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  Behind her, a hatch clanged. Hanover walked slowly towards her. She could go much faster. Wouldn’t stand a chance, state I’m in.

  Cruelty, perhaps—that sad expression could have been as much a forgery as the rest of Hanover’s semblance of humanity. Or was she letting Cally exhaust herself, to do Hanover’s job for her?

  Didn’t matter. None of it did. Part of Cally would have liked to give up, but she couldn’t. She actually wanted to live, she realised, not only to exist. Hell of a time to find that out.

  Was Hanover herding her? Was that it? Always in Cally’s path whenever she wanted to be. In the station before—she’d put herself between Cally and every exit except the one she’d used—one that, like every other turning she’d taken to evade Hanover, had brought her closer to T-8. Almost as if Hanover were helping her.

  Cally entered yet another module; the airlock at the far end opened and Hanover stepped through. “Fuck off!” Cally screamed.

  Was she really alone on Dunwich? Was everyone else dead or gone? It didn’t seem possible. But between the attack, the evacuation that would have followed, and the collapse, it could be—with or without Hanover and others like her to make certain of it. But Hanover could have killed Cally a dozen times, or simply let her die.

  Above Cally was a hatch. She clambered up through it with what felt like the last of her strength. Shaking. Burning hot. Shivering. Every breath was a knife going in, was broken glass raking her lungs. Her arms and legs were sacks filled with rocks and lead. But the hatch above came closer; finally she pushed it open, dragged herself through and stood on trembling legs.

  Burning with fever. Shaking with cold. A bulkhead plaque swam into focus: T-8.

  Cally laughed weakly; it turned into another coughing fit. Nearly there. Left? Right?

  Cally heard the hatch to her left unlock. She turned and blundered away from it towards the opposite hatchway, hoping to God she was almost there. She had no more strength.

  She collapsed into the airlock, then grabbed and turned the inner hatch’s wheel and pushed it wide. Her vision blurring, she looked back, to see Hanover’s bare feet slapping the steel deck as she ran towards her.

  Cally fell through the hatchway, got to her feet as Hanover reached the airlock, threw her full weight against the hatch and slammed it shut. She twisted the wheel till it would turn no further. She found another crowbar on the wall and jammed it through the wheel.

  Cally looked up, and saw there were EVAC hatches in the ceiling. A couple had red flags in them, but most of the pods were in place.

  Cally began to laugh. It broke up and tailed away in a fresh coughing fit. She was nearly away (but even then, would Hanover pursue her?). All she had to do now was to climb to one of the evac pods. Should she grab another crowbar to defend herself? (And could she strike, even now, a killing blow at that face?) But her legs buckled beneath her and she grabbed an evac ladder for support. For a few seconds she hung from it, until her grip broke and she fell to the floor.

  Get up. Get up!

  She couldn’t. She literally didn’t have the strength. She heard a wet squelching and trickling noise. Then it changed, became something firmer, more regular. A gentle padding sound, like bare feet on a steel floor.

  Cally heaved herself onto her back, coughing.

  Chief Petty Officer Jen Hanover stood in front of the closed airlock. “Hello, babe,” she said, and walked towards Cally.

  Cally tried to wriggle away. Hanover knelt by her, a hand on her shoulder. “Shh,” she said. “Easy, Doc.”

  Cally’s breath hitched. She was hyperventilating. A cool hand rested on her forehead. “You’re burning up,” said Hanover.

  Shecouldn’t move now. Rabbit in the headlights. All she could see were the black shark’s eyes, fixing her still. She fought for breath, and could only wheeze.

  “Cally?” said Hanover. “Love? What’s—” She put a hand to her throat, felt the gill-slits. “Shit. Sorry.”

  The gill-slits closed. For a moment there were pale ridges, like scars, on Hanover’s neck; then they smoothed away into her skin. The nictitating membranes flickered. When they retracted, Hanover’s eyes were the ones Cally had yearned to look into last night. “Better?” Hanover asked.

  Cally struggled in her grip. “Don’t, love,” Hanover said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

  Cally tried to speak, couldn’t. “Jesus,” she heard Hanover say. “You’re in a bad way. You’re not gonna make it…”

  Her voice faded. Cally thought Hanover might have said, Unless … but could make out nothing else. Laid out across her knees, Cally saw the other woman peel the vest top off, then reach behind her back to unfasten her bra.

  What are you doing? she tried to say, but only a mumble came out. Hanover laid the bra aside, small breasts taut from the cold, the dark nipples hard. “It’s okay,” she said, stroking Cally’s forehead. “C’mere, darling.”

  She lifted Cally’s head to her breast, bringing her nipple to Cally’s mouth. No, thought Cally, no. But Hanover’s hands were as insistent as they were gentle, and soon Cally, despite herself, no longer wanted to resist.

  She took the nipple in her mouth. It tasted of something Cally couldn’t place. A strange flavour, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Almost instinctively, Cally began to suckle.

  The fluid that filled her mouth was smooth and creamy, but somehow salty, too. It tasted rich, savoury. Impossible, surely. Wouldn’t the brine sour the cream? And yet it was both delicious and warming—although it was streaming in impossible quantities from Hanover’s breast, faster than Cally could swallow it. Drowning, she thought. But Hanover’s hands stroked her hair. If this was dying, it was easy and painless enough. Cally had no more strength to fight, so she closed her eyes and slept.

  VI. The Gift

  Once more, Cally woke on a steel floor with Hanover. This time her companion was awake, with Cally’s head pillowed in her lap and caressing her brow. Cally realised it didn’t hurt to breathe any more. At most there was a faint tickle that might, given time, make her cough. But even that was fading.

  “Sleep well?” said Hanover. She’d put her vest top and bra back on, but if she felt the cold, she gave no sign. Her leg felt warm.

  Memories resurfaced. Were they memories, and not dreams? It didn’t seem possible. Hanover seemed so normal, and if she was really a Bathyphylax, surely she’d have killed Cally by now.

  Cally looked at Hanover’s forearm. The pursed lips of the wound were pinched together like clay, parted in places, bloodless.

  “Yeah,” Hanover said. She smiled, but the sad look lingered. “Sorry, babe. Still wondering if it was real, right? Well—it was.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “It’s okay.” Hanover stood and held out a hand. Cally took it automatically, then let go as soon as she was back on her feet. “Cally,” said Hanover, “I told you, it’s okay.”

  “Okay? Okay?” Cally shook with rage now, not cold. “You’ve smashed this place to hell, killed hundreds of people—thousands—”

  “Like your lot did in the Marianas Trench? Like you had been for years before—” Hanover broke off. “Look. I’m not here for that. And the attack wasn’t me either.”

  “You’re one of them.”

  “Depends how you mean.”

  “You’re a Toad.” Before, she’d used the term—if only to herself—unconsciously, in fear and anger; now Cally used it deliberately, wanting to hurt, but Hanover’s face remained placid.

  “Ah,” she said. “Now that, I can’t tell you.”

  “What?”

  “What do you really know about the Toads, Cally—as you call them?”

  “I usually prefer to say Bathyphylax,” Cally muttered.

  “I know, love. But whatever you call us, what do you know? We live in the sea, use organic technology … and that’s it, the sum total of your knowledge. You don’t even know what we call ourselves. You definitely don’t know a thing about our biology, and that’s how it’s
going to stay. Maybe I’m an actual Bathyphylax in disguise, or maybe I’m something they made. I’ll never tell. I’ll only saying ‘we’ because it’s simpler. Main thing is, I’m with them. Personally, I’d rather we didn’t have to have sides in all this.”

  Years trying to communicate with the Bathyphylax, and here Cally was, speechless when she finally made contact with one. Although admittedly, she’d never expected it to play out quite like this.

  Hanover snorted with laughter. She sounded so human Cally almost forgot she wasn’t. “You’ve got to admit, it’s funny. We’ve been around longer than you have, and you never even knew we were there. Never would have, if you could have stopped fucking up the ocean. Meanwhile, we know your lot very well.” She struck a pose. “As you can see.”

  “Fooled me, anyway,” said Cally.

  “Sorry. Wasn’t the plan. Well, fooling you was—your species, I mean. Fooling around with you, though—no.” Hanover grinned. “But it was fun.”

  “You bitch—”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be cruel. It just—happened.”

  “You expect me to believe—”

  Hanover shrugged. “It’s true. Anyway, come on.”

  Cally shrank back. “Where?”

  “To one of these bloody pods, of course.” Hanover climbed a ladder and unlocked a hatch. “I can see why you wouldn’t believe me. Not like you’d be attracted to a crab or a squid.” She paused. “Actually, that’s not necessarily true with your species, is it? I mean, really—hentai? What the fuck’s that about?” She dropped back to the deck and motioned towards the hatch. “Allez-oop, Doc.”

  Cally inched towards the ladder. “Why?”

  “Call it going native, chica. Like I said, I’d seen you a few times. Admired you from a distance, you could say. And I don’t mean only in a physical sense, just so we’re clear. I ain’t that kind of girl.”

  “I didn’t mean that.” Cally felt dizzy. Were the purifiers running out of power? Maybe she was hallucinating this whole exchange in the throes of oxygen deprivation.

  “You mean this?” Hanover nodded to the ceiling. “Time’s nearly up, Doc. Only an hour or two of air left. And the old place is creaking like hell, so there’s probably another collapse on the way.”

  “No!” Cally almost stamped her foot. “I mean, why are you helping me? Why—” She broke off, put a hand to her lips. Hanover’s nipple in her mouth, that taste of cream and salt. “What did you do to me?”

  “What do you think? I didn’t want you to croak waiting for help, so sue me. You had full-blown pneumonia, chica. And it’s fucking chaos up there.”

  “Thanks to you and your friends. You healed me?”

  “No. You miraculously got better on your own. Duh.”

  “You could have infected me—some sort of bio-weapon.” Cally couldn’t get into the evac pod, could she? Mustn’t. God knew what she’d carry back with her.

  “I could have got you pregnant, but I didn’t. You really do have a suspicious mind, don’t you?”

  “Why else would you save my life?”

  “Because you’re you, you silly cow. Doctor Cally McDonald. You built the first pumphouses, and you’ve made your whole life about trying to make contact with us, even after—” Hanover broke off.

  “Even after Ben,” said Cally. “Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hanover was right, of course—this was the moment Cally had given up hoping for. The whole point had been not to give way to vengeance or hatred—but now, face to face with the Bathyphylax’s avatar, she felt closer to both than ever before. And yet there’d been that grip on her arm, lifting her to safety, the arms that had held her, the hands and lips that had loved her. An uncomplicated response to Hanover was impossible.

  “You devised the Contact Programme,” Hanover said. “You wanted to talk. So—here we are.”

  Hanover held out her right hand. A swelling bulged in her palm, the skin stretched over it. It split—bloodlessly, of course, like every other opening in Hanover’s flesh—and something slid out. The cut resealed itself, and Hanover proffered the object to Cally. “Here you go, Doc. Get that to your most cunning linguists.”

  It looked like a large mussel, but the shell shone silver. “What is it?”

  Hanover pinched the hinge of the shell, and it opened. The creature inside resembled a tiny octopus, but completely covered in a segmented shell. It clicked and tapped its armoured tentacles against the shell’s interior, and let out a series of whistles and cheeps. Hanover closed the shell. “Recording tech, Toad style. Contains the equivalent of all the info you’ve been sending us. It’ll survive at least a year, longer if you feed it. It likes mackerel.”

  Cally took the shell and put it in her pocket. “If you wanted to talk peace, why all this?”

  “You island-monkeys aren’t all the same, are you? Us neither. Some think there’s no talking to you and we either wipe you out or get poisoned to death. Others disagree. This…” She mimicked Cally’s gesture around the groaning structure, “was a long time coming. But it was agreed we’d put someone on board to try and get you out. I’d meant to be nearer the bridge when it all kicked off, but…”

  Cally remembered the bridge: Harkness cut in two, Sugulle drowned, Baker pulped against the airlock hatch. “They all died.”

  “It’s a war, babe, remember? Point is to try and end it. I’ve done my bit.” Hanover put her hands on her hips. So like Paula, Cally thought. Was it really all a coincidence, or was Hanover’s appearance actually modelled on Cally’s ex? If so, how had they found out? How many others like Hanover might there be? Cally refused to follow that line of thought any further. She couldn’t deal with it, not now. Besides, she had a purpose. A new one. One mission had ended, and another begun. One far away from Breakwater.

  “Now get up that ladder,” Hanover said, “before I kick your pretty arse up it.”

  Cally managed a smile. “Okay.”

  “Before I forget.” Hanover pulled something from her waistband. “Needs drying out, but it should be okay.”

  Cally unfolded the cap. “Thank you.”

  “It suits you.” Hanover touched Cally’s cheek, then stepped away. Metal groaned and screeched nearby. “Better hurry, chica.”

  Cally climbed up into the evac pod. “I’m sorry about Breakwater,” Hanover called after her.

  Cally nodded. Something else that she wouldn’t even attempt to process until later. Much later.

  She shut the hatch. Below, water was pouring into the module, pooling around Hanover’s feet. Go, Hanover mouthed. Cally nodded, strapped herself into the seat nearest the pod’s control lever, then looked back down. Hanover was now up to her waist in the rising water. As it rose to the other woman’s chest, Cally pulled the lever. A hiss of air, a dull thump as the pod disengaged, and she was flying upwards.

  Cally’s ears popped. Gas hissed gently: equalising the pressure to avoid barotrauma. The sun coming in through the portholes brightened as the pod ascended.

  There was movement outside the porthole: Hanover, floating beside the pod as it rose. She touched her fingers to her lips, then to the glass, and was gone.

  Something—too fast for Cally to make it out—flashed away through the water. Outside the porthole, a black vest and a pair of shorts hung briefly, in a cloud of fish scales, with a rag of seaweed and a thin skein of blue gelatin, before tumbling away, lost to the deep as Cally rose towards the light.

  VII. Landfall

  The wave-strikes had wreaked havoc on shipping and swept more than a hundred people out to sea, which was why a search and rescue chopper was over the North Sea when the pod’s distress signal began sending. Hope had been more or less abandoned of finding any survivors from HMS Dunwich, other than the few who’d escaped the initial assault, but the helicopter was no more than twenty miles from Cally’s position and the pilot altered course to investigate.

  So, less than thirty minutes after jettisoning, Cally was winched aboard,
a blanket draped around her shoulders and a mug of hot soup pressed into her hands.

  Below her, the evac pod receded, bobbing in the sea, as the helicopter began its return to base. Would the pod reach land? As with so much else, that was uncertain; hidden, like the wreckage of Dunwich. Like Breakwater, buried under waves the colour of slate and lead.

  As they reached the coast, Cally saw more cliffs had collapsed into the sea. Vast chunks had been bitten out of the restricted area. She couldn’t tell if the field containing her caravan had fallen. She looked away; she didn’t want to know, not yet. Could she bear losing another connection to Ben? Actually, she realised, she probably could, if she must. She’d borne far worse.

  She straightened the cap on her head. It might be the last thing of his she had. If you could survive the calamity, you could crawl from the wreckage. Or hide in it, if you preferred, but she’d done enough of that.

  Inland, the flooding was even worse. Neither Cally nor anyone else would drink in the Mariner’s Rest again: only one white wall and a chimney remained of it. Treetops, church spires and chimney pots poked out of brown water. A cow bobbed, belly bloated, legs jutting stiffly up. Human bodies floated there too. This would be remembered, and the desire for retaliation in kind deepen.

  She squeezed the shell in her jeans pocket. Perhaps it was too little, too late, and the only future was a war without end. Against all reason and evidence, she had to hope otherwise. Cally clasped the shell tighter as she flew towards landfall, and savoured that remembered taste of milk and brine.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Begin Reading

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Simon Bestwick