The ship has turned into a nightmare.
When I ran through it, after Prakesh was shot, the corridors felt like the ones on Outer Earth. I could navigate them, move through them at high speed. No chance of that now. Every corridor is tilting at a crazy angle, and anything not strapped down has piled itself up along the bottom. Doors that weren’t locked shut hang open, creating low-hanging obstacles that we have to duck under. Fire alarms have activated across the ship. Most of the sprinkler systems aren’t working, but a few are, and soon I’m drenched in chemical spray.
I don’t know how I’m still moving. Somehow, I’ve managed to access one last reservoir of energy. I’m in agony: the worst of it, even worse than the insistent pain in my side and upper back, is at the bottom of my spine. The place where Okwembu hit me. Every single movement sends bolts of electricity shooting out from it.
The corridors are all but deserted. Once, rounding a corner, Carver and I see people in the distance, sprinting away from us. I can’t tell if they’re guards or workers. It doesn’t matter. I don’t dare stop moving, not even for a second.
The stairs have tilted along with the corridors, showing off their own weird geometry. We have to slow down at every stairwell, use the railings on the side of the stairs, take them in a weird bow-legged gate. I’m coming up on the stairway between B deck and C deck, getting ready to take it, picking my footholds.
It’s hard going. Halfway down, my fingers come loose from a handhold. I let myself fall, knowing I’m only a few feet up, but it doesn’t stop me gasping when I hit the water rushing through the C deck corridor.
Everything below my knees soaks right through. The water is a churning mass of dirt and debris, so cold that I gasp. Running isn’t even a possibility now. Carver drops down behind me, and we start wading, the water sloshing up our legs.
I try to be as careful as I can–I can’t afford to fall. I do that, and the cold will sap what little energy I have left. But as we reach the junction, I realise that the water is getting higher. It’s snuck up over my knees to mid-thigh. Soon, it’ll be at my waist, then my chest.
The lights are starting to fail. The bulbs in the ceiling are flickering, casting strange shadows across the walls. A door flies open as I walk past it, nearly smacking me in the face. I dodge back, knocking my elbow on the wall of the passage as a spew of debris splashes into the water. I take a deep breath, then keep going.
It’s impossible to miss the bulkhead doors. They’re larger than the others, built more solidly. They drop down from the ceiling–I can just see the edge of the door below the roof, marked with more yellow and black chevrons. There’s a lever, flat against the wall. A big steel rod half my height, with a rubber grip at the top, ready to be pulled down and outwards. There’s an identical one on the other side of the door.
I don’t know how many compartments have flooded already. If too much water gets through too many compartments, the ship won’t be able to stay afloat. We have to seal this door, or it all goes down. And if Carver is right, then whatever is keeping this part of the planet alive goes down with it.
The water’s at my waist now. I step in behind Carver, gripping the lever with my hands just underneath his. Then we summon every last bit of strength we have left, and pull.
Nothing happens. The lever doesn’t move an inch.
I try not to think of the words rusted and seized. I don’t let myself dwell on the possibilities. We try again, putting all our weight into pulling the lever back. As we do so, it moves, just a little, and I let out a cry of triumph.
My hands are wet–wet enough to slip free of the rubber grip, and I fall backwards into the water. My clothes protect me for no more than an instant. I’m fully submerged, shocked into immobility by the cold. I feel Carver’s hand brushing my shoulder, and then he pulls me upright.
I splash over to the lever again, shivering, furious with myself. This time, I can’t get a good grip. My wet, numb hands can’t hold onto it. Carver steps in front of me, motions me off. He pulls the lever back, the muscles in his neck standing out like thick cords. “Come on!” he shouts.
It’s working. It’s working! I can see the lever starting to move. Any second now, it’s going to go all the way. We can shut this door, then get the hell off this ship.
A gunshot echoes down the corridor, the bullet ripping past us.
I look round, and that’s when I see a ghost.
Prophet.
He’s wading down the corridor. White teeth gleam on his blood-soaked face. His left shoulder is in tatters, his arm hanging on by a shred of skin and muscle.
If I’m in bad shape, he’s worse. I don’t even know how it’s possible for him to have followed us down here. Then I remember Oren Darnell. His mid-section was crushed in a massive door, his organs turned to pulp, but he kept on coming. He wouldn’t let himself die.
Prophet’s the same. He isn’t going to be alive for much longer, but whatever energy is fuelling him, it hasn’t run out yet. He must have overheard us on the bridge, talking about what we were going do.
He raises his pistol, fires again, the bullet slicing the water a few feet from us. There’s only one spot of available cover: the bulkhead doorframe. We swing ourselves around it, pressing up against the wall on the other side. Prophet takes another shot, and it ricochets off the frame.
The water is above my waist now. Despite the cold, despite the soaked clothes against my skin, I feel sweat break out across my forehead. We’ve got nowhere to go. All he has to do is come a little closer, and he’ll have a point-blank shot.
The lever. The one on this side of the door. It’s right between us.
“Help me with this,” I say, wrapping my hands around the top of the lever, keeping my body as flat against the wall as I can. Prophet has stopped shooting. Smart. He’s saving his shots, waiting until he gets closer.
“No,” says Carver. “You’ll trap us inside.”
“You got a better idea?”
Carver groans in frustration, then leans over and wraps his hands around the lever. We’re on either side of it, and we’re going to have to pull it outwards for this to work.
“OK!” I shout, and we both lean into it, trying to force the lever away from the wall. But it’s exactly like the one on the other side. It barely moves, budging only a fraction, and we don’t have enough leverage to push it out from our position. We can’t lean out–that would mean exposing ourselves in the doorway.
Prophet is getting closer, wading down the passage towards us. It might be my imagination, but I swear I can hear him breathing, harsh and ragged.
Carver lets go of the lever. “No dice. We’re going to have to lean out.”
Inspiration hits. “We both do it in one move, OK?”
Carver shakes his head. But he too reseats his grip, tensing his shoulders, bracing himself against the wall. He knows we don’t have a choice.
“The Engine will have its revenge!” Prophet shouts. He doesn’t sound human.
Carver and I throw ourselves forwards, moving in unison, pulling the lever out and down as hard as we can.