She unhooked her ankles from the loops and pushed herself across to the wardrobe, where she had seen a man’s dressing gown. She pulled it out and wrapped it around herself.
“You’re Miss Anderson?” he said without turning.
“Yes.”
“Are you decent now?”
“I am.”
He turned, keeping one hand on the door handle for leverage, and pointed the gun at her.
“He said you would find me.”
“Who?”
“I am not permitted to say,” he replied. “But he said it wouldn’t be until we were approaching Venus. Perhaps you are cleverer than he thinks.”
Maliha studied him. He was wearing the uniform of a steward, though he seemed a little old for the job, perhaps in his fifties. His skin was not as dark as one might expect a regular crewman’s to be.
“You don’t seem like a murderer,” she said.
“No,” he said. “Though I don’t really know what a murderer is supposed to look like. Do you? It seems to me that anyone could be a murderer, with the correct leverage.”
“It still requires the person to make the decision to do it.”
He said nothing to that; his focus seemed less on her and more on himself.
“You don’t look like a steward.”
He shrugged.
“Are you going to shoot me—I don’t know your name?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you that either,” he said and glanced at the bed. “Is the woman dead?”
“Françoise?”
“Is that her real name? I thought it might be Frances.”
“She’s not dead.”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” he said. “If you get the chance, could you apologise to her? I didn’t mind killing the other two so much. They weren’t very nice people. But torture is horrible and, while I don’t know why she was dressed as a man, she didn’t seem a bad sort, for a Frenchie.”
Maliha frowned. “If I get the chance? Aren’t you planning on shooting me?”
He looked up and his eyes glinted in the light like dark pools. Maliha reached over and switched on the main light near the bed. His skin was pale and unshaven. His eyes were solid black. Terror clutched her heart.
“He said you would know what this means.”
She nodded.
“I don’t want to die,” he said. “But there’s no hope for me now.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Every muscle aches and sometimes I just lose an hour,” he said. “It’s been difficult keeping any sort of schedule. Or keeping food down. But the headaches are the worst and I really can’t stand pain.”
Without any further warning he lifted the gun to his temple and fired. His head jerked to the side and he went limp. The hand holding the gun reacted in the other direction and gun went sailing away. Maliha froze for the merest second as she watched the life go out of him. She did not know whether he had died too fast for the fungus inside him to react, but she could not take the chance.
She took the deepest breath she could and held it in. He was by the door. She dare not open it for fear of letting the fungus spores escape into the ship and infect others. But she could not hold her breath indefinitely. She pushed off, not for the door but after the gun. It struck the opposite wall with the clink of metal on metal.
She crashed into the wall and grabbed the weapon out of the air, then pushed off again towards the far side of the bed. Wedging herself under it, she tried to control her panic, then, holding the gun with both hands, she aimed it at the window.
The first shot almost ripped the gun from her grip and the bullet struck the metal above the window. It was a revolver and that meant only four bullets left. She had to get this right.
Her lungs throbbed with the desire to breathe. She fought the urge and took aim again. The second bullet hit the glass near one side and it cracked. The next hit on the right as her hands wavered. The pane shattered and shards flew off in all directions, but there was another layer beyond it. Her imagination filled the air with swarming spores as she took aim again and fired.
This time she managed to hit the middle. The outer pane cracked. She pulled the trigger again. It clicked. Click. Click. Empty. Spots formed in front of her eyes and Maliha desperately wanted to breathe in; there was lovely air all around her.
She heard the outer pane crack again and saw the striations extend through the pane. She flung the gun at it. It struck and the glass exploded outward. Wind whistled around her, escaping into the Void. The body of the murderer accelerated past her head and squeezed out through the empty window frame.
She could hear air screaming in around the door, but there was very little left in the room and she still could not breathe. Not until she was sure all the infected air was gone.
The gunshots would bring help but not fast enough for her.
The only thing big enough to cover the hole was the mattress, and that was attached to the bed frame. She let herself breathe out little by little as she felt along the mattress. There was a flap of cloth held by a button. She fumbled and undid it.
The sound of screaming air was reducing, but that meant there was very little air remaining to carry the sound. Cold seeped through her limbs and scalp.
She was sure the room would not be completely robbed of atmosphere as more would flow in around the door from the rest of the vessel. But the air pressure must now be the merest fraction of that on the highest mountain.
She found a second flap and unbuttoned it. The mattress flapped up and away from her, but it hinged on the other side where two more flaps no doubt held it in place.
The mattress had lain on a grid of interlocking metal springs. She clutched at them and pulled herself across the bed. Her naked legs lifted upwards as the flow of air pulled her towards the broken window. She clung tighter and walked herself across the bed.
Her eyes felt strange, as if they were pulling from her sockets. She slammed her eyelids shut and worked from memory. She found the first button and released it. Her lungs were empty of air as she found the final button. Her muscles were cold and she felt as if her entire body was freezing.
She desperately wanted to breathe in. Her head throbbed. But she only needed a little longer.
She forced her eyelids apart and looked up at the shard-edged window, into the deepest Void. She curled up to bring her legs under her and hooked them into the bed springs. Digging the fingers of her right hand into the mattress, she released the button with her left.
The mattress tried to pull away from her. She tightened her grip and dug her other hand into it. It stretched her out as it pulled towards the opening; only her toes held her in place. She took one last look to judge the angle, unhooked her toes and launched herself and the mattress at the window as she finally succumbed to the blackness.
vii
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Miss Ganapathy.”
Maliha stared at the ceiling. Steel girders curved above her, painted pale blue. She felt stiff and there was a gentle pressure holding her on the bed. “How long have I been unconscious?”
The smiling face of the doctor came into view. “Four days.”
“Four days!” she pushed back the sheet that covered her and found there was a restraining strap across the bed. She fumbled for the buckle.
The doctor placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed her back onto the pillow.
“There is no need for excitement,” he said. “In fact, that is the last thing you should be experiencing.”
“The children, Mrs Mayberry and her ... responsibility.”
“Naturally we took your charges under our wing and have a maid looking after them. They both insisted on coming to see you every day. They wanted to stay with you, so we have allowed two visits each day.”
“Constance?”
“Mrs Mayberry also visited and sat with you.”
“And Francis Gray?”
“Sadly Mr Gray has been reported as dead.”
>
Maliha must have looked suddenly concerned.
“But Mrs Mayberry’s young French companion is alive and well, if a little bruised.”
Maliha tried to relax. She felt sick and various parts of her body ached.
“The captain asked to have a word with you as soon as you were awake.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
The doctor moved away and then turned back to her. “I can’t decide whether you are tremendously brave or utterly foolhardy.”
“You would not be the first person to ask that question, Dr Leeming.”
Despite her desire to leave the bed and go in search of Izak and Lilith—especially Lilith—and determine the state of Françoise, Maliha forced herself to lie back.
She had no memory of what had happened after she had succeeded in sealing the window, or at least reducing the escape of atmosphere. She did not enjoy such high levels of physical activity; she would rather leave that to someone like Valentine.
The thought of him brought tears to her eyes once more. It seemed that her sojourn in the vacuum of space had not damaged her tear ducts.
* * *
“We are down one steward.”
Maliha jumped; she realised she had drifted off to sleep. The captain stood a short distance away. He was not smiling.
“But on par with passengers,” she replied. She wriggled to rise into a sitting position. The bedgown she had been given was of a thick material and loose enough to disguise the detail of her body. Only the broadest brushstrokes remained. Even so, she saw his eyes flick to her breasts.
“If you would care to explain?” he said.
“The steward was your murderer and I asked the doctor to declare Francis Gray dead from his injuries.”
“You are quite presumptuous.”
“You asked me to solve the murders,” she said. “And I have done so.”
“Except we have no murderer.”
“He had the gun—it went off when I confronted him. The window was broken by gunfire and he was sucked out. I barely escaped with my life.” She had not lied and it was a sufficient answer to satisfy him. He would fill in the parts she had omitted, incorrectly, just as she intended. “There was nothing I could do.” And if he had remained on board he might have infected everyone with his spores.
Truthfully she was not entirely sure he would have done so. He was still in his right mind and perhaps that meant the fungus had not fully matured. But she had no idea and she certainly could not have taken the risk.
She could not be completely certain she was not infected, but she was fairly sure that, if she was, it was due to her previous exposure in Africa. It would take several weeks before she could declare herself in the clear, and they would be on Venus in a week at the most.
And then she would have a much more difficult task.
“And how am I supposed to deal with this additional passenger?”
“Why not say the documentation was filled in in error? Why not simply destroy it?”
“Francis Gray is not a man.”
“No, but what’s that to you?”
“A passenger travelling under false pretences.”
“Like me.”
“At least you have some claim to the name.”
Maliha felt her constant simmering anger rising. “Honestly, Captain, I really don’t care. This is not my problem. I have dealt with your murderer while attempting to protect your passengers. How you deal with the consequences is not my concern.”
He looked for a moment as if he was going to respond in kind but then thought better of it. “I understand you must be tired, Miss Ganapathy. I am sorry to have disturbed you. Perhaps we can discuss this when you are feeling more yourself.”
Maliha bit back a scathing retort to his condescending tone and simply nodded.
The captain withdrew, but the doctor came in as he exited. “I would say there is a little too much colour in your cheeks.”
“Really?” she snapped. “How could you possibly tell?”
The doctor blinked once and retreated the way he had come. Maliha frowned and crossed her arms, but it felt awkward so she let them lie along her legs instead. She glanced around; there was a book on the bedside table. She picked it up and glanced at the spine: Milton’s Paradise Lost. She tutted and put it back.
She forced herself to relax.
Could Valentine’s death have so completely upset her equilibrium? She had never been so volatile before. Her time in the boarding school had taught her to suppress everything because any demonstration of emotion or interest would be used against her.
Perhaps she should use the powders the doctor had been giving her. But no, she needed to keep those for later.
She would have to apologise to the doctor. And the captain. She might need their help when they reached Venus.
After a quiet and boring hour, a steward brought a plate of food. She was very hungry and consumed every part of it. Once the tray had been cleared away Izak and Lilith were let in. He was very serious, while Lilith bounced around as usual. She made Maliha smile.
Maliha took Izak’s hand. “What’s wrong?”
“They said you died.”
“I’m here.”
“You’re the goddess,” put in Lilith. “You can die and come back.”
“The doctor brought me back,” said Maliha. “Because I had not completely gone.”
“I did not really think you were a goddess before,” said Izak.
Maliha paused with the words ‘I’m not’ on her lips, but she glanced at Lilith and did not say it. “There will always be those who believe and those who don’t believe.” And those who do believe will be more useful than those who do not. Maliha hoped that, if there really were a god, he wouldn’t mind her pretence.
She shook herself mentally. She was not a goddess and, if there were a supreme being, it really wasn’t going to care what she did.
Chapter 6
i
“We can’t see it at all?” said Constance, staring out into the unchanging Void through the glass of the dome.
“We’re decelerating,” said Maliha, “so our ether propeller has to be towards the planet.” She glanced up at Lilith, who clung to the girders twenty feet above her head. The child’s continuing energy made Maliha think that she had been wrong about the infection, but in the last week the whites of her eyes had dulled, first to cream and now they were going grey.
Izak had acquired a small ball from somewhere and the children were tossing it to one another. He never laughed nowadays but tended to his sister. He knew she was ill and he was no fool. He had understood Maliha’s reaction back at Mama Kosi’s house in Johannesburg and the conversations that followed. He did not ask any questions.
“It is a shame.” Françoise’s French-accented voice was clear, although she still carried the marks of her torture. She was dressed as a man and carried it off very successfully. She continued to use Constance’s cabin and had expressed no desire to move, particularly not back to her original cabin, even if it had been permitted.
“That’s what I mean,” said Constance and ran her fingers along the back of Françoise’s hand. “It’s a shame we can’t see it.”
Maliha noted Constance was far more settled than before and, seeing her intimacy with Françoise, she was satisfied the other part of her plan had worked.
“What will you do when we land?” Françoise’s comment was directed at Maliha.
“I will find Terence Timmons and deal with him.”
“Pah, you do not think, as ever,” said Françoise. “You are so impulsive—are you sure you do not carry French blood in you?”
Maliha frowned at the insult.
“Of course,” continued Françoise, “coming from that little French quarter of India I suppose it is not surprising.”
“The part of my blood that is not Indian is Scottish.”
“Oui, and what are les Écossais but barbarian French?”
Maliha sighed; it d
id not seem the right moment to give Françoise a history lesson. Besides, there might be French blood in her. Somewhere.
“I am not impulsive.”
Françoise regarded her with her head on one side and a look that exuded French derision. She said nothing.
I am not impulsive, I make plans. “I make plans and carry them through to their conclusion.”
“Ma cherie, you possess, without doubt, the most brilliant mind,” said Françoise. “However, you adopt the plan that puts you in the most danger and disregard all else.”
“She’s right, Maliha ... Alice,” said Constance. “I mean, throwing yourself at the Guru. Jumping on that Voidship.”
“How do you know about that?”
Constance glanced at the children. Maliha’s frown deepened. This was why she did not like having friends and hangers-on: she could not have any secrets.
“Allowing yourself to be captured by the Dutch Ambassador.”
Maliha sat upright and grabbed the bench just in time to prevent herself from shooting into the air. “How could you possibly—?”
Constance waved her hand. “Businessmen talk to their wives, wives talk to each other, especially when someone so heavily involved in trade turns up shot in his own residence.”
“I think you did something like this with the murderess on the Sky-Liner from England, non?”
Maliha nodded.
“And you nearly died on this ship,” concluded Constance.
“It’s not being impulsive; it’s doing what must be done.”
“You see, cherie?” This time Françoise was addressing Constance and running her gloved hand down her cheek. Maliha watched as Constance seemed to melt at her touch. “I told you she would not listen. What have we mere mortals to say to a goddess?”
“That’s enough,” snapped Maliha. “For a start, if you two are going to make love in public, I’ll take the children below. I am not a goddess, nor am I impulsive.”
Françoise turned and smiled. “Make a plan then.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know enough.”
“How are you going to punish this man in his own castle?”
“I don’t know.”
Under the Burning Clouds Page 16