Adam Baker - Outpost

Jane made herself a sandwich. She sat in the observation bubble and read about bamboo jungle shelters. She learned the best way to cook a tarantula over a campfire. Ghost called her on the radio.

‘It looks like you’ll be doing another funeral, I’m afraid .’

‘What do you mean?’

‘ Mal didn’t show up for dinner. I got worried. We went looking. We found him in a laundry cupboard. His throat was cut through .’

‘Do you think there is an infected passenger creeping round the crew quarters, hiding in the ducts? Someone you missed?’

‘We’re doing a sweep. We’re armed, moving in pairs. Nothing so far. The barricades are intact. None of the grenades has tripped. Besides, Mal was hidden in a cupboard. These diseased freaks maim and kill. They don’t clean up afterwards .’

‘So what’s the deal? What are we looking at?’

‘ We found a kitchen knife with the body. He had it in his hand. Blood on the blade .’

‘Do you buy it? Did he kill himself? What’s your instinct?’

‘Dead man holding a knife. Hard to argue it was anything but suicide. I guess I will have to tell the lads. It’ll be bad for morale, but I can’t lie to them.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to give an address. God knows what I’ll say. I barely knew the man.’

‘Another day, another shroud. Do you think there’ll be any of us left by spring ?’

Punch and Ghost wrapped the body in a sheet. They dragged the corpse outside and laid it on a bench. Moans and snarls. Infected passengers watched from the promenade decks beneath them.

They searched Mal’s pockets. A torch. A lighter. A packet of mints. No suicide note.

‘Take his boots,’ said Ghost. ‘We don’t need his coat, but we need snowboots.’

Punch inspected the neck wound with a flashlight.

‘Cut through his windpipe. Cut down to vertebrae.’

‘Did you speak to him much? Did he seem depressed?’

‘Talk to Nail. Mal was his buddy.’

They bound the shrouded body and laid it in a lifeboat to chill.

Punch and Sian retired to their cabin. A four-room suite with a king-size bed, home entertainment system and kitchenette. The previous occupant must have been a senior member of the crew. Punch had cleaned out the man’s possessions. He swept clothes, letters and photographs into a garbage bag. The guy was probably wandering mindless and mutilated below deck. Better not think too much about his fate.

Punch propped the door closed with a chair.

‘Are you worried there might be an infected sailor slinking around?’ asked Sian. She was running a bath.

‘You saw the wound. It was a clean slice ear to ear. These rabid bastards bite. They like to rip and tear.’

‘Maybe Mal couldn’t stand the isolation. All that stuff going on back home. No daylight. I’m surprised more blokes haven’t succumbed to depression.’

‘His head was virtually severed.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m not sure. Probably nothing. Despair can build into a type of mania, a type of super-strength. A person could do themselves a lot of damage if they put their mind to it.’

Punch stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He picked up a toothbrush and pretended to slit his throat.

‘It could be done, I suppose. That kind of gash. A person could slice through their own jugular and windpipe if they did it hard and fast. They would have to be pretty determined. Only someone desperate to be dead could carry it through.’

‘Murder? Is that what you are suggesting? A fight gone bad?’

‘I don’t know. From now on you better not walk around on your own if you can help it. And always carry a knife.’

Sian stripped and climbed into the bath. Punch kicked off his shoes and started to unbutton his shirt.

Sian had yet to comprehend that women had become a rare and valuable commodity. The years ahead were likely to be brutal and lawless. Punch used to be everyone’s friend, but now he was envied and hated by the crewmen around him. If he wanted to possess Sian he would need to fight, and maybe kill, to keep her.

Ghost crossed to Rampart. The refinery was now joined to the island by a sheet of ice. He ran, swerved infected passengers, made it to the platform lift face steaming with sweat.

He and Jane sat in Rawlins’s office.

The refinery was equipped with submerged cameras so the crew could monitor the integrity of the great floatation legs, and the status of the seabed pipeline and manifold.

They switched on a wall screen. They powered up the underwater floodlights and selected camera views. Pan and tilt.

The crumpled shell of D Module, lying on the silted moonscape of the ocean bed.

Jane selected a different camera position. Steel rope coiled on the seabed.

‘That’s all right,’ said Ghost. ‘The remaining tethers are intact. Pretty vicious riptides round here, but we’ll hold firm.’

He swivelled a joystick. The camera angled upward. The floatation leg.

‘What a fucking mess,’ said Jane.

‘A big dent, but no puncture,’ said Ghost. ‘Should keep us stable. Should keep us afloat.’

‘We hope.’

‘Your average liner is a series of hermetic compartments. Half the ship could flood and we would still be able to sail it home. Maybe we can get the mini-sub in the water. Take a look at the hull top-to-toe.’

Jane summoned Nail from Hyperion. They sat in the canteen.

‘How’s your arm?’

‘Better.’

‘You can work the mini-sub, yes? You and Gus. You can drive it, pilot it, whatever.’

‘We used it to inspect the seabed pipeline.’

‘How would you like to take a look at Hyperion’ s hull? There’s a hole in the plate. It’s taken on water. It would be good to know the extent of the damage. There’s no way we can check structural integrity from inside the vessel. Too much opposition. We need an under-sea survey.’

Nail rocked back in his chair. He had found some fancy clothes aboard Hyperion. He wore a black leather shirt. He wore a heavy gold bracelet and a Tag Heuer watch. He stank of booze.

‘The sub hasn’t been used for months. Strictly speaking, it should go back to shore for an overhaul.’

‘I’m sure you want to get home as much as anyone. Hyperion is all we have left.’

‘I’ll mull it over.’

Deep Sea Vehicle Mirabelle.

Nail and Gus climbed through the roof hatch. Gus took the pilot’s seat. Nail was co-pilot. They put on headsets.

They slapped rows of toggle switches and powered up the sub. Banks of instrumentation winked into life.

Gus took laminated sheets from a wall pocket. Pre-dive checks. Battery life. Ballast pressure. Air. Telemetry. Thrusters.

They packed sandwiches, mineral water and a piss bottle. They checked their escape suits.

They saw Jane through the cockpit bubble. She stood and waved. Nail tested the manipulator arms. He snapped the serrated titanium claws in front of her. She stood her ground.

‘Reckon she and Ghost are actually fucking?’ asked Gus. ‘Not a pretty picture, is it?’ said Nail.

Jane and Ghost spent a night in the observation bubble. They laid sleeping bags on the deck. They lay naked and looked at the stars.

‘You think they can see us from here?’ asked Jane. ‘Who?’

‘Guys on Hyperion. We’d better keep the lights off. They might have found binoculars.’

‘Tempted to give them a flash.’

‘You should stay here,’ said Jane. ‘I don’t know why you hang out with those idiots on Hyperion. Brain-dead as the passengers. They haven’t raised the average IQ a single point.’ ‘Shitty thing to say about Punch.’