by Jack Conner
“Maybe, Doctor,” said Cashim, and then violated his earlier warning by adding, “But what I heard is, after the Octs conquer a country, they burn all the temples to the local gods and set up new ones to the Collossum. Those that refuse to attend—” He drew a line across his throat. “Of course, they kill enough in their purgings that what do a few more matter?”
“I heard they practice human sacrifice,” Myers said.
“Surely not,” Avery said. “If nothing else, Octung is a civilized country.”
“Civilized!” Hinis said. “They’ve slaughtered half the continent!”
“Don’t worry so much. It’s bad for your recovery.” He made himself smile. “We’ll stop them.”
“Yeah. We’re doin’ a real bang-up job of it so far, Doc. What’s that the Ungraessotti say? We’ve got one foot in the Soul Door already. And by dawn it looks like we’ll have the other through.”
Avery continued performing his rounds, conscious that he was avoiding a certain patient. Finally, after he had finished checking on everyone else, he realized he couldn’t put it off any longer and approached Commander Hambry’s bedside.
“How are we feeling today?” Avery asked. In grievous pain, hopefully.
Hambry appeared all too healthy. He shrugged and winced. “Tugs.”
“Don’t move your shoulder. That’s why your arm is in a sling.”
“When can I get out of here?”
“Soon. Very soon.” As soon as I figure out what to do with you.
“Soon would be appreciated, Doctor,” said a new voice.
Avery swiveled to see Captain Sheridan. “Good day, Captain.”
She tipped her head. “Good day, Doctor.” Her tone was frosty. She had only requested his personal attentions once in the last week. Avery wasn’t sure if it was because she was too busy, too stressed, or if his presence simply embarrassed her now that she was acting fleet admiral. With all the higher-ranking officers dead, she had finally realized her dream, at least temporarily.
“How’s the Commander?” she asked.
“As well as can be expected. He nearly punctured a lung.”
“But his legs are fine. And he’s still got one arm.”
“She’s right, Doctor,” Hambry said. “I should be up and out of here.”
“One of your sutures could rupture,” Avery said.
“Then give him checkups,” Sheridan said. “But get him out of here.”
Avery sighed. “One more day, if you would.”
Sheridan started to say something, but held it back. “Leave me and the Commander for a moment, would you, Doctor.”
Hambry occupied a curtained-off corner of the medical bay, and the two had plenty of privacy. Despite that, Avery heard them speak in whispers as he walked away. What could they need to talk about so confidentially? Without really thinking about it, he tried to listen in, but they spoke too softly and soon he was out of earshot.
He busied himself by checking on Patient X. She continued in her coma—that’s what it was, he had come to acknowledge—unmoving, unspeaking. Her fever lingered.
Ensign Cashim went into cardiac arrest at eighteen hundred hours. Avery performed emergency open-heart surgery, but the ship suffered a power failure halfway through, plunging the operating room into darkness. Worse, the machines pumping out the ensign’s lungs went still. Cashim died with Avery still massaging his heart. Power resumed, but too late for the ensign.
The generators had been failing more often every day. Avery didn’t know if the Maul was going to make it much further.
Infuriated, needing a drink, he washed himself of Cashim’s blood and marched through the medical bay, searching for Commander Hambry, looking for someone to vent on, though he wasn’t sure what he would say when he found Hambry. He tore aside the curtains surrounding the X.O.’s cot and stared at Hambry’s bed—at empty sheets and a pillow.
Hambry was gone.
* * *
“He can’t have gone far,” Avery told Dr. Murragne, one of his junior doctors.
“Surely you don’t mean to go after him,” protested Murragne, as Avery walked toward the door.
“That’s precisely what I mean to do.”
“But, Doctor—”
Avery patted his shoulder. “See to things while I’m away. I won’t be long.”
Without another word, he left the medical bay.
Where could the commander have gone? Despite Hambry’s putting on appearances in front of Sheridan, Avery knew the man must be in considerable pain. Moving about the ship would be agonizing for him—hell, he could barely breathe. Avery relished the thought of that, of course, but the reason behind Hambry’s disappearance worried him. Hambry had killed Paul and Nyers, Avery was certain of it, and now he was acting suspiciously. Avery needed to know why.
He scoured the halls, from the mess to the bunks to the furnace, questioning sailors as he went. Bangs and rattles passed along the snarls of metal pipes overhead as if the ship were sending signals to distant parts of itself, and Avery wished it would let him in on its secrets. One by one the sailors Avery came across shrugged and said they hadn’t seen Hambry, until Avery happened upon Lieutenant Second Class Garun, just coming from the third-deck mess.
“Are you sure?” Avery asked him, after Garun had told him what he’d seen.
Garun nodded, his acne-riddled face tight. “Yes, Doctor. He went through the mid-port lock, I swear. He was coming from the officers’ quarters.”
“That makes no sense. He wouldn’t be going outside.”
Garun swallowed. “Could be wrong, Doctor. But I remember him leaning against a bulkhead—had half an environment suit on but didn’t seem to have the strength to put the other half on. He ordered me to help him. Then he said something peculiar.”
“Yes?”
“He said I’d just done the fleet a great service. That make any sense to you, sir?”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“Probably out of his mind. The Commander was wounded. Blood was seeping on his chest.”
“Yes, it would be ...” Hambry must be quite desperate, Avery thought. But desperate to do what?
“I wanted to get him to the medical bay, but he wouldn’t hear it, and he is the X.O.,” Garun went on.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m sure you did all you could.”
Avery struggled with himself, then marched to the nearest airlock and donned an environment suit. The suit was heavy, and he could not imagine a man in Hambry’s condition putting one on. Even with Garun’s assistance, it would have been difficult, not to mention painful to operate. Nothing about this was making any sense.
A question gnawed at Avery, but he tried to dismiss it. Surely Captain Sheridan could have no part of this.
He gulped down a breath, stepped outside and slammed the metal door behind him. As always, the violence of the Atomic Sea shocked him. Sea spray spattered his face-place and he saw the burst of upward-flinging lightning through prisms of droplets. Thunder boomed across the waves, and the Maul pitched beneath his feet. The sea was even stormier than usual, and he had to fight to clip his safety line into place. Once locked in, he looked first one way, then the other, searching for a dark bulk limping into the night. Nothing.
Up above, two figures huddled in the crow’s nest jutting from the middle chimney stack, braced under their canopy. Stars and smog-like clouds drifted overhead, and a school of frangelets, violet, phosphorescent anemone-like creatures, floated above the waves to port. There was no one on deck, at least that Avery could see.
Which direction had Hambry gone? Avery remembered Paul. And before that, Lt. Nyers. One had been seen falling from aft of amidships, one had died at the stern. Neither had been found forward. Presuming Hambry was about whatever business he’d been about on those two occasions—if it had been him—he would not have gone forward.
Avery squared his shoulders and lurched off toward the stern.
A great wave smashed the hull and broke over the
gunwale. Sent him reeling back. Foam sizzled around him. At the last moment he jerked his lifeline and righted himself. Water sloughed between his feet as he stepped over a fish that flopped along the deck. It snapped its mandibles and electricity coursed along its spines.
Breathing the metallic air inside the helmet, Avery moved on, drawing closer and closer to the stern. What am I doing? I’m not some private eye in a picture show.
Paul. He thought of Paul and pressed on.
Avery rounded the stern chimney and saw the poop deck. Right where Sgt. Bercka had been killed—murdered, choked in his own blood—stood a figure trudging toward the stern gunwale. From the size of the man, to the way he struggled just to walk, Avery knew it could only be Hambry.
Avery drew back into the shadow of the chimney, with the deck pitching and rolling beneath his feet, and pondered what he should do now.
Hambry limped toward the gunwale, awkwardly unbuttoning a pouch in the utility belt around his waist. The movement forced him to move both arms and stretch his shoulders. Here and there he paused, as if sucking in a sharp breath, then continued on. At last he pulled something from the pouch and held it up.
By the light of the moons and the lightning, Avery saw a plastic tube, perhaps a foot long and five inches in diameter. A device on its tip emitted regular bursts of light, right beside what looked like a radio antenna.
With the tube in one hand, Hambry limped toward the gunwale, while his other hand wrapped securely around his lifeline, reeling him in.
Avery didn’t know what the tube was, not exactly, but in that moment he was prepared to guess. It was obviously something that floated, something that was meant to be found in the wake of the Maul, something which might contain a message. But a message for whom?
There was only one answer.
Avery’s mystery patient had been right. It seemed incredible, but the proof was before his eyes. Hambry was a spy, and he was delivering a message to the Octunggen submarines. That was why Paul had died, and why Nyers had died, because they had caught the X.O. in the act.
Hambry neared the gunwale. He moved slowly, his shoulders rising and falling in rhythm to his labored breaths.
Avery, as if in a dream, stepped forward. Amazed at himself, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing, he clambered up the ladder to the poop deck.
Hambry reached the gunwale and braced against it, taking a moment to recover. Water glistened on his huge brass helmet, on the barnacle-like growths there, making him look for a moment like a monstrous toad, silhouetted against the lightning that flickered up from the water. He clutched the message tube in one fist and the gunwale in the other.
He began to raise the fist. Just a simple flick and the tube would spin into the dark sea below, bearing whatever message it contained.
“NO!” Avery shouted.
In one sudden movement, Hambry spun about. He turned with greater dexterity and speed than Avery would have thought possible given his condition, and once more Avery wondered what he was doing out here. Even in Hambry’s weakened state, he was still a match for the doctor. More than a match. But there was no one else. If Avery didn’t stop him, no one would.
Hambry stared in his direction. There was still time to back out, to run away.
Avery rushed the commander across the deck.
Hambry braced himself.
Avery struck him at full speed and knocked him back against the gunwale. The message tube spun from the commander’s fingers, and for an instant it hung in the air, right over the railing.
It struck the gunwale. Bounced. If it bounced one way, it would soar out over the water. If it bounced the other—
It hit the deck and went rolling.
A powerful fist socked Avery in the stomach. As infirm as he was, Hambry still delivered a blow that doubled Avery over and shot the taste of bile into his mouth. As he hunched over, Hambry’s knee came up and smashed his face-plate. The blow flung Avery backward, off his feet and onto his back. His air tank drove into his spine. Breath exploded from his mouth.
Avery’s head swam, and something buzzed behind his ears. His abdomen ached, his back flared, and his lungs burned where the air had been driven from them.
A powerful force slammed him in the ribs—once, twice, a third time. Hambry was kicking him. The blows were so powerful that Avery’s stomach spasmed and he vomited into the helmet.
Gasping, groaning, breathing in the smell of his own stink, he flopped about on deck not unlike the fish he’d stepped over minutes ago.
In the distance, he heard—perhaps felt—footsteps retreating, and along with them the sound of Hambry cursing.
Through puke-streaked glass, Avery saw Hambry striding back and forth over the deck, searching for the message tube. At last it rolled from its position half-concealed by a lifeline-fastening station. Its lighted tip blinked in the darkness.
Hambry lurched toward it.
Avery forced himself to all fours and climbed to his feet. The world tilted around him.
Hambry bent over to pick up the tube.
Avery stood very close to where Hambry’s lifeline passed. Holding his breath, he grabbed it with both hands—and pulled.
Hambry made a comical choking sound as he toppled backward. Avery wanted to let out a whoop of victory, but then he saw the tube clutched firmly in Hambry’s fist.
The commander rocked back and forth, trying to right himself turtle-fashion. Avery staggered over to him. The deck pitched up suddenly, and Avery wavered but kept his footing.
Hambry found his knees. Started to rise.
With one clean, economic strike, Avery punched Hambry in his upper chest. Right over the surgical incision.
Hambry howled in agony and fell back. He managed to prop himself up with his left hand. Avery stepped forward and punched the spot again. Hambry screamed. Avery grinned, surprised at the bloodlust that welled up in him.
With an animal growl, Hambry launched himself to his feet and barreled into the doctor. By a burst of wave-to-wave lightning, Avery saw a glimpse of his face. Hambry was half-mad with pain and desperation, his veins protruding, his eyes bloodshot and bulged-out, his lips pulled back from large, strong white teeth. In a fury, he drove Avery back and back, slamming him with punches as he went. If Avery had had anything left in his stomach, he would have retched again. Every punch cost Hambry, and by the time they crashed up against the gunwale, he was all but spent.
Avery tried to strike the X.O.’s shoulder again, but Hambry’s left hand grabbed his wrist, shoving his right arm up and back.
Hambry hit at Avery with the tube, but Avery grabbed his wrist. Pressed against the gunwale, they struggled against each other. To starboard, lightning flashed up from the sea.
“Why?” Hambry said. “Why won’t ... you just ... let me ... be?”
“You’re a traitor! Murderer!”
“You have ... no idea ... what we’re trying to do,” Hambry wheezed. It was a small slip, and Avery barely noticed it at the time. “... trying to ... save us all.”
Hambry brought his knee up, hard and fast. It slammed right into Avery’s crotch. Avery’s grip loosened, just enough.
Hambry tore his right hand free. His arm went back, cocked, ready to launch. With one final burst of strength, he shoved Avery aside and—
—threw.
The tube sailed up and out, out over the glimmering waves.
“No!” Avery said. What had Hambry just done? What had that message contained? If it relayed the coordinates of the Maul, its bearing, or the strength of the convoy ahead—
Anger filled him.
He wheeled on Hambry, who slouched against the gunwale, breathing in shuddering, pain-filled breaths, and grabbed him by the seat of his suit and by the top of his tank. In a rage, he strained as hard as he could, tipping the Commander over the side. Surprised, Hambry flailed and cursed.
At the last second, as Hambry teetered on the gunwale, Avery wondered how it had come to this, how he, a man who’
d devoted his whole life to the aid of others, had come to the brink of murder, and he hesitated.
Then he thought of Paul, of Nyers, of the Octunggen submarines just waiting for Hambry’s message, and he shoved.
With grim satisfaction, he shoved, and Hambry fell.
With speed he didn’t even know he had, Avery reached out and unclipped the commander’s lifeline, and just in time. The line whipped up and away, whirling above Hambry as he plummeted, its clip nearly striking Avery in the faceplate.
Far below, Hambry dwindled against the sea. At last he hit the waves and vanished from sight.
Panting, Avery stared down at the white mark in the dark water where the Commander had gone. He imagined Hambry plunging down, screaming into the helm which dragged him like an anchor, until at last the pressure of the sea burst the faceplate and shattered glass sprayed his eyes. Water would fill his mouth and lungs, and he would drown, just like Paul had drowned. Panic and fear would grip him, then coldness and darkness, and then nothing.
Waves of satisfaction swept through Avery. Then his fingers started to tremble. Next his legs. Soon he found himself shaking all over. He sank to his knees and dry-heaved into his helm.
* * *
Some time later, Avery didn’t know how long, the hourly patrol found him. As fate would have it, it was Privates Barris and Wathin, the same pair who had found Paul’s body, who came upon him.
“Why’re you out here, Doctor?” said Barris.
Avery, still sitting propped up against the gunwale, wanted to tell the men the truth, but paused. The fact was that he had killed a man, and there was no evidence Avery knew of to prove that Hambry had been a spy or murderer. The only such evidence, the tube, was lost to the sea.
“I tried to stop him,” Avery said. “I tried ...”
“Stop who, sir?”
“Hambry. I went out looking for him after he disappeared. Someone told me he’d come outside, and so ... but I was too late. He fell before I could stop him.”
Wathin crouched down next to him. The young man wore a look of perplexity and horror, but not suspicion. “The X.O... fell?”
