Steven McDonald - Steven E. McDonald

The other man had now forced a good part of his arm down his throat. More blood there, streaming out from his mouth, from his nose.

Kilpack turned, smiling.

The woman turned her head, opening her mouth. In a blur of motion, she drove her face into her partner’s neck, biting down, tearing. A chunk of bleeding flesh fell and struck the deck. Blood pumped freely, spraying her, drenching his shoulder, pouring down his arm. She drove into the wound again, heedless of the blood, tearing the wound wider. His head lolled to one side, loose in death. Yet he did not cease his maniacal thrusting.

Miller wanted to turn away, to shut off the playback, to end it now, but he had to know, had to see it all if he had any hope of ever understanding what had happened here.

The man with his arm down his own throat had continued his contortions.

Miller, sickened, could not imagine what he was trying to achieve, what he was being driven to.

The question was answered a few moments later.

With soft, glutinous sounds, the man withdrew his arm. Blood bubbled up, a torrent of it. He had grasped a handful of his innards, pulling them up, releasing them to fall wetly at his feet while he swayed, dripping blood and flesh, dead eyes staring into the distance.

The woman bit again and again as her dead partner continued his thrusting.

She made no move to release him or push him away.

Kilpack turned.

Full fathom five thy father lies, Miller remembered, Shakespeare from high school or perhaps later, The Tempest coming to mind as Kilpack held out his hands, those are pearls that were his eyes….

In the palms of Kilpack’s hands, nestled in blood, were his eyes, held out now like an offering. Where his eyes had been were empty sockets, lined with torn flesh. Blood oozed down over his cheeks, around his mouth, over his chin.

Kilpack opened his mouth slowly, seeming almost exultant. His lips moved, forming words. In a deep, strange voice that was nothing like the one Miller had heard on the earlier log entries, Kilpack said, “Liberate tu-Temet ex inferis….”

Miller could take no more. He reached out, slapping the workstation, shutting the video playback off.

There was silence on the bridge.

“We’re leaving,” Miller said, his voice flat.

Weir stepped in front of him, determined. “We can’t leave. Our orders are specific—”

“To rescue the crew and salvage the ship,” Miller said, wishing Weir would get the hell out of his face, the hell out of his way, maybe just cease to be.

“The crew is dead, Dr. Weir. This ship killed them.”

Weir was not about to be put off. “We came here to do a job.”

“We are aborting, Dr. Weir,” Miller said, as coldly as he could. Weir had watched the log playback and he could still beg for the life of this evil ship? “Take one last look around.”

Ignoring Weir, he turned to the others. “Starck, download all the files from the Event Horizon’s computers. DJ, get Justin transferred to the Clark—”

“We’ll have to move the tank,” DJ said.

“Then move the tank.” DJ nodded and left the bridge, moving fast. “Peters, get the CO2 scrubbers back into the Clark.”

Weir was in his face again, his expression agonized. “Don’t do this.”

“It’s done,” Miller snapped.

He turned and walked off the bridge.

Weir had a death wish, Miller was sure of it. The scientist just could not let things be, would not let go and get on with his life. Now he was coming after Miller again, chasing him down the corridor.

Miller let Weir catch up, then turned, staring at him.

Without missing a beat, Weir snapped, “What about my ship? We can’t just leave her—”

“I have no intention of leaving her,” Miller said, using the coldest, angriest voice he could summon up. It was a voice that could cow any crew member foolish enough to cause it to be summoned. Weir didn’t even flinch. “I will take the Lewis and Clark to a safe distance and then launch tac missiles at the Event Horizon until I am satisfied that she has been vaporized.” He glared at Weir for a long moment. “Fuck this ship.”

“You can’t just destroy her!” Weir cried.

“Watch me,” Miller said, and he turned away from Weir, hoping that this would be the end of it, knowing it was not.

Weir lunged at Miller, grabbing hold of his flight suit and turning him around abruptly. The scientist had a savagely angry look to him. Miller lifted his arms, breaking Weir’s hold on him, slamming the scientist back into the bulkhead, leaning over him.

Once again, Weir was not cowed. He stared at Miller, challenging, angry, willing to fight. Miller raised a fist, willing to end it there and then, even if it meant having to patch Weir up and ship him back under medical conditions. So it would be one more thing to try and explain to Hollis….

The lights went out. After a very brief pause, the emergency lighting flickered on, turning the corridor into a place of shadows.

“Miller, come in,” Starck, over the intercom, aggravated.

Miller lowered his fist and pushed Weir away from him, backing away until he found the nearest intercom panel. “Starck, what the hell is going on?”

“We lost main power again,” Starck said. More than aggravation now. There was fear and anger in her voice. She knew as well as he did that these power losses were nothing to do with the state of the Event Horizon.

Weir was barely visible in the darkness now, though Miller could see his eyes well enough. Focused, burning with hatred.

“Goddammit!” Miller snapped, more at Weir than at Starck. “Starck, get those files and vacate. I want off this ship.”

He backed away from the intercom.

Weir was moving back into the shadows now, even his eyes fading into the gloom. Miller hated the lunatic design of this ship, hated the flying buttresses and faux-Gothic arches, casting pools of darkness everywhere under the emergency lighting.

“You can’t leave,” Weir whispered, echoing in the darkness. “She won’t let you.”

Miller walked toward the scientist, but he was having trouble seeing him now. “Just get your gear back onto the Lewis and Clark, Doctor, or you’ll find yourself looking for a ride home.”

Weir was gone, like smoke in a breeze, vanished in the darkness. Inwardly Miller raged, wondering how Weir could pull a stunt like this, could get away from him.

“I am home,” Weir whispered, but it seemed as though the voice came from all around him now.

The main lights suddenly flared up, drenching the corridor in halogen brightness. Miller ran forward, stopped, looking around. Weir was nowhere in sight. He might as well have never been there.

“Weir?” he called. “Weir!” .

No answer but echoes.

He went back to the intercom, slammed the side of his fist into it, not caring if he broke it. “All hands. Dr. Weir is missing. I want him found and contained.”

He set off jogging in the direction he had last seen Weir, not expecting to find the scientist, intending mayhem if he did.

Smith had joined Peters on the Event Horizon, racing through the ship to retrieve all of the CO2 scrubbers they had used to try keeping the air somehow breathable. They would still be useful on the Lewis and Clark, giving them enough time to get started on the voyage back home and to get help once they were close to Daylight Station.

They worked their way steadily down into the Second Containment, both frustrated at the distribution of the cylinders, both aware that they would need almost every one of them. Spacecraft designers had not progressed far beyond the Apollo days when it came to processing atmosphere.