Текст книги "Noah's Ark: Encounters"

Автор книги: Harry Dayle

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Contents

Title

A Note To Readers

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Epilogue

Author's Note

Also By The Author

Copyright

Harry Dayle

Note To Readers:

This book is as British as its author. Readers used to American English may find some spellings and phrases differ slightly from those they are more familiar with.

Prologue

HE HEARD THE propeller spin up, its blades beating out a rhythm as they sliced through the water, faster with every turn. They were on the move once more. Lifting his head, he caught the glint in the eye of the other man. He knew that glint. It was a glimmer of hope, a hope they both shared, but a fading hope. Moving meant there was a chance, no matter how slim, that they would be found. He hung his head again, knowing the other man was doing the same.

They were all doing the same.

Most weren’t even conscious. There was only so long the human body could keep going when deprived of food and drink. Sure, he’d been given water, even a little rice, but it wasn’t enough. The only reason they were alive at all was because their bodies were hardly burning any calories. How could they? Tied up, chained to a bulkhead, any movement beyond turning the head was virtually impossible. He could actually feel his muscles beginning to atrophy. It was like someone had wrung the strength out of them. His eyes, denied daylight for so long, were watery and weak. He could see the other man just a metre or so away, but no further than that. The others were little more than vague shapes in the darkness.

His other senses had been dulled by his imprisonment too. This was a blessing. Having been left to fester in their own excrement, he had no doubt the stench in the confined space must have been powerful, but he was spared that particular horror as his nose had long since given up its regular duties.

Escape was impossible, of course. The ropes were strong; they were designed to hold down equipment on the deck of the ship. They were well tied, too. Proper knots, made by experienced sailors. And now, in his weakened and disoriented state, the bindings were as good as redundant. Even without them he knew he would struggle to make it as far as the door.

And then what? Where could he go? There was nowhere to run.

The propeller reached its operating speed and became a drone, fading into the background. The sound was soporific, and guided him gently back into a trance.

In his mind, he saw the asteroid. He often saw the asteroid; it wasn’t the sort of thing one forgot in a hurry. He would remember that day for the rest of his life.

He recalled how, standing on the back of the ship, he had watched its approach. They’d all seen the final broadcast, they knew what was coming. He was resigned to their fate, prepared to die, unlike some of the others. He could see them now as they leapt over the handrail, preferring to take their chances in the freezing waters of the Arctic Ocean rather than face certain death on the deck. And then there had come the moment he would never forget. That magical moment when the giant space-rock had begun to climb. For every metre of altitude it rose, he had gained an ounce of hope. They had watched in disbelief as it passed right overhead. By some kind of miracle, they had been saved.

Life hadn’t been easy since that day, but they had kept on surviving against all odds. They were possibly the only survivors remaining. They had pulled together, old arguments forgotten, determined to find a way to feed themselves, and to locate land untouched by the terrible toxic ash that had smothered the planet. Spirits had been high. He smiled as he remembered how at one point they had almost blown up the ship because of a silly accident, but they’d got through even that.

And then it had all gone terribly wrong. An unseen menace had stepped out of the shadows.

The hypnotic droning drilled deeper into his head, and his memories began to fade. A bottomless sleep was trying to claim him. He welcomed it. He had no desire to revisit the memories that came next. The memories of being tied up and hidden away in the bowels of the ship. The memories of being kept barely alive. He no longer cared if he ever woke up. Perhaps he had been cheating death since the asteroid had screamed overhead, and death had finally caught up with him. He hoped so, because if this was what living looked like now, he wanted no further part of it.

One

CHIEF RADIO OFFICER Lucya Levin looked back one last time at the pulverised ruins of Portsmouth. They had known there was very little chance the seaport would have survived the asteroid, but she couldn’t help feeling that another tiny ray of hope had died. It had been the same at the HMNB Devonport naval base in Plymouth. It was the same wherever they went.

Lucya was surprised at just how sad she felt for the loss of the place. In the four years she had worked for Pelagios Line, the town had become home – in as much as anywhere could be called home when spending so much of one’s life at sea. There had even been a time she had imagined settling down there with Jake, and perhaps starting a family. The fact Jake had a wife never dampened those hopes; she knew his wasn’t a happy marriage.

Now, ironically, she was with Jake. But the home of her daydreams was something they could never have. They did had a family though, of sorts. In a matter of mere weeks they had both developed a deep and loving bond with Erica, the girl they had informally adopted since her father had fallen victim to the virus that had swept the ship.

“No great loss, I say. Never liked the town. Too much of a mess, and too many military types,” said Dave Whitehall, navigation officer.

Lucya turned to find him looking over her shoulder, staring out of the rear-facing window.

“I lived in Cambridge once, for a while,” he continued. “That was nearly as bad. University town. All those bloody students everywhere you go, thinking they own the place. At least they were intelligent. Half of those military lot knocking around Portsmouth didn’t have two brain cells to rub together.”

“I wouldn’t let Coote hear you say that. Actually, I wouldn’t let anyone from the Ambush hear you say that. Not if you want to keep a full set of teeth.”

“Exactly my point. They think violence is the answer to everything.”

“I might remind you I was in the navy. And I might also remind you I am your superior officer.” Lucya smirked.

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t count. The Russians were more picky about who they let onto their boats. Anyway, what I’m saying is I’m not going to miss Portsmouth. The further south we can go the better. Bring on the sun.”

Lucya walked away from the window and wandered slowly back among the rows of grey consoles to the front of the bridge. She settled down in the captain’s chair, looking forward instead of back.

The bridge was quiet. Dave was manning navigation and communications. The only communication now was with HMS Ambush, the Royal Navy nuclear submarine that was the source of their power, tethered to the Spirit of Arcadia and sailing alongside her, partially submerged for the sake of efficiency.

Chuck Masters, trainee helmsman, was at the wheel, which in reality was a set of controls that told the computer how to steer the ship. The asteroid had knocked out the GPS satellites, but close to land they could safely rely on radar to navigate on autopilot. Chuck still took his responsibility seriously, and remained as vigilant as if he was in full control.

McNair, a submariner on loan from the Ambush, completed the skeleton crew, acting as lookout on the shift. He was far better qualified than Chuck to be at the helm, but Captain Jake Noah had impressed upon everyone the importance of having a number of people capable of doing every job on the bridge. That meant giving Chuck as much hands-on time as possible. They’d already lost one helmsman; losing another could be catastrophic if there was nobody to take their place.

“Crozon isn’t that much further south, Dave,” said Lucya, sighing. “If you’re expecting sunshine and orange groves you’re going to be disappointed.”

“I’ll settle for just the sunshine. I suspect orange groves are a long shot anywhere now.”

“How long is it going to take us to get there?”

Dave hesitated before answering. “I would have said eighteen to twenty hours, keeping it slow and steady.”

“Would have?”

“Yeah. There’s going to be a bit of a delay though.”

“Go on?”

“I’m picking up a distress signal, and it looks an awful lot like another one of those mysterious life rafts.”

• • •

The lights were off in Max Mooting’s deck-six office. The only window in the room looked onto the corridor outside, and the blind was shut. The office was in almost total darkness. Max preferred it that way. It meant people tended to stay out, thinking he wasn’t there.

Max didn’t like people, as a rule. He was deeply suspicious of them. It was a trait that had served him well in his capacity as head of security. Now things were different, and Max had to try and be nice to people on a regular basis. Not the community at large; they still got his gruff, public face. He had to be nice to his team.

Back in what Max liked to think of as the ‘good old days’, a couple of months ago, before the asteroid wiped out almost all life on earth, his job was simple. In spite of his impressive-sounding title, he had a team of precisely one: Reeve Canela. They had worked well together. Reeve did the being-nice-to-passengers thing, and Max dealt with the trouble makers. Then Reeve had disappeared, presumed dead, probably killed by Flynn Bakeman or one of his deranged ‘disciples’.

Max would happily have continued in his role all alone, but the committee had been handing out jobs for everyone on board, and security was no exception. Now Max found himself in charge of a team of twenty Community Security Officers, a term that made his skin crawl. It made it sound like his men and women were there to protect and serve the community. Max didn’t see it that way. As far as he was concerned, he was there to protect the ship and the crew from the community. Max was a company man through and through, and the fact the company had gone, along with the rest of the world, wasn’t going to change that in a hurry.

His office was tiny. He couldn’t fit even half his team in there. If he needed to address them all at once, he had to borrow one of the conference rooms outside of school hours, as they had recently become classrooms.

With his feet up on the desk, Max had begun to doze. There was probably paperwork to be done. A report to write, or some other pointless document to prepare for the next committee meeting. He could find someone else to do that for him. If he was to be encumbered with a bunch of subordinates, they could at least do his job for him.

He was rudely jolted awake by a voice booming through the door, accompanied by a determined knocking. It was the sort of knocking that wasn’t going to go away.

“Security? I require the assistance of security!” The voice penetrated the flimsy door and wound its way directly and irritatingly into Max’s ears.

“Security’s closed. Come back tomorrow.”

“This is an emergency. You can’t be closed: you’re the law.”

That, Max thought, was a fair point. Out at sea, he was the law. He was pleased someone else saw it that way too. He swung his size-thirteen feet off the desk, stretched, and waddled to the door.

On the other side he found a tall, elderly man with thinning white hair.

“Right, sir,” he said as politely as he could reasonably force himself. “What’s the emergency?”

“It’s my friend, Giles. He’s gone missing.”

Max groaned. “With all due respect, sir, nobody can go missing. We’re on a ship. In the ocean. Where is your friend going to go?”

“That’s what I want you to find out.”

Max trudged back inside and flopped into his chair. He didn’t invite his visitor into the office. “Could he have been killed by the ash? That’s what happened to most people who are missing, you know. Have you consulted the list of unknowns? There are photos of all those who weren’t identified.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, man. The ash was seven weeks ago. I’ve been playing bingo with young Giles every day since then.”

“When did you last see him?”

“A week ago. When we left Faslane. Poor chap was struck down with that terrible virus, but he pulled through. He was right as rain by the time we set sail.”

Max considered the man’s request. He knew the drill. The quickest way to get rid of him would be to go along with it, to go through the motions and make out he was doing something. He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a notebook and pen. The book was entirely empty, but he didn’t let his visitor see that. Instead, he flipped through the pages, nodding to himself, before settling on a blank page a quarter of the way through. He lay the book flat on the desk. “Right, I’d better take some details. Your friend’s full name?”

“Giles Moran.”

“Age? Appearance?”

“Sixty-four years old. Completely bald. Wears horn-rimmed spectacles, and a suit. Always a suit. Very well dressed, Giles.”

“Cabin number?”

“923.”

Max nodded again. That stood to reason. Deck nine was home to the largest state rooms. Giles sounded to Max like a snob; exactly the sort of person he’d expect to find in the nines. Exactly the sort of person he loathed: privileged; moneyed. Probably thought he was better than those on the lower decks, and certainly thought he was better than the crew. He disliked him already. As far as he was concerned, Giles wasn’t any great loss. He hoped he wouldn’t be found. Someone more deserving could take his cabin. Someone who had been assigned an important job, like a medical assistant, or a farmer. “And your name is?”

“Tom Sanderson. Cabin 907.”

Max’s pen scratched at the paper, scrawling down the information. “Something of a hero aren’t you, Mr Sanderson? Saved us all with your magical medication?”

Tom waved a hand dismissively. “That could have been anyone. The lovely Mrs Hanson and the rather clever Mr Vardy, they’re the real heroes. Although, I did stop the engine room from blowing up and sinking the ship. That was quite heroic.”

Max sighed. He’d heard all about that incident as well, but he wasn’t one for hero worship. Sanderson was another rich, privileged passenger; that was all that mattered. “Well, I think I’ve got all I need here. I’ll open an investigation and we’ll be in touch. Thank you, Mr Sanderson.”

“That’s it? You’re not going to send out a search party? He could be anywhere. He could have been taken prisoner, or fallen overboard!”

Max stood and walked to the door, closing it as he spoke. “If he fell overboard, rushing a search team out isn’t going to help. And in the very unlikely event he’s been taken prisoner, he’s still somewhere on the ship, isn’t he? Time is not of the essence, but I assure you we will do all we can. We’ll be in touch, Mr Sanderson. You go and get some lunch rations and relax.” The door clicked shut.

Max sat back down and flipped the notebook closed. He tossed it into the chair on the other side of his desk, the one that was supposed to receive visitors, or ‘customers’ as the committee insisted on calling them. If someone from his team dropped by, he’d give them the book and tell them to take a look if they had some spare time. If he remembered. He doubted he would.

He closed his eyes again, heaved his feet up onto the table, and pictured a sun-drenched beach with cocktails, music, and señoritas. A minute later, he began to snore gently.

• • •

The look on the face of submariner Ewan Sledge told Jake all he needed to know. He’s seen the same expression before, at Gare Loch.

“There’s a body in there, isn’t there?” Jake said, screwing up his face.

Ewan nodded, and pulled the canopy of the life raft all the way back. Jake, Captain Gibson Coote, and Doctor Janice Hanson crowded around the inflatable, jostling for position on the little platform normally used for boarding the Spirit of Arcadia’s tenders. They all wanted a better look, although with the exception of Janice – who had intense professional curiosity – they didn’t really want to get too close.

“Well, there you are, old chap. Another fellow with no head!” Coote observed.

“How do you know it’s a fellow, Captain Coote? It could be a woman,” Janice said. She got to her knees and leaned inside the raft, rolling the headless corpse closer towards them. Ewan turned white and withdrew.

“Call it intuition. It certainly looks like the frame of a man to me. Ewan, you and Eric can help get our friend here down to Mrs Hanson’s…working area. Discreetly, if you could.”

Eric O’Brien, who had been standing guard with a rifle – just in case – nodded, and disappeared inside the ship.

“I was so hoping we’d seen the last of these rafts,” Jake said. “This is what? The fourth one now? And the third body. Where are they coming from? And are they following us? Or is it coincidence that we keep coming across them?”

“Judging by the state of this body, I might be able to give you more to go on,” Janice said. She was examining the severed neck. “This one is fresher than the last two. The poor guy in the fishing net was too far gone to give up many secrets. Your Faslane man in the last raft had been dead for a couple of weeks as well.”

“Any chance of spotting a pattern? Perhaps a clue as to where in the world they came from?”

“I can run a DNA test using some of the equipment we salvaged from the Faslane base, but it won’t tell us nationality or ethnicity. Human beings have been migrating around the world and mixing their markers far too long for that to be a realistic proposition without access to international DNA databases. But I can check for common haplogroups. That’ll at least give us a good indication as to whether the three bodies are likely to come from the same place.”

Eric returned to the platform, pushing a wheelchair on which was folded a large white sheet. Janice stood and moved back, allowing the two submariners to remove the corpse from the raft. They lowered it into the chair, covered it with the sheet, and wheeled it inside in the direction of a lift.

Jake peered at the raft again. Something had caught his eye. “Look,” he said, pointing at the far end. “Those symbols. I think they’re the same ones we found on the last raft. The one in the loch.”

“What are they, Chinese?” Coote stooped low, frowning at the odd shapes scrawled across the inflatable chamber:

“Maybe. You know, I had fully intended to try and decipher those six symbols from the other raft, but I never got round to it.”

“Hardly surprising, old boy. You were at death’s door shortly after finding that.” Coote chuckled. “Things have been somewhat busy since then. Mysterious symbols haven’t been high on anyone’s list of priorities.”

“No. They are now, though. We’re going to be sailing for at least another day. I have some time on my hands. I’m going to look into these some more. I’ve got an idea who could help me.”

“Well I’ll leave you boys to your treasure hunt,” Janice said. “I want to get started on the body straight away. I’ll give you a call when I’m done.”

“Mrs Hanson, always a pleasure!” Coote tipped his cap at Janice. “Time I got going too. As soon as my chaps are back on the Ambush we’ll dive again. We should make good time as conditions are favourable.”

Jake couldn’t argue with that. The English Channel was calm, and the sun even looked like it was trying to break through the omnipresent thick cloud that had descended after the asteroid’s passing. It was almost perfect weather to be at sea.

Two

JAKE MADE HIS way casually up to deck seven. He stopped by the conference rooms in passing, and sneaked a look through the windows. Groups of children were attending lessons. One of the larger rooms was the pre-school crèche. Toys and games had been gathered from the kids’ play areas, and more had been donated by families on board. It looked like a happy place. It was certainly a noisy one, as the infants laughed, cried, shouted and babbled away, slowly wearing down their courageous monitors.

Most of the youngsters inside, Jake realised, would never remember the old world. This was their reality, and this would always be their reality. He found the idea reassuring in a strange way. Theirs was the first generation that wouldn’t crave the freedom, space, and variety that the planet once had to offer. Of course, they would learn about how things had been before, but not remembering for themselves meant they would never truly feel the sense of loss or deprivation that everyone else was already suffering.

He moved along, looking in more rooms until he found the one he’d really come to see. Sitting at her desk, writing something with a look of intense concentration on her face, was Erica. He’d dropped her off there in the morning. The ‘school run’ Lucya called it. It was his turn, while she took the early shift on the bridge. Jake felt enormously protective over Erica, and couldn’t help but check on her any time he was near the conference rooms. Satisfied that she was perfectly fine, he took the lift up to deck seven.

Deck seven was, Jake believed, one of the most important on the ship. Not only was it where the kitchens were located, it was now becoming a vital source of food. The fishing team had been installed there, and with their improvised net repaired, they were regularly making good catches. A second net was well underway. It was a critical project; fish were their primary source of protein. The supplies they had recovered from Faslane were all well and good, but as head chef Claude never failed to impress upon Jake at every opportunity, fresh ingredients were essential to everyone’s wellbeing.

It wasn’t just about fish. Deck seven was also the home of Palm Plaza, a huge park, open to the sky. Cafes surrounded it, and on the decks above, state rooms overlooked it. The plaza had always been a favourite space among the crew, an oasis of land and greenery wherever in the world they went. Now it was being repurposed and rebuilt. Palm Plaza had become Farm Plaza.

Jake spotted the man he had come to find straight away. He strolled over to him, making his way along the decked path that wound through earth that had, until recently, been home to flowerbeds, lawns, and of course palm trees. Now that dirt had been turned over and was being sown with crops.

“Joseph!” Jake called to the head of the farming team, a rugged retired farmer with ruddy cheeks and a warm heart, and a work ethic that put most former crew members to shame.

“Aha, Captain Noah. Nice morning.”

Joseph shook Jake’s hand, his firm grip making him wince. Jake didn’t think Joseph quite knew the strength a lifetime of hard labour had given him.

“I must say, Joseph, you and your team have done an impressive job. Every time I come here it looks different again.”

“They work hard, but they could do better. There is always room for improvement.”

“I swear there’s more growing space here than there used to be. How is that possible? Is it an illusion? Does the ground look bigger when it’s bare earth like this?”

Joseph smiled. He was a restrained man of few words. He rarely offered information, but when pressed, would open up and share from his immense wealth of experience. “No illusion, Captain. There is a lot more soil on this ship than that found in the Plaza. We have been relocating it, making better use of resources.”

Jake pondered this. “Okay, go on. Where are you getting more soil from?”

“It is all around. Almost every deck. Pot plants, floral displays; some of the restaurants have huge planters in them. Many, many cubic metres of earth are to be found. All one has to do is open one’s eyes.”

“So you’re gathering up all that soil and bringing it here? Wow, I would never have thought there would be enough to make a difference.”

“It is a big ship, Captain Noah. By the time we have finished, we will have increased the growing area by a third.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “Impressive, Joseph. Really impressive.”

“Let us not get carried away. This will never feed everyone.”

“No, but anything we can grow here has to help. The Faslane food won’t last forever. Whatever we can do to supplement it is important.”

Joseph nodded sagely. “It is also a long-term effort. We are towards the end of the season. Going further south will help, but it is going to be months before we see the fruit of this labour. I don’t want you to be under any misconception about that.”

“No, you’re right, of course. Even so, what you’ve achieved here already is nothing short of a miracle.” Jake stared around him. Farm workers toiled like bees, turning the ground with improvised instruments. Some had proper gardening tools, forks and spades, recovered from the gardeners’ stores, but many more were using tools that had been constructed by Martin’s engineering team. “At least you’re not short of manual labour. Actually, that’s one of the reasons I’m here. I need to talk to one of your team.”

“We work in shifts. Not everyone on my team is present. Who is it you need?”

“One of the prisoners. Zhang.”

“Then you are in luck, Captain. Mr Zhang is mixing compost from the kitchens with the soil being brought here from around the boat. A thankless task, and a physical one.”

“Excellent. His punishment will contribute to the greater good.”

“Come with me, I will show you where he is.”

The two men walked slowly across the plaza. Joseph pointed out the different areas and what each would be used for.

“Potatoes in there. They’re in, and they’ve started growing. If we keep heading south we’ll have a good crop.”

“I don’t suppose Claude gave up his last reserves easily?” Jake smiled. The chef could be difficult to deal with.

“You suppose right. I promised him he would get back at least three times what he provided us with, and he saw the advantages.”

“What about wheat? The kitchens didn’t carry grain stocks, did they?”

“No. But we were very fortunate to find a little among the Faslane reserves. Maize as well. Not much, but enough to give us a start. It is a shame we did not visit the Svalbard Global Seed Vault when we were so close by. It was designed for just this sort of eventuality. We could have had a much wider variety of crops.”

“I understand your frustration. Without the teams established, and your knowledge available to us, it wasn’t something we were even aware of at the time. Although, I don’t suppose such knowledge would have stopped Flynn from heading south anyway. Still, nothing says we can’t go back there in time.”

“That would be to our advantage. The first crops here will be set aside almost in their entirety as we establish our own seed bank. Probably the second crops too. Once we have created a good stock of grain, then we can begin turning some over to Claude. Depending on the meteorological conditions, I am confident we can get two crops of maize before the end of the year. Martin’s group is upgrading the existing irrigation system to something far more substantial. That will help, but the sun is something we don’t have control over. Here, Mr Zhang is over there, with his minder.”

“Thank you, Joseph.”

The men parted, Joseph returning to get hands-on with his farm.

Zhang’s work looked like a backbreaking task. Soil was being delivered in wheelbarrows, and he was mixing it with a rich black compost in a heap on the ground. As a prisoner, his rights and liberties had been taken from him. He was locked in a cabin for twelve hours a day, and worked much of the rest of the time. Whilst out of the cabin, he was permanently under supervision by one of the security team. There was no danger of ‘escape’: the whole ship was effectively a prison to all those on board, and everyone knew Zhang’s face. Everyone knew the face of all the captured disciples. Even so, due to the violent nature of his crimes, they weren’t taking any risks. Jake wasn’t sure who had the worst job: Zhang, or the minder who looked on, bored. It felt to the captain like a waste of a good security officer, someone who could be doing more useful work, contributing to the community in another way. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but it was the best the committee could come up with.

“Hello, Zhang,” Jake said coldly, before turning to the minder and shaking his hand.

Zhang stopped shovelling and looked up. He said nothing. His eyes looked dead, lacking any emotion at all. He didn’t appear angry, or upset, or frustrated. It wasn’t so easy for Jake to remain detached. Zhang had been directly responsible for the death of Pedro Sol, helmsman, and Jake’s friend. He’d used him as a human shield when submariners from the Ambush had retaken the bridge. In the end, Pedro had been killed, and Zhang was seriously wounded. Jake couldn’t help but wish his injuries had been fatal.

“It’s time for you to repay a little more of your debt to society. I require your help with something.”

Zhang turned away and continued to mix soil, loading his shovel with compost and dumping it into the growing pile of earth before twisting and turning the tool, combining the two types of dirt.

“Zhang! The captain is talking to you!” the minder barked at his charge, who sighed, stopped, and stood up straight, facing Jake. He was shorter than the captain, but there was no doubting he had a certain menacing presence about him. Jake was glad they were keeping him under close guard at all times.

“I need you to look at this.” Jake pulled out a notebook from his inside jacket pocket, and flipped it open. He found the page onto which he had copied the symbols from the life raft, and held it out for the prisoner to see. “Is this Chinese? Do you know what this says?”

The corners of Zhang’s lips turned up, just a tiny bit, but Jake noticed. Zhang knew what the symbols were, but he wasn’t saying.