Descendant

There was a moment when I considered running, and opening up my Kit, and taking out my silver mirror and my silver whip and trying to destroy Duca with all the religious and superstitious paraphernalia that I had used for so long. But Duca was infinitely faster than me, and somehow I knew that the time for all of those ancient and medieval artifacts was past. This was the modern age, and both Duca and I had to get used to the idea.

I set down my Kit, and pushed it with my foot underneath one of the varnished benches that ran around beneath the fascia of the cocktail lounge.

“There you are,” I told it. “Satisfied?”

Duca took hold of my left elbow. Its grip was painfully strong, and its thumb dug deep into my nerve, so that my forearm felt numb.

“I assume you know which cabin I reserved?” said Duca.

“Yes,” I told it.

“In which case — ” it said, and started to steer me along the deck. The Queen Elizabeth’s siren blew again, and then again, which was the signal for those who weren’t sailing to go ashore. Duca was saying something else — something which caused it to smile, but I couldn’t hear what it was.

Blood Feud

We reached the elevator and waited. Duca’s grip on my elbow was unrelenting.

“You really think you’re going to get away?” I asked it.

“You know I am.”

“So where are you going?”

“I have an appointment to keep in America.”

“An appointment? Who the hell with?”

This seemed to amuse Duca even more. “Before you and I finish our business together, Captain, I will tell you. I want to see the expression on your face.”

“Oh, yes?”

The elevator doors opened. Duca had to step back to allow half a dozen people to get out, and as it did so I half-twisted myself around and stabbed it in the forearm with my hypodermic. Duca flinched, but dead Screechers are not as sensitive as we are. Before it could turn its head and realize what I was doing, I had jammed down the plunger with my thumb and injected it with the full 5cc of polio vaccine.

Duca slammed me against the side of the elevator door. Two women were trying to get into the elevator and one of them shrilled in alarm.

“What have you done to me?” Duca shouted at me. It seized my wrist and forced the hypodermic out of my grasp. “What is this? What have you done to me?”

“You’re just about to find out, friend,” I told it.

Duca dropped the hypodermic on the deck and stamped on it. Then it struggled out of its coat, yanked out its cufflinks and pulled up its shirtsleeve. The needle-prick was clearly visible, and the skin around it was already looking inflamed.

“What have you done to me?” Duca raged. It lowered its head and tried to suck the needle-prick, but it was out of its reach, and it let out an incoherent roar of utter frustration. I backed away, intending to retrieve my Kit, but Duca came after me, as fast as a camera shutter. It seized my arm and threw me across the deck, so that I collided with the rail. Then it came after me again, as if it was going to rip me apart.

It twisted my coat in both hands and shouted directly into my face, so that I could feel its freezing breath. “Tell me what you have done to me!” it screamed. “Tell me what poison you have given me!”

“Like I said, Duca,” I panted. I felt as if my shoulder was dislocated. “You’ll soon find out for yourself.” At least I hoped it would. Supposing I were wrong, and anti-polio vaccine had no effect on dead Screechers at all? Or supposing — even if it did work — that it took hours before the dead viruses came back to life, or even days?

There was a crowd around us now, but Duca was too enraged to take any notice of them. A white-jacketed steward came up to us and said, “Now, then! Pack it in, you two, or I’ll call the police and have you thrown off the ship!”

Duca jerked its head up and snarled at him like a wild beast. Its face was so distorted with fury that the steward raised both hands and said, “OK, mate. OK. Just take it easy, all right?” The rest of the crowd shuffled back, too, some of them stepping on each other’s feet.

Duca gripped my coat even tighter and its fists trembled with effort. “I am going to drag out your intestines for this, Captain. I am going to hoist you on a pole and watch the crows eat your eyes out!”

It was half-choking me, and I could barely speak. But I managed to say, “Wrong country, Duca. You’re not in Romania any more. Worse than that — wrong century.”

Duca began to shudder, and its breathing started to become more labored. It looked into my eyes and I could tell now that I had compromised its immortality.

“I have an appointment in America,” it said. “I swore that I would get my revenge, and I shall.”

“Come on, gents,” said the steward, warily. “Get up off the floor and let’s be having you. This is the Queen Elizabeth, not the bloody Isle of Wight ferry.”

Duca grasped my throat and pressed its thumbs into my Adam’s apple. I took hold of its wrists and tried to pull its hands away, but it was still far too strong for me.

“I have an appointment,” it repeated, and now its voice was softer and hoarser. “I have an appointment. in America.”

I tried to cough, but I couldn’t. I could see tiny prickles of light swimming in front of my eyes. I thought with a strange feeling of serenity that I was going to die here, with all of these well-dressed people watching me, and none of them lifting a finger to help me.

But Duca’s hands began to tremble more and more violently, and little by little its grip began to weaken. I managed to take a breath, and then another.

“Come on, mate,” said the steward, and laid his hand on Duca’s shoulder.

Only a few minutes before, Duca would probably have twisted the steward’s arm off, but now it reached out and held on to him for support. Slowly, painfully, it managed to climb on to its feet, and to lurch across to the hand- rail. It stood there for a while, its chest rising and falling as if it had been running a marathon, its face ashy, its bloodred mouth gaping open.

Two men helped me to stand up, too. “What’s the matter with your sparring partner?” said one of them. “Is he ill or something?”

“I’ll call the ship’s doctor,” said the steward.

“There are two police detectives down by the main gangway,” I told him. “I’d like you to call them, too. And please — ” I coughed “ — can we clear all of these people away?”

I took out my identity card and held it up. “Please — MI6. This man is a dangerous suspect.”

The steward said, “Blimey.” Then, “Come on, ladies and gentlemen, if you’d be so kind. Can we give this gentleman a bit of breathing space?”

As the crowds of passengers reluctantly began to disperse, I approached Duca and stood facing it — although I made sure that I didn’t get too close. Duca stared back at me with utter hatred, one hand pressed against its chest, but it didn’t have enough breath to be able to speak.

“What did I tell you?” I said. “This is where you find out what it’s like to be mortal.”

Duca took one step forward, and then another, and slowly shuffled its way toward the cocktail lounge. I followed it, but I still kept my distance. It may have been affected by creeping paralysis, but I didn’t trust it one inch. It turned to me and said, “You are going to die for this, Captain.” Then it opened the door to the cocktail lounge and disappeared inside.

I hurried along the promenade deck and dragged my Kit out from under the bench. Then I shouldered my way into the cocktail lounge, urgently looking left and right to see where Duca had gone.

The lounge wasn’t open yet, and it was deserted, although a syrupy orchestral version of “Diana” was playing