Virus (23 page)

Jesus, Richie’s Mayday got through!

“Is this Research Vessel
Vladislav Volkov?
Is your vessel in distress? If you are receiving but cannot transmit, please respond by rocket or flare, over . . .”

Steve turned to them excitedly. “We need a flare gun—”

“No,” said Nadia quietly. She walked to the radio and turned it off. Steve stared at her, astonished. Nadia went on, her voice weary and sad.

“If anything, we need to warn them away.”

Foster nodded slowly. “She’s right. This thing is isolated here on this ship; it views the human race as its own personal organ donor. We can’t let another ship near us.”

Steve closed his eyes and sank to the floor. He looked up at them, and Foster saw how exhausted he was, how very, very tired.

“We have to sink this ship,” he said.

No one spoke for a long moment. Foster opened her mouth, not sure what she was going to say until it came out.

“How?”

Nadia reached into her satchel and pulled out a thermite grenade, looking between the two of them with a troubled gaze. Troubled but resolute.

“Flood the hold with fuel and detonate it.”

Steve nodded. “Works for me.”

“One more question,” said Foster. “How do we survive?”

Nadia put the grenade back in her waist bag, staring down at her hands. Steve met her gaze evenly, forcing a half smile onto his weary face. He shrugged, and she found herself smiling back at him.

They wouldn’t make it. She’d known before she had even asked, but couldn’t stop herself from hoping that maybe one of them had some miracle in mind—

The air stirred and Foster turned, saw that the hatch into the storage room had come open. There was a man standing there, silhouetted by a light behind him, but Foster recognized the shape, the scruffy, weathered outline of his face—and she was almost glad to see him, to see that he was still alive.

“Captain Everton!” she said, amazed that he had gotten here on his own, that he had escaped the creature—

—and then he stepped forward, and she realized that he hadn’t escaped at all.

• 23 •

T
he thing that had been Captain Everton stepped out of the shadows of the storage room, trailing a power cable behind it. They stared at him, shocked into silence by the grotesque thing that he had become.

Nadia felt her heart twist and shrivel in her chest; the intelligence had done to him what it had done to poor Alexi. Half of Everton’s skull was peeled back, a viscous blue gel surrounding his exposed brain; twisted ropes of wire lay across the glistening tissue. His upper body seemed otherwise untouched, but his legs had been dramatically altered—thick plates of metal covered the fronts and sides, riveted through muscle and into bone. She could see cords woven through and around the plates, hear the click and whir of circuitry as he moved into the room.

Foster backed away, her eyes wide and terrified. Everton turned his head towards her, the movement strange and unnatural, a machine tracking motion.

“Foster, don’t you know me? It’s me, Bob, your captain.”

The intelligence had gotten better at simulating humanity; he,
it
sounded almost the same as the captain had before. Nadia looked around desperately for a weapon, but she’d discarded the empty rifle below, there’d been no more ammo. Steve was fumbling through his pack for a clip and rounds as Everton stepped forward, his expression a caricature of hurt curiosity.

“Is something wrong?”

Foster snatched up a chair and swung it around, connected with his face so solidly that the supports snapped. Everton barely flinched as the pieces clattered to the floor, as blood began to pulse from a tear beneath his right eye socket.

The captain’s arm came up and he back-handed her, dropped her sprawling to the deck. His lips curled back with rage, revealing crimson teeth.

“I’m your captain! You will treat me with respect!”

Steve had dropped the bullets. He ran to the door and grabbed the fire ax, then wheeled around and rushed at the captain. Foster scrambled to her feet and lunged for the pistol.

The hollow
thunk
of the ax blade penetrating Everton’s sternum was sickening, the metal wedged tightly. The biomechanoid looked down at the half-submerged blade with blank eyes, assimilating the information.

Steve backed away to where Foster stood. She jammed a partly loaded magazine into the .32 and pointed it at Everton.

“We know where you’re going,” she said.

Everton looked up and spoke tonelessly now, the voice of the intelligence with no pretense of emotion. “I know you do.”

The creature reached up and gripped the handle of the ax. With a single easy pull, the blade slipped out and Everton hefted it into both hands.

“There’s a whole world waiting out there,” it said.

Foster fired and bone and tissue flew from between the captain’s eyes. Wire flopped out across the waxy forehead, hissing and twisting as trickles of the blue fluid ran down the thin metal.

“That hurts,” it muttered, then stepped towards Foster again.

She lowered her aim and emptied the clip, five more explosive shots that splashed into Everton’s chest in a steady rhythm. The biomechanoid walked steadily into the small-caliber rounds, gripping the ax loosely.

Its back was to Nadia. She saw the tangled river of wires that connected to the spine from the power cable and knew what to do.

She snatched a thermite grenade from her bag and stepped forward, pulling the pin in the same fluid motion.

She stuffed the explosive into the thickening of the wires and screamed at the same time.

“Steve, Foster, GET BACK!”

Before she could dive for cover, Steve tackled the biomechanoid, low. He drove the captain backwards and through the open hatch to the storage room, then pushed himself off of the unbalanced Everton.

The creature fell down in the second room as Steve leapt past a console and ducked next to Foster. Nadia took one running step and dove into a crouch behind the chart table.

The explosion shook the control room, assorted shrapnel whizzing overhead, and the creature started to scream, a screeching, human counterpart to the electronic squeal of the intelligence. Foul, chemical-scented smoke poured into the room, aluminum and iron oxide tainted with burning flesh.

Nadia stood, saw Foster and Steve rise and watch.

Everton was flailing wildly, had flipped onto its side as the white-hot cinders erupted from the back; the thermite plasma had melted through its spine, but it still shrieked, thrashed, threw sparks from the liquefying circuitry.

The molten heat was burning through the deck as Everton divided, the abdomen gone. Still, the legs kicked, the furious mask howled its eerie cry as the widening hole opened up beneath the creature.

Bones snapped as the Everton-thing convulsed and spasmed, metals burning, white smoke clouding up and filling the smaller room. With a final cracking
crash
the deck gave way—and the captain disappeared, plunged through the smoking hole and into the raging darkness below.

The thundering of the storm was a blessed silence. Steve and Foster edged cautiously towards the hole, Nadia stepping out to join them.

“How’s
that
for respect, Captain?” Steve whispered.

Everton was gone—but how much had the intelligence heard and seen? Nadia turned to them and spoke quickly.

“Listen—through your captain it knows what we are planning.”

Steve stared down at the black, storming winds below. “I never did like that guy . . .”

Foster moved back into the control room and scooped up three life jackets, tossing one to each of them as Steve slung his bag and Nadia tied on her pack.

Nadia touched her dog tags lightly and hoped that they would make it in time—and that Alexi would be waiting for her when it was all over.

They worked their way down the aft emergency scuttle that Nadia had led them to, a thin, dark passage that would take them straight to the fuel oil bay.

Flood the hold, set the timer, and get as far away as we can . . .

Steve wished they had more time to work out the details of their plan, but the creature wasn’t going to wait for them to catch up. He didn’t want to think about what it was up to as they hurried down the scuttle—but he didn’t imagine it was going to stand by idly and watch them destroy the ship.

He called up to Nadia, past Foster. “How do we know we’re not gonna get welded in down there?”

“This way there are no corridors, no doors—nothing to weld,” she answered. Her voice was strained with exhaustion, but she sounded certain.

Steve hoped she was right; although they stood little chance against the storm, he preferred drowning to going up in a fireball. They’d blow the
Volkov
either way, there wasn’t really a choice there—but if he was going to die, he’d rather not have it be in a biomechanical death trap, running from some stinking monster.

His foot hit air and Steve dropped the four feet from the last rung to the corridor. He reached up and slipped his hands around Foster’s slender waist, helping her down—and was surprised by the rush of emotions he felt, just touching her. Regret, sadness, admiration . . . lust.

Steve shook his head. If there could possibly be a more inappropriate time or place, he couldn’t think of it. Normal reaction, he supposed—there hadn’t been a chance for him to catch his breath since they’d boarded the ship, for him to work out his feelings over Squeaky and the others who had died, even Everton. It was all just catching up to him and he hadn’t slept more than an hour in the last twenty-four—

—and she’s an incredible woman, and ain’t life a bitch.

They quickly helped Nadia down and Steve turned his flashlight on and aimed it through the rungs—

—and they all gasped, Steve so startled that he nearly dropped the light. A man, only a few feet away—

—
Richie?

“Richie, you scared the shit out of us!” Foster said.

The deckhand’s face was covered with black grease, what Steve realized was a homemade camouflage. Night vision goggles were propped up on his forehead and he carried two giant coils of cable, one over each shoulder—as well as an AK-47 which he raised towards them, the whites of his eyes rolling wildly.

The three of them backed up a step; Richie looked completely insane.

“Richie, it’s us,” Foster said slowly.

“How do I know that?” Richie snapped, his demented gaze flickering between Foster and Steve.

They didn’t have time for this; Steve cut to the chase.

“We’re blowin the ship. Come with us.”

Richie lowered the rifle, apparently satisfied that they were human. He grinned suddenly, a flash of white against his blackened skin.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, and started backing down the corridor.

“Richie, don’t be a fool!” Foster shouted, but he wasn’t listening. He pulled down his goggles and turned, disappearing into the darkness.

Steve looked at the two women and shook his head. At least they had been able to tell him what they were going to do—what they were going to
try
to do. If he didn’t want to help, they couldn’t make him; Steve just hoped that he was planning on an evacuation of his own . . .

Nadia started towards a hatch and they followed, Steve still wondering what Richie was planning—and what the creature would throw at them when it realized that it was almost over.

The ladder that stretched above him was clear as day, the rungs glowing soft green through the night vision goggles. Richie worked his way up as quickly as possible, lugging the heavy cables that he’d found back on E.

He’d been surprised to see Steve and the two women, he wouldn’t have guessed that they’d survive this long—but he was even more surprised that he’d been sorry not to see Hiko with them. He didn’t give much of a shit about Everton, but Hiko hadn’t been some money-grubbing fuck-head. A little freaky-looking maybe, but a decent guy . . .

He shook the thoughts as he reached the entry to C deck. He’d left the hatch open and he leaned out into the corridor and gave it a thorough look before throwing out the cable; all clear.