‘Find him, all right? Find him and bring him back.’ She set the stopwatch. ‘Sixty minutes. That’s your turn-around time. Sixty minutes from now you head back to the refinery no matter what, okay?’
She pressed Start.
59:59
The seconds ticked down.
Part Four
ENDGAME
The Final Hour
Jane jogged across the ice towards the island. She clumped in heavy boots. Crampon teeth bit into ice. Diesel sloshed in the SCUBA tanks strapped to her back.
She climbed the rocky shoreline. Gauntlet hands searched out niches and outcrops. She scrambled over the jumble of basalt boulders and hauled herself up on to the snow plateau of the island plain.
She headed for the burned-out hulk of the ship.
The blackened hull of the superliner was split in two. The interior of the ship was exposed like a picture book cut-away diagram. Bilge and plant equipment near the keel, then ascending layers of opulence. A dance floor, glitter ball swinging in the breeze. Padded treatment recliners hanging over a steel precipice. Charred staterooms.
The multiple blasts that ripped the ship apart had ejected debris across the snow. Twisted hull plates like jagged petals. Giant worm-lengths of air-con ducts.
Jane walked among cabin refuse. Cupboards, chairs and lamps. It was like someone set up home on the ice.
Jane stood in the shadow of the ship and looked up at the exposed rooms and stairways. Ragged bed sheets wafted in the breeze. Flakes of ash drifted from the wreck like black snow.
Quick inspection of the broken hulk. Nikki might anticipate a raiding party might come calling. She might vacate the bunker. Hide herself aboard Hyperion.
A hand gripped Jane’s ankle. She looked down. An infected passenger half buried in snow. Jane pulled herself free. The frozen figure tried to stand. Legs missing from below the knee. She stamped on his head with a crampon boot. Skull-burst. Snow stained red.
The snow beside her bulged and split, and a second frosted figure struggled to its feet. The creature stumbled like a drunk. Jane kicked him over. He lay on his back, still struggling to walk like a toppled automaton.
Snow cracked and crumbled. A dozen passengers sitting up, struggling from the ice. Jane triggered the flamethrower. Slow pass, back and forth. Burning figures thrashed in the snow.
One last glance at Hyperion. The ship was too trashed, too burned-out to provide refuge. Nikki must still be in the bunker.
Jane jogged away from the ship, skirting spastic, flailing bodies. She swerved beds, wardrobes and chairs.
Sian climbed down from the crane and ran to the deck railing. Binoculars. She followed a thin, hairline track across the ice. A channel dug by Jane’s crampons as she headed back to the island.
She took out her radio.
‘Ghost? Ghost, do you copy? Come on, Gee. Where are you?’
She searched the rig. She ran room to room. She found Ghost in the canteen cold store. He had uncorked a bottle. He poured frothing champagne into a paper cup. She stood panting in the doorway.
‘Well. On our way home,’ he said. He held out a cup. ‘You’re probably not in a mood to celebrate. It’s good champagne, though.’
‘Where’s your radio?’
‘Why would I need to carry it? We’re out of here.’
‘Jane is heading back to the island. She’s gone to find Punch.’
Sian and Ghost ran down the corridor. Ghost struggled to zip his coat.
‘Why the fuck didn’t you come and get me?’
‘We couldn’t find you. There wasn’t time to wait.’
‘How long has she been gone?’
‘About ten minutes. She made it to the island. I lost sight of her once she reached the coast.’
‘I’m going after her.’
‘She said no. She said you would want to follow her, and she said no. She reckoned it would be easier on her own.’
‘Fuck it. I’m going anyway.’
They ran across the deck. Ghost pulled on gauntlets. Sian handed him an axe.
‘I’m not staying here alone.’
‘We need someone to stay behind and operate the crane. You want to help? You want to be crucial? Stay in that cab. Watch for our flare, and be ready to lift us off the ice.’
Sian rotated the crane jib towards a gantry. Ghost stood on the walkway. He embraced the half-tonne hook as it swung towards him. He stepped on to the hook and wrapped an arm around the chain. He gave a thumbs up. Sian swung him over the railing. He looked down. Two-hundred-metre drop on to the ice. He gripped the chain hard.
Sian lowered the hook.
Rampart was ripping a gouge in the polar crust half a kilometre wide. The pristine snow field already scarred by a long wake of bubbling seawater and bobbing ice plates. The forward legs of the rig shunted a continual avalanche of ice-rubble ahead of them. Ghost would be lowered in front of churning snow and ice-boulders. He estimated he would have less than ten seconds to run clear or be pulverised and submerged.
The moment the hook touched down and dragged on the ice Ghost stepped clear and started to run. He fell. He had forgotten to buckle crampon teeth to his boots. He slipped and skidded as he tried to run clear of the advancing refinery. It was a waking nightmare. Trying to sprint, trying to cover ground, sliding on glass. He was eclipsed by shadow as the rig bore down on him. The roar of shattering ice was deafening. You’ve made a simple, stupid mistake, he thought, and it’s going to kill you.
Moment of decision. Should he turn back and try to reach the hook? Or keep running and try to reach Jane?
He ran towards the island.
The ice beneath him began to crack and buckle. He hopscotched across tilting, bobbing plates. He threw himself clear of the approaching avalanche. He rolled and watched the massive gantries and girders of the refinery pass by high above him. A dream image. Towers and crenellations. A floating sky city.
He got to his feet and faced the island. He picked up his axe. He took two paces then the ice beneath him cracked and broke. He slid waist-deep into Arctic water. Sudden, heart-stopping cold. He scrabbled at the snow. Gauntiets grasped and raked, clawed for some kind of purchase.
Instinct saved him. The axe lay beside him. He reached, stretched until his fingertips snagged the shaft. He slammed the axe into the ice and hauled himself out of the sea. He lay shivering like an epileptic seizure.
He got to his feet. He still faced a choice. He could run to the island and try to help Jane. Hope vigorous movement would warm him up. Or he could radio Sian and get her to haul him back to the warmth and safety of Rampart.
‘Get the job done,’ he murmured.
He decided to head for the island. He couldn’t pull the axe free so he left it behind.
Despite his predicament, despite his viciously tight bonds, Punch fell asleep. One moment he was leaning with his back to the cell wall, trying to stay awake, stay alert. Next moment he was sunk in dark dreams in which he screamed and squirmed as he was slowly crushed by strange machines.
He was jolted awake. Footsteps. Key turn. Nikki opened the door, grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him into the corridor. She hauled him down a tiled passageway.
Green walls. Flickering strip-lights.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
No reply. She didn’t even look him in the eye.
The passage met a wide, ribbed tunnel, big enough for a subway train.
She tied him to a wall girder. She left a lamp burning on the tunnel floor. She left.
A man lay tied to the opposite wall of the tunnel. He was dressed in polar survival gear and bound hand and foot. Nail. Bruised face. Split lip. His right sleeve was ripped and bloody. White nylon stuffing spilled from the quilted fabric. A wound caused, Punch guessed, when he and Nail fought for possession of a shotgun.