Colony

by Rob Grant

  The priest closes his eyes and shakes his head. 'Tie that off, you clown. Here.' He takes out a handkerchief, wipes his face with it, then uses it to fashion a rough tourniquet for the injured arm.

  The drone watches the procedure with detached interest. 'I don't understand what happened to it. It was right there just a minute ago. On the end of my elbow.'

  Eddie holds out the missing limb. 'I... it was an accident. I must have... I just reached out...'

  'Wait a minute.' The drone cranes over. 'I just lost an arm almost exactly like that one.'

  Lewis tugs the bandage tight. 'That is your arm, Jebediah.'

  The drone peers closer. 'Are you sure?'

  'Fairly sure, yes. I don't exactly see an overwhelming abundance of recently detached limbs littered around the corridor. Do you?'

  The drone slowly turns and looks down the corridor, then up it, then back down it again. 'Father, sir, no, sir, Father. In fact, without conducting a more rigorous and comprehensive search, I would say that's pretty much the only one there is.' He crouches and examines the appendage in Eddie's grasp. 'Could I have that back, sir, when you've completely finished with it?'

  'Look.' Lewis strides up to Eddie, grabs the arm unceremoniously and flings it down the corridor. 'Forget about the trotting arm. It's gone. It's history. All right? Now, try and find some kind of crowbar.'

  Styx looks forlornly after his lost limb, like a dog who's been ordered not to fetch its favourite stick, then slumps off in search of tools.

  Eddie's aghast. 'What did you do that for?'

  'What did you want me to do? Sew it back on with my internationally famous microsurgical skills?'

  'Well, maybe, yes. If we used the surgical computer...'

  'We don't repair drones. What's the point? It'd be quicker to shoot this one in the head and grow a new one. In any case, the arm was too badly damaged. Somebody managed to mash it up good and proper with their gentle caress.'

  Great. As if Eddie didn't feel guilty enough.

  Lewis leans in closer and lowers his voice. 'Besides which, the poor devil's lost an awful lot of blood, on top of some probable internal injuries he almost certainly sustained bravely shielding me. I doubt he'll survive the trip to the infirmary.'

  There is another, distant tremor. They can hear it, rather than feel it. A secondary quake, maybe. Or some damage somewhere starting to settle. Whatever it is, Lewis is starting to look agitated, his eyes darting towards the end of the corridor. 'Look, Morton, would you mind if I left you here?'

  'What?'

  'It's just, that was a hell of a quake. God only knows what damage it caused.'

  'You want to leave me here, jammed in a snack machine?'

  'One of us ought to get back to the control room: find out what kind of shape we're in. Calm down any panic, sort of thing.' He's lying, of course. No surprises there. What is surprising is that he's doing it so poorly.

  'You want to abandon me here, trapped, alone and upside down, with a wedge of family-size chocolate bars crammed up my arse?'

  But Lewis is already heading down the corridor, walking as briskly as he can without appearing to run. He calls over his shoulder, 'Relax. Styx will jemmy you out of there in no time.'

  Styx? Didn't Lewis just say the man was at death's door? Eddie looks after the rapidly vanishing priest, in his casual scurry, and wonders what kind of moral derelict would leave a man with only a head and a spine immobilized, trapped and inverted with only a dying one-armed invalid who would lose a battle of wits with retarded pond life to look after him.

  And right on cue, Styx turns up, holding a metal rod in his remaining hand. 'Sir, will this do?'

  'That should be fine.'

  'It's not a crowbar, technically. It's just a regular bar.'

  'It should be good enough to get me out of here. Go for it.'

  But the drone just stands there, swaying slightly, saying nothing, for a good two minutes, sporting a vaguely mesmerized expression.

  'Is something wrong, Styx?'

  The drone's eyes suddenly widen, as if in shock, and he shakes his head violently. 'Wow! Sorry about that, Doctor, sir. I think I fainted. I'm OK now, though.'

  'Are you sure? You've lost a lot of blood.'

  'Abso...' and he crumples to the ground in a lifeless heap.

  Eddie panics. What if the drone is dead? How long will he be stuck here before that self-centred, self-satisfied smug bastard of an irreligious excuse for a priest bothers to remember him? Where was he really going anyway? Did he honestly expect Eddie to buy that sad claptrap about rushing off to start calming down panickers? Just what is his unholy agenda? And what if there's another quake? What if the weakened hull gives way and Eddie and the entire snack machine get sucked out into deep space? Would his suit protect him? For how long? Would that be the ignominious fate of Eddie O'Hare? To float for ever through space, welded to a savoury-snack dispenser?

  Then, without any kind of warning, the drone snaps awake, leaps instantly to his feet and finishes his sentence "... lutely. Let's get you out of there.'

  'That would be good, yes.' Better get this done quickly, Eddie. 'If you could just...' There is a hideous neck-wrenching clang on the top of Eddie's helmet, and his head is jerked violently towards his chest. Shaken, he looks up to see the Styx wielding the rod like a one-armed golfer, swinging it up towards Eddie's head with tremendous force. Eddie yells 'Stop!' but the word is lost under the impact as the bar crashes into his helmet again, driving his chin up into his chest plate.

  'Styx! Stop! For the sweet love of the Lord! Please stop!'

  Styx pauses at the top of his swing. 'Sir? Is something wrong?'

  'What the hell are you doing, man?'

  'I'm trying to get you out of the suit.'

  'Well, stop it. I don't want you to get me out of the suit. I need to stay in the suit. If you take me out of the suit, I'll die.'

  'You want to stay in the suit?'

  'I do, yes, I want to stay in the suit. Just prise me out of the vending machine. That's all. That's what the bar's for. For prising. Not for beating my brains to a mushy pulp. For prising. See?'

  Styx jams the pole behind Eddie's torso and starts trying to lever him clear. 'I thought you wanted me to get you out of the suit, that's all.'

  'Well, that was wrong. Enterprising, but wrong. Even if I did want you to get me out of the suit -- and I will once again make it clear that I do not -- I would not want you to try cracking me open like some gigantic hard-boiled dinosaur egg. OK?'

  Styx leans his full body weight against the pole. Eddie feels something give, and he crashes to the floor, head first. His neck is badly jolted again, and he tumbles over to rest face up, which is not the easiest position to raise himself from. A large bubble floats lazily through the liquid in his helmet past his face. He feels like some kind of human spirit level. But wait a minute: that's a very big bubble. He hasn't seen any bubbles that big before. 'Styx? Is my visor leaking? This is vitally important. Am I leaking green gloop out of any part of my helmet or suit?'

  There is no response. 'Styx?'

  With a tremendous effort of co-ordination, Eddie musters his paltry resources sufficiently to roll over on to his front and claw his way cumbersomely up to his rectangular feet. The drone is lying on the floor, eyes open. Eddie can't make out colours too well, but he can see Styx's face has none.

  What can he do? He can't test for a pulse, he might grip too tight and snip off the poor bastard's other hand. He can't call for help. But he can't just leave him here. Not if he's still alive. He has to do something. He kneels gingerly beside the prone drone and leans very, very close, so his visor is pressed against Styx's mouth and nose. He waits there a moment, then pulls back. Yes. There is a tiny amount of misting on the outside of the visor. The drone is still breathing.

  As gently as he can, which for all Eddie knows is painfully and brutally, he lifts the drone up, pincers open under his armpits, and slings him over his back.

  It will
be slow going. Eddie's not exactly a sprint champion in his current state, anyway, and the drone is what? Ten? Twenty times his own weight? The suit is only designed to carry a spine and a head. It may give up at any moment. It may collapse under the strain and fold in on itself, like a cheap tin can, leaving Eddie's skimpy body trapped in a squashed, crinkled disc on the floor.

  Hopefully, that won't happen. Hopefully, they'll stumble into a kart that isn't broken or a transway that's still operational before long, otherwise it will take Eddie days to carry the stricken man back to what passes for civilization on this ship of the damned.

  Still, he has to try. Because if the drone has any time left at all it's not measured in days. It's measured in minutes.

  33

  Brutal as it had seemed in the corridor, the shipquake appears to have caused remarkably little damage to the rest of the vessel, even in the close vicinity. The trio must have been fairly close to the epicentre when it struck. Eddie laughs at his luck again.

  There is even a corridor kart just around the bend from the crash, intact and ready to go. There must have been another one even closer, since the priest would definitely have availed himself of the nearest working vehicle.

  Eddie lays the drone on the back seat and clambers into the driver's position. So far, so uncharacteristically good. Now. How does it actually work? Eddie's travelled in karts several times now, and he never thought to ask. He assumed they were computer controlled, but how does he communicate his desired destination? He calls for the computer's attention again, but gets no response. All right. Manual, then. He scans the few controls.

  As he's tentatively reaching out for the control stick, the kart suddenly starts up of its own accord and zips off at a surprising speed, flinging Eddie back against the driver's seat. What's going on here? If the computer's operating the kart, how does it know where he wants to go? And why does it want to get there so fast? And if the computer's not in charge, then what the hell is?

  Eddie grabs on to the control stick anyway, for comfort. Useless though it is, it helps him maintain some kind of illusion he's in charge.

  That illusion is shattered at the next bend. The kart seems to speed up to round it, lurching up on to two wheels at an alarming angle. Eddie yanks back on the stick, snapping it neatly off at the base, with no apparent detriment to the kart's velocity.

  In fact, as the kart straightens out and the wheels hit the ground again, it actually accelerates, hurling Eddie back against the seat again. He cranes round as best he can, and just catches a glimpse of the senseless drone in the back.

  And still the kart is accelerating. Eddie had no idea the damned thing was capable of anything more than a pootling amble. Its tiny engine is screaming under the strain. Was its speed control somehow damaged in the quake? He strains his neck forward against what seems to be G-force, and tries to identify the speedometer. He fails, but it hardly seems to matter -- all the needles on all the dials are quivering against their red extremes.

  The kart hurtles wildly towards the next bend. Surely it has to slow down before it gets there. But no. It actually speeds up. The engine finds a new, higher pitch, screeching towards the oncoming wall like a mad swooping banshee, an almost unbearable din that bores through Eddie's skull like a dentist's drill in overdrive.

  And still the damned thing is accelerating.

  And as the wall rushes towards them, a horrifying theory lurches into Eddie's mind.

  What if the kart has been tampered with?

  What if the priest wanted to make absolutely sure he didn't get back to the rest of the crew? What if he knew Eddie suspected him of sabotaging the planetary display?

  The impact is scant seconds away now. Eddie closes his eyes and tries not to imagine the mess his pickled brains will make splattered all over the corridor.

  He hears a churning, grinding sound, harmonizing badly with a loud, discordant squeal, and feels himself being lifted into the air. Then a kind of weightless moment, and he thumps down into the seat again.

  He's still alive. He's still intact. The kart is still wailing its shrieking whine.

  He opens his eyes. They made the turn, somehow. They are pelting along another corridor at spine-breaking speed.

  He looks down at the dashboard again, but it's gone. He finds, in fact, he is clutching the entire severed assembly between his claws.

  He flings it aside. The kart is careering at such demon speed that by the time the discarded dashboard strikes the ground behind them, he doesn't even hear it hit.

  And again, they are hurtling straight at an oncoming wall.

  Only this time, there's a problem.

  This time, there is no bend.

  This time there is just another of those inexplicable dead ends.

  Eddie looks down for some kind of brake, but all he sees are torn wires, shorn metal, and a jagged hole in the floor, through which his foot has involuntarily thrust the brake pedal. Brilliantly, he's managed to rip out every single control on the craft in less than three minutes without even trying. Superb stuff, Eddie. Majestic. Give yourself a pat on the back. If you can manage that without beating yourself to a pulp.

  He looks up.

  Dead end. Two words that sum up Eddie's future plans with beautiful concision.

  Eddie gets ready to kiss his arse goodbye. At the speed he's travelling, he probably won't even have to pucker to reach it after the impact.

  He doesn't close his eyes in anticipation this time. Maybe this is evidence that he's conquering his cowardice, or maybe it's just Eddie reverting to his characteristic resigned complaisance to the horrors life throws at him with such gay regularity.

  Either way, he keeps his eyes open, and actually sees the miracle happen.

  As the kart kamikazes towards the inevitable collision, the wall opens. It slides apart.

  It slides apart enough for the kart to squeeze through.

  And whatever it is that's impelling the vehicle slams on the brakes and throws the drive into reverse, which is sufficient to stop the kart's forward motion in a screaming, chundering cloud of burnt-out engine and choking rubber smoke from the melting tyres.

  It is not, however, sufficient to stop Eddie from crashing through the reinforced glass of the kart's sturdy windscreen.

  A handily placed metal bar is what finally arrests Eddie's forward propulsion by colliding with the top of his helmet. A collision of such bone-crunching force, Eddie is convinced he truly will be able to kiss his own arse without bending.

  It's becoming almost instinctive now, after such an encounter, for Eddie to scan the immediate area for evidence of leaking gloop. Finding none, he clasps the metal bar in his pincer and hauls himself erect.

  He is in a transway carriage.

  The wall that miraculously opened up before him was, in fact, the transway's sliding entrance.

  He looks over at the wreck of the kart.

  Jebediah Styx is resting peacefully on the back seat, undisturbed and unruffled, the billowing smoke slowly subsiding around him. In his mouth is his one remaining thumb.

  The transway's motor winds up, and the carriage lurches off.

  And apart from the gentle rocking of the transway, nothing is happening. Eddie experiences an increasingly rare moment of peace and tranquillity. Odd, really. His life before the Willflower was one long non-event. He wishes now he'd treasured all those tedious moments of nothing happening, with nothing having happened and nothing about to happen; the interminable dull weekend afternoons of lazy tick-tock boredom; the discontented languid evenings that overstayed their welcome. He wishes he could have tucked a few of them away in some kind of time bank account. He wishes he could cash a couple of them in right now.

  But he can't. And this small minute of precious peace is all he gets.

  There is a loud electronic bleep in his helmet and the face of Bernadette Oslo blips into being in front of his eyes, staring at him, larger than life, completely blocking his vision. Eddie is so shocked by her sudden app
earance, his automatic reaction is to leap back. This impulse causes his right arm to shoot out, sending his claw smashing through the carriage window.

  'Shii!' He manages to recover enough to drag his arm back inside before it's crushed against the transway tunnel wall. 'How the hell do you do that?'

  Oslo looks puzzled. 'Do what?'

  'Appear like that. In my face. Without warning.'

  'You're connected up to the ship com. Didn't you know that?'

  Eddie tries to twist his head so he can see past Oslo's image. 'No. I did not know that. Can you go now? I can't actually see with you in my visor.' He is connected to the shipwide communication system. It would have been nice if somebody had bothered to tell him that a little while ago. It might have saved him a life-threatening problem or two.

  'Where are you?'

  'I'm in the transway.'

  'That's hugely helpful. Whereabouts in the transway?'

  'I don't know. I think... I hope I'm heading for the medical bay.' Eddie is finding it extremely disconcerting having Oslo literally in his face. Talk about encroaching on your personal space. 'Can you shrink your image at least? Only you're actually blinding me.' Can anybody on board do this, any time they feel like it? Blip their giant faces into his visor without so much as an 'excuse me'? How relaxing is that?

  'The medical bay? Why?'

  'I've got a Styx here. Badly injured. Touch and go.'

  Oslo snorts. 'Forget about him. Things just got worse here.'

  Worse? 'How could things possibly get worse?'

  'Try this: did you feel that last shipquake?'

  'Did I feel it? I was starring in it.'

  'Well, it caused some major structural damage.'

  'How major?'

  'Majorly major. Inasmuch as it ripped away the last remaining engine.'

  34

  'So that's it? We've lost all three engines?' Eddie is in the Navigation Room, craning over the display on the ship status monitor, staring at the graphical reconstruction of the most recent disaster, hoping, wretchedly, that everybody else has somehow interpreted the data incorrectly. 'All of them?'