Chapter 25
When his face broke the water, penetrating the air at last, Robert Johnson woke up, instantly relieved to have made it and in the next moment sad to be back. Although partially submerged in the treacly, tepid saline, most of his body floated upon its dense surface. He had not, as he’d believed in the final moments of the cabal, swallowed any water. He was not drowning.
Instead, he was safe and he was warm. There lingered within his muscles, however, a scintillating rigour; an intense afterglow of the final moments in tier two. It was the only remnant of the fantasy he had brought with him. It had been a satisfying and terrifying absence; yet another in which he had not once guessed the truth.
With reluctance he allowed his body to settle, let the tension in his neck ease and gave into the floating support of the womblike follicle. Occasionally, a droplet of condensation would plink into the solution upon which he lay. With his ears under the surface of the water, each drip sounded like a deep, melodious plop; one that Johnson knew would be echoing around the silence of the Angelina for several seconds. The entire ship was a whispering gallery, an unintentional echo chamber that sometimes charmed him, sometimes pushed him close to insanity.
He closed his eyes in the darkness and drifted. He was tired by the journey and there was no reason to hurry now that he was back. In some level of consciousness that was part dream, part memory, part much needed sleep, he remained aware of himself.
Sometime later, feeling more refreshed, he returned to full consciousness once more. He tried to speak and managed only a croak that sounded muffled to his waterlogged ears. He tried again.
“Weaver?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“I’m back.”
“I am aware of that fact. I have been monitoring your progress, as always.”
“How am I doing?”
“Your vital signs fluctuated greatly during this cabal. However, they appear to be normal now. I take it you have enjoyed your respite from my company.”
“Heartily. Drain the follicle, would you?”
“Yes, Captain.”
The smell of salt and body odour was strong in the confined space, the darkness total. Now that the thick brine was being sucked away, Weaver provided a tiny evanescence to enter the follicle so that Johnson could see when he came to climb out. His heels and backside came into contact with the fibrous base of the follicle first and, as the rest of the water swirled away below him, his back and head sank against the warm shell.
As with every return, the heaviness of his true body weight was a shock and at first, he could hardly sit up. The effort made the front of his neck and his stomach muscles ache. He pushed with his hands against the shell to assist him. When he was sitting up, he rested for several more minutes.
“Withdraw all interfaces. Carefully, this time, Weaver.”
In the half lit glow, he watched the many needles, drip lines, waste collectors and contacts retracting into the shell of the tank. When he was free of the tangle of organic filaments he rubbed the soreness from the places where his body had been spliced to the cabal follicle.
“Exit, please.”
Part of the shell dissolved and he climbed the four small steps to floor level. He raised himself upright slowly so that he would not faint. For a time, he stood dripping and cooling, slick with oily salt water. It was always at this moment that he felt as if he were being reborn. The sensation was the only pleasant thing about his return and he knew it would not last longer than the time it took to shower and dress.
Salt crystals had formed in the hairs of his armpits and groin as they always did. He played the hot water onto them for a long time, losing patience eventually and pulling the larger ones free along with small pubic tufts. The high-powered jet of the showerhead helped to revitalise muscles that had lain dormant and atrophying for the many months it had taken Johnson to solve the cabal.
It appeared that Weaver still had the unpleasant knack of being able to guess his thoughts.
“It will require two hours of intense training in the gymnasium per day this time, Captain. I estimate it will be over five weeks before you reach the required levels of fitness to ensure your continued health on this mission.”
“I’m not the Captain and there is no longer a mission. Why don’t you leave me alone for a while, Weaver? I need some time to adjust.”
“As you wish, Captain.”
Alone once more, he let the water massage him for an hour or more. The only noise then was the splattering, dripping and rushing of water and the many echoes and reverberations they made around the living halls and corridors of the Angelina.
Stepping out into the dimly lit recreation sanctum, he toweled himself dry with long deliberate movements. The effort was exhausting. When he’d finished he stepped towards one of the mirrors. All he could see was a shadow.
“More light, please.”
Soft glows illuminated the area around the mirror bringing Johnson’s reflection into plain view. He reached up to the greying hairs of his beard, grown much longer than he’d anticipated. He touched his forehead where there was no longer any sign of the thick, unmanageable locks he’d once had. Instead, there was more skin visible, shinier than the rest and with a barely visible layer of inconsequential down. His hairline had moved far back now and the hair he retained was much thinner, wisped with silver throughout.
Around his eyes there were lines; they had been called crows feet long ago but now there were no crows and he doubted the cracks in his skin in any way resembled their extinct feet. His jowls, though gaunt, hung downwards as did the area beneath his chin. His lips, once passionate, were now thin lines expressing distaste in any position.
He dressed slowly, draping baggy clothes over his drooping flesh and prominent bones.
Barefoot, he walked along the gently pulsing corridor to his cabin, the whisper of his softened soles spreading rumours of his return to every part of the ship. The distance was greater than the last time; the ship seemed to have grown too much in his absence. He collapsed into his cot and let sleep, the only other escape he had, reclaim him once more.
Chapter 26
Seventy hours later and only slightly refreshed, Johnson reclined in the captain’s couch on the bridge.
“How long was it this time?”
“Twenty three months and nineteen days, Captain.”
“What?”
“It is the longest so far.”
Johnson ran his fingers over his head.
“Longer by a year. This is great. Bring up the first section of the fourth tier—I want to see how I did.”
