by Rob Grant
Styx is reaching for his jet-pack control pad. Before Eddie can stop him, he fires his jets.
He shoots up, spinning wildly out of any semblance of control, crashes into a jutting girder and twists up away from the hull.
The jet-pack is still firing at full thrust. The drone accelerates away from the ship and reaches the end of his tether within seconds.
Eddie looks up helplessly. The jets are still firing, but Styx is making no attempt to manoeuvre.
Eddie yells, 'Turn, the jets off!' but he gets no response. 'You have to turn the jets off, Apton!' he screams, but the drone is clearly not conscious.
Eddie looks back towards the airlock, to the point where their cords are attached to the hull. Styx's won't hold for long, not against the full thrust of the jets.
Oslo guesses what he's thinking. 'Leave him, Morton. Don't even think about not leaving him.'
But Eddie's already making his way back to the tether line, as quickly as he dares. He's not bounding, exactly, but he's as close as he can get to a bound.
'Morton! Forget the damned drone!'
Eddie reaches Styx's cable. The hull it's attached to is forming into a disturbing bulge. Even as Eddie is stretching his claw out towards the line, the bulging metal surrenders to the pressure and balloons out, doubling instantly in size before snapping cleanly away.
Eddie grabs the snaking cable. Somehow, he manages to grab it without snipping it in two.
The relief this inspires in him is momentary, as the drone's jets drag them both away at neck-breaking speed.
Eddie is dragged scuttering along the hull, crashing into poles, bursting through thick plates of jutting metal and bouncing off girders.
This isn't good, he's thinking. If his visor cracks... if his suit springs a leak...
He should let go. He really should let go.
Oslo is screaming for him to let go. In the background, he can hear others offering similar advice at a similar intensity.
But if he lets go, then Apton Styx will spiral off into space, will die, slowly and alone. And Eddie would never be able to forgive himself.
He's now heading towards something very large. Something too large to crash into, crash through, or bounce off. It's the derelict corpse of the giant engine they were looking for.
And colliding with it will certainly kill what's left of Eddie.
Somehow he summons up the wherewithal to raise his free arm and jab his claw into the hull with all his force.
The pincer smashes through the metal, and Eddie slithers on past it. There is a jerk, a terrible cracking sound, and Eddie is yanked back.
His neck is killing him.
He's managed to compound the only non-lethal injury it's possible for him to sustain: whiplash.
He's stopped, but the drone's jets are still burning, still dragging at him with immense force.
He looks back, painfully, at his claw anchoring him to the hull.
The arm's motors, unsurprisingly, are broken.
The claw looks firmly enough embedded. That's good.
The tug from the jets is beginning to cause the hull around the claw to bubble up. That's not so good.
He feels like a small child about to be dragged up into the sky by a powerful kite.
He yells for Styx to kill his engines, before he kills them both, but the drone is still unconscious. He yells at him to come round, but that's really not going to help.
Oslo is screaming in his ear to let go, to let the drone go.
And Eddie doesn't know what else he can do.
The hull gives a little more.
But he can't just let Styx go.
He can't do that.
And then a shadow falls across him. A very big shadow. There is something coming at Eddie from behind. A very big something.
He turns and looks.
The hull of the ship is rising, like a huge tidal wave of metal, at his back.
The screaming in his helmet has stopped.
The tidal wave stops at its peak, and seems to hover there, looming over him, for just a brief moment.
And in that brief moment, understanding hits Eddie between the eyes like a bolt from a gas-powered crossbow.
'The ship...' he says. And with incredible swiftness the metal wave collapses down on top of him.
Eddie's camera stops transmitting.
43
In the control centre, the crew are looking at dead screens, and listening to dead silence.
Gwent pops his brace out and back in again. 'OK. That's not good. I don't know what happened out there, but it definitely falls into the not good category.'
"What was he saying?' Oslo plays the recording back. 'The ship...? What about the ship?'
'Let me take a wild swing at that pitch, Oz. How about: "The ship... is about to land on my head and crush the life out of me"?'
'It sounded like... as if... I can't put my finger on it. Something.' She loops the playback, and watches it over and over. 'He doesn't sound afraid. That's what it is.'
'What can it possibly matter, Ozimosis? The dude's been Frisbeeed. He's a flat metal plate, honey chile. Face it, he's lost an entire dimension. And we'd better start coming up with a Plan C while we're still in the land of the vertical ourselves.'
'Hey, here's a plan, Captain.' Oslo swivels round in her chair with sudden venom. 'How about you squeeze your head and see if it bursts like your pimples? Because it sounds to me like your brain's made of pustule bile, too.'
'Well, that's a good plan, Oz. That should save us from being sucked into Jockstrap. Did it ever occur to you you're going to have to think about becoming an adult at some point in your life?'
Peck turns away from the playback. 'I think we're all just about as grown-up as we're ever going to get, Captain.'
'Meaning?'
'Something's happened to the structure of the ship.'
'Really? That's an amazing insight. For a hat-check girl. Unfortunately, for a Science Officer, it's just plain dumbovich.'
'I mean the material structure. The composition of the metal itself. It's mutating. Breaking down. You saw what happened out there. You think that's a normal way for metal to behave? I don't think we're even going to make it to the planet... to the gas giant.'
Gwent sinks into his seat. 'So even if we could resurrect an engine, it would be pointless.'
'I don't think that would save us now.'
'Okayavich, Peck. I guess one of your prayers might be in order, round about now.'
'Really?'
Gwent gives her a full, double-brace grin. 'Gotcha, you brain-dead bigot!'
Then a rustle from the speakers grabs everyone's attention.
Oslo spins back to the monitor. 'Was that...?'
Everybody stares.
And listens.
Finally, Gwent says: 'It was just some kind of interf--'
'Shhh!' Oslo cranks up the volume.
A monitor fizzes and, for a brief instant, a field of a video frame, there's a glimpse of an image. The camera is still functioning. Damaged, but broadcasting.
And there's another sound, too. Definitely not interference. A word. Two words, in fact: 'dozy' and 'bass'.
Oslo smiles. She can't help herself. 'He's alive. Morton's still alive.'
44
He is alive. Eddie is alive.
He doesn't know where, or how, but he is still in one piece. True, it's one painful piece, and a small piece at that, but Eddie's not complaining.
The ship opened up and swallowed him.
Jonah's in the belly of the whale.
He doesn't recognize the room. It's some kind of huge chamber. Like an aircraft hangar, almost. The roof seems to be intact. He can't see any rips or holes in it. In fact, as far as Eddie can tell, there are no portals, doors or windows anywhere in view.
In the top corner, to the back of him, a flame seems to be roaring.
It's Styx. His jet-pack's still jammed on full throttle. The thrust is pressing him against the roof.<
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Eddie calls out. 'Styx?' But he gets no response. It's a long drop, if the jets cut out suddenly. And he can't have much fuel left. Eddie calls again, louder. 'Wake up! Wake up now, you dozy bastard.' But the space-suited figure remains inert and unresponsive.
Eddie is still holding on to the drone's umbilical cord. He tries a tentative tug, but he makes no impression: the force of the jets is too strong.
Eddie gets to his feet with some difficulty, and more than a little pain, and starts to drag his way towards the senseless drone.
But then there's a sound, one Eddie has learned to fear.
The sound of tearing metal.
Out loud, Eddie moans: 'Please. Not another shipquake. Not now.'
But it's not a shipquake.
It's something much more deadly.
The sound again. Not the long, sustained wrenching of metal he's come to dread. A single crunching noise. Like a blow. Localized.
It's coming from behind him.
Slowly, wincing with the effort, Eddie turns towards it.
It comes again. Metal on metal. And simultaneously, at the far end of the room, the wall bulges inwards.
Something is trying to get into the room.
Something very strong.
A crunch, and the wall bulges further.
Something very persistent.
Eddie doesn't know whether to move towards it, ready to meet it, or turn and try to run.
But where would he run to? There are no doors, no exits. The only way in or out is through the walls.
Eddie does exactly what you'd expect him to do.
Nothing.
He stays where he is and watches.
Another blow. This one breaks through the metal, creating a jagged, vertical rip.
Eddie tries to peer through into the gloom beyond, but from this distance he can see nothing.
But then a glint. Something moving. A reflective surface, about head high.
The blows have stopped.
Whatever it is that's trying to batter through the wall is looking through. Looking at Eddie.
There comes a high-pitched, inhuman scream. A yelp of delight. Then there's a voice, from a voice box that isn't working properly, and from a mind that's in no better repair.
'I can smell you, Eddie! I can smell your filthy stink. Fee Fie Foe Fuuuuuuuum!'
And another blow widens the tear.
'I'll huff...'
Another blow.
'And I'll puff...'
Another, and the rip is wide enough and tall enough to allow a normal man to pass through. But this is not a normal man.
'And I'll crush your fucking brains to jelly, you son of a filthy bitch.'
And Eddie's tormentor bursts through the wall.
For a moment, Eddie thinks he's gone mad.
Because it's him. He's stalking himself.
But it isn't him, of course. It's someone else in a revival suit.
Eddie still hasn't seen himself in a mirror, yet. And he's grateful for that now.
Because the suit looks like a walking nightmare.
The arms are long, too long. They almost reach the ground. The claws are clumsy and big. They look strong, too. Lethally strong.
And on top of the body, the conical helmet filled with gloop. The illuminated head grinning madly through the visor, underlit from lights inside the helmet, seems strangely small; out of proportion to the gigantic body suit. The grinning mouth leers open.
'Remember me, Eddie?'
And it takes Eddie a moment to recognize the face. Perhaps because it's distorted with madness and loathing, or perhaps because he doesn't want to recognize it.
'We have a little appointment, you and me.'
An appointment. And Eddie can't help but recognize him, now.
Mr Pink Socks has come to collect Eddie's life.
45
And Eddie finally remembers.
He got out of the transway at the garden station. He'd hardly got lost at all. He was feeling good. There was a news bulletin, broadcast during the trip. The fugitive had been captured. The operation was being performed.
He could feel the letter in his pocket. It was as if it weighed several pounds. As if it was giving off some kind of glow.
He was surprised by the size of the garden. 'Garden' didn't do it justice, really. It was more like a National Park. There were forest areas, as well as huge tracts of cultivated zones. There was a lake, even.
It was very peaceful, Eddie recalls.
Very peaceful, and very deserted.
He found the rose garden. The roses weren't in bloom, he remembers. It was a thorn garden, really.
He looked around, but there was no sign of Jezebel Peck.
He heard a rustle in the bushes. He turned towards it.
There was a flash, and Eddie was dimly aware of a sharp pain, somewhere distant. In his stomach. But why did his stomach feel so far away?
He put his hand down to feel and it came up bloody.
He doesn't remember feeling bad as his life ebbed away. He felt quite light-headed. Giddy, almost. He knew he'd been shot, but it didn't seem to matter.
There was a priest then, standing over him. That nice priest, with the honest face. Father Lewis. He was crying.
'Forgive me,' the priest said. 'Forgive me, if you can. Because I won't be able to forgive myself.'
Eddie wanted to tell him it was all right, that dying wasn't half as bad as everybody made out, but the words wouldn't come.
The priest was cradling his head, and crying. 'I did it for the children, you understand?'
Eddie did manage to nod.
'For the children. And for the children of the children.'
For the children of the children.
'They're coming, now. I called them before. Can you hear them?'
Eddie nodded, but he couldn't. He couldn't hear them. He could hear a Hoagy Carmichael song. Hoagy himself singing in that cigarettey croaky voice.
Stardust.
'You won't die. They'll... they'll preserve you. But it's the same stain on my soul. I accept that.'
Eddie smiled.
'I have to go. I'm sorry. I need this.'
He took the note out of Eddie's pocket. Eddie's love note. 'It's mine. They could trace it back to me. And I can't allow that, not just yet. There is still work to be done. You understand?' The priest laid his head down, tenderly, stood, and said 'Forgive me,' again.
And then the bushes rustled once more, and he was gone.
Some other people arrived. Lights were flashing. They were sticking sharp things into his body. But Eddie hardly noticed them.
He just lay there.
Dreaming of a song.
46
'I've been waiting a long time for this.' Pink Socks slowly raises his leg and takes a lumbering step forwards. 'A long, long time.'
Eddie glances down at his own suit, trying to assess his own mobility. His left arm is useless, dead weight. Both his legs are working, after a fashion, but the right one has a broken servo in the knee joint, which makes heavy going and dramatically reduces his potential speed. His left leg has never been his favourite: it's linked up to some nerve impulse in his arse, or something, because he has to evoke what seems like a buttock-clenching spasm to move it. His other arm is still holding on to the drone's umbilical cord. It's probably a good idea to release that now. It would be nice to have at least one fully functioning limb to help deal with this bastard.
Eddie lets go of the line. It slithers away across the room.
'I have to say, Eddie,' Pink Socks advances another hulking step, 'you're looking fucking handsome. That's a very nice suit you've got there. Who's your tailor?'
Eddie wonders if he should back away a step. But he'd rather not try, and stumble. He doesn't want to give away any hint that his suit might not be operating at a hundred per cent efficiency. Because, at the moment, as far as Pink Socks knows, they're technically equal in terms of strength and speed. That probably won
't stop him attacking, but it might make him more cautious about trying.
'My tailor? I use Tanks'R'Us in Savile Row. They do a nice line in evening wear, too. You should try one of their tuxedos with excavator buckets for hands.'
Eddie's eyes are darting around. He has to generate some sort of a plan, here. But the room is empty, and there's only one way out of it. And that's the way Pink Socks came in.
'Yeah. Nice fucking suit, Eddie.' He's not listening to Eddie. He's nodding, jerkily. 'Though I feel it needs a couple of alterations. Just a few nips and tucks. Here. Let me help you out of it.'
Pink Socks takes another step forward and raises his arm. Suddenly he spasms and his head twists sideways. He screams in pain. He seems to be frozen, immobile for a long, agonizing moment. His is head twisted painfully in the helmet, his pincered arms cocked at odd angles, his knees bent strangely. Slowly, the pain seems to ebb away. His body unlocks and he turns to face Eddie, grinning. 'Ouch. You get that, Eddie? Those twinges?'
Eddie doesn't answer. He doesn't think an answer is required. Pink Socks isn't here to listen. Which may diminish Eddie's ability to talk him down somewhat.
'Some kind of epileptic incident, I'm guessing. Those bastards who hooked me up... I wish I could have... I would've crushed them there and then. But I wasn't... the way they connected me up, I could hardly move. Took a while to learn again. But I got good, Eddie. I taught myself. I learned pretty good.' And, by way of demonstration, he performs some alarmingly complex and nimble moves with his arms, the pincers snapping open and closed with astonishing rapidity. A human standing in the way would be dog meat. 'Not bad, eh? A little bit of Tai Chi, a little bit of Chi Kung. I love that Chinese shit. Keeps you fit while you learn how to murder people. Fun for all the family.'
'What's the point of this? Why would you still want to kill me?'
'It's my job, Eddie. It's what keeps those pay cheques coming in.'
'For some money I'm supposed to have taken, centuries ago, from people who died in another time, in another solar system?'
But there's a faraway look in Pink Socks' eyes. 'Those two are next. The sons of rabid bitches who hooked me up. That priest. I never killed a priest before. Think that'll affect my immortal soul, Eddie? In a negative way?'
'I didn't even steal the money, you know? The whole thing was some sort of crazy computer error.'