Adrift Page 4

  Volkova twists around in her seat. For a half-second, Hannah is sure she’s going to lunge forward and take a bite out of the man, like a rabid dog.

  “Get out!” Volkova bellows into his face. Another ship drifts past, spinning wildly, broken and torn.

  “The hell with this,” the man says, tearing himself away. “I’m getting on the escape pod.”

  “No!” Volkova roars the word over her shoulder, but the man is gone, pushing past Hannah before she can even blink, ripping the cockpit door open and vanishing through it.

  Escape pod. Of course.

  She’s taken two steps when Volkova grabs her, iron fingers knotting the fabric of her T-shirt, pulling her back. Hannah only just manages to stay on her feet.

  “Stop him,” Volkova says. The sharp whiff of booze on her breath is unmistakable. “They launch the pod, they die.”

  “But—” Of course they need to launch the pod. What is the captain talking about?

  Volkova pulls her close. Despite the booze on her breath, her eyes are clear.

  “This is a crap ship,” Volkova says, jerking her head at the control panel. “Short-range, no weapons, moves like a pig in mud. You cannot even control it with a lens – you must use a stick. But the escape pod is even worse. No control – drift and drift until boom. Plus, it sends out an automatic locator beacon. Easy to find, easy to kill.”

  “I can’t,” Hannah says, barely able to get the words out. The shame has reached a thundering crescendo, and the thought of going back out there to face the passengers is almost too much to take. She swallows, forces herself to speak. “Why can’t you do it?”

  Volkova shoves her away. “Didn’t you hear me? This crap ship’s crap autopilot is going to get us killed. I have to fly it, so you need to control the passengers. Go!”

  Chapter 4

  As he sprints back onto the Panda’s main deck, all Jack Tennant can think about is the minibar in his room.

  There’d been a whole row of tiny Nova whisky bottles, lined up like soldiers on one side of the fridge. When he’d left his room this morning, for the first time since he arrived on the goddamn station, all but one had been drained. Did he bring it with him? He can’t remember.

  He wasn’t even supposed to be on Sigma. He’d wanted to go to Kepler-186, check out the new boutique resort there – the kind of thing the Europa Central Feed had sold him on when they hired him as their hotel critic in the first place. But the economy was in the toilet and readers wanted family package experiences and yadda yadda yadda, and so they’d sent him to fucking Sigma.

  Jack had retired to his room (small, dilapidated) more or less immediately. He’d spent three days lying in bed, ordering up room service (tiny portions, steak overcooked) when he got hungry, watching movies he’d seen before and pillaging the minibar for everything it had. This morning, he’d finally emerged, bleary and unshaven, wearing his last clean shirt and jacket. He’d been tempted to wing it, make the whole thing up. His editor wouldn’t even notice, mostly because – as he tried to remind himself as often as possible – he was a hell of a writer.

  In the end, he’d decided not to. He might hate this job, but he’d be damned if he’d compromise his ethics.

  His early horror gives way to a furious, panicky purpose. He bursts onto the main deck, arms pumping, eyes hunting for the escape pod. Someone on his right, he doesn’t see who, is yelling, asking what’s going on. The irony is, he can hear them perfectly – the ship’s engines might be firing hard, but the destruction around them is completely silent. Whoever it is grabs his shoulder, and he twists away, almost toppling over one of the plastic bucket seats.

  It’s the man with the robot arm – he and his wife are standing side by side, eyes huge. “What did they say?” the woman says, in a thick English accent. “Where’s the guide?”

  “Forget her. We’re getting out of here.”

  And there’s the escape pod, a door in the back wall, big and square, festooned with warnings. They should be able to get everyone in there – even the pilot and the tour guide, if they’ve actually got the balls to leave the cockpit. Once they’re out, they can –

  A sun-bright bloom of fire fills the dome above them. Jack looks on reflex, and the after-image sears itself onto his retinas, the old woman’s startled scream slamming his eardrums shut.

  He blinks hard, squeezing stinging tears out. The family – Mom, Dad, the two boys – are huddled in a tight ball at the far end of the line of seats. The dad’s face is just visible over his wife’s back. He’s shaking his head, from side to side, as if what he’s seeing is a hallucination he can dislodge if he just shakes hard enough.

  The old woman is still in her seat. Jack grabs her by the arm – more on instinct than anything else – pulling her upright, ignoring her squawk of protest. He drags her down the aisle between the seats, shouting at the others to follow him, nearly falling as another vibration shudders into the cabin.

  “This vessel is experiencing unsafe conditions,” says the Red Panda’s cheerful voice. “Please remain in your seat.”

  Jack reaches the escape pod door, still dragging the old woman. There’s a big green button in the middle of it, protected by a transparent plastic cover. He scrabbles at it, fingers trying to pry it off, but it won’t move. The thick plastic clip on the bottom of the cover is stuck.

  “You’re hurting me,” the old woman says, with something like wonder.

  Jack ignores her. “Help me with this,” he says over his shoulder, speaking to anyone in range. When no one responds, he twists around, his gaze landing on the father of the two boys. “Hey, I need help here, come on!”

  “I don’t—”

  “Just pull!” Jack turns back to the door, beyond caring if the man understands him or not. He braces his feet, puts every bit of force he has into pushing the clip back. How could they possibly make it this hard to open an escape pod? His mind is blaring nonsense words, terror and anger stirring them up like a swarm of hornets. He still hasn’t let go of the old woman.

  Hands on his, pushing down, someone forcing themselves in between him and the door. He tries to resist, but whoever it is has him off balance, and he stumbles back. It’s the goddamn tour guide. She’s shouting at him, waving her hands, her voice lost in the mad buzzing sound in his ears.

  Jack lunges forward, hunting for the button cover. He’ll smash it if he has to – there’s got to be something here that can dent the plastic, a fire axe, something …

  “Wait a second, just listen to me,” the guide is saying. When Jack ignores her, she leans into him, grunting as she tries to shove him back. She’s tall, gangly, but she’s planted her feet. He can’t get past.

  Fine. He’ll shove her sideways if he has to. He’s on the verge of doing it when the cabin lights blink twice, then die completely, leaving them in flickering shadow. Bursts of light from outside the window turn the cabin into a nightmare.

  The guide raises her voice, piercing the darkness. “If you go in the pod, you die.”

  The lights come back on, dimly at first, then glaring bright. “I said, you’re hurting me,” the old woman says, finally yanking her arm from Jack’s grip. It pulls him slightly off balance, and gives the guide a chance to get in front of him, blocking the button with her body.

  “Why can’t we use it?” says the mother of the two boys. It comes out as a hysterical yell.

  “Right,” says a voice over Jack’s shoulder. Robot arm guy. His lilting Irish accent is at odds with his size and with the panic in his voice. “You do know you can’t keep us here, yes?”

  The guide’s eyes are huge. She has the same look she had on her face just before she ran, before she went and hid in the cockpit. A burst of indignant fury surges through Jack, but before he can act on it, she says, “The pod’s got no control. You’ll just drift until one of those things find you. At least here, the ship has—”

  “But it’s an escape pod,” the woman in the leather jacket says.

  Jack
blinks. This is insane. Everybody on this ship has gone insane. They’re standing here, arguing, in the middle of a firefight. Well, they might be happy to get blown to bits here, but not him. He steps forward, mouth set in a thin line, ready to grab the tour guide’s shoulders and physically move her out of the way.

  One of the boys screams.

  It’s the younger one, the one with the fuzzy mop of hair, and it’s the kind of scream that nobody can ignore. Everyone turns to look at him, and then they look at where he’s pointing, up through the viewing dome.

  They’re not just close to the hotel. They’re heading right for it, moving at full speed towards one of the ruined modules. It has huge chunks torn out of its side, the outer surface pitted with dark holes. The sight makes Jack’s tongue go curiously dry. In that instant, he is desperate for a drink, the need overpowering, the phantom taste of Nova curling up the back of his throat.

  The Red Panda is heading right towards one of the holes in the module wall. A hole that is way, way too small for them to make it through.

  Chapter 5

  Corey can’t remember when he first read about Maverick-class touring vessels – it was probably something he skimmed over on the way to the really cool part of the book, with its Vector carriers and Antares cruisers and Frontier Scorpion fighters. But he can see it clearly in his mind now, an exploded diagram with measurements in tiny writing.

  Maverick. Fifty metres long, thirty metres from gravity well to upper viewing dome, twenty-five metres wide. Safe operating distance of ten metres outside the docking arm.

  There is no way – no way – that the hole is bigger than their ship. They’re coming in from below, the Panda yawing, the hotel approaching fast. Through the gap, Corey can see what looks like a chandelier. It’s surrounded by a cloud of glittering particles, and as Corey stares at them he realises they’re shards of glass.

  The man in the polo shirt, the one who looks like Terio Smith, goes back to yanking at the escape pod door, shoving the guide away, swearing to himself in quick, shocked bursts. A second later, Corey’s view is blocked by his dad’s body, climbing on top of him again, shielding him. Corey can smell his dad’s aftershave, thick and pungent. His mom is holding Malik. Distantly, Corey wonders how they decided who should shield who.

  “Just hold on, Corey,” Everett Livingstone says. It’s impossible to miss the terror in his voice. “Just hold onto me.”

  Up until now, none of this felt real. He was either dreaming, or it was some kind of educational thing, a historical sim, something arranged by his parents to keep them busy. But as he stares at the module, the truth finally hits home. The pilot’s crazy. They’re never going to fit through. It’s going to be like trying to shove a basketball into a coffee cup.

  Corey shuts his eyes tight, and buries his face in his dad’s shoulder.

  And as he does so, he feels the ship turn.

  There’s a huge thud, and the squealing of metal on metal echoes through the cabin. The lights flicker, and the world outside the viewing dome goes black.

  Corey can still smell his dad’s aftershave.

  Very slowly, he opens his eyes. They’re still in the Red Panda, still moving. It shouldn’t be possible. But unless the afterlife is exactly like real life in every way, that’s what just happened.

  “Dad?”

  “Corey, just hang on.”

  “No, Dad, look!”

  Everett blinks at him, then looks over his shoulder. Corey takes the gap, sliding across the bucket seat, the edge digging into his backside. His mom is refusing to release Malik, who is trying to squirm out from underneath her, one hand clutching his tablet tight.

  For the first time since the spheres appeared, the Red Panda’s main deck has gone quiet. Everyone, even Not-Terio-Smith, is looking up through the viewing dome. The guide’s mouth falls open. Under her freckles her skin is drained of blood.

  They’re inside Sigma Station, coming slowly to a halt. The ship is in the only area big enough to take it: the atrium, the giant space inside the hotel module, the one with the chandelier and that corny fountain with the angels. The captain must have known where she was aiming, brought them right in.

  But why? To protect them? How is being inside going to help?

  The atrium’s undergone decompression, and there’s debris everywhere. Smashed marble. Broken plates. A jacket, still on its hanger, the sleeves floating freely. And bodies. Corey’s eyes land on a man floating halfway in and out of a doorway, dressed in a black porter’s tunic. In the light from the Panda, his skin is puffy, his eyes almost swollen shut. Frost has started to form on his skin.

  Corey’s mom moans, turning away. He just stares in astonishment. He can’t even begin to think how they got through the gap. There’s a long scratch on the surface of the viewing dome, but that’s all. However they did it, Volkova has positioned them just right, bringing the Panda to a stop, filling the atrium. The jacket bumps against the viewport, caught for a second before sliding away.

  “Christ,” says Not-Terio-Smith. The collar of his green polo shirt is skew, the button line pulled sideways on his chest. His fingers knot the hem, back and forth.

  “Look,” says the tour guide – Hannah. That’s her name. “As long as we’re in here, we’re safe, so—”

  “You call this safe?” says the man with the robot arm.

  There are gaps in the atrium walls, the viewing windows shattered. At that second, a metal sphere rockets past, thrusters puffing white gas, less than fifty metres away. Corey’s mom screams, pulling him to her again.

  The sphere vanishes. Through the gaps, they can make out more ships coming apart, flaming briefly against the blackness before dwindling to nothing.

  “I’m—” Hannah swallows. “I’m sure there’s someone coming. We just have to sit tight.”

  “What if they don’t?” Malik says. Corey glances at him, and sees his brother hit the holocam’s record button, doing it almost absent-mindedly. His finger jitters so much that he touches it twice, and he has to reactivate it.

  “Of course someone’s going to come, honey,” says his mom, automatically. Something bangs off the dome. In the instant before it spins away, Corey sees that it’s a frying pan, liberated from one of the kitchens, still covered in grease.

  The old woman is still praying loudly, eyes shut tight, the fanny pack clasped to her chest like a rosary. Suddenly, Corey feels a burning need to explore the ship. Right now. There might be something they can use, down in astronautics or the engines. Maybe he could go and talk to the pilot – the one who, somehow, got them inside the hotel. But, really, it’s because he just wants to get away. The main deck, with its hysterical adults and the big window above their heads, is just too much right now.

  He slowly lifts himself off his seat, but doesn’t get more than three steps before his mom reaches out and clamps a hand around his wrist. She pulls him in, holding him to her chest like he’s five. He can hear her heart through her shirt, pounding hard, and that’s when he starts to get really scared.

  “Don’t cry, honey,” his mom whispers into his head, her own tears soaking his hair. “Just stay with me.”

  Corey tries to tell her that he’s not crying – he’s way, way too scared to cry. Another object collides with the Red Panda – something much bigger than a frying pan. There’s a scraping, grinding sound as whatever it is drags along the hull underneath them. Corey feels like if his mom holds him any tighter, he’s going to pass out.

  “Guide!” The captain’s voice bursts out of the speaker in the wall, loud enough to make Corey’s ears ring. “Guide, come to the cockpit. Now!”

  Chapter 6

  Volkova is still hunched over the controls, playing the stick, keeping the Panda away from the walls of the atrium. Sweat drains down the lines on her face – the top half of her shirt is transparent with it, her white undershirt showing. As Hannah pushes inside, a chunk of wall or floor – she can’t tell which – bumps off the cockpit glass. Volkova doesn’t
flinch. The cigarette is still jammed in the corner of her mouth, burned down to the filter. Hannah isn’t sure she’s even noticed.

  The ship’s computer speaks, sounding like someone walking through a park on a warm spring day. “Captain, you have strayed from your recognised flight path. Do you wish me to inform Sigma Station Traffic Control?”

  Volkova ignores the voice. “In two minutes, I’m going to shut down everything,” she says, before Hannah is even through the door. “You go and tell the passengers they must be quiet, OK?”

  Hannah blinks. “What?”

  “Captain, it is my duty to inform you that shutting down any function of this vessel without authorisation violates—”

  “Da zayebis!” she spits back, speaking over the ship’s voice. “Guide – go, now.”

  “Shut down everything? What does that even—”

  “Everything! Light, air, gravity, toilets, engines, heat, everything. The passengers must be very, very quiet. No moving, OK? Make sure they hold tight to the hull, and stay still. Maybe the balls don’t look inside the hotel, maybe they do, so I will lower the temperature to disguise our heat signature.”

  “Captain, Sigma Station Traffic Control is not responding. Would you like me to play some music while I try again?”

  Hannah fights through the tangle of Volkova’s words, hands braced against the cockpit walls. “Why?”

  “Because I am the captain, and this is an emergency, and you do what I say. OK?”

  Hannah gapes at her. As she does so, she finds she’s angry.

  She’s not trained for this. She’s a history major. The safety course they did the night before might have covered things like fire, or what to do if a guest had a heart attack, but it definitely didn’t cover what to do in the event the entire station got blown to pieces. She’s angry at herself, for having run from the passengers when this all kicked off, but now some of that anger is being directed at the Red Panda’s captain.