by Peter Tonkin
T-Shirt was sitting close by on the end of Max’s bed listening to his friend’s snoring. In the next bed along from Killigan, young Corporal Washington lay, more severely injured than the big sergeant, swathed in bandages and apparently asleep. While Jolene’s attention was focused on the man she was questioning, T-Shirt’s eyes drifted towards the corporal and he saw the flicker of a frown flit like a shadow across the young man’s face as Killigan spoke.
T-Shirt’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully and he pulled himself up off Max’s bed. While Jolene continued to go over, step by step, the events at Armstrong on the night of the fire, trying without success to drag some more information out of the big sergeant, T-Shirt wandered away down the ward, checking the deeply sleeping Dai and then more generally, getting a feel for the place and the people in it. Mendel and Fagan, the scientists, were engrossed in a game of chess, both of them well enough to sit up now, strength returning with thickening beards. Billy Hoyle’s and Ernie Marshall’s beds stood side by side, empty. At the end, between a pair of empty beds and the doorway to the anteroom, another doorway led out into the toilets.
In Billy Hoyle’s bedside locker lay a thriller. Apparently bored by Jolene’s unsuccessful attempts to extract more information from the sergeant, T-Shirt perched on the edge of Billy’s bed and became engrossed in the novel.
After about ten minutes, Corporal Washington shuffled by, heading towards the toilets. T-Shirt didn’t appear to notice, licking his finger thoughtfully and turning one page, then the next, before putting the paperback down and rising. He went into the toilets just as Washington was turning away from the wash basin.
‘You’re next, I guess,’ said T-Shirt easily, crossing to a urinal and unzipping. ‘So you’d better get your story straight, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Washington, watching him suspiciously in the mirror. The ship heaved and rolled slightly. T-Shirt did not answer, focusing on keeping his aim true and his boots dry.
The motion eased. ‘If you’re going to back Killigan up.’
Silence. But at least Washington was still there.
‘I mean,’ said T-Shirt, zipping up, ‘I can see that you’d want to stand by your boss. And he’s head of security, after all. Responsible man. Wouldn’t need very much. Probably just a little white lie, huh? What’s he after? Some sort of award? Looks a good age for a military man. Trying for something extra to retire on? Commendation? Purple Heart? Extra pension?’ His eyes met Washington’s for the first time, in the mirror. Then he looked down again, turning on the taps.
‘If he is, you can’t blame him,’ said Washington, stung. ‘He’s a brave man. Good noncom. Given a lifetime of service. He’s a good soldier.’
‘Course he is,’ nodded T-Shirt, washing his hands slowly and carefully. ‘Can’t take that away from the man. But he wasn’t by the John Deere, was he? When it went up? He was away somewhere else, up to something else. Certainly, that’s where he was found, no matter what he says he can remember now. He’s lying to the inspector, isn’t he? Looking for a bit of glory?’
‘Well …’
The temporisation was enough for T-Shirt. He was no inspector. He didn’t have to make it stand up in court. He reached for the towel. ‘Nuff said, then,’ he purred. Enough said for the time being, is what he thought. The implications of Killigan’s lie needed some careful consideration. Then it would be time for discussion with Jolene.
*
‘I can’t budge Killigan,’ Jolene said ten minutes later as they walked back along the corridor. ‘And Washington backs him up. Perhaps they were both there fighting the fire at the John Deere then out in back of the huts after all. I’ll have to double-check with Colin Ross and Richard.’
‘Think Richard’s found out anything on the bridge?’
‘I expect so. He has a habit of finding things out. Sorting things out. He’s quite a guy.’
T-Shirt was about to answer, when the subject of their conversation came down the companionway.
‘We’ve lost the twins,’ he said. ‘Either of you seen them?’
‘No,’ said Jolene at once. ‘They’re definitely not in the sickbay. Want us to help you look for them?’
‘It’s all right, thanks,’ said Richard with a rueful grin. ‘We’ve got a good few people searching already. You’ve got work to do. People to see. Files to consult.’
‘Parties to go to?’ suggested T-Shirt hopefully.
‘I think not yet,’ said Richard. ‘The only person who’s booked time on the Net today, Jolene, is Billy Hoyle. He’s on at five this evening.’
‘If he comes back from wherever he’s gone,’ said Jolene, thoughtfully.
‘Back from the dead?’ suggested T-Shirt grimly. The other two looked askance at him and he shrugged. ‘Well you all searched the whole ship for him and his friend last night,’ he said. ‘Where else could they be?’
*
Billy was in one of the storerooms two decks further down. He was still in pain but was beginning to feel a little better. The children were like miracle workers. Working as a team, they had joined in his camping game and set him up in a neat little bivouac well out of sight at the back of the room. Sneaking out on secret missions unobserved, they had slipped into the cabins of the crew who were up in the passenger areas keeping the party going or up in the ship-handling areas keeping Kalinin going. From the cabins they had purloined towels, clean clothing, bedding and a range of stuff at Billy’s request. Now it was time for them to venture further afield. The need for bandages and painkillers had been pushed aside for the time being by torn bedsheets and a bottle of vodka from one of the engineers’ cabins. What Billy needed now was food. He had not eaten since his ill-fated visit to the witch’s lair.
‘Lissen, kids,’ he said. ‘I got to eat. Was there nothing in those guys’ cabins? Pretzels? Bagel chips?’
‘Sorry, Mr Billy,’ said Mary sadly. ‘We couldn’t find a thing.’
‘If we go onto the upper decks there should be plenty,’ William observed. ‘They have a party going on in the dining salon on Bellingshausen-Peary deck. There’s bound to be crisps and peanuts.’
‘Naw,’ said Billy swiftly. ‘Someone would see you and that would spoil our game.’
‘The galley’s not far from here,’ said practical Mary. ‘Chef will probably be pretty busy making more party food. We should be able to get something in for you from the galley, Mr Billy.’
‘Hey, that’s not a bad idea. You two’d fit right alongside with the Hardy Boys you know?’
‘More like the Famous Five,’ said William as they sneaked out of the door again. ‘This is fun!’
‘It is,’ agreed Mary, but there was a little frown extending the straight line of her nose up between her level eyebrows.
The galley was easy to sneak into and rob. It was all bustle and stir, with stewards coming and going, increasingly laden with party fare. And Chef had arranged the galley tables in a row by the door so that his minions could load them with the canapes he was producing, though as it was not quite 9 a.m. yet, he was holding back in anticipation of a swell in demand three hours hence. And another nine hours hence, running through until after midnight.
Because Chef had moved the galley tables, they were out of their usual clamps on the deck and so they slid a little with the rolling of the hull and juddered with the labouring of the engines, adding a stuttering rumble to the normal noise of a busy kitchen. The ship’s movement also jangled cutlery and cookware, crockery tinkled and glassware chimed. Nobody marked the surreptitious entrance of two small figures through the side door into the crew’s quarters. They chose their supplies with care — a plate of sandwiches and a small cold roast chicken, a pile of late-breakfast waffles and syrup, and a litre bottle of Coke.
Had it not been for the waffles, Chef would probably never have noticed. But they were a special order and the steward expecting to collect them asked about them as soon as he arrived and saw they were not on the tables. Even then, he was near
ly shrugged aside, for the hour was approaching nine. Although Chef had no relatives to call in his native Magadan, he was determined that nothing would stop him, and those he had chosen to share his vodka, from drinking the health of every other native of Magadan when the millennium arrived there, at 9 a.m. local time.
‘The waffles,’ called the impetuous steward again. ‘A twelve stack, maple syrup and a litre of Coke.’
‘They are on the table there, ready to take,’ called Chef impatiently, his eye on the computer clock, which was permanently set to Magadan time so that no matter where in the world he happened to be, his equipment was attuned to his home.
‘You’ve been at the vodka, Chef,’ called the importunate young man, living dangerously. He was a Cossack from Rostov, young and arrogant.
‘Now you listen,’ retorted Chef, his professional temper aroused. ‘My computer has not been at the vodka. See, here, on this screen. Order 12/31/99/P27. Filled. On the table.’
‘Well, don’t look at your computer, Chef. Look at the table. Order 12/31/99/P27 is not fucking there!’
So Chef missed out on drinking to his city at the very stroke of midnight there, because he was looking at the table — at the lack of order 12/31/99/P27. Amazed he looked back at his computer again. But the screen was blank, as if the whole thing had been switched off.
*
‘Waffles! You guys are the biz! Chicken. And what is this? Knockwurst on rye. How’d you know I’m from New York?’
‘We just took what we could get, Mr Billy. And here’s some Coke.’
‘William. Mary. What can I say, guys? But I’m getting worried about your folks. Won’t they be wondering where you are by now?’
‘Doubt it,’ said William promptly. ‘Daddy will be on the bridge or somewhere, doing something important.’
‘Mummy will be worried, though,’ said Mary gently. ‘You’re right, Mr Billy. We should get back before we’re missed. Have you got everything you need, do you think? For the time being at least?’
‘I guess,’ said Billy cheerfully. ‘But I’m relying on you guys.’ He put on a cod drawl. ‘You come along back now, y’hear?’
‘Yes, Mr Billy,’ they said.
*
Gretchen found the children, down at the end of the crew’s accommodation, on the outer edges of the pool of consternation which was the galley.
‘Where have you two been?’ demanded Robin, coming up next.
‘What do you mean, Mummy?’ asked Mary.
‘We haven’t been anywhere,’ added William.
‘Where could we go?’ asked Mary, as innocently puzzled as her brother was manfully confused. ‘What’s the matter with Chef?’
‘Who knows?’ answered their mother long-sufferingly. ‘Come on, you two. Let’s go back up to the dining salon. Don’t drift off again.’
‘No, Mummy.’
‘Course not.’
‘Here you are,’ said Richard, coming down the campanionway. ‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Here.’
‘I see,’ he said sceptically. ‘Sounds like moonshine to me. What have you two been up to?’
‘Nothing, we —’
‘Honestly, Daddy. What could we possibly get up to?’
‘You two? No end of trouble! Where are you taking them now, darling?’
‘The dining salon.’
‘Back to the party, eh? Is that where you’d really like to go?’
‘No, Daddy,’ said William at once.
‘Fair enough. Where would you like to go?’
‘The bridge,’ they chorused.
*
The bridge did not seem as airy and spacious as usual; nor, indeed, as welcoming. The gathering storm had obscured the furthest views so that the seaward aspect was indistinguishable from the rugged reaches of the black shore on whose dangerous weather side they lay. The light was gone. There were no more hellish blue gleams on the fat black bellies of the clouds sweeping down upon them. Cold rain spat bitterly across all the windows and froze on all except the clearview so that everything was weird and twisted by thin films of ice except the view northward which was frost-framed but clear. Kalinin seemed to be running through a larger version of the cleft in the moraine where so much of this had started. Sheer blackness gathered on either hand, pressing in like the jaws of a vice.
‘Is there any ice ahead?’ asked Irene Ogre as Richard, Robin and the twins came onto the bridge.
‘The radar sees none,’ answered Varnek, looking up from the screen immediately in front of him.
‘Weather sat?’ asked the captain, quietly, tensely.
‘Clear,’ called the second officer, whose name Richard did not yet know. ‘Nothing ahead from the latest transmission.’
‘Come to full ahead,’ decided Irene. ‘At the very least it will stabilise her.’
Richard found himself nodding in agreement. He looked across and saw Robin, frowning, automatically doing the same.
‘But keep a weather eye out for ice,’ added Irene. ‘It’s coming in hard from the west and I don’t want it taking me by surprise.’
‘Isn’t that what Titanic’s captain said?’ asked Varnek, straightening. ‘No, sir,’ chimed in William. ‘First Officer William Murdoch was in command of the bridge when Titanic struck. And he never asked for any more speed.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Jolene was little more in charity with the library’s computer equipment than she was with Sergeant Killigan. She had secured herself a corner of the otherwise deserted library, equipped with a computer. Like the other computers aboard, this one in the library was linked to the ship’s network, but it had individual CD-Rom facility and twin ports for 3.5 inch floppies. She had also, remarkably, found a CD of Glenn Gould playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations in the library. She slipped it into the system, then called up onto the screen the computer network’s word-processing system. In she went through Windows 98, reacting to its first question by electing to communicate in English rather than Russian, German, Spanish or French. Then she began fiddling around with icons as the intellectual intricacies of the Bach’s piano variations, humanised by the gentle droning of the performer humming along with the tune, soothed her subconscious.
After a few moments’ exploration, Jolene chose the word processing program she liked best and called it up. She asked the computer to look at the files on the six floppies she had brought with her. The network at Armstrong was not directly compatible with the system on her late laptop but she had nevertheless been able to get into some of the files before the thing was burned out by the power surge. She should be able to get in more easily, quickly and deeply on a machine as large and modern as this one, she thought. She called up READ ALL FILES, and the names of the most recently saved network files came up into the box on the screen.
She focused on a file called HOYLE.NWK and called that up. The first five pages of the file were computer garbage: squares, ampersands, carets, asterisks, exclamations, dots, dollar signs, line after line of ‘e’ acute and ‘a’ circumflex and, most infuriatingly, nearly one whole page of question marks.
‘Jesus,’ she said to the screen, lightly striking it low on the face, like a mafioso insulting an opponent. ‘And this is the clear top copy. What are the back-ups going to look like? I’m never going to get at them at this rate.’
‘You sure you’re going in the right way here, Jolene?’ asked a lazy voice right behind her.
She jumped so badly she bruised her thighs on the table. ‘God T-Shirt! What are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack here?’
‘Sorry,’ he said quietly if not very contritely. ‘Whatcha doin’?’ He pulled up a chair and sat down beside her.
She explained.
Under T-Shirt’s sure direction, the machine searched for and tagged all the files she was interested in. By the time they had finished, there were four files stored in the C drive.
‘Now, we want to rank them in order of
writing and saving, don’t we?’ he asked.
Jolene just nodded. Her eyes remained on the screen as he keyed in the request, and beside each of the apparently identical file titles there appeared a date and time of saving down to one-hundredth of a second, logged by the central clock in Armstrong’s network. Between the top, official, file and the first back-up file, there were fifteen minutes. Between the first back-up and the second, fifteen minutes more. But between the second back-up file and the third back-up, whose existence Billy Hoyle had not been aware of, there was a gap of nearly four hours. And it didn’t take much calculation for Jolene to work out that it was in those four hours that Major Schwartz had got lost and frozen to death.
‘That one,’ she said. ‘Call up that one first.’
T-Shirt obliged. Computer garbage filled the screen again. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. His fingers danced across the keys and the screen darkened, lightened, cleared from white on black to black on white again. The computer garbage shrank to black boxes and dots, and the words were large and clear on the screen. ‘Now, do you want to read this on the screen as it is; do you want me to call up the next one back and run them in parallel, split screen, or would you like me to print this out and call up the next one to print into hard copy too?’
‘Print them out,’ said Jolene without hesitation. ‘I’d rather read a sheet than a screen any day. In fact, if you can, print out all four. Comparing them will be easier and quicker on paper. And I may want to make notes.’
‘Consider it done.’
And within fifteen minutes, it was. Jolene held in her hands the details of Bernie Schwartz’s ill-fated journey. Or Billy Hoyle’s versions of those events. One written before and the rest written after he knew the major was dead. One giving facts, the others giving cover-ups. And those cover-ups, by definition, pointed the finger of guilt.