Providence - Max Barry Page 0,61
“That’s . . . a good idea for three minutes ago!” Gilly said. “I can’t do it that fast!”
“Breach on A Deck,” Jackson said. “Breach on B. Second breach on B. Breach on D. Third breach on B. We’ve been boarded.”
Small-arms lockers, Anders thought, but didn’t say, because he was trying not to drop Beanfield down an unmotorized ladder shaft. He managed to work her down to F and then it was easier through the corridor. He reached Medical, cranked the manual door release, and lay Beanfield out on the table. He waited for something to happen but it didn’t. “Ah, bitch,” he said, because of course the ship wasn’t working. He yanked open drawers until he found a blue medbag. He tugged down Beanfield’s pants and she woke and tried to stop him and he said, “It’s okay, I’m helping,” and it was hard, because he had to be forceful. Once he got the medbag over her hips, she calmed some. He detached her survival core and set it aside. Not much use against crushing forces, that. Kind of completely useless. He carefully unpeeled the first-aid patch. Blood welled immediately, a lot of it. He drew the bag up tight so it could press to her skin and watched it begin to inflate, turning her into a big blue cuddly toy. The medbag would apply pressure where it was needed, and dispense medicine, anesthetic, whatever. It would also drug her out of her mind, most likely. But that was probably for the best. “Beanfield’s bagged.”
Jackson: “Anders, I want you out of there right now.” There had been some conversation he hadn’t followed while he was figuring out the medbag.
Gilly: “Is Beanfield all right?”
Jackson: “Anders, they’re on your deck.”
He looked at Beanfield. He wished she was awake. Salamanders on the ship, Beanfield. Two years of nothing, and when something finally happened, she was unconscious.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you. Beanfield’s okay.”
Gilly said, “I’m locking everything down. If you want to be on the right side of the blast doors, you need to get to a junction or hatch right now.”
He wondered what to do with Beanfield’s survival core and decided to leave it; it wasn’t going to help with her injury, and couldn’t be applied over the medbag. He hefted her. The fabric crinkled. Her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful. “Going to need you to open that small-arms locker, Gilly.”
Gilly: “Ah . . . all right, let me check on that.”
He stepped into the corridor. It felt colder. From above came sounds like whispers. Could be anything. Could be wind, dragging around parts of the ship. Could be Eddie, coming for him with the pipe, his mouth bloody, his teeth full of gaps. He carried Beanfield, the glowstick dripping blue light.
From ahead came a low dragging. “Is that them?”
“Yes. Move.”
“Because it sounds like they’re ahead of me.”
“You’re okay if you move.”
He moved. “You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
The glowstick jiggled in his hands. He was going to drop that fucking thing. It would roll across the deck and while he was on his knees, balancing Beanfield and groping in the dark, salamanders would find him. They were big. He didn’t want to face one without a gun.
“Junction right ahead,” Gilly said. “Get through that and I can drop a door behind you.”
He saw it in front of him. But the thing about corners was that anything could be around them. He knew that better than anyone. But if they were that close, Gilly would know, and tell him. He had to trust that. He stepped out into the junction and raised the glowstick. To port was a small-arms locker, but of course his bullshit light stopped at six feet and his imagination extended farther than that. He wasn’t illuminating anything except himself, standing there.
“They to my port or starboard, Gilly?”
“Closest hostile is port.”
Of course it was. “How close?”
“Close enough. Keep moving.”
Gilly was cautious, though. Always thinking things were worse than they were. Anders set Beanfield against the wall, on the far side of