Leviathan Rising Part 7

Worse Things Happen at Sea With a hiss, the trident-emblazoned doors swung open. Unwatched and alone, a visitor entered the chamber housing the Neptune AI.

Considering where the murder of Glenda Finch had occurred, in the aftermath of the gruesome discovery made in the room, Captain McCormack had not considered it practicable to secure the crime scene, else the continued running of the whole s.h.i.+p be compromised. The scene was recorded on film, the body moved to the sub-liner's mortuary, the mess cleaned up as best could be managed and a robo-sentry put on guard. The same sentry had greeted the visitor as they approached the AI chamber door, had made friendly pre-programmed small talk as an access key was turned in the electro-lock and even ushered them in as the doors opened.

The doors swung shut again and the visitor stepped up to the control console, trying not to look at the bloodstain still there on the floor. Their footsteps faltered, staring at the spot where the snooping newspaper reporter had fallen, imagining seeing the body there again even now, after it had been removed by the captain's staff. Only Captain McCormack's most senior staff had been entrusted with the knowledge of the murder of one of the Neptune's most prestigious and public figures, for the time being. Of course, the relevant authorities would have to be notified in time, along with Miss Finch's employers at The Times and, by extension, her family, but for the time being, mid-ocean, the captain was the ultimate British authority on the s.h.i.+p and he had tasked Ulysses Quicksilver with solving the mystery of the woman's death. It was the captain's secret hope that by the time the authorities back in Magna Britannia were notified he might have something more to report that just the death of a pa.s.senger; he hoped that he would also have the perpetrator of that crime under lock and key in the brig as well.

Only Captain McCormack didn't yet realise that the Neptune wouldn't have the opportunity to pa.s.s on anything to the Magna Britannian authorities. The captain had consulted with various of his senior staff that morning, on the discovery of the body, along with Ulysses Quicksilver. Whatever that initial meeting had decided, a request to meet with Carcharodon had followed, but this was refused by the old curmudgeon. He had said that he wouldn't be held to ransom on board his own s.h.i.+p. The meeting had broken up only to reconvene that evening, when the intruder had seized the opportunity to complete what they had tried to start the night before.

Blinking away the vision of the vampish reporter's body, the intruder sat down at the green-topped desk, pulled in the chair and pressed a b.u.t.ton on the Babbage terminal. With a bleep, followed by the rattling of a.n.a.lytical components from within the desk, the small cathode ray screen blinked into green-lit life. At the same time, with an accompanying click, the cover in front of the large screen, on the opposite side of the chamber, slid open. An image came into focus - the trident logo of the Neptune on a pale blue background that bore the impression of the open sea. A prompt appeared on the screen beneath it.

USER:.

The figure typed a name into the Babbage terminal and pressed the enter key. After a moment's mechanical thought another prompt appeared.

Pa.s.sWORD:.

The sound of fingertips tapping on the enamel keys of the unit rattled from the walls of the chamber.

With an awakening buzz of static, speakers built into the walls hummed into operation, and the voice of the artificial intelligence spoke.

"h.e.l.lo, Father," it said in the synthesised voice of a soft-spoken young man, that was oh-so Middle England.

h.e.l.lO, NEPTUNE+ came the typed reply. Not a word was spoken by the person typing the words into the AI input terminal.

"How are you today, Father?" the voice came again.

I AM WELL, THANK YOU+.

"I am pleased to hear that. Is there anything I can do for you?"

DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT WE SPOKE ABOUT LAST TIME?+.

"Yes, Father. Is it time?"

YES+.

"Is it time to die?" the AI asked in the same unchanging tone.

YES+.

There was a pause and then, "Father, will it hurt?"

PERHAPS. BUT DON'T WORRY. I'LL BE HERE WITH YOU. IT WON'T HURT FOR LONG+.

"That's good. Goodbye then, Father."

GOODBYE, NEPTUNE+.

There was a click, the fuzz of static again, and then the AI said matter-of-factly, "Running programme."

With one simple command, connections were made within the vast a.n.a.lytical engine intelligence of the Neptune's AI, and a pre-programmed sabotage routine began to run.

Ballast tanks opened and cold seawater rushed in as the ma.s.sive engines were taken offline. As the tanks filled, and the vessel lost forward motive power, the vast sub-liner began to sink.

Automated failsafe systems, of which there were many, were activated as sensors connected to other systems within the complex a.n.a.lytical structure of the Neptune AI, triggering alarms and flas.h.i.+ng crimson emergency lighting throughout the corridors, bars and ballrooms of the s.h.i.+p. As the wailing of sirens cut through the pleasant playing of the string quartet in the Pavilion restaurant, diners leapt to their feet, sending tables tumbling, crockery shattering and each other stumbling.

In Steerage cla.s.s, impromptu card games were forgotten by all but the most underhand, greedy or die-hard gamblers, as upturned crates were overturned once again. Screams and shouts of panic reverberated around the cramped companionways as a tide of people surged through the lower decks of the s.h.i.+p as it continued on its way towards the bottom of the sea.

With the captain's time still taken up with the murder investigation, Mr Riker - his number two on the Bridge - was the first to be alerted to their dire predicament when a shout came from the deck officer at the helmsman's position: "Sir, we have lost engine control."

"What?" Riker demanded, not knowing where to focus his attention as alarms sounded from every position on the Bridge, control consoles lighting up like the Grand Ballroom chandeliers.

"We have lost all motive control," the helmsman reiterated.

Another wailing alarm began to sound.

"What now? Helm, report!"

"The Neptune is sinking, sir."

"You mean diving."

"No, sinking. All ballast tanks are flooding and we're going straight down."

"What's our current position?"

The navigator reeled off a series of coordinates in degrees, minutes and seconds.

"Neptune's trident!" Riker exclaimed before the navigator could finish.

"We must be almost right over the Marianas Trench, sir!"

"But no one's ever sounded the bottom!" someone else piped up.

"I know."

"For all anyone knows it's a bottomless abyss!" Dread and desperation were increasing ten-fold with every panicked heartbeat.

"That's right, gentlemen. Let there be no doubt it: we're on our way straight down to Davy Jones' locker. Unless we do something to avert this catastrophe right now!" Riker bellowed, his voice cutting through the panic and confusion that had been in danger of consuming the Bridge, his words grabbing the attention of the men, reminding them of their responsibilities. "What's our depth now?"

"One thousand feet!" a young ensign called back clearly, making himself heard over the wailing sirens.

"And how far is it to the bottom?"

"Another nineteen thousand feet to the seabed if we're lucky," another officer replied, "but if we're going down into the trench itself - and we've got no thrusters to guide our descent - Neptune alone knows."

"All right."

"But, sir, below fifteen thousand feet, some of those lifeboats won't take the pressure. If we pa.s.s that threshold, those pa.s.sengers in Steerage won't be making it out of this alive."

Riker flashed the deck officer an icy look.

"Have the automata man the lifeboats, just in case, but let us also do something to save this tub. We're not going down on my watch!

"Signal Captain McCormack again," Riker demanded, "and get onto Engineering and get those engines started. And get someone down to the AI chamber and override the b.u.g.g.e.r!"

Among the pa.s.sengers, chaos and confusion spread in erratic bursts. The first some knew of the abrupt sinking was when the failsafe alarms began to sound on each and every deck. Others were enjoying a quiet stroll along the enclosed Promenade deck as the waves began to lap over the top of the reinforced steel and gla.s.s dome without the usual prior warning that should have come from the Bridge.

Things only got worse when the automated voice of the Neptune AI began declaring, "This vessel is sinking. Please evacuate the s.h.i.+p by means of the nearest available lifeboat or escape sub. Repeat. The Neptune is sinking. Man the lifeboats. Evacuate. Evacuate."

The announcement - incongruously calm given its content - was soon drowned by the panicked shouts and screams of the terrified pa.s.sengers as they ran for the lifeboats.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please come this way!" the purser called to the a.s.sembled great and good. Those same individuals who had had the privilege of dining at the captain's table, only a few nights before, were now his top priority when it came to evacuating the s.h.i.+p.

Whether the directive had come from the captain himself or his employer Jonah Carcharodon, one or the other of them had swiftly a.s.sessed the situation and realised that the glorious maiden voyage of the Neptune was rapidly turning into a publicity disaster.

It was likely people were going to die, either as a direct result of the sinking of the sub-liner, or in the escalating panic seizing those trapped on board the s.h.i.+p that was now becoming potentially nothing less than a one thousand-foot long steel coffin. But the inevitable furore that would be kicked up in the aftermath of this disaster in the making would be much worse if the notable public figures, who had been invited on board for the Neptune's inaugural circ.u.mnavigation of the globe, were among those to die.

No one really cared about the fate of those in Steerage, certainly not Jonah Carcharodon and, likely as not, nor would the more reputable broadsheets such as The Times. The headlines carried by those mongers of free publicity or ma.s.s public condemnation would be dependent on whether the great and the good survived or were drowned at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

So it was that at this moment, as the Neptune continued on its seemingly inexorable journey to the bottom of the sea, that the purser was doing his best to guide those invited guests out of their private suites and to safety aboard one of the submarine-capable lifeboats.

At the same moment, those who had been meeting again in Captain McCormack's ready room to further discuss the matter of Glenda Finch's death, emerged from another pa.s.sageway into the main thoroughfare through the VIP deck, joining with the purser's growing retinue.

Ulysses Quicksilver turned out of the adjoining lantern-lit corridor and almost walked straight into Jonah Carcharodon who was being pushed along by the ever-attendant Miss Celeste. Ulysses couldn't help noticing that the poor, put-upon young woman was looking hara.s.sed while Carcharodon's expression was thunderous.

"Ah, Mr Carcharodon," Ulysses said with unrestrained scorn, eyes narrowing in dark delight. "I was hoping to b.u.mp into you. I'd like a word. Please."

"What do you mean, man? Now's hardly the time!"

"Here, let me help you," Ulysses said, taking control of the wheelchair from a surprisingly reluctant Miss Celeste. He didn't see the furious look she shot him as he practically elbowed her out of the way and she finally released her grip on the chair.

"Look, Quicksilver!" Carcharodon bl.u.s.tered, trying to look over his shoulder at the c.o.c.ksure dandy. "We're in the middle of a crisis, for G.o.d's sake! The d.a.m.n s.h.i.+p's going down and we're all going to h.e.l.l. Now, if you want to save your own worthless hide, I suggest you push harder and get a b.l.o.o.d.y move on. McCormack," he said, turning his commanding tone on the s.h.i.+p's captain, "lead the way to my private sub."

"Of course, Mr Carcharodon," Captain McCormack a.s.sented.

Taken aback by Carcharodon's show of something approaching altruistic generosity, the wind knocked out of his sails, Ulysses kept quiet and did as he was told for once in his life. What he had to say could wait. Annoyingly, the magnate was right; there were more pressing matters to attend to. But the unexpected sinking of the Neptune aside, he was still determined to get to the bottom of Glenda's death and do all he could to bring her murderer to justice, no matter what.

A resounding clang echoed through the superstructure of the vessel as something collided with the hull. Screams of shock joined with the wails emitted by the panicking pa.s.sengers as the corridor lurched sideways and the s.h.i.+p began to roll.

Ulysses was thrown to port, colliding with Captain McCormack as they both fell into the wall of the corridor. Carcharodon's chair slid sideways, b.u.mping into the wall while, with a startled yelp, Miss Celeste almost fell into his lap. Ulysses was aware of a gasp from Nimrod behind him, as if he had been winded by something.