“That’s the combat alarm,” he said. “What do we do?”
A voice bellowed over the speaker system, making them both jump.
“General quarters, all hands man your battle stations.”
The blaring alarm returned at full volume.
The floor suddenly bucked up beneath them, tossing them into the air. Margaret landed on Candice’s body — both she and the corpse fell to the floor. Monitors, tools and equipment rattled down all around them. Margaret found herself staring into Candice Walker’s empty skull, the concave impressions of where her brain had once been reflecting the lights from above.
Candice … the hydras had made her immune …
The hydras. Margaret had to save the hydras.
She jumped to her feet, as did Tim. A canister had fallen to the debris-cluttered floor. He picked it up and clutched it to his chest.
Margaret pointed at the canister. “That the yeast or the hydras?”
Tim flashed a glance at it. “It’s the yeast.” He looked down, around, a move made awkward by the bulky helmet. “The other one has the hydras … where is it?”
A cold vibration in her chest; if they lost that canister, she’d have to go back into the holding cells — in the midst of all this insanity — and draw blood from Edmund. She turned, looking for the canister amid the fallen equipment and scattered supplies. The morgue module looked like an earthquake had thrown it to and fro. Candice’s body lay on the floor, half on and half off an overturned autopsy table.
An excited voice blared from the ship’s speaker system.
“All hands to battle stations, we’re under fire from the Pinckney. Repeat, under fire from the Pinckney. All hands to battle stations! This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.”
The ship lurched again, hurling her across the module. She slammed into a wall, felt her head bounce off the inside of her helmet. Lying on the floor … left shoulder stinging … someone yelling … she smelled smoke.
How could she smell smoke? She was in the suit …
The stinging in her shoulder. She looked, saw a piece of torn metal jutting out, blood trickling down the blue synthetic fiber of her suit. A hole … six inches long, ragged …
She was exposed.
Hands pulled her up, hands far stronger than Tim Feely’s. Margaret found herself staring at Clarence. He, too, was wearing a suit, but there wasn’t a mark on it. He had his pistol holster strapped to his right leg.
“Margo! You okay?”
She glanced at her shoulder. No, she wasn’t okay.
Clarence pulled her close, looked at the shard of metal. “It’s not deep. Hold on.” He reached up, grabbed it, gave it a light tug — the sting intensified for a second, then eased off.
He put his left arm around her, placing that hand on her wound and squeezing, applying direct pressure even as he urged her toward the door.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re moving. We’ve got to reach the side airlock.”
Margaret planted her feet.
“The hydras,” she said. “There’s a canister of them around here — we have to find it!”
The floor lurched beneath her again, a concussion wave slapping like the hand of a giant. Stunned, she started to fall back, but Clarence held her up.
“No time,” he shouted. “Move! Feely! Get your a.s.s up and follow me!”
Margaret didn’t have a chance to see if Tim was okay, because Clarence all but dragged her to the ruined door. The door and walls alike were bent and shredded, white surfaces streaked with sooty black. Small fires flickered wherever they could find purchase.
Clarence raised his foot and lashed out, kicking the door open. He led her from the morgue into the a.n.a.lysis module, which was in better shape, straight through it to the miscellaneous lab and finally out of the trailers altogether.
He turned right, pulling Margaret along, headed for the airlock that led into the receiving and containment area.
Then Tim was next to her, the yeast container still pressed to his chest. Something had split his helmet visor. Blood poured from his forehead down the left side of his face, making his left eye blink spasmodically.
The airlock looked intact.
She planted her feet. “No! What if the explosions broke the containment cells? Those men could be out! My suit … I could be exposed.”
Clarence pulled his pistol from its holster, pointed it at the ground.
“Tim, get that door open,” he said. Tim ran to it.
Clarence pulled Margaret forward. “Margo, we don’t have a choice. We either get into the water so the SEALs can rescue us, or we go down with the ship. We don’t have long before strike fighters blow everything to h.e.l.l.”
Fighters. Murray had pulled the plug. He was going to fire-bomb the Brashear, the Pinckney, the Truxtun, send all of it — metal and man alike — straight to the bottom.
Tim opened the door and they all moved inside. He sealed it up, started the pressurization cycle. As air hissed in, he looked at her arm.
“s.h.i.t,” he said. “There’s sticky tape in the processing area inside the big side airlock. We can seal this up.”
The airlock finished cycling. Clarence opened the door to reveal a smoke-filled mess. Sodium hypochlorite sprayed down from the ceiling; she smelled it instantly, filtering through the tear in her suit. The automatic decon procedures had kicked in, and she instantly saw why — the containment room had taken a direct hit.
Something had blown a hole in the white wall and slammed into the clear cages, ripping apart the middle cells. Bodies and parts of bodies — some red and raw, others blackened and smoldering — lay scattered among foot-thick, spider-webbed shards of gla.s.s.