scrap of bone, a snapped, shattered, ragged thing. It was partly hollow, like broken honeycomb. Little fires winked around its edges. Without air to feed them, the explosions were tiny, like the glow of embers.
‘We picked up the call on emergency frequency while you were asleep,’ Carveth explained. ‘Probably an automated distress call. That used to be a frigate. There would have been fifty people on board.’
‘My God,’ said Smith. ‘Is there anyone alive?’
New lights flared up along the stricken ship. Its systems were in their final, terminal throes. The core computer would be burning out, the doors no longer sealing, the oxygen stores leaking away. It was dying.
‘From a wreck like that?’
‘Check, Carveth.’
‘What’s the point?’
‘Just do it, woman!’
‘It is dead,’ Suruk said.
She nodded and pressed buttons, turned dials. ‘The emergency kits would have beacons attached, on the lifeboats and the suits…’ she said, studying the controls.
‘No beacons.’
‘Fifty people,’ Rhianna said from the back of the room.
‘That’s awful.’
A piece of metal from the hull floated past. It must have been the size of the John Pym , a huge sheet of plating wrenched into a pretzel shape. Smith lowered himself slowly into the captain’s chair, like an old man. Numbly he realised that his dressing gown was not covering his knees, and he pulled it closed.
Carveth looked down the binoculars and held them out for Smith. ‘The Tenacious ,’ she said. ‘It’s one of ours.’
‘What happened to it?’ Rhianna asked. Her voice sounded lost, disembodied.
‘The engine’s still intact,’ Smith replied. ‘Its missiles must have gone… or somebody torpedoed it.’
‘Nothing on the signals,’ Carveth said. ‘I say we go.’
‘Check again.’
‘Right.’ She looked back to the dials, very slowly turning one of them with her hand. They could hear the click of the dial as she explored the band, from top to bottom. Nothing.
Smith said: ‘Is the emergency signal still going?’
‘Yes. It’s two hundred miles away from the main wreckage, moving away fast… Probably blown clear.’ She turned and looked at Smith. ‘Boss, I know this is bad, but there’s nobody left alive out there… And I don’t think it was a malfunction that did for them.’
Smith ran a hand through his hair. Technically speaking, there could be people on the ship, survivors whose suit beacons didn’t work, or who were unconscious, or too shocked to put them to use, or a hundred other reasons why, waiting for help, hoping that somebody would come. Technically , but they all knew otherwise.
‘Take us out of here,’ he said. ‘There’s nobody alive. Set the co-ordinates and put us back on course.’
‘Right,’ said Carveth. The John Pym rumbled: they heard the soft whine as the thrusters swung to push them backwards, away from the scene.
A light flashed on the radio. ‘Hang on,’ Carveth said.
‘That must mean something. It’s picked something up.’
She pressed the headset against her ear. ‘It’s a standard S.O.S. transmission,’ she said. ‘Wait, there’s something on the end… it’s in code.’ She looked around at Smith. ‘Why is it in code?’
‘Run the code 6079Smith through the decoder,’ he said.
‘Is that their code?’ Rhianna asked.
‘It’s the only one I know,’ he said.
Carveth pulled the console down on its jointed metal arm and typed. ‘Then it’s for you. I think you’d better hear this.’
The loudspeakers crackled at the edges of the room and a voice filled the air between them, like the voice of God. It took up the cockpit, a deep, actor’s voice, the voice of a man who was not quite elderly.
‘This is Bentham Cartwright, Captain of HMS
Tenacious , fleet number 2305. If you can hear me, I am assuming two things: firstly, that I am addressing Captain Isambard Smith and the crew of the John Pym and, secondly, that our mission to protect you has been a
‘We picked up the call on emergency frequency while you were asleep,’ Carveth explained. ‘Probably an automated distress call. That used to be a frigate. There would have been fifty people on board.’
‘My God,’ said Smith. ‘Is there anyone alive?’
New lights flared up along the stricken ship. Its systems were in their final, terminal throes. The core computer would be burning out, the doors no longer sealing, the oxygen stores leaking away. It was dying.
‘From a wreck like that?’
‘Check, Carveth.’
‘What’s the point?’
‘Just do it, woman!’
‘It is dead,’ Suruk said.
She nodded and pressed buttons, turned dials. ‘The emergency kits would have beacons attached, on the lifeboats and the suits…’ she said, studying the controls.
‘No beacons.’
‘Fifty people,’ Rhianna said from the back of the room.
‘That’s awful.’
A piece of metal from the hull floated past. It must have been the size of the John Pym , a huge sheet of plating wrenched into a pretzel shape. Smith lowered himself slowly into the captain’s chair, like an old man. Numbly he realised that his dressing gown was not covering his knees, and he pulled it closed.
Carveth looked down the binoculars and held them out for Smith. ‘The Tenacious ,’ she said. ‘It’s one of ours.’
‘What happened to it?’ Rhianna asked. Her voice sounded lost, disembodied.
‘The engine’s still intact,’ Smith replied. ‘Its missiles must have gone… or somebody torpedoed it.’
‘Nothing on the signals,’ Carveth said. ‘I say we go.’
‘Check again.’
‘Right.’ She looked back to the dials, very slowly turning one of them with her hand. They could hear the click of the dial as she explored the band, from top to bottom. Nothing.
Smith said: ‘Is the emergency signal still going?’
‘Yes. It’s two hundred miles away from the main wreckage, moving away fast… Probably blown clear.’ She turned and looked at Smith. ‘Boss, I know this is bad, but there’s nobody left alive out there… And I don’t think it was a malfunction that did for them.’
Smith ran a hand through his hair. Technically speaking, there could be people on the ship, survivors whose suit beacons didn’t work, or who were unconscious, or too shocked to put them to use, or a hundred other reasons why, waiting for help, hoping that somebody would come. Technically , but they all knew otherwise.
‘Take us out of here,’ he said. ‘There’s nobody alive. Set the co-ordinates and put us back on course.’
‘Right,’ said Carveth. The John Pym rumbled: they heard the soft whine as the thrusters swung to push them backwards, away from the scene.
A light flashed on the radio. ‘Hang on,’ Carveth said.
‘That must mean something. It’s picked something up.’
She pressed the headset against her ear. ‘It’s a standard S.O.S. transmission,’ she said. ‘Wait, there’s something on the end… it’s in code.’ She looked around at Smith. ‘Why is it in code?’
‘Run the code 6079Smith through the decoder,’ he said.
‘Is that their code?’ Rhianna asked.
‘It’s the only one I know,’ he said.
Carveth pulled the console down on its jointed metal arm and typed. ‘Then it’s for you. I think you’d better hear this.’
The loudspeakers crackled at the edges of the room and a voice filled the air between them, like the voice of God. It took up the cockpit, a deep, actor’s voice, the voice of a man who was not quite elderly.
‘This is Bentham Cartwright, Captain of HMS
Tenacious , fleet number 2305. If you can hear me, I am assuming two things: firstly, that I am addressing Captain Isambard Smith and the crew of the John Pym and, secondly, that our mission to protect you has been a
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