Breakwater

by Simon Bestwick

  “Hey,” said the woman, then let go of her handhold and dropped to the deck with a thud and a splash. She squinted up at the airlock above, then shut the outer cover, twisting the wheel to lock it behind her.

  She swayed, stumbled, and Cally started towards her. “Are you okay?”

  The woman nodded and took deep gulps of air, hands on hips. She was big-shouldered for a woman, with well-muscled arms, but lean and compact. “Just about,” she said at last, then sagged against the bulkhead and gave Cally a grin. “Bloody stupid, that—opening the hatch without checking—but good job you did else I’d be fucked.” She jerked her chin upward. “I was in the airlock when the module started flooding. Ended up trying to get the inner hatch shut and the outer one open at the same time. Not a great idea, but I was in a rush.” She spat. “Christ. Can’t get the taste of it out of your mouth. As the actress said to the bishop.” She winked and stuck out a hand. “Chief Petty Officer Hanover.”

  “I’m—”

  “Doctor McDonald. Right?”

  “How did—?”

  “Military base,” said Hanover. “Only one civvy on board. ’Sides, you’re not exactly unknown. Seen your pic online.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Cally had never wanted her share of celebrity, and did her best to pretend it didn’t exist. It wasn’t as hard as it might have been. She lived out of a static caravan as near the coast as she safely could, in a restricted area inhabited only by those with a special dispensation from the military. One small perk of who she was, and it brought her a little solitude and peace. She and Ben had honeymooned in that very field, camping out in a tent. All she had were fragments of what had died that day; she clung on to as much as she could.

  “What’s the sitch, then?” said Hanover, squeezing the worst of the water from her hair; it stuck up now in spikes. “You were on the bridge, weren’t you?”

  “The bridge is gone. Harkness is dead—Sugulle, too. Cannonbridge might have got out.”

  “Thought so. About the bridge, I mean. Could tell where the impacts were. Bridge, power plant, auxiliary command. The Holy Trinity.” Hanover shook her head. “Knew what they were doing, didn’t they?”

  “What I thought.” Cally leant back against the bulkhead, closing her eyes. No time to relax, she knew—they were still trapped in the pumphouse, and the Bathyphylax might decide to finish the job at any moment—but there was something calming about Hanover. She was a professional, after all. If she could find humour in this, there had to be a chance of survival.

  “So,” said Hanover. “There’s an evac point that-a-way, but you were coming from there, so I’m guessing we’ve missed the boat.”

  Cally nodded. “Trying to find the next one.”

  “You’re in luck, then, hun.” Hanover beckoned Cally along the corridor, under the dripping hatch. “Anyone knows their way around here, it’s me. Now—nearest evac point’s in G-3, so we need to go…” Hanover squatted, looking left, right, up and down. “That way.” She nodded up and to the right, then sprang to her feet.

  Bloody hell, she was in good shape, thought Cally—near-drowned less than five minutes ago, now up and about as if nothing had happened. Not that young, either. A couple years younger than Cally, at best. Crow’s feet at the eye-corners, silver glints in the glossy black spikes of drying hair. Probably a vegan or something.

  “Looks clear,” said Hanover, squinting through the glass panel, then spun the wheel and opened the hatch. Cally followed her into the airlock. Hanover looked through the panel in the inner hatch. “Yup, clear. See, Doc? That’s how you do it without drowning yourself.”

  Cally felt her face burn. She shut the outer hatch shut behind them.

  It should have been no more than a fifteen or twenty minute journey to G-3, but with multiple modules breached, flooded, or torn completely free of the structure, they had to make repeated detours—which, like as not, brought them to another breached or missing section. Cally had soon lost her bearings, but Hanover never seemed thrown for a second.

  “Here we are,” she called at last, opening a ceiling hatch. “Nearly home and dry.” She looked back, grinned at Cally. “Emphasis on the dry.”

  “Amen to that,” Cally muttered, though she expected Hanover would be even gladder. The Chief Petty Officer’s damp clothing clung to her tightly, and particularly to her firm, round bottom, which Cally had a fairly magnificent view of as it swayed above her on the ladder.

  She’d never made a secret of her sexuality with Ben. University had been where she’d begun to shake off her rather repressive religious upbringing; unlike some, she hadn’t shagged everything that moved, but there’d been a couple of longish relationships, and for one awkward month she’d secretly dated a lean, pale dyke called Paula. It hadn’t lasted—Paula had, understandably, wanted a girlfriend who wasn’t afraid to be seen as one, and Cally had been far too concerned about her parents finding out and the reaction of the church congregation back home. A pity. Paula had been a nice girl and a good lover. Come to think of it, Hanover looked a little like her.

  A few years out from college Cally had met Ben, and that had been that: bi or not, she was the old-fashioned monogamous type, despite all Ben’s half-serious joking about threesomes. The emotional intimacy she’d shared with Ben had been what mattered. Of course she’d felt desire since he’d died, but it had never been anything more than an itch to scratch. In so many ways, she knew, she was frozen at the point of loss, unable to move on; she couldn’t remember the last time a flesh-and-blood human had inspired any lust in her.

  Until now, when she was responding to Hanover’s lean, lithe body as she hadn’t in years. Looking at those buttocks swaying above her, Cally pictured them bare and white—and beneath them, at the juncture of Hanover’s thighs, the ripe swell of the mons Veneris, the lush thatch of wiry black hair—

  Jesus Christ, McDonald, get a fucking grip.

  Hanover hung one-handed from a ladder rung above her. “You okay down there, Doc?”

  “Fine.”

  “Looking a bit flushed.” Hanover grinned. “Let me know if you need cooling down.” And then she was back to climbing: did Cally imagine it, or did the other woman put an extra wiggle in her behind? Cally shook her head and followed. Maybe Hanover had good gaydar and wanted to add a little extra motivation. If so, Cally had to admit, it wasn’t doing any harm.

  Hanover reached the airlock above and opened the outer hatch. “Oh, shit,” she said. Before Cally could ask what had happened she no longer needed to—thin streams of cold salt water trickled down from above.

  “Flooded.” Hanover slammed the hatch and locked the wheel. “Back the way we came, Doc, and fast.”

  Cally’s foot slipped as she climbed down, and she cried out, falling. “Whoa!” yelled Hanover; Cally wasn’t sure quite what she did or how, but a strong arm snagged her around the waist, pulling her close up against Hanover, whose free hand gripped the rung above Cally’s head, her booted feet braced against the wall.

  “Jeez,” said Hanover. Hot breath, a little sour, but with a hint of spice that wasn’t unpleasant at all. “Don’t go scaring me like that, Doc.”

  They were two or three feet above the deck. Cally felt the heat of Hanover’s body, the strength of her arm, the warm deep dark of her eyes. She’s going to kiss me, Cally thought, and for a moment it seemed Hanover really would, but instead she said, “No point hanging around,” and let go of the rung. They landed in a crouch, or rather, Hanover did. Her grip prevented Cally from going sprawling.

  Cally wriggled free, brushed herself down, and stood up straight. “Where now? There’s got to be some more pods somewhere.”

  “There’s an evac point not far from here,” said Hanover, “but it was right under the power plant. Chances are that’s gone too. Next nearest’s in T-8. Good-sized trek, and fuck knows what state the place is in between here and there. Longer we’re down here…”

  “… the worse the odds get,” said Cally. The pumphouse shook and
shifted, and there was a faint, far-off rumble as another part of the structure failed. And then Dunwich was back at rest, at least for now. “So we get to T-8 ASAP?”

  “ASAFP,” Hanover corrected. “C’mon.”

  The next few hours were a weary blur—tramping down corridor after corridor, climbing up or down ladder after ladder. They went forwards, sometimes backwards, sideways, upwards, left and right. No sooner did they detour around one obstruction and get back on course, they’d encounter another flooded or destroyed section. The constant stop-and-start was more tiring than continuous walking would have been.

  During one brief stop, Cally looked out through the porthole at the devastation wreaked by the attack. Modules lay crumpled and torn apart, and the structure sagged and listed. Sometimes a flurry of silver bubbles would escape as a seam or seal gave way and the sea rushed in. And then another shudder would rumble through the damaged structure as another part of it grew heavier, and fresh creaks and groans would sound.

  The rest of Dunwich was visible only by the fitful glow of rig-lights through the murky swell—the sea was heaving and debris swirled around the pumphouse. In it Cally could make out human shapes. They looked as though they were dancing, but it was only the current, working their limbs like a puppeteer.

  What if she couldn’t get to an evac pod? Bail out of a hatch and hope for the best? Even with diving gear, those waters would either drown her or fling her up to the surface too fast, to endure a death like Ben’s. Christ, better to drown than that. Either way, though, if there was anything afterward—silly to believe it, she knew, but that didn’t kill the hope—she’d be with him.

  “Come on, Doc.” Hanover clapped her on the shoulder.

  “Call me Cally, okay?”

  Hanover smiled. “Okay. Cally.”

  “What do I call you?”

  “Plenty of options. Chief, Bitchface, Slut Puppy—”

  “Slut Puppy?”

  Hanover winked. “I’ll never tell.”

  “Haven’t you got a first name?”

  “Course.” Hanover started down the corridor. “My friends call me Jen, D— Cally. Now, best foot forward. If we’re home in time, you can buy me a double Kraken at the Mariner’s Rest.”

  Cally laughed. “Be glad to.”

  Cally lost count of how many sections they’d passed through before Hanover said anything else. “We’re getting close, Doc. Should be there in—”

  She broke off, holding up a hand. The pumphouse’s creaking and groaning was getting louder and higher—and closer.

  “Shit,” said Hanover. “This is it.” She went to the porthole, and Cally saw her tense up. The section they were in shuddered, tilting.

  “Down here.” Hanover grabbed Cally’s arm, flung a floor hatch open. “Move that sexy bum of yours, Doc.”

  Sexy? Cally fought back panic-laughter as she scrambled down the ladder. The pumphouse juddered and rumbled. The ladder tilted towards her. “Oh, shit!”

  “She’s going,” Hanover yelled above her, as Dunwich’s groans of torment rose to a scream. “Get down that bloody ladder.”

  “I can’t.” Cally could barely hold on.

  Hanover pressed against her from behind—how had she climbed down so fast?—closing her hands over Cally’s. “There’s a Type Two through there,” she shouted as she helped Cally descend. The Chief Petty Officer’s breasts were against Cally’s back, while her lap was pressed to the rump Hanover had praised seconds before. “We need to make it there before—oh, fuck.”

  The module fell sideways, halting with jerks and cracks. Cally cried out as the impact bounced her about like a rag doll. if Hanover hadn’t been pinning her in place, she’d have gone flying.

  “Up,” Hanover shouted. “Stand.” Water roared; metal split and screamed.

  “Watch out for the rungs,” said Hanover: the ladder was now part of the floor. Cally moved to one side of it and followed Hanover towards the hatch.

  The floor tilted anew, this time back and down. Cally swayed, arms pinwheeling as she fought not to pitch backward. “Fuck—”

  Hanover had seized the rungs, steadying herself as the section continued tilting. It was going vertical again. Cally lunged forward and grabbed hand- and footholds as the module swung down, jolted to a halt with a thud—almost perpendicular, but not quite, and upside-down.

  Cally’s feet slipped from the rungs; she shouted in pain as her full weight fell on her arms. She kicked at empty air while, above her, Hanover struggled towards the hatch.

  The pumphouse bellowed like a wounded Leviathan and the fluorescents inside the module flickered. So did the rig-lights outside, but in their glare Cally saw at least three other modules, joined together, sinking down towards them, finally coming down on top of their refuge.

  Metal groaned. Bulkheads swelled inwards. Rivets pinged. A porthole shattered and water slammed through it into the opposing bulkheads. The electrics became mad, flickering strobes, and one set went out. The air turned hazy from the spewing water; Cally tasted salt and dead fish. She was drenched in seconds, to the skin: it was like being plunged into ice. Her cap, now sodden, threatened to slide off. She shoved it through her belt.

  The hull bulged in further. Already the bottom three or four feet of the module were submerged. Cally’s teeth chattered.

  “Get up here!” Hanover was opening the hatch above. “It’s gonna go any sec.”

  Cally found a foothold and climbed. There was a ping, and something flew past her face before ricocheting off the plating beside the rungs. “Fuck,” she muttered, and climbed on.

  She’d almost reached the top when, with a piercing shriek, a split opened in the hull. More water blasted in. It rose faster, closing around Cally’s ankles. Searing cold: her feet lost all sensation in seconds. Her fingers, too, grew thick and numb.

  The metal surface under her buckled inwards. The ladder bent and snapped, and the section Cally clung to hinged backward. She lost her footing for a second time, and her left hand’s grip broke. She hung on with her right, but inch by inch, her fingers slipped from the rung. The water rose icily around her calves, then to her knees; the module was filling, and the bulkheads groaned louder.

  Hanover swung down from above her, dangling one-handed like a monkey. “Grab hold!” she yelled, extending her free hand. Her breath steamed in the bitter air. It met and mingled with Cally’s. “Haven’t got all day.”

  Cally caught Hanover’s hand with her flailing left. The jagged end of the broken ladder snagged Hanover’s forearm; the sleeve of her coverall opened and she grunted in pain. Blood trickled down the metal, but she didn’t let go. Hanover pulled, lifted Cally free of the ladder. Her teeth were gritted, the cords standing out in her neck. Cally could see her biceps bulging under the wet coverall sleeve. Hanover dug her boots in and braced herself, then pulled Cally upwards till they were face to face.

  Cally’s feet and calves were already almost completely numb, but she felt the freezing water rise to her ankles, then her knees, as the module’s hull buckled further. Each breath of icy air seemed to scorch her lungs. She flung her arms around Hanover’s neck and clung tight as the other woman carried her up into the airlock like a bundle of rags. Bloody hell, she’s strong.

  With a last tormented groan, the module’s hull crumpled inward. Wind blew up into the airlock and water was squeezed up through the hatch. “Move!” said Cally, climbing to the far end of the airlock. She realised that, as before, she’d forgotten to look through the glass panel before unlocking the wheel, but it didn’t matter—if this section was flooded, they were finished either way.

  The hatch opened with a gust of warm stale air. In the dim water below, the flooded module finally went dark.

  Cally crawled out through the hatch and collapsed onto a rough metal deck. She was shaking, her teeth chattering. Her lungs burned, her heart hammered dizzyingly, and she felt sick.

  Behind her, Hanover’s boots thumped on the rungs, then the hatch clanged shut and the wh
eel creaked. A moment later Hanover dropped to her knees, then onto her front, beside Cally. A strong arm fell across Cally’s shoulders, squeezing her close, and Hanover let out a whoop that echoed from the walls. “We made it, Doc.”

  Despite the shaking and the cold, Cally smiled. “Thought you were going to call me Cally.”

  “Cally, then.” Hanover turned her head so their faces touched, and grinned back. “Made it.”

  And then the lights went out.

  IV. Night

  A washed-out wraith-light bled into the pumphouse through the portholes for nearly a minute before the external lighting died too.

  By then, Cally had crawled to the porthole. What remained of HMS Dunwich—fallen, crushed and broken sections, furred over with weed and barnacles—resembled the ruins of a drowned, ancient city. The few remaining lights were dying out one by one as she watched, and the darkness flooded the pumphouse ruins like a second, blacker sea.

  The marrow-deep chill that already gripped Cally sank deeper. Shivering, she saw faint movements in the murk. Were they fish, seaweed, bodies, or incoming Bathyphylax? Might she be about to see one, before she died? And were there ships and helicopters, up above, looking for them? Unlikely, with the rest of the damage they’d be dealing with. The thought of that devastation gave Cally a sick, queasy chill: the loss and pain of Ben’s death, repeated on a vaster scale.

  “Got your phone?” Hanover whispered. “Mine’s fucked.”

  Cally fumbled in her pockets with thick shaky hands, and found her mobile—an old-fashioned clamshell model, primitive but sturdy, that had outlasted any number of more advanced models over the years. “You won’t get a signal down here,” she said.

  “I look thick? Trying to find my way around and—ow!”