Virus (11 page)

“Woods!”
Steve shouted, and Foster looked back, saw that the helmsman had reached the preserver and was watching the
Sea Star
go down, doing nothing to help the fallen crewman. Hiko had reached the railing; he kicked weakly, trailing blood as he tried to get higher, away from the rapidly rising water, his gaze bright with fear. The tug shifted suddenly, was upended—and then the railing was gone, too, Hiko’s clutching hands disappearing beneath the churning sea.

Steve had just started to think about catching a short nap when Richie screamed emergency and Everton called for him to come up.

“Copy, I’m on my way!”

He handed the radio unit to Squeaky and started for the door of the humming room, pausing just long enough to give instructions.

“Stay tight! Any sign of trouble, don’t play hero, get your ass outta here.”

Squeaky gave him a thumbs-up and then Steve was running, down the dimly lit corridor and towards the stairs.

He took the steps in giant leaps, his thoughts racing. The anchor? The whole goddamn ship was electronic, everything hooked up to computers. It couldn’t have happened, had to be a freak accident or—

—or
someone else is on the ship,
his mind whispered coolly, and Steve picked up speed, suddenly worried about more than a sinking tug. The
Sea Star
would have sunk anyway and it could have been an accident, sure—but wasn’t it strange that the anchor had given way when the smaller ship was directly underneath?

He hit the A deck, all of the lights on and machinery humming as he raced through the corridors towards the exit to top deck. He noticed fleetingly that the
Volkov
felt like a different ship, now that it had power—different but somehow just as ominous as when it had been dark and silent . . .

No time to think. He burst through the hatch onto the open deck and ran for the railing. Foster was running towards him, but his gaze was fixed on the scene below.

“Woods!”
he shouted, but the helmsman only floated there, his pale face turned towards the tug, watching blankly as. the
Sea Star
slipped beneath the the waves, Hiko still holding on to the railing.

Steve was dumbstruck, unable to believe what he was seeing; a tense second passed, two, three—and Hiko broke through to the surface, paddling wildly, thrashing helplessly amidst pieces of shattered deck and bobbing debris. And Woods remained exactly where he was.

Chickenshit bastard!

Steve saw that Hiko wasn’t going to make it and that Woods wasn’t going to help. Without another thought, he jumped the railing and dove in.

The fall seemed to take forever, the deck easily three stories above the water. Steve had time to take a deep breath before he hit, plunged deep into the chilled ocean, and came up stroking smoothly towards Hiko.

The salt stung his eyes and it was cold, but he was close. He reached the struggling Maori in a few seconds.

“Relax, go limp,” he breathed, and Hiko looked at him gratefully and stopped flailing, let his body relax as Steve wrapped an arm around his neck.

They started back for the
Volkov,
for the rope ladder that Steve had secured less than an hour before. Steve kicked strongly and swept with his right arm, concentrating on the ladder—but unable not to shoot a nasty glance at Woods, floating safely fifty feet away.

He looked back at the
Volkov,
saw that Richie had descended the ladder partway and was waiting to help, saw Foster’s concerned face and Everton’s scowling one looking down—and wondered again how the anchor had managed to release itself over the
Sea Star.

We’re not alone here—and whoever else is aboard doesn’t want us to leave.

Hiko lay on the deck while the
Pakeha
gathered around nervously, casting tall shadows in the rapidly fading light. Foster leaned over him and studied his leg, Hiko trying not to wince when she gently touched the bleeding gash. The pain had been bad enough without the salt water, and blood still pulsed from the wound. He felt dizzy, though from blood loss or pain or just elation at being alive, he didn’t know. He still had his
wahaika,
and he had survived; things could be worse.

Richie snapped his shotgun closed and paced anxiously in front of him. “That anchor didn’t drop by itself. Someone else is on this ship.”

Hiko had figured as much already. The
Volkov
felt bad to him, had felt bad the second he’d seen her. He could tell that the others felt the same way, and wondered why they continued to deny their fear; it didn’t take Maori blood to know when something was fucked up. The Russian ship was haunted, it was
kino.
Someone hiding in it had tried to kill him and had almost succeeded.

He looked up at Foster and smiled a little at her worried expression.

“I’ll be all right,” he said, but she wasn’t going to hear it.

“Not without stitches. We gotta find a sick bay.”

Steve handed her a knife and she cut open Hiko’s pant leg, revealing the oozing wound amidst the deep designs of his
moko.
He frowned; there would be a scar. The wood from the deck had messed up a beautiful design, hours of detailed work lost.

Foster reached up and tugged at his belt, releasing the buckle and sliding it from underneath him. Hiko glanced around uncertainly.

“What are you doing? Hey . . .”

Foster shot him a glance and then looped the leather above his knee, tightening it. A tourniquet. Hiko looked away, embarrassed. Maybe he
did
need stitches; he was still dizzy and had thought for a moment that she was reaching for something else entirely.

“That coulda been me, ya know,” said Woods to no one in particular.

Hiko focused on Woods, felt a slow anger kindle in his belly as the helmsman pulled off his wet tee and dropped it to the deck. Richie reached into his bag and produced a dry shirt, tossing it to Woods but not looking to see if he caught it.

Hiko glanced over at Steve, saw the same contempt on the engineer’s wet face as he stared at Woods. The man was a spider, all right; Hiko hated spiders.

Steve picked up a walkie-talkie and clicked it on; before he could speak, his partner’s voice crackled out.

“Steve, Squeaky. What the hell happened?”

“The tug’s gone, Squeak. Sunk.”

“Well, that sucks.”

Hiko nodded to himself; well put.

“How you doin’?” Steve asked.

“I’m okay. This ship is automated, everything runs itself—”

“Wrong. Somebody is still on board, they sank the tug. Bolt the door and don’t let anybody in there. We’ll be right down.”

“Copy that,” said Squeaky, and Hiko could hear a sudden wariness in his voice. Wariness, but no surprise.

Steve clicked off the unit and turned, addressing all of them. “Let’s divide up into two groups and root ’em out.”

Foster nodded. “I agree with Steve.”

Captain Everton frowned, raised his voice. “Wait a minute, I’m still captain here.”

Steve met his gaze evenly. “You were captain of the
Sea Star.
Which just sank.”

Hiko propped up on his elbows, watched as the two men glared at each other. He didn’t like Everton particularly, and decided that he would back Steve, if it came to that. Everton hadn’t saved him from the
moana.

“Listen to me, Baker—I’m still ranking officer, and I’m willing to overlook what happened between us. Do we have a problem with that?”

Steve shrugged, said nothing, and Everton turned towards the rest of them, looking angry but self-satisfied.

“Richie, Woods, go down to the engine room and back up Squeaky; Baker, Foster, and I will take Hiko to the medical bay and dress that wound. Let’s move.”

With that, he turned and walked away, headed for the foredeck. Hiko sat up, deciding that he definitely didn’t like the man—and he could tell from the looks on the others’ faces that they didn’t, either. Even Woods seemed unhappy with the order, and that made the captain lower than low in Hiko’s book . . .

He let Foster and Steve help him to his feet, his leg already numb below the tight belt, and found himself wishing that he’d flown home after all. He didn’t like this ship, he didn’t trust Everton, and he wanted nothing more than to be on dry land, away from this terrible mess.

Facing one’s fears was definitely not all it was cracked up to be.

• 11 •

E
verton led the way to the stairwell, noting that at least some of the lights were working. It was still dim, the corridor deeply shadowed but decidedly empty. He shone the flashlight into the darker corners, Foster and Baker supporting the wounded man behind him.

Everton kept a blank expression as they reached the stairs, but it was difficult to maintain. Woods and the two deckhands hadn’t openly defied him, at least not yet—but with Foster and Baker both trying to undermine his authority, he felt his control slipping. Splitting the troublesome pair away from the others should put an end to it, although suffering such disrespect didn’t sit well with him—and after he’d offered a more-than-generous percentage, too. It was unbelievable.

The landing light was on, but the steps before them were still dark. He directed the beam down and led the threesome forward, wondering if their stowaway was likely to try a more direct attack than through a computer. Sinking the
Sea Star
had been a rather cowardly form of terrorism—he suspected that the perpetrator of such an act would stay hidden, not wanting to confront an armed crew. He’d stay on his guard, though, until the intruder was found; he wasn’t about to take any unnecessary risks, not anymore. There was too much at stake.

The surveillance cameras were working, panning back and forth all through the A corridor and another in the well; practically every inch of the ship looked to be covered. They could use them to hunt down whoever else was on board, once they’d regrouped. He hoped that Foster could at least manage to do
that
much with a computer; she’d certainly failed in saving the
Sea Star—

A soft sound, somewhere in the dark ahead. Everton froze, but it was already gone, too slight to even resonate in the empty stairwell. He aimed the beam of his flashlight over the railing, but saw only more steps. A light clattering noise, metallic.

He glanced back, but it was obvious that the others hadn’t heard it; the two hotheads were concentrating on getting Hiko down the steps. Everton decided that it was nothing, probably debris falling; the
Volkov
wasn’t exactly in top shape. Besides, it wasn’t loud enough to have come from anything as big as a human being; maybe the Russians had rats.

His light fell across a mounted wall chart at the bottom of the flight and he stepped down quickly to examine it. The A deck had been mostly small laboratories, at least from what he could tell, but this chart seemed to be more diversified; the brightly colored squares indicated multiple environments.

Foster joined him, studying the map. “I can’t tell the sick bay from the mess hall. Any suggestions?”

Everton wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to let her know that. The fact that she’d bothered to ask meant that she recognized his greater experience—and that she was still willing to be led.

He pointed to a midsized block of blue squares, careful to speak as though he were open to her take on the matter. “Probably here—or here,” he said, indicating a green pattern next to the blue. “We’ll have to look.”

Foster nodded and went back to help Baker. Everton smiled inwardly; Foster seemed to think she was his peer somehow; he could use that. Perhaps it would work on Baker, too—if giving commands didn’t work, he’d try the we’re-all-in-this-together approach. It was ridiculous, a captain having to bother with such things, but he needed them to get the
Volkov
through the storm. He’d simply have to compromise, at least until they reached safe waters.

He pushed the unsealed hatch open, revealing another dim corridor that stretched off in both directions. He waited for the others to catch up and they moved into the hall, headed for what he hoped would be sick bay.

Get our man stitched up, lay out a plan for capturing whoever attacked us—and get back to what’s important here. Taking our find in and collecting our due . . .