‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m not sure. Probably nothing. Despair can build into a type of mania, a type of super-strength. A person could do themselves a lot of damage if they put their mind to it.’
Punch stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He picked up a toothbrush and pretended to slit his throat.
‘It could be done, I suppose. That kind of gash. A person could slice through their own jugular and windpipe if they did it hard and fast. They would have to be pretty determined. Only someone desperate to be dead could carry it through.’
‘Murder? Is that what you are suggesting? A fight gone bad?’
‘I don’t know. From now on you better not walk around on your own if you can help it. And always carry a knife.’
Sian stripped and climbed into the bath. Punch kicked off his shoes and started to unbutton his shirt.
Sian had yet to comprehend that women had become a rare and valuable commodity. The years ahead were likely to be brutal and lawless. Punch used to be everyone’s friend, but now he was envied and hated by the crewmen around him. If he wanted to possess Sian he would need to fight, and maybe kill, to keep her.
DSV
Ghost crossed to Rampart. The refinery was now joined to the island by a sheet of ice. He ran, swerved infected passengers, made it to the platform lift face steaming with sweat.
He and Jane sat in Rawlins’s office.
The refinery was equipped with submerged cameras so the crew could monitor the integrity of the great floatation legs, and the status of the seabed pipeline and manifold.
They switched on a wall screen. They powered up the underwater floodlights and selected camera views. Pan and tilt.
The crumpled shell of D Module, lying on the silted moonscape of the ocean bed.
Jane selected a different camera position. Steel rope coiled on the seabed.
‘That’s all right,’ said Ghost. ‘The remaining tethers are intact. Pretty vicious riptides round here, but we’ll hold firm.’
He swivelled a joystick. The camera angled upward. The floatation leg.
‘What a fucking mess,’ said Jane.
‘A big dent, but no puncture,’ said Ghost. ‘Should keep us stable. Should keep us afloat.’
‘We hope.’
‘Your average liner is a series of hermetic compartments. Half the ship could flood and we would still be able to sail it home. Maybe we can get the mini-sub in the water. Take a look at the hull top-to-toe.’
Jane summoned Nail from Hyperion. They sat in the canteen.
‘How’s your arm?’
‘Better.’
‘You can work the mini-sub, yes? You and Gus. You can drive it, pilot it, whatever.’
‘We used it to inspect the seabed pipeline.’
‘How would you like to take a look at Hyperion’ s hull? There’s a hole in the plate. It’s taken on water. It would be good to know the extent of the damage. There’s no way we can check structural integrity from inside the vessel. Too much opposition. We need an under-sea survey.’
Nail rocked back in his chair. He had found some fancy clothes aboard Hyperion. He wore a black leather shirt. He wore a heavy gold bracelet and a Tag Heuer watch. He stank of booze.
‘The sub hasn’t been used for months. Strictly speaking, it should go back to shore for an overhaul.’
‘I’m sure you want to get home as much as anyone. Hyperion is all we have left.’
‘I’ll mull it over.’
Deep Sea Vehicle Mirabelle.
Nail and Gus climbed through the roof hatch. Gus took the pilot’s seat. Nail was co-pilot. They put on headsets.
They slapped rows of toggle switches and powered up the sub. Banks of instrumentation winked into life.
Gus took laminated sheets from a wall pocket. Pre-dive checks. Battery life. Ballast pressure. Air. Telemetry. Thrusters.
They packed sandwiches, mineral water and a piss bottle. They checked their escape suits.
They saw Jane through the cockpit bubble. She stood and waved. Nail tested the manipulator arms. He snapped the serrated titanium claws in front of her. She stood her ground.
‘Reckon she and Ghost are actually fucking?’ asked Gus. ‘Not a pretty picture, is it?’ said Nail.
Jane and Ghost spent a night in the observation bubble. They laid sleeping bags on the deck. They lay naked and looked at the stars.
‘You think they can see us from here?’ asked Jane. ‘Who?’
‘Guys on Hyperion. We’d better keep the lights off. They might have found binoculars.’
‘Tempted to give them a flash.’
‘You should stay here,’ said Jane. ‘I don’t know why you hang out with those idiots on Hyperion. Brain-dead as the passengers. They haven’t raised the average IQ a single point.’ ‘Shitty thing to say about Punch.’
‘You know what I mean. You guys should come over here. You, Punch, Sian.’
‘It would be a cosy little club, but if we let that kind of usand-them situation develop things could get nasty pretty quick.’
‘So you’re going to leave me out here with Mal?’ ‘Lock a couple of doors if it creeps you out.’ Mal’s body had been brought back to Rampart prior to burial at sea. The guys took a vote. The rig had been his home. It seemed appropriate to stand between the great floatation legs of the refinery and commit his body to the waves.
‘Come back with me,’ said Ghost. ‘The staterooms are spectacular. The upper-echelon crew lived like kings.’
‘And thousands of lunatics the other side of the door.’ ‘It kept me awake nights at first. But this is our life now. Europe is overrun. If we get back home we will have to spend the rest of our lives behind castle walls, one way or another. Might as well get used to the idea.’
‘I can’t help feeling it is a honey trap, a gilded cage. We’ll fritter away our time. Get fat. Get drunk. Die out here at the edge of the world.’
Nail and Gus sat strapped in their seats as the DSV was lowered into the sea. Winch-judder made the flesh of their faces tremble. Nail hugged his bandaged arm.
Jolt and scrape as the submersible broke through the ice crust. Clunk of the winch release.
Nail and Gus unlatched their harnesses and sat forward.
Brief vent from the buoyancy tanks. Water bubbled past the portholes as the vehicle submerged.
Gus took control of the fly-by-wire control column and vectored forward and down.
‘Kick in the arcs.’
Nail flipped a switch and the arc light array at the front of the vessel lit incandescent. Blackness beyond the portholes was replaced by swirling sediment, and air bubbles rippling like globules of mercury.
‘Down fifty. Trim good. Forward point five.’
Gus checked an overhead screen. An acoustic beacon mapped their bearing from the rig.
Nail zipped his sweatshirt. He pulled on a woollen hat and fingerless gloves. Condensed breath trickled down the chilled metal of the pressure hull.
‘Heading hold.’
The sub ran on auto-pilot.
Gus sipped water. Nail swigged from a hip flask.
‘You’ve been hitting the sauce pretty hard these past few days,’ said Gus. ‘Better if you kept your head.’
Nail toasted him with the flask.
