clawed metal flying up and clanking loudly against the lowest railing above. He gave it a jerk and the line tightened, the hook catching against steel pipe. First try, and Foster found herself wishing that he’d missed—that they could stay on the Star a bit longer, watch the Russian vessel from a safe distance . . .
Foster looked away into the fog, noticing the gradual change in the light; they had maybe another hour before Leiah hit. An hour to find out what had happened aboard their only refuge, what had occurred to leave it deserted and powerless.
Foster swallowed dryly as the two engineers shouldered their equipment and prepared to board the lifeless ship.
• 8 •
S queaky Molleno didn’t like this shit at all, but there was no way he was gonna let his partner go up alone; if there was some Ruskie wacko with an ax waiting on the deck of the Volkov, Steve would need some coverage. Still and all, he hadn’t been so nervous since he’d lost his virginity to Maria Vasquez in the back of Pop’s Ford sedan in high school—and that had been a good kind of nervous; this was just fuckin’ creepy. Fog all around and a sinking tug and now this floating horror show looming over them . . .
. . . desgracia sobre desgracia, one goddamn thing after another.
“You know, this is foreign soil,” said Richie casually. “We’re trespassing, we need the captain’s permission to board her; they can legally shoot us. Just wanted everyone to know that . . .”
Terrific. Ganja boy had all the facts; a little encouragement was just what they needed.
Steve started up, hand over hand, dwarfed by the giant hull of the Russian ship. Squeaky let him get a few feet and then followed, gritting his teeth in exertion as he stepped off the tug and pulled himself into the air.
The blank white of the hull seemed to go on forever, extended at least thirty feet up from the lapping water, and that was just to the lowest of the multiple railings. Squeaky concentrated on keeping balanced, on not looking anywhere except at his hands and occasionally getting a nice, clear view of Steve’s butt and legs directly overhead as they scaled the sloping wall.
He heard Steve hit the deck and then his partner’s strong, sweaty hand was extended down to help him aboard. Squeaky took it gratefully; he wasn’t the athlete he’d been a few years ago and he felt the strain in his arms and back as he climbed through the railing, panting.
Steve took the bundled rope ladder out of the utility bag and looped it to the railing, breathing easily in spite of their climb. Squeaky scowled to himself; he’d have to get back into his daily push-ups, no shit . . . Now wasn’t the time to think about it, though. His heart was thumping from more than just the trek up; this sucked.
“Boarding a ship without permission? Stupid, very stupid,” he said quietly. “We’re gonna get shot.”
Steve didn’t answer, but Squeaky could see that he agreed on the “stupid” part. Steve was easy to read, at least for him; they’d worked together a long time, and Squeaky could tell when his buddy wasn’t happy. It wasn’t like there was any alternative, but still, Squeaky didn’t particularly care for the idea of their deaths being legal, and he didn’t like this ship. He’d boarded derelicts before and he’d never felt so totally freaked; it felt . . . haunted.
The rope ladder secured and dropped, Steve unshouldered the shotgun and walked to the forward ladder well. They couldn’t see much from where they’d boarded, the top deck well above eye level. Squeaky followed close, searching for movement and still trying to catch his breath.
They came out next to the bridge, a raised structure as big as the Sea Star in its entirety. Squeaky wasn’t too good on distances, but the deck that stretched out in front of them looked the length of a couple of football fields. Underneath one of the huge dishes was a glass-encased control room, twenty feet above the silent
Foster looked away into the fog, noticing the gradual change in the light; they had maybe another hour before Leiah hit. An hour to find out what had happened aboard their only refuge, what had occurred to leave it deserted and powerless.
Foster swallowed dryly as the two engineers shouldered their equipment and prepared to board the lifeless ship.
• 8 •
S queaky Molleno didn’t like this shit at all, but there was no way he was gonna let his partner go up alone; if there was some Ruskie wacko with an ax waiting on the deck of the Volkov, Steve would need some coverage. Still and all, he hadn’t been so nervous since he’d lost his virginity to Maria Vasquez in the back of Pop’s Ford sedan in high school—and that had been a good kind of nervous; this was just fuckin’ creepy. Fog all around and a sinking tug and now this floating horror show looming over them . . .
. . . desgracia sobre desgracia, one goddamn thing after another.
“You know, this is foreign soil,” said Richie casually. “We’re trespassing, we need the captain’s permission to board her; they can legally shoot us. Just wanted everyone to know that . . .”
Terrific. Ganja boy had all the facts; a little encouragement was just what they needed.
Steve started up, hand over hand, dwarfed by the giant hull of the Russian ship. Squeaky let him get a few feet and then followed, gritting his teeth in exertion as he stepped off the tug and pulled himself into the air.
The blank white of the hull seemed to go on forever, extended at least thirty feet up from the lapping water, and that was just to the lowest of the multiple railings. Squeaky concentrated on keeping balanced, on not looking anywhere except at his hands and occasionally getting a nice, clear view of Steve’s butt and legs directly overhead as they scaled the sloping wall.
He heard Steve hit the deck and then his partner’s strong, sweaty hand was extended down to help him aboard. Squeaky took it gratefully; he wasn’t the athlete he’d been a few years ago and he felt the strain in his arms and back as he climbed through the railing, panting.
Steve took the bundled rope ladder out of the utility bag and looped it to the railing, breathing easily in spite of their climb. Squeaky scowled to himself; he’d have to get back into his daily push-ups, no shit . . . Now wasn’t the time to think about it, though. His heart was thumping from more than just the trek up; this sucked.
“Boarding a ship without permission? Stupid, very stupid,” he said quietly. “We’re gonna get shot.”
Steve didn’t answer, but Squeaky could see that he agreed on the “stupid” part. Steve was easy to read, at least for him; they’d worked together a long time, and Squeaky could tell when his buddy wasn’t happy. It wasn’t like there was any alternative, but still, Squeaky didn’t particularly care for the idea of their deaths being legal, and he didn’t like this ship. He’d boarded derelicts before and he’d never felt so totally freaked; it felt . . . haunted.
The rope ladder secured and dropped, Steve unshouldered the shotgun and walked to the forward ladder well. They couldn’t see much from where they’d boarded, the top deck well above eye level. Squeaky followed close, searching for movement and still trying to catch his breath.
They came out next to the bridge, a raised structure as big as the Sea Star in its entirety. Squeaky wasn’t too good on distances, but the deck that stretched out in front of them looked the length of a couple of football fields. Underneath one of the huge dishes was a glass-encased control room, twenty feet above the silent
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