on. Out. ”
The overseer closed her eyes, let out a gushing huff of irritation through her cheesegrater of a face, and stowed the radio.
“You heard the man,” she said to nobody in particular, as she rose ponderously to her feet. “We’ve got a monster to kill.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER EIGHT
T HEY WERE HERDED down the starboard side of the Tavuto , the thresher shark at their heels, with some sense of urgency. The overseer led the way, barking constantly into her radio, with thirty or so of the dead following in a loose, shambling pack.
Around them, the ship seemed to be moving into a higher gear of activity, like something terrible disturbed from sleep. From deep within the iron hill of its body the throb of engines rose, and steam poured from the throats of cooling towers to form a sweltering canopy high overhead.
The sun, still hauling itself up above the horizon, though it must have been hours since dawn, glared on their backs and began to burn the mist from the deck. Though they had not yet encountered any other work parties, or any other overseers, the sound of screaming metal and shouting ahead of them suggested they were heading back into the fray.
For now, it was just them—thirty corpse-prisoners with fresh blood on their chins, and one harried overseer. Soon, though, they would be back under the watchful eyes of the cranes, and the floodlights, and the battalions of dour watchers with their attack beasts. Wrack registered, with a lurch of panic, that they might be rapidly running out of time to make any kind of move.
Looking over slyly at Mouana, he found the haggard soldier looking back at him, a strand of white flesh from the feeding still dangling from her jaw. Had she had the same thought? Miming a stumble on a weak ankle, Wrack blundered heavily into her, disguising any sense of purpose lest he be spotted by the shark that skittered around them like an excitable dog.
He gestured towards the overseer, used the supposedly random flailing of his arms to mime them rushing forwards, overpowering her. This knot of baffled dead was their rebellion in embryo—surely between them and Aroha they could tackle the brute woman, and maybe even her shark as well, if the other zombies noticed what was going on and joined in.
“Yes,” hissed Mouana curtly, and began to accelerate towards their supervisor. Wrack shuddered at the thought of how big a chance they were taking, but there was nothing to do but follow. Doing the best they could to lope up through the pack of dead without any sense of apparent purpose, they soon found themselves leading the way, just behind the grille-faced woman.
With no memories of having had a fight in his life—especially not against someone twice his size, wrapped in boiled leather—Wrack had no idea how they were going to overpower her. He was just hoping Mouana had years of close-quarters combat drilled into her muscle memory, when the overseer’s radio chattered and she stopped in her tracks. Wrack ran straight into her back, arms outstretched like a child pretending to be a monster.
“You have to be bloody kidding,” growled the overseer to herself, grunting with irritation and swiping Wrack and Mouana to the deck as if clearing cobwebs.
“ All channels, we repeat. ET has ignored the lure and is closing, ” barked the radio. “ Six hundred yards and closing. Expecting major heat in bay one any minute now. All hands, pattern Kappa. Prepare to repel. ”
Cutting through the swelling ambience of grinding steel, a thin, wailing siren rose from the mist ahead.
“Oh, shit, ” said the overseer, looking up and shaking her head in disbelief.
Following her gaze from where he sprawled on cold metal, Wrack looked into the sky and saw, looming above him, the gigantic tower of scaffolding they had passed during the night trek. High up on its superstructure, stencilled on the side of a factory-sized chunk of crane-festooned superstructure, were the letters
The overseer closed her eyes, let out a gushing huff of irritation through her cheesegrater of a face, and stowed the radio.
“You heard the man,” she said to nobody in particular, as she rose ponderously to her feet. “We’ve got a monster to kill.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER EIGHT
T HEY WERE HERDED down the starboard side of the Tavuto , the thresher shark at their heels, with some sense of urgency. The overseer led the way, barking constantly into her radio, with thirty or so of the dead following in a loose, shambling pack.
Around them, the ship seemed to be moving into a higher gear of activity, like something terrible disturbed from sleep. From deep within the iron hill of its body the throb of engines rose, and steam poured from the throats of cooling towers to form a sweltering canopy high overhead.
The sun, still hauling itself up above the horizon, though it must have been hours since dawn, glared on their backs and began to burn the mist from the deck. Though they had not yet encountered any other work parties, or any other overseers, the sound of screaming metal and shouting ahead of them suggested they were heading back into the fray.
For now, it was just them—thirty corpse-prisoners with fresh blood on their chins, and one harried overseer. Soon, though, they would be back under the watchful eyes of the cranes, and the floodlights, and the battalions of dour watchers with their attack beasts. Wrack registered, with a lurch of panic, that they might be rapidly running out of time to make any kind of move.
Looking over slyly at Mouana, he found the haggard soldier looking back at him, a strand of white flesh from the feeding still dangling from her jaw. Had she had the same thought? Miming a stumble on a weak ankle, Wrack blundered heavily into her, disguising any sense of purpose lest he be spotted by the shark that skittered around them like an excitable dog.
He gestured towards the overseer, used the supposedly random flailing of his arms to mime them rushing forwards, overpowering her. This knot of baffled dead was their rebellion in embryo—surely between them and Aroha they could tackle the brute woman, and maybe even her shark as well, if the other zombies noticed what was going on and joined in.
“Yes,” hissed Mouana curtly, and began to accelerate towards their supervisor. Wrack shuddered at the thought of how big a chance they were taking, but there was nothing to do but follow. Doing the best they could to lope up through the pack of dead without any sense of apparent purpose, they soon found themselves leading the way, just behind the grille-faced woman.
With no memories of having had a fight in his life—especially not against someone twice his size, wrapped in boiled leather—Wrack had no idea how they were going to overpower her. He was just hoping Mouana had years of close-quarters combat drilled into her muscle memory, when the overseer’s radio chattered and she stopped in her tracks. Wrack ran straight into her back, arms outstretched like a child pretending to be a monster.
“You have to be bloody kidding,” growled the overseer to herself, grunting with irritation and swiping Wrack and Mouana to the deck as if clearing cobwebs.
“ All channels, we repeat. ET has ignored the lure and is closing, ” barked the radio. “ Six hundred yards and closing. Expecting major heat in bay one any minute now. All hands, pattern Kappa. Prepare to repel. ”
Cutting through the swelling ambience of grinding steel, a thin, wailing siren rose from the mist ahead.
“Oh, shit, ” said the overseer, looking up and shaking her head in disbelief.
Following her gaze from where he sprawled on cold metal, Wrack looked into the sky and saw, looming above him, the gigantic tower of scaffolding they had passed during the night trek. High up on its superstructure, stencilled on the side of a factory-sized chunk of crane-festooned superstructure, were the letters
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