Living Hell (8 page)

‘How long will it take to find out?’ Dad asked.

‘Full diagnostic? About . . . seven, eight minutes?’

‘That’s a long time, Arkwright.’

‘We got another one!’ somebody cried. ‘Report’s in from the Health Centre! Discolouration on the bulkhead!’

I swallowed. The Health Centre? That was on the other side of the ship, practically.

‘Sibber’s in the same boat,’ Arkwright announced. ‘Pink patches in the Depot and pump station three. You’d better talk to him, Tuddor – I’m busy here.’

Dad took up the signal link while Arkwright signed off. Sloan had produced a gauge pen, to measure the pink flush. ‘It’s definitely getting bigger,’ he declared.

‘Sloan, will you
stay well back
, please?’ My mother was getting irritable. (The happy gas must be wearing off, I decided.) ‘There could be spoors. Fumes. Keep well away.’

At that point, glancing around the Bridge, I spotted something else. Something very, very unwelcome.

‘Uh – Dad?’ I quavered. ‘There’s another one.’

CHAPTER
SEVEN

It was right overhead, on the ceiling – a blurred pink ring with a darker centre. Everyone looked up.

‘Oh hell,’ somebody said. ‘We’re in trouble now.’

‘None of that!’ my father snapped. ‘Sibber, should we lock down pressure cells?’

‘
It’s contraindicated
,’ Sibber replied, through Dad’s voice patch. He was Chief Engineer, stationed at the Depot. ‘
We’ve got more reports coming in from all over
the ship -’

‘On flash logs?’

‘
On linkups and Vindow only. If it’s an outbreak, we can’t
contain it any more, it’s moved too fast.

’ ‘Are there no system alarms? None at
all
?’

‘
Not one. Tuddor – we’ll have to do manual checks, if
CAIP’s down.
’

‘It’s not down,’ Dad replied. ‘It’s living in a dream-world. Lais! What’s the status, on that diagnostic?’

‘Zip.’ Lais’s voice trembled. ‘Not a twitch. It’s reading
total integrity
. Arkwright, this doesn’t make
sense
!’

I’d moved away from the pink patch on the ceiling, but I hadn’t taken my eyes off it. Like the first, it was growing. Not only that . . .

‘It’s dripping!’ I squeaked. ‘It dripped!’

‘And this one’s excreting too,’ said Sloan urgently. ‘Tuddor, I have to get to BioLab. This is organic. This has to be analysed. Suppose it’s a mutant thiocystis bacteria? Suppose it’s eating away the fabric of the ship? This looks like organic acid, to me.’

I saw Firminus glance at his son and frown. But he said nothing. Behind them, the glistening pink patch was now almost as big as a man. It was creeping towards the floor. It was . . . bubbling slightly?

‘Sloan’s right,’ Mum suddenly declared. ‘This is a job for Ottilie, and BioLab. That radiation’s affected the bacteria in the hull.’

‘Ottilie 403 linkup!’ said Firminus. ‘Ottilie? It’s Firminus. We’ve got a problem. Ah . . . You too?’

At that moment, my own voice patch beeped. It was Merrit again.

‘
Cheney?

’ ‘Merrit, this is such a bad time -’

‘
I know. I realise. But listen -
’

‘Have you seen it? The stuff on the walls?’

‘
Yes, I’ve seen it. It’s here. But listen – I just got a funny
call from Yestin. He was talking about his rodog -
’

‘
I’m here
,’ Yestin broke in. ‘
I’m linked in. Cheney, there’s
something wrong with Bam
.’

‘Yestin!’ I couldn’t believe it. ‘There’s something wrong with the whole
ship
!’

‘
Yes, that’s what I’m saying. I think it’s the same thing.

He’s gone all yellow and soft -
’ ‘
He wants to take Bam to BioLab, Cheney,
’ Merrit interrupted. ‘
I don’t even know if he’s allowed to, is he?

’ ‘Uh – hang on.’ I had just realised: Sloan was leaving. He was heading for the door. Dad must have given him clearance. ‘Sloan! Wait! Where are you going?’

‘BioLab,’ he replied.

‘But -’

‘It’s all right, Cheney.’ Firminus spoke from behind me. ‘He won’t be going alone.’

I looked around in surprise as Firminus brushed past me to join his son. They regarded each other with level gazes. They were exactly the same height.

‘It’s not necessary,’ Sloan pointed out.

‘Perhaps not to you,’ Firminus answered, in a voice that was quiet but firm.

‘
Cheney?

’ ‘Merrit, could I just -? Let me get back to you, okay? There’s a lot happening up here.’

I wanted to say something to Sloan – I’m not sure what. But he was already stepping through the door, ahead of his father. I noticed something odd as the panels met behind them.

Surely those two panels had never come together so
fluidly
before?

‘I think we should seal up again,’ Mum was saying. ‘We don’t know what this stuff is.’

‘The atmospheric readouts are fine . . .’ Haido remarked.

‘Yes, but since CAIP’s not functioning properly, that might not mean a thing. Tuddor!’

But Dad was talking to one of his Navvies: the broad-faced girl with the tattooed hairline. ‘You don’t need me,’ she was insisting, an edge of hysteria in her voice. ‘This is all data routing stuff.’

‘We’re still at emergency stations -’

‘For a cosmic encounter! I do charts! I don’t
have
to be here!’

‘Look, I’m not going to argue. I don’t have time,’ Dad said shortly. ‘You do what you think is best.’

The tattooed girl seemed close to tears. From his Interface Array, Arkwright suddenly remarked, ‘If she doesn’t want to be here, we don’t want her here.’ He wrenched his gaze from the diagnostic readouts. ‘She won’t add value,’ he explained matter-of-factly.

The tattooed girl gasped; it was as if she had been struck. A call came through from Sibber on Dad’s voice patch, and he turned away from her. Mum laid a hand on her shoulder.

‘You go,’ said Mum, quietly. ‘Now.’

‘I -’

‘Go on. Quickly. Go to your husband. I know that’s where you want to be.’

So the tattooed girl went. And watching her, I was sure of it – something had affected the door. The two panels didn’t simply slide apart any longer. They seemed almost to
stretch
apart, as if they were slightly elastic. As if something was pulling each of them from the middle.

‘Dad?’ I said, and this time he listened. This time everyone listened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw blurred faces swing towards me.

‘Hang on, Sibber – what is it, Cheney?’ said Dad. ‘Have you seen anything else?’

‘The door . . .’

‘What about the door?’

‘It’s . . . it’s changing.’

‘It looks yellow,’ someone piped up.

It did, too. There were yellowish streaks on the white – a kind of blurring around the edges. ‘It’s not moving right,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s kind of . . . look.’ I advanced towards it, cautiously. When I crossed the pressure pad, the two panels in front of me practically
peeled
back.

‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Conal.

‘Sibber!’ Dad barked. ‘We have
major structural changes
on the Bridge, here! We’re talking
mechanics
, Sibber!’

‘Arkwright, we have to seal up!’ Mum exclaimed. ‘At least until we get some results from Ottilie! Arkwright? Are you listening?’

Then Lais shrieked. She jumped from her chair.

Everyone stared – even Arkwright.

‘It’s sticky!’ she wailed.

‘What?’ said Conal.

‘It’s sticky! My chair! The armrest! Look!’

I was trying to see what she meant when my voice patch beeped. I gave a clear-to-send, absent-mindedly. I wasn’t expecting Dygall.

‘
Cheney, what’s going on?
’ he demanded. The signal seemed a little rough. A little fuzzy. ‘
Why are the walls
changing colour?

’ ‘I – we don’t know yet -’

‘
Something’s eating up the ship!

’ ‘They’re onto it, Dygall.’

‘
I’m fzzchzz . . .

’ ‘What?’

‘. . .
coming over there
. . .’

‘Dygall -!’

‘
I’m not sitting around here, waiting for the sczzzz . . .
’

‘Dygall! Wait! You can’t! They won’t let you!’

‘
How are they going to stop me? I’m coming
.’

‘Dygall . . .!’

But he had signed off. And when I tried to call back, he wouldn’t give me a clear-to-send.

Dad, meanwhile, was feeling the back of Lais’s chair. I heard a slight tearing noise as he pulled his hand away.

‘It’s tacky,’ he said, in complete astonishment. He looked up, and his gaze met Mum’s.

‘Look,’ she said, pointing. ‘Look at the base.’ Where the shaft of the chair met the floor, there was a puddle of almost translucent pink material, shot with something hard and yellowish. ‘It’s everywhere.’

‘Arkwright, get up!’ Dad exclaimed. ‘Everyone get up!’

‘The floor as well,’ Lais whimpered, and she was right. When I raised my left foot, there was a slight – a very slight – resistance. As if I had honey on the sole of my boot.

Suddenly, I was terrified. Truly scared. This was different from the burn. From the emission wave. From anything I’d ever known before.

This was real.

‘Mum . . .?’ I croaked, like a little kid, and she came to me. She put her arm around me. I thought: Get a grip on yourself.
Now
.

I took a deep, calming breath.

‘I’ve got a stand-by alert from BioLab!’ Haido said, in shaky tones. She, too, was out of her chair, dabbing gingerly at the console. ‘Ship-wide standby! Stand by for analysis data . . .’

‘Ottilie?’ Arkwright seemed a bit lost. Without his chair and his console, he looked untethered – a thin, gangly, awkward figure, bent at the knees as he shuffled around helplessly in front of his Array. ‘Ottilie, what’s the news? Have you got a fix on this stuff?’

The reply, when it came, was on Vindow. Ottilie’s head appeared, hovering in plasma: a seamed, drawn, colourless face under a swirl of grey hair. Ottilie was the oldest person on board. She had legs like drinking straws, and a voice like the rustle of thermosheets. Behind her, I caught a glimpse of BioLab, with all its piping and stowage. The piping looked vaguely odd, I thought. Less defined than usual. Less angular.

‘It’s protein-based,’ Ottilie crackled.

‘What?’ said Arkwright.

‘It’s protein-based tissue, containing amino acids. Some of the strangest amino acids . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Barely identifiable,’ she said, through tight lips. The picture flickered. ‘These molecules . . . we’re talking transition elements. Metalloids. There’s
osmium
in the peptide bonds.
Osmium!’

I heard Conal catch his breath. ‘There’s osmium in the ship’s struts,’ he gasped. ‘Tuddor? There’s osmium in the casings, I’m sure. Osmium composites.’

‘Ottilie?’ said Dad. ‘What does that mean, exactly? Are we talking absorption, or what? Are we talking metal-eating bacteria?’

The picture broke up for an instant, before stabilising again. Ottilie was frowning. She was shaking her head in perplexity. ‘We’re talking tissue . . . we’re talking cells -’ ‘But what
kind
of cells?’ Mum requested. ‘Bacterial cells?’

‘I would say . . . collagenous cells.’

‘
Collagenous
cells?’

Mum’s squawk made us all jump. Ottilie said quickly: ‘There’s no direct correlation, Quenby, this stuff is new, it doesn’t fit the traditional classifications . . .’ Her picture wavered, as Lais turned to Mum.

‘What’s a collagenous cell?’ she asked shrilly.

‘Membrane,’ Mum replied, without taking her eyes off Ottilie’s distorted form.

‘
Membrane?

’ ‘Ottilie, you’re breaking up,’ said Arkwright. It was true: the picture was deteriorating fast.

Dad said, ‘Get her on a linkup,’ and patched through to Sibber. ‘Sibber?’ he said. ‘Do you have the data through from BioLab?’

‘
That’s affirmative, Tuddor, but -
’

‘It’s protein. Membrane cells.’

‘
Yes, but what do we do? You have to give me something,
I can’t prep the RARs with this – I need more.

’ The RARs were our Remote Access Repair Units. They were large robotic troubleshooters, which could be activated in the case of serious impact-based damage, or if the nanosystems failed to respond on an atomic level. Conal shook his head.

‘Somehow I think it’s beyond RARs now,’ he muttered.

‘Hang on – wait.’ Arkwright was calling for silence. He made a damping motion with his hand. ‘Did you say
three
samples, Ottilie?’

‘. . .
fshzzsamples
,’ Ottilie responded, from Arkwright’s voice patch. Her picture had vanished from the Array, engulfed in random flecks of light. ‘
Two collagenous
,
one
. . . there’s a resemblance to chondrocytes -
’ ‘Cartilage,’ Mum interjected.

Cartilage? I gaped at her. As in noses? And knees?

‘. . .
some nucleic acids . . .
’ Ottilie buzzed. ‘. . .
atypical,
though, because it’s bound up with vshomshh . . .

’ ‘Ottilie? Ottilie!’

‘Ark, there’s a lot of distortion here,’ said Lais – and she wasn’t talking about the Audio Interlink Network. ‘Ark, I can’t get my
fingers out of the screen
!’ But she did – abruptly – yanking them so hard that she stumbled backwards, and fell. When she hit the floor, it yielded.

It yielded like sponge.

‘Arkwright!’ Lais yelped. Her little heart-shaped face was suddenly dead white. She scrambled up, with Conal’s assistance. She tried to wipe goo off her hands.

One of Arkwright’s staff bolted for the door. I don’t know how many people noticed. There wasn’t a single challenge as he made his exit. Everyone’s attention was fixed on Arkwright.

‘Ask her about the fluid!’ Mum exclaimed. ‘Arkwright!

Ask her about the excretions, are they toxic?’

‘Ottilie! Do you read?’

Through a fuzz of interference came the reply. ‘
Yes, I
read you
.’

Then my own voice patch beeped. Once again, it was Merrit. Her signal kept dropping out, like Ottilie’s.