by G R Matthews
“Hello?” I said, pressing the command that opened up the internal comms.
There was no response so I tried again. Still nothing. Using one of the flat bladed screwdrivers I’d brought along, I prised and pulled the panel off the wall. All the wires went to what looked like the right places and judging by the sparks that erupted when I pulled them out it had power. It was a bit tricky, but two mild electrocutions later I had taken the power for the comms and a few other systems and crossed them with the door lock. Definitely not standard procedure. The joy of military training is they’ll let you do all sorts of things to enemy systems as long as you left your own side’s alone.
The light next to the bulkhead door started to flash and there was a giant exhalation of air as the seals released. A quick few turns of the wheel and the door was open. A small open area with little but some emergency oxygen masks and fire extinguishers was the prize for my burnt fingers and slight quiver in my heart which would, I hoped, settle down soon.
In the centre of the room, and calling it a room was giving it airs and graces it didn’t deserve, a ladder. Two vertical steel tubes and shorter, horizontal rungs between them. The crew’s access to the command deck and another obstacle to interference from passengers, or soldiers who wanted a favour. The latter usually wanted to stash some of the belongings they had ‘found’ on the latest mission. At the top of the ladder, a circular hatch with another locking wheel, smaller this time, in the centre.
I climbed. The metal was cold under my hands and even my soft soled boots, the ones I wore when I used the Fish-Suit, echoed in the small cylinder of a room. The hatch was locked. Hanging on with one hand, I turned the wheel with my other one. It didn’t resist and, taking one more step up the ladder to give myself more leverage, I pushed the hatch up and open.
The emergency red lighting of the ladder room was joined by the red lighting of the command deck. Poking my head above the hatch, I took a look round. The first thing I saw was the barrel of a pistol. I recognised it straight away. I’ve seen a few in my life and never enjoyed the experience. This one was just like the others, a dark, circular opening that promised a painful death.
“Don’t move,” she said.
“No intention of it,” I replied, looking past the barrel at the grey haired lady who held the gun remarkably steady only a few inches away from my face.
“Who are you?”
“Hayes. Corin Hayes,” I answered. I could’ve lied, but what would be the point? She didn’t know me and I didn’t know her. Hopefully, she’d remove the pistol and give us both a few more minutes of life to discover whether we liked each other or not.
“Come up.” She kept the pistol aimed at me as she backed away a few steps. “Slowly.”
“Of course, you’re the Captain,” I said, remembering a tiny bit of negotiation training. Always make them feel powerful, in charge, I’d been told. Come to think of it, that might have been on a clip show. Either way she didn’t shoot me right there and then. Call that a win for the instructor or scriptwriter.
The command deck was the full width of the sub and stretched back a good twenty metres. The walls were full of computer stations and displays. All the seats were empty, but I’d bet in a combat situation, every seat would be full and the computers would be running a myriad of software packages designed to foil enemy sensors, project false SONAR images, hide the sub and operate the offensive and defensive weaponry.
Up front, a few metres from the hatch, was the actual command section. A Captain’s seat and the stations for the pilot, navigator, weaponry officer and other ranking officers who performed vital duties like repeating orders or reading information on screen so they could tell the Captain what it said.
The pilot’s seat was occupied. The young woman didn’t move or acknowledge my presence, but when you’ve lost the back half of your skull I’d imagine that the appearance of a man as handsome as me was low on your list of priorities. On the bright side, her long dark hair had fallen down from the top of her skull, the bit that remained, and obscured the blue-grey mess of her mashed-up brain.
To the right, and lying face-up on the floor was the navigator. The red stain on the front of his uniform and the vacant look in his eyes were ample evidence of his passing.
Both wounds, the pilot’s and the navigator’s, were inflicted by a weapon, a gun, and the only one I could see was the one in the grey-haired lady’s hand. It didn’t waver or lose track of me as I finished climbing out of the hatch. I raised my hands, it seemed like the right thing to do.
“Pilot first, navigator second,” I said. “He managed to get out of his seat before you turned and put a bullet through his chest. He take long to die?”
“A few minutes,” she answered, grey eyes showing now emotion. “Now, Mr Hayes, why are you on this sub?”
“I, um...” I searched for the right words, “came to rescue you.”
“Interesting.” She traversed the deck to the weapon officer’s station and glanced down at the displays. It was tempting to move, either rush her and grab the gun, or hide somewhere. “I wouldn’t.”
“I won’t.”
“No subs docked and there are none close by,” she said, turning back to me.
“Fish-Suit,” I said.
“Ah,” she said, half a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You can stand the repeated drowning and vomiting?”
“Most of the time,” I answered. Keep her talking, don’t make any sudden moves. That clip show was worth every second I’d spent watching it. I cast another glance around, looking for something to use, somewhere to hide. Nothing. The only thing out of place was the silver metal briefcase that rested on the seat of the Captain’s chair.
“Well, Mr Hayes, tell me your plan for rescuing me. I am very interested to hear it.” She waved the gun, indicating I should sit down.
I did as the gun commanded, folding my legs underneath me, sitting just in front of the open hatch and staring up into her emotionless grey eyes.
Chapter 4
“Two plans,” I said, speaking slowly to give myself a chance to think. “First. Gain entrance to the sub, meet up with the crew and effect any repairs needed to get it moving again. The experts couldn’t understand why the sub had malfunctioned, but I have some programs and subroutines stored in my suit that they reckon would solve most software issues. Enough to get it moving for a while or, failing that, disable the defensive systems so they could fit an umbilical to the airlock. If there had been anything mechanical wrong, if it had been simple enough, I could fix it from inside or outside the sub.”
“Second?” She crossed one arm over her stomach and lowered the crook of her elbow onto the hand that now held her hip. The change of posture lowered the gun, probably made it more comfortable to hold, but its aim didn’t leave my centre of mass.
“Second was a little more complicated. Find a way to get the crew off the sub.”
“There are no escape pods,” she said.
“True, but there are other ways off. The troop deployment tubes was an option, but I took a look at those before I came on board and they are resting on the bottom. I could launch the crew directly into the sea floor, but it would seem a waste to kill them as I rescued them. Though,” I looked pointedly at the two bodies, “that seems a little redundant now.”
“The other way?” she pressed.
“Well, this is a little more risky and I’ve really only heard of it done in bar stories, but the theory is sound.”
“How?”
“Blow the airlock.” I shrugged my shoulders, a strange move when you’ve got your arms above your head. “Actually, decouple the airlock and hope the explosion of air gives it enough of a push to move it away from the sub. It’d be a bit of a rough ride, but airlocks are strong and pretty hard to destroy. Plus they are installed in one unit.”
“And you were going to blow it with?”
“The explosives on board,” I answered. “Being honest, it was more of a despera
tion plan if everything else failed. I’m still hoping that the computer can be fixed and an umbilical can be attached. That way we can just walk off the sub.”
“I was right,” she said. “That was interesting, but now, Mr Hayes, I think it is time for you to die.”
She raised the gun into a classic aiming pose. It wasn’t necessary, she could have shot from the hip and not missed. I wasn’t that far away. I just think she enjoyed the drama of the whole thing. For the first time in our conversation, I saw some emotion in her eyes, a mix of joy and lust.
As the gun came up, I rolled backwards, pushing off the floor with my ankles and feet. I’d mostly got my seated position right. My hands and head went down the open hatchway first, and I reached for a rung as the rest of my body followed.
The bark of the pistol was loud and rang around the small room. A searing line of pain drew itself across my calf as I fell.
I caught the rung and held on for dear life, letting my legs unfurl as I pivoted over. My hand slid around the cylindrical rung and I tried to move my other hand to a rung lower, to gain leverage and control the spin better. My luck held true. I missed.
My legs bounced off the ladder, feet kicking out to find purchase on a rung and the sudden jolt of all my falling weight was borne by that one handed grip. The pop I heard and felt. The sound didn’t travel through the air, it screeched along my bones and muscles. All of them complained in no uncertain terms about the treatment of my shoulder joint which had, at that moment, decided it didn’t actually need to be connected any longer. I screamed in pain as the ball and socket joint came apart, dislocating in a paroxysm of pain. The one hand I had on the ladder let go. I fell.
One foot managed to find a rung and my other hand grabbed, reflexively at the vertical pipe of the ladder. I slid down the rest of the way, feet slipping from the rungs and the friction burn on my hand adding to my list of injuries. When my body met the floor of the ladder room it was almost like falling into a warm bed. I stared up at the open hatchway.
Her face appeared over it and the gun was lowered, taking another aim at me.
“Shit.” I rolled over, shoulder, back, legs and arms all complaining that I had asked them to move. Better to move than be dead, I told them.
Another bark of the pistol and a ricochet off of the floor. She missed and I dragged myself through the door to the passenger compartment. Two more bullets hit the floor.
The stagger down the aisle towards the airlock lasted for hours. It may have been a few seconds, I couldn’t tell. It sure felt like a long time. All the way, I could hear her feet on the ladder as she descended. She was slower than I’d been, but she’d be in better condition when she got to the bottom.
On the positive side of the balance sheet, she wasn’t a good shot at range. From that open hatchway, a decently trained soldier would have shot me two or three times. Two in the chest and one in the head, just to make sure. It is what I would have done years ago, before drink and age took their toll.
Options, options, options. I didn’t have many. The Fish-Suit was one. Climb into it, hook it up, flood the airlock and escape out into the ocean. However, a dislocated shoulder and right leg dripping blood from a bullet wound, plus sundry other bruises that were sure to be developing even now, was not an ideal situation for donning the suit, certainly not for connecting it up. It would take too long.
The footsteps on the ladder stopped and the pistol barked again. I ducked in reflex, watching the white fibres of the seat headrest next to me fly from the hole. Three more rows and I’d be at the staging area. Head down to the engines and lock the door? It was an idea.
“Nowhere to run to, Mr Hayes,” she called. “Just stand still and I’ll make it quick. You have my word on that.”
I settled for crawling on two knees and one hand. Those pre-toddler years weren’t wasted. I’d a turn of speed that would make my father proud. Strange what imminent death will do for you.
Another bark, another seat lost its life.
Falling over the lip of the staging area door, I dragged myself out of the line of fire. The bullet that would have taken me in the arse missed and dealt the cupboard a blow it would never recover from. Sparks rained down onto the, luckily, flame retardant carpet.
My good hand pulled me up and I limped over to one of the cupboards I’d searched earlier. I opened the door and liberated a pistol of my own, a low powered version. No point putting a hole in the sub and the lady was dressed in an expensive business suit, not body armour. The small set of dots on the readout showed the magazine was charged and loaded. Turning the pistol over, I made sure the safety was off.
Above the thudding of my heart, I could hear her feet on the carpet. A few fast steps and she slowed down.
“End of the line, Mr Hayes. The engine and cargo compartments are on lock down.”
Resting on my rump, I slid back to the far wall of the staging area, getting as much distance as I could from the entrance. She was a bad shot, so every centimetre was another percentage chance added to my survival. My own hand shook as I raised the pistol, aiming at the doorway. I’d be lucky to hit the far wall if I couldn’t calm my nerves and slow my heart.
A deep breath. In, hold and slowly release. I raised my knee and let the hand holding the gun, the wrong hand, my off hand, rest on it. As stable a platform as I could manage in the circumstances.
“You want me,” I shouted. “Come and get me.”
And she did, stepping into the staging area, gun swinging round the corner and bullets spewing from it in rapid succession. Each one coming closer and closer to my position. I waited and aimed. Took another breath in, closed my finger on the trigger and squeezed.
A bullet hit the sub wall, less than metre above my head. If I’d been standing, she’d have got me. My first bullet took her in the armpit, underneath the arm that held her gun out. The second entered under her chin as she fell backwards and even the low powered slug was enough to make to splatter blood and brains over the wall.
I let my gun fall, took a shaky breath, turned to the side and vomited my breakfast all over the carpet. Someone else could clean that up. I wasn’t being paid enough.
Chapter 5
I raised the beer to my lips and took a drink. Cold and slightly sharp, just what the doctor ordered. Well, the doctor hadn’t exactly ordered alcohol, but he had told me to go relax and not to put too much strain on my shoulder. The weight of a beer glass was something I was choosing to call physical rehabilitation. Just getting the joint and muscle used to raising a slight weight to my lips and back down to the table.
The hole in my calf had been repaired, stitched and slathered in creams and potions, all covered over with a derma-patch. It ached in the morning, afternoon and evening, but I could walk and the medics assured me the scar would impress the ladies. I had my doubts that any lady would be asking to see my scars any time soon.
Tom, the barman, hadn’t asked many questions when I had limped my way into the bar last night. His eyebrow might have climbed a little higher on his forehead, but he was already pouring my usual, beer and whiskey chaser, when I finally reached the bar.
“You want me to carry these over for you?” he said.
“I can manage,” I answered. “Getting soft in your old age?”
“You’re one of my best customers and that’s twice in the last few months you stumbled back into this bar with more injuries that just the normal roughing up. Can’t have anything happen to you. I might have to close the bar,” he said without smiling.
“Thanks.”
I drank half the beer at the bar, not trusting my unsteady legs and aching shoulder to make the journey to my table without spilling any of the precious fluid.
Tonight he hadn’t made the offer, a sign that I was on the mend maybe. Or perhaps his moment of empathy and concern for his financial future had passed. Either way, I had coughed up the money for the drinks and carried them to my usual table.
By the door, sat at the table, was
new face. An old man with a single beer in front of him. His wrinkled face was focused upon the reflection in the toughened glass table. I’d seen the look before. Many times. Years ago, I’d been the fellow sat at that table, trying to find my seat, a place, a refuge from the world. Tom’s bar was a magnet for my kind of people; those who wanted a place to be amongst others without the hassle of uncomfortable conversation. It was the quietest bar in the city. The old man looked like a stayer. He had a face that spoke of a lifetime of disappointment, let-downs, betrayals and loss. Just the type we needed here. He’d fit in perfectly. Once he’d found his seat.
The rest of the bar was filling up with the regular customers. No one else new and no one missing, not bad for this early in the evening. The rest would filter in as the night wore on. Every customer had their own specialised niche in the bar’s ecosystem of alcohol, privacy and misery. Some, like me, came early and stayed late. Others drifted in late, stayed for an hour of silent drinking and floated home on a wave of alcohol fumes. If there was a game on, especially if the home team was playing, the bar would be a little livelier. We’d talk about the game, the teams, and the players. It was safe ground.
“I thought you’d be here.”
Her voice broke into my reverie, scattering my thoughts to the five oceans.
“Hi, Derva, fancy a drink?” For whatever reason, ever since her first visit, the rules didn’t apply to her and she seemed oblivious of the fact there were any rules. Admittedly, they weren’t written down, but everyone who found their way here knew the rules. It was that kind of place.
She nodded and sat down in what was becoming her usual chair. Tom saw the movement and poured her usual drink, I still didn’t know what it was, I hadn’t asked. He brought it over on a tray. The other patrons had adapted to her presence after a few visits. I suspect by the simple expedience of ignoring her, of fooling themselves that she wasn’t really here at all.
