Outpost (33 page)

Ghost
sat on the burned chair and pulled Nail's personnel file from his shoulder bag.

'So
what do you think we should do?' asked Ghost. 'Say we find a smoking gun. A
bloody knife, a shoe box full of smack.

What
then? Do we convene a jury? It's not like we can send him to jail. Take a vote?
Hang the guy? He's still got friends. If we start throwing accusations around
this could turn into civil war.'

'If
we have been passing the time of day with a killer, we need to know about it.
We can't let it go.'

'There
is another option. Just so we understand the road we are heading down.'

'Let's
hear it.'

'We're
in charge. You and me. We didn't apply for the job, but we're holding the
reins. If Nail is a problem, then it's down to us to deal.'

'Go
on.'

'I'll
take him on a trip inland. Find a pretext. Re-visit the capsule or something.
I'd make sure he didn't come back. I'd tell everyone he fell down a crevasse.'

'No.'

'It's
an option. That's all I'm saying.'

Ghost
thumbed through the file. He held up a sheet of paper.

'Nigeria,'
he said. 'Four years ago. He and Mal both worked for Chevron. I'm guessing
that's where they met.'

Jane
took a packet of beef jerky from her pocket.

'I
don't know what I hoped to find,' she said. 'There's nothing here. I don't
suppose we will ever know for sure.'

'Like
I say, if Nail has been dealing, if he killed Mal in a fight, we aren't in much
of a position to prove anything.'

'No.'

'So
we might as well drop it.'

'Yeah.'

'Except
for this.'

He
held up a sheet of paper. A crude photocopy.

'Discharge
papers. Private Edwin "Nail" Harper. Royal Engineers. He must have
used it as a reference.' He handed the paper to Jane. 'Distinguishing features.
Check it out.'

'I
can barely read it.' 'Tattoos.'

'Second
Battalion insignia right forearm. A lion on his back.'

'I
helped him out of a wetsuit once,' said Ghost. 'He and some guys were inspecting
the seabed pipeline. Testing the shut-off valve. I helped them decompress. He
has a big cross on his back, and a wolf on his arm. No regimental insignia.'

'You're
sure?'

'Pretty
sure.'

'You're
saying Nail Harper isn't Nail Harper?'

'Most
of the guys on the rig were running from something. Maybe he, whoever he is,
was running from the law. Trying to build a new life under a stolen identity.'

'So
what happened to the real Nail Harper?'

'Dread
to think.'

'You
think we should challenge him?'

'He'll
say he got the tattoo lasered off. Bad memories of Iraq, or some shit.'

'Christ,'
said Jane.

'The
sooner we cut him loose, the better.'

Nail's
turn on patrol. Ghost kept him company. They walked the perimeter, the ring of
barricades that kept the rabid population of
Hyperion
at bay.

They
checked locks. They re-stacked furniture against each door. They stood on deck
and watched mutant passengers mill on the tiered decks below them.

'They
don't get any smarter,' said Ghost.

'You'd
think they would rot,' said Nail. 'They can't keep going for ever. Sooner or
later, they have to drop dead.'

Nail
swigged from a hip flask.

'So
how are you doing?' asked Ghost.

'All
right.'

'You
must be pretty cut up about Mal.'

'Fuck
him. He was weak.'

'Any
idea why he would want to kill himself?'

'Right
now, every one of us has a dozen reasons to jump over the side.'

'He
was your friend.'

'Nobody
has friends. Not out here.'

Nail
proffered his hip flask. Ghost took it and pretended to drink.

'Fancy
a trip below deck?'

'What
for?' asked Nail.

'The
Neptune Bar. The guys want to hold a wake. We need to liberate a few supplies.'

'Yeah.
Why not?'

Jane
used a master key from the purser's office to let herself into Nail's cabin. She
searched by torchlight. Ghost and Nail were out on deck. She didn't want Nail
to see light at his cabin porthole.

'What
exactly do you hope to find?' Ghost had asked.

'I
don't know. Something incriminating. Some kind of contraband.'

Dumbbells.
Empty bottles of Scotch. Five years of
Hustler.

Jane
tried to think like a junkie. Where would she hide her stash? Toilet cistern.
Back of the washstand sink. Inside tubular, steel-frame furniture.

She
checked beneath the bed with a Maglite pen torch. She tugged at the side panels
of the bath. She pulled up carpet.

Nothing.

She
headed for the door. She was reluctant to leave. Gut instinct told her there
was something hidden in the room, something significant, but she didn't have
time for a thorough search.

The
crew took over the Tex Mex Grill. Ponchos hung on the wall, a plastic cactus
stood by the door and a picture of Lee Van Cleef hung behind the bar.

Ghost
and Nail had rescued three cases of Veuve Clicquot from below deck. They filled
buckets with ice chiselled from benches along the promenade, and set the
champagne to chill.

'Have
fun, boys,' said Ghost. His turn on patrol.

Gus
put a CD player on the bar. Mal liked U2, so they played 'Joshua Tree'.

Gus
muted the sound for a moment and stood on a chair. He proposed a toast.

'Mal.
Here's to you, buddy.
Via con Dios.'

They
all drained their glasses except for Jane. She resolved to stay sober. She sat
by a brass radiator. She stooped to pick up a fallen coaster and turned up the
thermostat. She popped a fresh bottle and refilled glasses.

Nail
took off his fleece. He stood on a table and clapped for silence. Another
toast.

'Goodbye
to a good man. Goodbye to our friend.'

Gus
found bags of nachos in a back room. He filled bowls.

Jane
stood next to Nail at the bar.

'You
took off your bandages.'

'Guess
I'm all better.'

'I
spoke to Nikki on the radio,' said Jane. 'She says Hi.'

'Tell
her to eat shit and die.'

'Did
she leave a note?'

'Bitch
stole my knife.'

The
room was getting hot. Jane took off her fleece. She wore a black vest.

'Been
working out?' asked Nail.

Jane
pried the cap from a Corona.

'I
took over your gym.'

'All
right. Let's see what you've got.'

They
cleared a table. The crew formed a circle. Nail pulled off his shirt. He sat
and put his arm out ready to wrestle.

'Left
hand, okay? I don't want to re-snap my wrist.'

Jane
got into position and gripped his massive hand.

Gus
counted them down: 'Three . . . two . . . one.'

Nail
had a snarling wolf on his bicep. No regimental tattoo on his forearm. No lion
on his back.

They
wrestled. Nail nearly dislocated Jane's shoulder. He quickly pulled her arm
over, but she kept her hand from touching the table. She fought and swore. She
sweated and snarled. She refused to grant victory.

Later
that night Jane cracked a fresh bottle of beer and stood at
Hyperion's
prow.

She
looked towards Rampart. A couple of standby floodlights still burned, even
though no one was home.

Jane
leaned over a prow railing and shone a flashlight downward. Half-frozen
passengers stood far beneath her. She dropped her empty beer bottle. She
watched it fall and smash on an infected passenger's head.

Someone
behind her. Nail, with a bottle. He leaned over the railing. He took a swig of
champagne and spat spray. He watched the droplets freeze as they fell, and
scatter on the shoulders of passengers below like hail.

'Bored
with singing?' he asked.

'Karaoke
at a wake. Doesn't seem right.'

'Mal
wouldn't care.'

'How
are the crew getting on?' asked Jane, groping for something to say. 'How is
morale? They don't confide in me much.'

'Pretty
good. There are plenty of distractions aboard. Plenty of ways to waste time.
We're all counting the days until March.'

'You're
doing all right?'

'Fine.'

'Heard
you were in the army.'

'Who
told you that?' asked Nail.

'I
don't recall. Just something I heard. So how was it?'

'Hot.
Dull.'

'Why
did you leave?'

'I'm
not a follower. I don't like being told what to do.'

'Coming
to the service tomorrow?'

'Dead
is dead. Nothing we say or do will make a damn bit of difference.'

'Guilty
as hell,' said Jane, when she got back to Ghost's room.

'You're
sure?'

'He
killed Mal. I'm certain. Don't know why it happened. Drug deal gone sour,
argument over a chocolate bar, whatever. But he killed him. Bet my life on it.'

'You've
got a shotgun. Maybe you should use it.'

'I
couldn't do a thing like that. Yeah, we killed a bunch of infected. But we have
to draw a line. I'm not a killer.'

'Of
course you're a fucking killer. There is no higher authority any more. This is
the way it is going to be. We have to sort this shit out ourselves.'

'Seriously?
You'd do it? Pull the trigger on the guy? Take him out on the ice and shoot him
in the back?'

'The
man isn't stupid. If you're right, if he genuinely offed Mal, then he's a
dangerous motherfucker. You know his big secret. He'll have sniffed it out in a
second. Right now we're safe, but once we get back to the world it'll be a
different story. He'll consider us a serious liability. We'd better watch our
backs from now on. That's all I'm saying.'

Mal's
funeral was scheduled for three in the afternoon. The crew gathered in the
Rampart canteen. They kept it short, anxious to dispatch the man's body and quit
the ice before
Hyperion
passengers surrounded them and attacked.

They
trained floodlights on the ice between the refinery's cyclopean legs. The crew,
those who knew and liked the man, descended from the rig. They stood over the
shrouded body while Jane intoned the old words:

'Our
days are like the grass; we flourish like a flower of the field; when the wind
goes over it, it is gone and its place will know it no more. But the merciful
goodness of the Lord endures forever . . .'

Most
of the guys didn't believe in God or heaven, but they liked the rhythm of
elegiac prayers, the tone of resignation and acceptance.

They
smashed a hole in the ice, then slid his body into the sea. The men watched Mal
dragged away by the current. Every one of them thought the same thing. Is this
how it will end? One by one pushed into the ocean and carried away by the tide.
What would the last man do? That final, lone member of Rampart's crew about to
succumb to starvation or infection? They would break a hole in the ice then say
a prayer at the water's edge. Conduct their own funeral oration. Maybe sing a
hymn. Then they would cross themselves, close their eyes and drop into the
ocean.

Nikki
curled foetal and covered her head. Waves slammed into the boat. She had sealed
herself below deck. She rode out a series of impacts like one car crash after
another. She wrapped herself in a sleeping bag for extra protection. She lay in
the dark. Every couple of minutes she felt the boat rise like it was about to
take off, then dive into a deep trough. She sang to calm herself down, but
couldn't hear her own voice above the white-noise roar of the maelstrom.

She
was cramped. She could barely move. She had lowered the sail and rigging,
folded the silver fabric, coiled the rope, and stowed them below deck.

The
mast was still raised. A design fault. It was welded in place. It could not be
lowered flat. A big steel spike raised skyward during a fierce lightning storm.

Nikki
doubted she would feel a lightning bolt when it struck. Steel mast, aluminium
hull. She would be microwaved in an instant. A cooked sailor, lying in her
bunk, crisped and smoking, like a hunk of roast pork.