Cryptic Spaces

by Deen Ferrell

  “Hautti, with an ‘au’, as in, ‘She’s a real—”

  Willoughby tuned out her voice. He concentrated on her appearance. The only visible side-effects she showed from her confinement were slightly rumpled clothes, tangled hair, and a few wet marks on her jeans where she had washed off his vomit. Her eyes were a different story, though. Even though she tried to put across the idea that she was in control, he could tell she was worried—maybe even a little scared. She glanced around the room, seeming to want to look anywhere except directly at him. He looked back to the other girl. She was trying to clean his wound. What was her name again? Hottie with an ‘au’? He tried to push through the fog in his brain, but he couldn’t. He started to ask her why she was helping them when a poker of hot pain shot through his shoulder. “Ahhh!” he gasped, feeling he might pass out at any second. “Sorry,” the girl said. “Brandy is the best I could do for a disinfectant right now.” She slapped a clean washrag over the wound and taped it down with duct tape. “Luckily, this buffoon had a roll with him,” she said, pointing to the tape.

  Sydney helped Willoughby slide his arm back into his shirt. Her grip was light on his arm, as if she were afraid she would break him. The wavy-haired girl stood and started to kick broken shards of glass under the beds and behind one of the small desks. Willoughby looked around the cabin. He noted that it was smaller and less ornate than his cabin. He also noted a huge man with an AK-40 machine gun sprawled on the floor just beyond the wooden chest. Blood trickled from a wound on his head. The girl must have hit him over the head with a glass object that had shattered. As she cleared the floor on one side of him, she rolled him onto his side and started on the other, making sure to mop up the spilt blood.

  Willoughby looked away from her to Sydney, who was carefully eyeing the room as she pulled the shirt closed around him. She seemed to be taking stock of the situation. He glanced down, trying to do the same. He noted with relief that his sneakers were securely on his feet and seemed to have escaped the splatter of vomit. He could smell the wet spots on his shirt and jeans where the girl had tried wipe the vomit off. He felt another stab of pain as Sydney buttoned his shirt. There was another wave of nausea, but he was able to control it this time. He still couldn’t make sense of things. Why had this girl been in his school? How was she involved? Why was she helping them? The room flickered in and out of focus. The girl with the red dot on her forehead seemed to float away, and then float back. He felt unnatural, like he had stepped outside his body and was viewing everything from a spectator’s viewpoint.

  “Sydney,” he managed, as she continued to work on his shirt. He felt stupid and embarrassed. “I’m uh, I’m sorry…I’m sorry,” he began, his words slurred. “I was so cramped in there, you know, in there, together, and your…your chest—I mean, the chest—the chest—I mean, we were slammed together, and that chest—well, it was hot in there, and cramped…and I felt it—I felt it touching me, you know, touching, that chest—I mean, I mean, the chest—and...” He fought desperately to clear his fogged head, wondering who this babbling idiot on the bed was.

  The girl named Hottie (with an ‘au’) gave a short laugh.

  Willoughby felt himself flush. “I mean,” he tried again, fighting to frame his words, but Sydney stopped him with her hand to his lips.

  “Just…just leave it, okay? I know you didn’t mean to throw up on me, and I, I don’t think you should be talking right now.”

  “You think?” The girl with wavy hair offered, still chuckling to herself.

  Willoughby barely heard them. His head had chosen that very moment to spin wildly again. He felt himself falling and gripped at the bedclothes. Sydney pulled him back up, steadying him. She placed the cool rag back on his forehead. The pain and dizziness eased. Willoughby looked back over to the man on the floor. He pointed with a shaking hand.

  “You…hit him,” he said to the red dot girl.

  The girl nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  “Is he…dead?” Willoughby gulped.

  “No, but he deserves to be. He wouldn’t have thought a thing about killing you, and did his share of killing others. But I’m not like that.”

  The girl looked up at him with a pained expression. Willoughby had a sudden flash of memory. He had bumped into the girl in the hall once. She had knocked the books from his arms. He had expected her to hurry on as if nothing had happened like most of the kids at his school would do, but she hadn’t. She had stopped and helped him pick the books up. “Thanks for not hurrying off,” he had said. She had smiled at him with this same pained expression. “You don’t even know my name, do you? I’m not like that,” she had said. He had just nodded and gone on.

  Who was this girl? Who was she working for? Was she connected with the tattooed man, Reese?

  The girl looked at Sydney. “Others will be here soon. We don’t have long. I’ve told you what you need to do. I’ll give you as good a head start as I can. Tie my hands up. Your professor friend is two doors down.”

  Sydney looked over, blankly; “Why are you helping us?”

  The girl looked up, fire in her eyes. “I’m a scientist, not a butcher! I was promised no one would get hurt. None of this was supposed to happen.”

  “What was supposed to happen?” Sydney asked.

  “We were supposed to find a particular artifact—a pendant. That’s all. We were supposed to locate it and take it, hopefully without anyone even knowing, and leave. That was it.”

  “Pendant?” Willoughby mumbled, but the girl ignored him.

  “So why didn’t you?” Sydney asked. “Where was this…this pendant thing?”

  “It was supposed to be in H.S.’s cabin. We knew he wasn’t here. The plan was to sneak in there at night.”

  “How did you know he wasn’t here?”

  Hottie with an ‘au’ gave Sydney a critical stare. “It’s not important. What is important is that the pendant isn’t there, and unless you know where it is and can help us find it, the operation defaults to big, bad Gates’s plan—which seems to be to kill everyone first, then take the ship apart, bolt by bolt.”

  “This ‘Gates’ guy doesn’t work for you?”

  “No. My, uh, my dad needed financing and muscle. He got mixed up with the wrong people, and now he’s in trouble, I’m in trouble—we’re all in trouble. This, this cult that’s under Gates has its own agenda. Killing people is like drinking water to them. We’re only alive because they need the knowledge my dad has about the artifact. As soon as they get that, they’ll probably kill us, too. My dad is trying right now to secure us a way off this floating morgue. He told me to stay put, but when I heard that slime, Wolfer, had put Willoughby down, I knew I needed to get here fast. We don’t have time for more talking, though. If you want to escape, you need to get up and help me.”

  “Escape?” Sydney pointed to the man on the floor. “There are two dozen armed brutes out there like him—with guns! You may be able to walk among them, but Willoughby and I can’t.”

  The girl sighed. “I know that. I’ve got a plan, but we’ve got to hurry!” She had walked quickly to the man sprawled unconscious on the floor and grabbed him under the arms. “For now, help me! We’ve got to get this one and his gun safely locked in the trunk.”

  Sydney sprang from the bed and helped the girl drag the man to the chest.

  “I know a lot about Hathaway Simon. For one thing, he’s famous for building himself a backdoor. We know it’s hidden somewhere on the ship because we found the markings for a gateway below-decks. Any idea where he might have hidden an entrance?”

  “Gateway?” Sydney frowned. “How do you know all this?”

  The girl motioned for Sydney to heave. The two girls managed to drape the man over the lip of the chest and roll him in. He thudded down into the vomit. “Yuck!” Sydney said again. The wiry girl manipulated his legs around, threw in the gun, and then closed the lid. S
he locked it with a satisfying click and pocketed the key. “Just where he belongs!” she said with a note of finality. “Okay,” she added, panting. “It’s not important how I know—my dad was…an acquaintance of Dr. Simon, and they did work on gateways together. I’ve been raised on time travel theory. Of course, we never had the money to bring anything to fruition like good old H.S. When my dad tried—well, we got Gates. Then, we heard about the pendant and thought that would be our ticket to the big-time. Gather the bits of rope you were tied with. I think they got shoved under the pillows. I’ll go get the professor. When I get back, you two need to go! Think where H.S. would have hidden that door. I can detain whoever comes for maybe 20 or 30 minutes—maybe send them in the wrong direction—but that probably won’t give you more than 45 to 50 minutes at the most.” The strange girl seemed frank and decisive. She disappeared out of the cabin door.

  “What do you think?” Sydney said in a low whisper as she turned to walk back to the bed. “Is this girl a complete nutter or what? Do you think it’s a trap? Or could H.S. really have a gateway on the ship?”

  “He does have one…here,” Willoughby mumbled. “It’s built into…the, the ship…Antonio found it.” An image flashed suddenly in his mind. Sydney had just pirouetted into her cabin and shut the door. H.S.’s cabin was only one door over. While turning away, toward his own cabin, he thought he had seen out of the corner of his eye a bluish glimmer—a short number string, very faint, floating in the air. Where had it come from? He studied the memory. It had seemed to float out from H.S.’s door…

  “Sydney,” he said, fighting another wave of nausea and dizziness. ”I think I know…I think it’s…it’s in his cabin—hidden in H.S.’s cabin.”

  “How do you know?” Sydney stared at him, trying to determine if he was coherent.

  “Trust—” Willoughby started. He tried to open his mouth again to whisper, but the wild dizziness spun the room. His wound burned, oozing blood. He grabbed at the bed sheets, teetering dangerously.

  “How would you know that?” Sydney repeated.

  Willoughby could no longer hear her. He felt himself spinning backward. The floor rose up to hit him. He struggled to push back up, but he was spinning again, off into darkness.

  22

  Navigating the Vents

  Antonio had pushed barely 20 yards further into the shaft when he had to stop, breathing heavily. Sweat poured down his face.

  “Why are you stopping?” T.K. whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum of air pushing through the vent.

  “Can we speak?” Antonio managed in a weak whisper.

  “You can whisper. We’re over a group of storage rooms. I’ve been checking the grates. They’re all dark.”

  Antonio nodded, even though he knew T.K. could not see. “I am not good with tight spaces. How much further have we to go?”

  Dr. J had caught up with them. He was panting heavily as well. The act of turning himself around in the vent had taken more energy than he had imagined.

  “Can we slip out into one of the dark rooms? I need some fresh air as well. I also need to look at Antonio’s wounds. I don’t have any medical supplies with me, but I might be able to help him lose some of the pain.”

  “Okay,” T.K. whispered. “The kitchen storeroom is coming up. I know the chef kept it locked and kept the key on a chain around his neck. I doubt any of these murderers would have known that, so they would probably have to shoot the door open. We need to stay close to the grate and we can’t risk any light, though, understood?”

  “Yes,” Antonio whispered.

  “Antonio, I need you to go about ten yards further. When I tap you on the leg, stop. I’ll go out the grate first. There will be a short side pipe, about four or five feet long. When you hear me push the grate out, slowly back up until you can turn into the short pipe. James Arthur will hold back until you’re out. You got that Dr. J?”

  “Got it,” Dr. J whispered.

  Antonio led them forward another ten yards or so until T.K. tapped his foot. He stopped, hearing her arch into the shorter pipe and push something metallic clear with a slight grunt of effort. Moments later, he had backed up and made his way into the darkened room. T.K.’s hands helped guide him until he sat against a cool wall, breathing heavily and grateful to be out from the confined space. James Arthur came next. Antonio heard him work his way over to sit within whispering distance. He took in a deep breath and seemed to steady himself before leaning over.

  “I’m going to place my hands lightly just below your ears,” Dr. J whispered softly. “I can’t see good enough to have a good look at the wound, but I’m going to help you with the pain.” Antonio felt the tips of James Arthur’s fingers press slightly into his neck. “Concentrate on these points of pressure,” Dr. J continued. “Imagine that all the energy of your mind is focused at these two points.” Antonio tried to focus as he was directed. “Now,” James Arthur said, “imagine all that energy beginning to seep outward through your body.” James Arthur’s voice was low and soothing. Antonio felt the pressure points ease and new points form at his temples, then on his shoulders, and then under his arms. He noted suddenly that he was breathing easier. His heart rate had slowed. The pain had eased. James Arthur sat back.

  “That was…amazing,” Antonio said softly. Dr. J pushed up beside him on the wall. He was silent for a moment, seeming to focus his own energy, and then he spoke in a calm whisper.

  “Did you hear the conversation back there?”

  “I couldn’t make most of it out,” T.K. answered. “I thought I heard a name—Bel-something.”

  “Belzar,” James Arthur offered. “He’s one of the leaders. From the conversation, it seems there may be two of them, and they don’t get along.”

  “I heard something about a, a gateway,” T.K. added.

  “Yes,” James Arthur sighed. “I think that may be our way off the ship if we can find it. The Belzar guy was talking to a girl—I couldn’t get a good look at her. They seemed to know about the time gateways. They say there’s one on the ship, but they haven’t been able to find the entrance. They think Willoughby and Sydney might lead them to it. That’s why they didn’t put them with us. They’re letting them escape. O’Grady is there too, I don’t know why.”

  “There is a gateway on the lowest level. Willoughby was going to try to find its entrance,” Antonio croaked. “It’s some kind of experimental gateway. H.S. held tight control on the design of the ship. He would not even let me see the blueprints. That is why I was so interested in doing my own exploration of the vessel when we arrived. I found ingeniously-hidden symbols for the gateway. I believe the whole hull is a part of this gateway’s structure. I have no idea where the other end of the hole might be connected, but anywhere would be better than here. We cannot hide in these ducts forever. H.S. will have to sink the ship before long to keep its technology from falling into the wrong hands.”

  T.K. piped up, “What are you guys talking about? What’s this ‘gateway’ thing? Even if we find a way off the ship, we’re in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. There aren’t many cell towers around here.”

  “A gateway,” James Arthur began, “is a sort of transport device. Kind of like a, a…what do they call it on Star Trek?”

  “A transporter,” Antonio offered breathlessly. “Only this device works with both space and time.”

  T.K. raised her eyebrows, peering at the two through the dark. “Come on—beam me up, Scotty? You can do better than that.”

  All three sat quietly for a moment, sucking in ragged breaths as the sweat trickled down them. Finally, Dr. J spoke. “Where would he put it? It would be hidden somewhere in plain sight, in a place secluded enough from traffic to make it accessible most of the time.”

  “H.S., my friend, is never predictable. It could be anywhere.”

  “You guys aren’t going to tell me, are you?” T.K. whispe
red.

  “We already did. A gateway,” Antonio mumbled, “is a door that can transport people to different times or spaces.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes,” Antonio sighed.

  “A time door?” T.K. whispered back, trying to get her mind around the idea. “You’re telling me H.S. put a functional time door on this ship?”

  “Something like that,” Antonio continued. “Although it could be only a feeder gateway that transports in space to the time gateway, or it could be both.”

  “Both?” James Arthur asked, his whisper coming out louder than he had meant it to. T.K. immediately jumped in to hush him. They lay there panting and quiet for a moment. When it was clear that no one had heard them, Antonio continued in a barely audible whisper.

  “It is something new H.S. has introduced—an ability to use the physical hole to transport across space to other holes in linear time, as well as to transport through time to an anchor facility. It’s an extension of the feeder network, allowing a person to travel to any of the anchor facilities from a single gateway.”

  “And that was supposed to make sense to me?”

  “No, but it made sense to me,” Dr. J whispered back, “which brings us back to, where would he have hidden the door? We need to get moving or I’m going to melt clean through here.”

  T.K. gave an irritated sigh. Antonio turned toward her. “We can discuss the technical complexities later. James Arthur is right. We need to be moving, and we need a plan. Think back; in your duties, did you ever come across unexplained symbols?”

  T.K. thought for a moment. “No.”

  “Did you pick up anything else from the conversation you heard, James Arthur?”

  Dr. J took in another deep breath. “They mentioned something about a cloak. The girl asked this Belzar if he had turned off the cloak.”

  Antonio gave a low moan. “They were cloaking the ship—probably sending false feedback to the monitors. Unless H.S. tried to contact us, there would be no cause for alarm. That explains much. You heard nothing more about the gateway?”