by S. D. Perry
She had to get out, try to turn off the engines before it was too late.
Nadia took a deep breath, and when the captain turned back to her she sprang at him, lacing her fingers together and bashing at the side of his head.
He fell against a cabinet and to the floor and she was running, sprinting from the medical lab and into the corridor, praying that there was still time.
• 14 •
The Russian jumped out of her chair and hit Everton with both hands, hard, dropping him. Before Foster even had time to blink, the woman ran out of the sick bay.
The captain was down, Hiko couldn’t run—she realized that there was no one else and took off after her, reaching for the .32 pistol in her pocket that Steve had given her a seeming eternity before.
She hit the hallway, heard glass breaking. She whipped around, saw the woman reach into a mounted case on the wall at the end of the corridor and grab a fire ax. Then she was running again, around a corner and out of sight.
“Ah, shit.”
Foster sprinted after her, rounded the same corner, and saw an open hatch, leading to a set of stairs different from the ones they’d used to get Hiko to the sick bay; these started on the B deck. The woman could only have gone down.
There was light, at least. Foster gripped the pistol tightly and ran down the steps, three at a time. She turned at the midflight landing—
—and saw the Russian stopped at the hatch to the C deck, pushing desperately at the thick metal. It seemed to be blocked from the other side. Bits of electrical cord littered the floor.
Foster stopped midway down the steps and pointed the .32, struggling to catch her breath. “Hold it right there!”
The woman turned, saw the weapon, and held very still, her face pale and afraid. Foster motioned at the ax.
“Drop it!”
The woman lowered the ax slowly, then dropped it to the floor, the blade clattering heavily against the metal landing. She sank down beside it, looking as deeply upset and exhausted as Foster had ever seen another person look. It was as if the life had drained out of her, her very will to live suddenly gone.
Foster edged closer, the battered pistol still trained on her, but she couldn’t imagine the pitiful woman even standing up again, let alone attacking. The knuckles of her right hand dripped blood slowly.
“What were you going to do with that?” Foster asked.
The woman turned a pleading, anxious gaze up to her. “You don’t understand,” she said softly.
“I understand that you just hit my captain,” Foster said, and before she could stop herself, whispered under her breath, “something I’ve wanted to do for a long time . . .”
The woman was trembling, terrified and miserable, and Foster lowered the gun, took a deep breath, and put it back in her pocket. If the Russian was faking this, she deserved an Oscar; she honestly seemed to be having some kind of a breakdown and no longer seemed violent at all. Foster raised both her hands and stepped forward, now only a few feet from her.
“My name is Kelly Foster. I’m a navigator.”
The woman gazed at her warily, then said in a small, hopeful voice, “I am Nadia. Nadia Vinogradova, chief science officer.”
There was a clatter down the steps behind them and Everton ran down the stairs, Hiko limping along behind him. Both had firearms, both trained on Nadia.
Foster took a calculated risk and turned towards the two men, leaving herself wide open for attack. She looked at Everton seriously.
“That isn’t necessary. You too, Hiko. Put it down.”
She turned back to the shuddering woman, keeping her hands in sight and her voice low and easy, her words simple. “Nadia, once again. Slowly. Where is your crew?”
Nadia seemed to realize that this was her chance to explain. She blew out slowly, met Foster’s gaze. “I told you. Dead or deserted.”
Everton scoffed loudly. “Deserted? In this storm, three hundred crewmen? Bullshit.”
Foster shot him a look. “Captain, please . . .”
Nadia went on, frowning in concentration. “Eight days ago, during a transmission from the MIR space station, something came onto the ship. We thought our transmitter and receivers were malfunctioning, so we shut them down. It took control of computers, scanned all—information. Language, encyclopedias, medical data. It was learning.”
“Learning what?” Foster asked, crouching down in front of her.
“How to—kill us. My captain, Alexi, and I were the last to survive. We cut their cables, smashed them.”
Foster frowned. “ ‘Them’? You just said ‘it.’ Who’s ‘them’?”
Nadia said a word in Russian, her face crumpling as she spoke, eyes tearing and mouth turning down. Then in English.
“Machines,” she said, and buried her head in her hands, weeping. “I’m telling you the truth!”
Foster stood and walked back to Everton and Hiko; the deckhand looked openly skeptical, but Everton seemed almost . . .
Triumphant?
“Well?” Everton asked softly.
Foster sighed. “You’re right, she’s nuts. But something sure scared her. Let’s get her to the bridge.”
She turned back to the sobbing woman, scooping up a loose piece of electrical cord as she crouched down in front of her. She held out her other hand, trying to look as though she believed what Nadia had said; she didn’t want to set her off again.
“Come on, I’ll help you up.”
Nadia let herself be pulled up, and Foster quickly looped the cable around her wrists, cinching it tightly.
The Russian realized the betrayal too late; she started shrieking, clawing at Foster, but then Hiko was there to help and they dragged the screaming Nadia back up the stairs, Foster feeling very much like an asshole.
Woods held the totally weird little robot and a steadily growing coil of cable along with it as they followed the ’droid’s connecting line down the dark corridor. Richie walked in front of him with a flashlight and the AK-whatever-it-was ready for action. Ahead of them somewhere was the faint sound of humming electricity, growing louder.
Woods was feeling no pain, but blurred flashes of disturbing thoughts and feelings kept coming up as they edged along. Steve Baker had told them to get down to Squeaky ’cause he wasn’t there . . .
Woods frowned. Get to the engine room, to see what happened to little Squeaky. And Captain Everton had told them the same like a half hour ago, maybe longer. There had been blood, too. In the missile room by that one door.
He shook off the memories and picked up more cable, staying close to Richie. Richie was a good guy to be with after all, he knew about guns and high-tech stuff; they’d get to Squeaky once they figured out where the robot had come from—
Richie stopped suddenly and Woods looked up, reached for his own flashlight. The corridor had stopped in front of a door, and the sounds of working machinery were definitely coming from behind it.
Richie opened the door and hit at a light switch, but the room stayed dark, at least from what Woods could see. They both stepped inside, and Woods saw a shower of brilliant sparks, maybe twenty feet ahead in the humming room.
They both directed their lights at the source, and Woods felt his jaw drop.
No way.
They were in a workshop of some kind, lined with long tables and walls of tools. Thick cables seemed to hang from everywhere like jungle vines, looped across blinking computer consoles and dripping down from the shop tables. And connected to each swaying cable was a tiny, silvery robot, working efficiently away at building more tiny robots.
The beams of light glinted across slender metal legs and arms, each of the ’droids no more than a foot or so high. Some were vaguely humanoid in shape, arms and legs and flat, circuit-board bodies encased in metal. Others looked insectile, like the flying one that Woods still held—these skittered across the tables like mechanical spiders or crabs, multilegged and skeletal.
Woods stared at the creatures, amazed. It was like
a series of miniature assembly lines, the robots passing small limbs back and forth, soldering and welding the pieces together, obvious to everything as they worked their separate tasks . . .
Richie reached behind and slapped at the power switch set next to the useless lights. All at once, every activity stopped; each robot seized, each tool died, leaving only silence and the smell of hot metal in the darkness.
Richie’s walkie-talkie crackled suddenly and Steve’s voice entered the room. He sounded tense.
“Richie, where are you guys?”
Richie snatched up the unit and spoke excitedly. “Steve! There’s a machine shop down here with state-a’-the-art robotics that makes our stuff look medieval!”
The engineer wasn’t interested. “Richie, I told you to get your ass down to the engine room! Are you deaf, are you brain-dead?”
Richie sighed. “We’re comin’, we’re comin’—”
Suddenly the machines reactivated. All of them at once, and the small robots were back at work as though they’d never stopped.
Richie stuck his walkie back in his belt and hit the power switch again, toggling it back and forth. The ’droids continued their work, their cables swinging gently as they performed their production.
But they shouldn’t have power anymore!
“Let’s get out of here,” Woods pleaded softly, but Richie ignored him, walking slowly towards one of the worktables. He seemed totally fascinated.
Woods shivered suddenly, violently. Someone was watching them; he could feel unseen eyes studying them from somewhere in the room.
He took a step toward Richie and his voice came out sharp, commanding. “Goddamn it, Richie, let’s go!”
Richie held up one hand, watching a small robot that was soldering microcircuits. He reached down gently and poked at it.
The ’droid pivoted suddenly and held up one strange arm, a device at one end that Woods had seen before; it was—
Thwap! Thwap!
Woods screamed as the nails buried themselves in his shoulder. He dropped everything, clutching at the horrible pain, and the ’droid fired again, the air suddenly alive with whizzing nails.
A second ’droid rotated, drove a whirling drill bit into the back of Richie’s left arm. Richie howled, dove for one wall, and snatched up a fire ax from its mounts. He turned back to the table, screaming in fury as the drone with the nail gun continued to fire.
Woods scrambled across the dark room, trying to grab at his shoulder and unsling one of the automatic rifles at the same time. Richie brought the ax down again and again, chopping at the power cables that led to the table as nails clattered past him and ricocheted off metal.
There was sudden movement in the blackest shadows at the back of the room and Woods spun, saw a human figure dash out from one corner. There was a flash of bright fire and a loud popping—
He’s firing at us!
Woods and Richie both hit the deck as the attacker sprayed the room with bullets, still running through the shadows at the rear of the shop. Woods raised his own weapon, saw Richie do the same, and they both leapt up, returning fire.
Together they backed out of the room, strafing the AKs across the tables, bullets peppering the walls, the robots, the cables, everything, in a deadly hail of explosive fire.
• 15 •
Steve had found a shortcut through a scuttle on the C deck. The small passageway should take him straight to E, and he worked his way down the bolted ladder quickly, deeply worried about his partner. Hell, deeply worried about everything.
Squeaky, not answering. Richie and the helmsman off exploring somewhere, an insane Russian woman attacking them, sinking the tug—and the persistent feeling he’d had ever since they’d gotten the turbine going, one he couldn’t seem to shake.
Someone’s watching us from those goddamn cameras. Watching everything we say and do . . .
And twice since he’d left the others in sick bay, he’d heard noises—strange clicking noises and impressions of movement in the dark behind him. Both times he’d found nothing. The Volkov kept its secrets well, the ship veiled in silence and shadows . . .
The walkie hissed static through the tight passage and Steve stopped, hoping desperately that Squeaky would be on the other end. He reached for the unit, his hope crushed as Richie shouted through the receiver.
“Steve, Woods is hurt! There’s another Russian down here, he shot at us! Watch your ass!”
Christ, what next?
“Read you,” he said. “How bad is Woods?”
He heard the helmsman in the background, his voice whiny and upset. “Tell him it’s bad, Richie.”
Richie continued. “He’ll live, but he ain’t in a good mood.”
Steve tried to keep his voice controlled. “Get him to the engine room, we gotta get Squeak outta there.”
“We’re on our way,” said Richie, and the walkie crackled to silence.
Steve continued down, overwhelmed with sudden anger at the deckhand’s total inability to listen. How many times did Richie have to hear “Get to the engine room” before he’d bother paying attention?
Squeaky could be hurt, he could be trapped—
Steve didn’t allow himself to follow the thought to its conclusion. His feet hit bottom; he was there.
He opened the watertight hatch at the base of the ladder, frowning. The lights were off. He clicked his flashlight on and pointed his shotgun out into the corridor, tracking with the beam of light across the hall. Nothing.
He realized that he was in the same corridor as the engine room, that the scuttle had let out farther down the hall and opposite from where he and Squeaky had originally come down. He took a few steps out into the empty darkness and saw a panel of light set into the bulkhead, casting an elongated glow across the hall. It was the engine room.
Steve hurried to it, gave the corridor one last look before pressing his face to the door’s observation window. Some of the lights were on, the engines were running, but his friend was nowhere in sight.
He hit the latch, but the door wouldn’t budge. Steve frowned, backed up, and shone his light against the hatch; the job was smooth and professional. It had been welded shut.
He banged against the door, shouting. “Squeaky! Squeaky!”
No answer. Steve held his flashlight to the window, searching the corners for any sign of his partner. He saw Squeaky’s walkie-talkie on a table, a crumpled pack of cigarettes next to it—
—but where’d you go, man? Squeaky wouldn’t have left, not without his radio. And if he had spotted trouble and taken off, where was he now? And who had welded the door?
Someone was behind him. Steve wheeled around, dropping the flashlight as he jerked the shotgun up—
—and saw Richie step into the soft light, Woods next to him. Both men held AK-47s, and Steve saw that Woods had several more slung over one shoulder, as well as a stuffed munitions pack and—
—a grenade launcher?
Steve lowered the barrel, relieved to see them. “Goddamn, you find their weapons locker?”
He stepped closer, saw that Woods had his left hand pressed against his right shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers, and a wet stain radiated out from his wound, dripping down his arm.
“Shit, Woods, you’re a mess. A Russian did this?”
Richie shook his head grimly. “No, a machine did that. With a nail gun.”
Steve frowned, and Richie widened his eyes earnestly. “You’re not gonna believe it till you see it, Steve! There’s some really weird shit on this ship.”
Steve reached for Woods’s hand, trying to get a closer look, but Woods backed away. From the smell, he’d been drinking. A lot.
“He won’t let you pull ’em out,” said Richie.
“I need proper medical attention,” said Woods. “Man, I ain’t no fuckin’ soldier, we shouldn’t even be on this ship!”
Steve scowled. “Get a grip, Woods, you aren’t dying.”
He turned back to Richie, mot
ioned at the hatch. “The engine room door’s been welded shut. And Squeak ain’t in there.”
“Welded?” Richie reached for the latch, then examined the edges of the door. “You’re right, man. Weird.”
“What’s happening here?” Steve asked softly, not really expecting an answer.
Woods frowned, sniffed the air. “Hey, you smell somethin’?”
Steve took a deep breath, ready to tell both men to straighten themselves up, stoned, drunk—and then he smelled it, too.
Decay, but combined with an odor of burnt meat. It was terrible, like roadkill on a hot day, cooked rotten meat—
—and something moved at the end of the dark corridor, something the size and shape of a man. Two yellowish green lights were set where a man’s eyes should be, glowing out at them from the shadows.
Richie squinted. “Squeakman, that you?”
Steve gripped his shotgun tighter. “Squeaky?”
The lights moved closer.
Steve raised his voice, could hear fear in it as the moving figure shuffled forward, the rotten smell growing stronger. “Identify yourself!”
Richie and Woods sidled up beside him, and they all raised their weapons as the figure stepped into the soft light from the engine room, emerging from the gloom and into view.
“Holy shit . . .” Woods whispered.
It was alive, but it was only part human. The rest was metal and wire, cords and circuits set into flesh that was starting to decay. It was a man, half of his skull cleanly removed, the exposed brain glistening. Wires extended out from the gelatinous mass and twisted behind the creature. One hand held an acetylene torch, the other ended in a semi-automatic pistol, the grips of the Russian nine-millimeter melded somehow to bone and metal. Cracked, dripping flesh hung from the skeletal fingers.
The thing raised the pistol towards them, and as one, all three men opened fire.
Hiko stood with Foster and the captain on the bridge of the Volkov, all three of them casting uneasy glances at the crazy woman seated several feet away. Her hands were tied in front of her and she was eating a granola bar next to a table, her face angry and sorrowful at once as she stared blankly at the humming computers.
