The master and crew failed to exhibit the basic elementary rules for disasters.
—Board Of Inquiry Report On The CS Bronia
“Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. Twenty-three, Greg.”
“That’s the lot?”
“Yeah. Twenty-three. Ugly bastards, aren’t they?”
“Silesians. Spend all their time in the icefields.”
“Why we picking them up then?”
“Shock wave, knocked out the electronics. No heat, no power.”
“Really? That old tub looks strong enough to withstand a nuke.”
“That’s what they said about Brenda.”
“Shh.” Brenda gags, though popular, were not encouraged in the ranks. The man called Greg looked across at the vessel. It was dark inside, but the word Iceman painted on its sides could be clearly seen from the reflected glow of the lights from the Di.
“It’s plenty strong enough, Bob, but it’s like a bloody icebox without power.”
As if to support his statement, the men shivered and stamped their feet, which was odd if you thought about it, because they were standing in the warmth of one of the Diana’s reception bays.
Keppler was watching them high up on the bridge. He was hoping there would be some news of Katy.
“Nothing, sir,” said Mitchell, joining him.
He gazed straight out into space as if he could somehow conjure Katy up out of the void. Was she still alive?
“No sign of the Ray, sir.”
“Dammit. I know they’re still out there. There was no emergency call, nothing.”
Mitchell hesitated. “Well, there wouldn’t be if they’d hit something, would there?”
“Think clearly, man, if they’d hit something, we’d have picked up the damn explosion, now wouldn’t we?”
“Yes sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Are the icemen all on board?”
“Yes sir. Silesians mainly.”
Oh hell. So they were Silesians. He didn’t like that. “How many of em?”
“Couple of dozen.”
“Keep ’em off the booze. Oh, and Mitchell, keep an eye on them.”
“Yes sir.”
On the reception deck the group of men stood around as if unsure of themselves. They watched the captain come down the companionway.
“Is everyone off?” asked Mitchell.
“I believe so, sir,” said Greg.
“Right then, who’s in charge?”
Slight hesitation, then Josef spoke up. “I guess that would be me.”
“Right, sir. I’m afraid it’s Tent City for you lot. It’s not too bad. Certainly better than where you’ve been, I should imagine. Close her up, Mr. Garland.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“A little paperwork, some ID forms and some food vouchers first, you’ll need them for the restaurants. You are entitled to one hundred in—”
“Wait,” said Josef. “There’s one more. On the ship.”
“Two,” said Garland.
Pavel appeared, blinking in the lights. Beside him an old man, covered in a blanket.
“Oh, that’s right,” said Josef, “two.”
Pavel wouldn’t look at Josef. But Jesus, how could you off a guy for mourning his daughter? Josef was inhuman. He couldn’t do it. He’d gone in there, looked at the old man shivering and muttering and handed Comus a mug of sweetened tea, which he took in both hands with a grunt. He was supposed to take out the weapon and put it to his head while he held the tea. But he couldn’t. He had just stood there watching him cupping the mug with both hands and breathing into it, so the tea warmed his face. This was Comus, the legendary Comus, one of the founders of the White Wolves. He was a hero, for fuck sake, and he was supposed to blow him away for trying to contact his daughter? Fuck you, Josef, do your own dirty work. He watched the old man sip his tea.
“Comus, your daughter…”
The great grieving eyes fixed him for a moment.
“I have no daughter,” he said. “I had a daughter once. But that was a long time ago. She’s dead now, you know.”
“Right, you’re sure this is it?” asked Mitchell with just a hint of sarcasm.
“Oh yes, quite sure,” said Josef.
“This is everybody?”
“This is more than everybody.”
Pavel looked the other way.
“Right, seal her up tightly, Mr. Garland.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“And the rest of you follow Greg and he’ll get you housed.”
“Wait!”
The voice was imperious and came from behind them. It was Brenda Woolley. The men turned and looked in surprise at this highly dressed intruder. She had a sort of turban on, and her makeup was like a mask. Beside her the fox terrier woman was wearing some kind of fur. It didn’t look happy.
The Silesians gawked. Brenda was dressed as a cross between the Virgin Mary and Virginia Woolf. Not an easy mix. She walked confidently amongst them, looking them up and down, without looking directly at any of them. It was as if she was shopping. Eventually she stopped and pointed at Comus.
“Can I borrow him?”
Without waiting for a reply (the request was purely rhetorical), she led the old man out from among them by the hand. She seemed pleased with her choice. He was stooped over with a blanket round his shoulders. A sad and sorry sight. A grizzled, bearded, pathetic old man. Just perfect for a photo opportunity.
“Poor man,” said Brenda, “he looks like Act Five of King Lear.”
Makes you Goneril then, thought Garland, who, being a Brit, was ridiculously overeducated. Most space crew thought King Lear was a jet.
“Can you choose someone else?” said Josef, “he’s a bit doo-lally. You know, gaga. Not too well in the head.”
“Oh, he’ll do nicely,” she said, brooking no argument, “he’s perfect the way he is.”
Beaten, and troubled, Josef moved off with the others. His eyes sought out Pavel, who looked at the ground and would not look him in the face.
“Nice work, Pavel,” said Josef evenly. “Thought for a minute you’d left him behind.”
Rogers was in the elevator, listening to Kyle.
“We’re not talking no accident shit. This thing was planned.”
“Oh come on, Kyle, nobody’s that mad.”
“Listen up. The Main Beam goes down suddenly, all the extra shipping’s diverted to H9, and then a major disaster?”
“What’s your point? Who are we talking about?”
“I came across this in the burn bag.”
Kyle handed Rogers a report, marked “Top Secret.” He read quietly for a moment and then exploded.
“Can you believe this shit?”
“Special Bureau.”
“Top secret, most urgent. They’re tracking a man called McTurk, they know he’s on H9, and they don’t even think to alert us.”
“You know what they’re like at sharing information.”
“Kyle, this guy is on H9 for seven hours and the place explodes. They know it and they don’t even warn us. They don’t even pull him in.”
“They were following him. Hoping he’d rendezvous with someone, I guess.”
“Jesus. That sucks. The White Wolves are extremist motherfuckers. But why blow up H9?”
“A diversion.”
“From what? You got a picture of this guy?”
Kyle punched a button. A fairly good likeness of McTurk with his big droopy Zapata mustache appeared on their screen.
“What’s he doing on H9?”
“I dunno. And I wanna know why Keppler’s behaving like he has a ferret up his ass,” said Kyle.
They pushed open the door to the bridge and Keppler looked up at them.
“Why don’t you go ahead and ask him?” said Rogers with a grin.
“Ask me what?” said Keppler.
“If you’ve seen this man,” said Kyle quickly. “Name of McTurk.”
He held up the image of the man with the large droopy mustache.
Keppler shook his head.
“Okay. Let’s get out of here.”
Rogers looked over at Keppler and then glanced down at the refugees.
“Just like the Bronia, isn’t it, Emil?” he said.
Keppler reddened. Looked like he’d been slapped. Rogers grinned at him, nodded to Kyle, and together they left the bridge. He could hear them laughing outside. Damn Rogers, that smug little figure. That tight-arsed, barrel-chested little shit. How much did he know? Thought he was so great yet he knew fuck all really. So he knew something about the Bronia, but he knew nothing of the White Wolves now did he? He felt fear rising within him, because he was fairly certain they were aboard now. And there was nothing he could do about it. It was too late.
Mitchell came in looking anxious.
“Rogers wants us to leave right away, sir?”
Keppler looked out into space.
“He says there is no point searching for the Ray with no signal. They could be anywhere.”
It was true. He wasn’t even master of his own ship. Rogers, the sleuth of H9, snooping round the Diana as if he owned it. If only he knew what was on board.
“I think we’d better do as Rogers says, sir,” said Mitchell.
“As you wish, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
So farewell then, Katy. Damn the woman. Running off like that and leaving him. Serves her right.
They were battening the hatches and preparing to leave when an embarrassed Mitchell interrupted Keppler again.
“What’s the problem now?”
“It’s your wife, sir.”
“Brenda? Isn’t she playing with her refugees?”
“Well, that’s just it, sir. She’s insisting on doing a shot with the tanker before we move out. She says it makes a perfect backdrop for a promo trailer, and she can include it in the show later.”
Keppler laughed. Let Rogers deal with that and good luck to him. “How long does she need?”
“Couple of hours, sir. She’s got some old geezer in a blanket. Looks pretty pathetic. She’s singing to him.”
“I should be grateful that old geezer isn’t me.” Mitchell smiled as if he’d said something funny. “Very good, sir.”
“All right, please inform Rogers we’re waiting for my wife.”
“Yes sir.”
“Now that’s funny,” said Keppler.