Origin - Season Two (44 page)

“You guys see this?” Francis asked.

“We do,” Mitch confirmed.

“Eight hours is about right, based on the original course,” Heinz said.

“Which means these guys were going to blow Shanghai off the map,” Francis said. “Makes you wonder what the Chinese did to piss them off.”

“Maybe they just changed their minds,” Mitch said.

“Maybe,” Francis said. “How we doing for time?”

“You’re forty-five miles out,” Mitch said. “That gives you a little less than two hours.”

“I doubt we’ll have quite that much time,” Francis said. “Sooner or later someone’s going to try and contact this thing and discover it’s gone rogue.”

Francis reached down, folded the cover back into place and made his way toward the stern.

It wasn’t until he reached the door at the base of the superstructure that the problem posed by Odin’s size became apparent. At ten feet and three inches Francis would have to crawl through the ship to reach the engine room.

“Guys, this isn’t going to work,” Francis said.

“Head back to the first cargo hold,” Mitch said. “You’ll have to go down there and fight your way back.”

Francis reached the hatch and stood looking at it for a moment. It was actually two hatches that met in the middle and opened out on rails. He pushed one hand, then the other, into the gap and pulled them apart. The harder he pushed the faster they moved. Again, the sensation was alien. Whereas the human body quickly reaches its limit of strength under effort, Odin seemed to have no limits. Out of curiosity, he grabbed the edge of the hatch and began to squeeze, then looked on in amazement as the metal first buckled in his hand, then began to shrink, and finally started to glow red hot.

“Wooow,” Mitch said. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?” Francis said.

“You’re sending some of these readings into the red,” Mitch said.

There followed a short discussion between Mitch, Watkins and Heinz which Francis couldn’t follow without a view of the screen they were looking at.

“That little trick just burned up about fifteen percent of your battery,” Mitch said.

“It has batteries?” Francis said.

“Well, I doubt they’re made by Duracell,” Mitch said. “But it wouldn’t work without a power source. There’s no magic involved, just very advanced physics. I suggest you keep the stunts to a minimum.”

“You have to remember it’s a symbolic machine,” Watkins added. “It’s not a utility system.”

“Yeah,” Francis said, “I get it. No showing off.”

Francis leaned forward, grabbed the edge of both halves of the hatch and swung over the edge. He hung there for a moment looking down into the blackness, then let go. The drop must have been at least 40 feet. He hit the ground standing and flinched as the walls suddenly appeared at the end of a bright beam of light that was either coming from a hole in his head or from his own eyes.

“Looks like we have a built-in flashlight,” Francis observed.

“We’d have to take it back if it didn’t,” Mitch said. “You want the wall behind you.”

Francis walked to the bulkhead. It was covered in cement dust.

“So what?” Francis asked. “I just punch a hole in it?”

“You’ll have to,” Mitch said.

Francis needed no more encouragement. He pulled his right arm back, clenched his hand into a fist and thrust it forward. The clang was deafening.

“Holy shit,” Mitch said. “I think we’ll have to call you Bruce Banner from now on.”

Francis, who knew who the Incredible Hulk was, but not Bruce Banner, ignored this and looked into the hole he had just made. It appeared to be a control room of some kind. His fist had gone through both the bulkhead and whatever was mounted to the other side. Through the jumble of wires he could see a door only a few feet away.

“Keep going,” Mitch said.

Francis made two more holes above and below the first then grabbed a piece of the bulkhead and tore it off. It was like tearing a strip of cardboard out of the side of a very sturdy box, only cardboard didn’t begin to smolder when you ripped it. It took him a minute to make the hole big enough to squeeze through.

“I’m betting the engine room is on the other side of that door,” Mitch said.

“It is.”

Francis recognized the voice of Captain Almila and said, “Hey, Captain. I was wondering when you’d show up. I guess I should apologize for what I’m doing to this otherwise perfectly intact ship.”

“Only if it turns out to be a waste of time,” Almila said.

In deference to Almila, Francis squeezed through the door instead of making it bigger. The engine room wasn’t so much a room as a cavernous hall filled with crisscrossing pipes of every size and color. To Francis, who had never been inside a ship’s engine room, the engine itself looked impossibly big, even to a man as tall as he now was. It was also very loud. But this seemed to have no effect on his ability to hear what was being said on RP One. It was as if the voices of Mitch and the others were coming through his ears while the sounds around him were being transmitted directly into his head.

“So what’s the plan?” Francis asked.

“Captain?” Mitch said.

“The easiest way to stop the engine is to cut off the fuel supply,” Almila responded.

Francis looked up at the engine.

“There,” Almila said. “The two yellow boxes on the second level.”

“With the pipes running out of them?” Francis asked.

“Yes. Follow the larger ones coming out of the bottom and running down into the floor.”

Francis walked over to the first of these. He was about to rip it from the wall when Almila said. “If you can, just squeeze them flat. It’ll be a lot less messy.”

Francis put his palms to either side of the first pipe and pushed them together until it was flat. The response from the engine was instant. It didn’t stop, but slowed down and began to shudder. He repeated this for the second pipe. Within a few seconds the engine ground to a halt.

The Pandora

Wednesday 27 June 2007

0200 EEST

By the time Francis landed on the deck of the Xilin Gol, the bridge of RP One was almost full. Richelle had returned shortly after Francis made the transition to Odin, and taken up position at the back of the bridge. Not long after this Sarah, Mitch’s wife, had arrived and joined her. Captain Williams, skipper of the Callisto, had flown over with Titov, and Yoshi, the pilot, had now joined them too. To accommodate the growing audience, Mitch had duplicated the feed from Odin on two of the viewports and the overview of the Xilin Gol on the other two.

With nothing happening topside, everyone’s attention was fixed on the feed from Odin. It was Sarah who spotted the helicopter as it flew into the picture and hovered above the deck.

“Guys,” Sarah said. “I think we’ve got a problem.”

Mitch turned to the other monitor. “Oh, shit.”

A moment later the helicopter was joined by two more. Men began rappelling down onto the deck and quickly spreading out.

“What’s going on up there?” Francis said.

“Helicopters,” Mitch said. “Three of them. And I don’t think they come in peace.”

Two of the helicopters left as soon as the men were out, but the third only moved out over the water and hovered there. Mitch zoomed out the view and cursed again when he saw another ship. It was only a few hundred yards away.

“Francis,” Mitch said. “We’ve got a problem.”

“No shit,” Francis said.

“There’s a ship on its way.”

“It’s a destroyer,” Almila said.

“What do I do?” Francis said.

“We should pull him out,” Titov said.

“We can’t leave Odin onboard,” Watkins said.

Mitch zoomed back in on the Xilin Gol just in time to see several of the newcomers gather around the warheads. A moment later the helicopter that had stayed moved into position above it.

“Speak to me,” Francis said. “What’s happening?”

“They’re taking the bomb.”

The Xilin Gol

Wednesday 27 June 2007

0730 CST

Francis didn’t need to hear anymore. He ran back to the entrance of the control room and barged through it, sending the door flying off its hinges. When he was back inside the cargo hold he squatted near the wall, looked up at the gap in the hatch and jumped. He managed to get a hold on the side with one hand, but before he could bring up the other he lost his grip and fell, landing on his back with a loud crash.

Ignoring Mitch’s increasingly desperate pleas to know what was happening, Francis tried again. This time he managed to get hold with both hands and pull himself up. Gunfire erupted behind him and his head and lower back were suddenly peppered with bullets. The fact that these were harmless could not override his instincts, which demanded he find cover. He pulled himself over the side and ducked behind the edge of the hatchway as the fire intensified. When he raised his head over the side a bullet hit him square in the middle of the forehead and went flying up into the air. Behind the assault team, the helicopter was already moving away. A single rope hung suspended from a hole in the undercarriage. As Francis watched, one side of the frame began to rise.

“Take out the helicopter,” Francis shouted. “Take it out now.”

“Hold on,” Mitch said.

The helicopter continued to move away and gain altitude. The frame, now on its side, left the deck and swung out over the edge of the ship.

“Take it out,” Francis repeated.

“We’re trying,” Mitch said.

When another ten seconds had gone by with no sign of the helicopter suffering the fate of the ship’s navigational systems, Francis made up his mind and got to his knees. He stood up slowly, watching the faces of the men in front of him with a wry satisfaction he couldn’t help. The gunfire tapered off, then stopped completely. One of the men shouted something and threw down his rifle. When he turned and ran the contagion quickly spread. Francis took in a deep breath through lungs that existed only in his mind and let out an animal roar of fury. The men began falling over each other to get away. The pilot must have seen him too because the helicopter suddenly dipped and swerved to one side. For a moment it looked like the blades would catch the side of the ship, then it was leveling out and rising again.

“It’s not working,” Mitch said. “We think it may have something to do with Odin. If we cut the link—”

“If you cut the link and it still doesn’t work, we’re fucked,” Francis said. “Don’t cut it.”

The helicopter was at least thirty yards above the ship now, but the bomb dangling beneath it was less than ten. Francis moved to the edge of the deck and set off at a run. He was halfway there when he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye on the deck of the destroyer. A moment later something hit him in the chest and exploded. The force of the impact lifted him off his feet and sent him flying over the cargo hatch into the wall of the superstructure over a hundred feet behind him. He could feel the bulkhead buckle around his head and shoulders as he bounced off and fell to the deck.

“I’m shutting down the link,” Mitch said.

“Don’t you dare,” Francis said. “If you do you better tie me down in that seat first. Do you hear me? That bomb is going to go off before anyone has a chance to figure it out.”

Mitch made no reply. But he didn’t shut down the link either. As Francis suspected, the paralysis he felt was only in his head. When he looked down at his chest there was no sign of the impact at all. Before he could get back to his feet the destroyer fired again. This time Francis ducked and the shot hit the wall behind him. He could feel both the rushing air and the heat from the explosion, but as with every other sensation Odin simulated for its user, these were only perceptions, not pain.

The helicopter, meanwhile, had gained even more altitude and turned toward the destroyer. Francis got to his feet and remained stationary just long enough to present a target. When the shot came, he sidestepped it and set off along the far side of the deck. Assuming the gunner knew what he was doing, Francis began to weave his way forward to make his job a little harder. The next shot missed completely. When he was halfway across the deck, Francis fixed his attention on the frame—now some thirty yards beyond the edge of the rail and moving away quickly—and ran. He reached the edge at a speed no mortal could possibly have managed and jumped.

As his feet left the deck Francis first saw—then felt—the next shot. It passed only inches from his head. Then he was flying through the air toward the moving frame. Odin was powerful, but it was also heavy. He could feel himself losing momentum almost immediately and all but resigned himself to the inevitable as the object in his sights seemed to move further away with every passing moment. More out of reflex than hope he extended his right arm forward, exerting every ounce of his willpower. In response the arm began to change. Francis thought he must be imagining it at first. It began to grow thin. As it did it also grew longer. Then he felt his hand grip something hard. The arm was no longer an arm but a pole almost four times as long as it had been and no thicker than a baseball bat. Then, just as quickly, it was an arm again, pulling the rest of his body forward as it contracted.

Francis let out a scream of triumph and grabbed the frame with his other hand. When he looked down, the sea was rushing up to meet him. It looked as if they were all going in together, then someone either cut the rope, or it snapped. Either way, Francis hit the water with a mighty splash.

Instinctively, he let go of the frame and tried to swim. The absurdity of this soon became apparent as he began to sink much faster than the frame itself. He reached out and took hold of it again, dragging it down with him into the darkness. As he descended he could feel the pressure building up in the ears he didn’t have. Equally strange was the sensation that he needed to breathe. In his head at least he had been breathing all along, and he was now holding his breath.

“Francis?”

It was Mitch. Francis tried to answer by projecting it as a thought rather than opening his mouth, but it didn’t work. He heard someone on the bridge telling Mitch to cut the link. Against his every instinct Francis opened his mouth and drew in a deep breath. It worked.