her fancy Asian fighting skills. Compton saw him looking and turned, pulling her coverall on and zipping the front.

  The survivor of the second entry into Pot of Gold was in the next cubicle. He was dressed, but his burn scars grew out of his coveralls and onto his face like some hideous ivy climbing the wall of a building. The scars were thick ropes along his neck, spreading into overlapping plates of scar tissue that covered most of his face. His eyes peered through hollows bored in the scar tissue, and Jett thought it a miracle that he had kept his sight. The flames had licked up to his eyebrows before being extinguished. There was hair on the right side of his head, but on the left side were merely patches of hair among the scars.

  When Jett had first met Robin Evans, he had not been impressed. Evans was retired from active duty and living on a disability pension, and Jett thought he would be soft, his skills atrophied. Instead, he found him in excellent physical condition; also, his fighting skills had honed quickly. He wasn’t in Jett’s league, but he was an acceptable team member. Evans was a survivor who had spent years undergoing skin grafts and reconstructive surgery. He was tough physically—all scar tissue—and had a will to live that had kept him alive through an experience most people begged not to survive. Evans lived for the chance to get revenge on those who had roasted him alive. Jett knew he might be reckless, but recklessness can be managed, and it can be used.

  Ralph was in the final cubicle, waiting for Jett. He was wearing one of the silvery coveralls and admiring himself. When Jett came in, he was staring at his arm while a technician finished putting on his hip unit, and holding a can of orange pop in his hand.

  “Hi, Nate,” Ralph said. “This thing is so shiny I can see myself. Can I keep it? Can I? I want to show it to Doctor Binham.”

  “We’ll see, Ralph,” Jett said.

  Jett undressed, slipping on the same undergarments he had seen Compton wearing, and then stepped into the coverall. Ralph watched—to Jett it felt like having a dog watch you undress. It’s not embarrassing, only disconcerting. The technician switched his attention to Jett, helping him into the harness holding the power pack, and the hip unit, which wrapped around his waist and literally sat on his hip. Dr. Lee had explained that the unit circling his waist was a coil designed to generate an intense magnetic field. They wouldn’t use it to enter Pot of Gold, but once inside they could use it to exit.

  The technician checked Jett’s hip unit and then switched it to standby, a yellow light glowing on the belt in front of Jett. Finally he handed Jett his weapon, an oversized black pistol with an armored hose that attached to cylinders of gas in the lower part of his pack. The tank was pressurized, and the gun fired a .222 caliber Teflon bullet. The bullets were fed down the pressurized armored hose so there was never a need to reload.

  “Is that a gun, Nate? It looks like a gun sort of,” Ralph said. “Guns are bad, Nate. You shouldn’t play with them.”

  “I’m allowed to, Ralph. I have a license to carry a gun.”

  Ralph folded his arms across his chest and leaned back, hips pushed out, lips puckered.

  “I don’t know, Nate, I don’t like guns much. You could hurt somebody with a gun.”

  “It’s not a real gun, Ralph,” Jett said. “It’s an air gun.”

  “A Daisy? It’s a BB gun?”

  “Yeah, sort of a BB gun.”

  Now Ralph’s face reformed into a smile. “Well okee-dokee then.”

  Next, the technician placed the special bomb in the top half of Jett’s pack. Chemical explosives wouldn’t work inside Pot of Gold; nor would nuclear devices, Jett had been assured. So Dr. Lee had designed a different kind of bomb suited for Pot of Gold. Evans carried an identical bomb, and Peters and Thompson each carried a signalling device to be used to contact Rainbow.

  Now Jett looked Ralph over from head to foot, making sure his suit was sealed tight, his harness secured, his hip unit functional. As he was finishing, the others gathered outside the cubicle. When Ralph saw Evans, his face reshaped into concern.

  “Did something happen to you?” Ralph asked.

  Evans stared back, mute. Jett knew Ralph wouldn’t give up until he had his questions answered.

  “He was burned,” Jett said.

  “I bet it hurt. I burned my arm on a stove one time. I gots a scar too. You want to see it?”

  “No!” Evans said, then rested his hand on his gun. “Shut him up, Jett, or I will.”

  Evans’s threat brought
back a memory from Jett’s childhood. He was playing basketball in the school yard when a neighbor girl came to tell him that Jason was in trouble. Jett found his brother in an alley, three older boys on top of him, pulling his clothes off. Nose bloody, dirty face streaked with tears, he was clinging desperately to his underpants while the older boys laughed. Barely slowing, Jett scooped up a hand-sized rock. He broke the nose of the first boy with his weighted fist, knocking him out of the fight. When the other boys stood to face him, Jett threw the rock at the head of the biggest one, and when the boy’s hands came up to protect his face, Jett kicked him in the groin, then pounded his head when he bent over from the pain. The third boy ran while Jett beat the second boy into a fetal position.

  Jett had been mother, father, and guardian angel to Jason, but after his brother stepped in front of the train, Jett had repressed those protective instincts. Now he found himself facing off with another bully, that buried protective feeling digging its way out of its grave. Silently cursing himself for caring, Jett stepped in front of Evans, his face inches from the mat of scars.

  “No one touches Ralph,” Jett said.

  Evans stared long and hard before looking away. Jett turned to each of the others in turn. Thompson was checking his straps, disinterested. Peters winked at Jett, which Jett took as acquiescence. Compton merely looked at him quizzically. Then Jett introduced the others before Ralph asked. Ralph shook hands with Peters and Thompson, but Evans turned away. As usual, Ralph took the rebuff good-naturedly.

  “Let’s get to the portal,” Jett said.

  “I gots to go to the bathroom,” Ralph said. “And when you gotta go, you gotta go. And I really gots to go.”

  Ralph smiled, but Jett didn’t join in their routine.

  “For real, Ralph?” Jett said.

  “For reals!” Ralph said.

  The others groaned as Jett began helping Ralph out of his harness and coverall.

  After the bathroom trip, Jett hurried Ralph into his equipment. He had to get the mission underway before Ralph could irritate them any more. All agents were government killers, and while they wouldn’t kill Ralph at Rainbow, he wanted to be sure that Ralph left Pot of Gold alive.

  Jett herded Ralph toward the back of the facility and up the stairs to the platform leading to the three large black rings. The rest of the team waited on the platform. Jett checked Ralph’s, hip unit again, and then his own. They were both glowing yellow. When the others had their weapons ready, Jett shouted down to Dr. Lee.

  “We’re ready!”

  Dr. Lee was leaning over a technician’s shoulder, his glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose.

  “Yes, yes. The door will open soon.”

  “I don’t see a door, Nate,” Ralph said. “Do you see a door?”

  “Shut him up,” Evans said.

  Evans was tense, and needed silence to prepare for what was ahead.

  “Here we go,” Dr. Lee shouted.

  It started with a low hum, just above threshold. The hum built quickly, getting proportionally louder and higher in frequency. Jett’s skin prickled and his hair felt as if it were alive.

  “You look funny,” Ralph said. “Your hair’s sticking up, Nate.”

  “It’s static electricity,” Jett said.

  “Neat,” Ralph said, then reached out with his finger toward the railing. A blue spark an inch long arced between his finger and the rail. “Ouch,” Ralph yelled, shaking his hand.

  “I forgot to tell you,” Dr. Lee yelled. “There is danger of shock! Don’t touch anything metal.”

  “Don’t touch the rail,” Ralph said. “It hurt.”

  Now the air was crackling, and Jett felt as if his body was carrying a charge that could stun an elephant.

  “Don’t touch each other,” Jett said.

  They all moved apart, except for Ralph, who was holding his hand out in front of him, palm up. His hand was glowing. Jett’s were glowing too.

  “This is it,” Dr. Lee said. “Go as soon as you see the opening.”

  The buzz was all around them; then suddenly the air sizzled. Jett looked down the platform through the archways created by the half doughnuts and saw a shimmery wave. Quickly it became a green oval.

  “That’s it, let’s move,” Jett ordered.

  He hurried forward, Ralph and the others following. Slowing just before he reached the oval, Jett put a leg in first. It disappeared, but he felt nothing. With Ralph and his team right behind him, Jett stepped all the way into the green light and vanished.

  INTO THE DREAM

  Elizabeth was back in the ship, in the same corridor as before, except this time it didn’t feel anything like a dream. The detail was rich, and there were smells; oily, thick smells of diesel and grease.

  “Hello, Elizabeth,” Anita said.

  Anita was with her, wearing her hair down and her pink dress with the bunny on the front, and it confused Elizabeth. Wanda was supposed to have been with Elizabeth in the dream. She had the most experience exploring the ship, and was the least affected.

  “Wes, are you there?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes, Elizabeth.”

  “Anita is here with me, not Wanda,”

  “She must be the strongest receiver,” Wes said after a long pause. “As the dominant one, she’s controlling the dream. We can try adjusting the parameters and try to bring out Wanda.”

  Elizabeth thought it over, but decided against it. The link was working, and as long as they didn’t jump off the ship and touch the edge of the world, there should be no danger.

  “Anita and I will explore the ship, Wes. Is that okay with you, Anita?”

  “You won’t leave me?” Anita said.

  “I won’t leave you.”

  Elizabeth hugged Anita and stroked her hair. When they separated, she realized that Anita looked worse than she had in the last dream. There were hints of bags under her eyes and her hair was mussed. Elizabeth understood that this time she wasn’t just seeing Anita’s image of herself Now she was seeing an image shaped by her memory of Anita combined with the memories of Wanda and Margi.

  “It’s much more detailed now, and I can hear sounds,” Elizabeth said.

  “You’re talking to Wes again, aren’t you, Elizabeth?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Wes, this doesn’t feel like a dream,” Elizabeth said. “I feel like I’m really on a ship.”

  “Maybe you should come out?”

  “No. We’ll find the bathroom and look in the mirror again.”

  “Be careful, Elizabeth,” Wes said.

  “This way, Elizabeth.”

  Anita started down the ship’s corridor. This time Elizabeth could hear Anita’s feet on the metal floor. There were more visual details, smells, and sounds. Integrating Wanda, Margi, and Anita had improved the quality of the dream—if it was a dream.

  Elizabeth followed Anita to the next hatch, and this time when they pushed it open the hinge groaned. Anita started through the hatch, but then gasped and turned back, wrapping her arms around Elizabeth and burying her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Elizabeth said.

  “Len says Anita’s heart rate just jumped—respiration and BP are all up,” Wes said.

  Anita didn’t respond, so Elizabeth gently pulled her arms loose, saying, “Let me look. I’ll be right back.”

  Elizabeth pushed the hatch open further and found herself staring at a man’s contorted face. Startled, she jumped back just as the little girl had.

  “Elizabeth—” Wes began.

  “I know, my pulse and respiration are all up,” Elizabeth said, cutting Wes off “Give me a second, Wes.”

  Looking back, Elizabeth saw that the face was just as before. She pushed the hatch wider. The man wasn’t whole. It was the body of a sailor protruding from the corridor wall. Most of the head was visible, as well as one leg, an arm, and half of his chest. The rest of the sailor ended at the wall. Watching the wide-open eyes, Elizabeth touched the sailor’s ch
est—the eyes remained frozen. Elizabeth felt along the sailor’s chest where it met the wall, but could find no gap. It was as if the sailor was part of the wall.

  “Wes, I’m looking at a man who seems to be part of the wall.”

  “Is he alive?” Wes said.

  “No. At least he isn’t moving and shows no response to touch.”

  There was silence as Wes discussed the sailor with Shamita and Len.

  “Elizabeth, we don’t know what to make of the man in the wall. It’s your call. Do you want to continue?”

  Elizabeth went back to Anita and held her close.

  “It’s just a man, Anita. He’s sticking out of the wall, but he’s just like a statue. He can’t move and he can’t hurt you. I know it’s scary—it scared me too.”

  “I never saw anything like that before,” Anita said.

  “There might be other new things, Anita, because this isn’t just your dream, it’s Margi’s and Wanda’s too. Do you want to go on? Help me find the mirror again?”

  “I guess so,” Anita said.

  “It’s important if we’re going to stop the dream, Anita.”

  Nodding, Anita separated from Elizabeth and took her hand, stepping toward the hatch.

  “We’re going on, Wes,” Elizabeth said.

  As they passed the man in the wall, Anita stared wide-eyed, studying him from all angles. Then they were past him and down the corridor to a staircase. Elizabeth followed Anita up to the deck above and found herself outside, looking down on the big guns mounted on the bow.

  “This is where they steer,” Anita said, pulling Elizabeth along.

  They entered a hatch and were in the pilot house; the ship’s wheel, compass, and communications tubes were here. The detail was perfect, and the ship looked ready to sail. From the pilot house they passed through the chart room and then into another compartment filled with old-fashioned electronic gear. Elizabeth recognized only a radar scope. Then they passed outside, climbed down, and back in though another hatch, finding themselves in a compartment with radio equipment. After that they emerged behind one of the big guns and climbed down a ladder and entered another corridor where Anita stopped again, reaching back for Elizabeth’s hand. There were two sailors in the corridor ahead. One was sticking up through the deck, only his shoulders and head showing, his mouth and eyes open, frozen in an expression of surprise. The other sailor stood at the far end, all of his body visible, his face turned away.