Madison came around the corner bellowing and swung the
wrench. It connected with a satisfying crunch and the
woman went down, blood pouring from her face. Already
on the backswing and moving towards the next figure
before him, Madison saw the Starfleet uniform through
the red haze over his vision and managed to twist
aside, burying the wrench in the door. He ducked the
blow aimed at him.
"I'm on your side!" he shouted, dodging again, although
looking at the man looming before him he had doubts
about that. Rolls of fat bulging out of his torn and dirty
uniform, piggy eyes lost in a face red with fury, the officer
swung again, missed, and seized Madison by the shirt-
front.
"And whose side is that, eh?" he roared in the engineer's
face.
"The ship's!" Madison spat. "The fucking ship's!"
The man let him go suddenly, and shook his head sharply.
"It gets to you." he said, almost to himself. "It bloody
gets to you." He turned back to Madison. "I'm Pateman."
he said. "Fat Harry to friends an' enemies alike."
"Madison." Madison said. "What the fuck is going on
here? Where's the rest of the crew?"
"I have no bloody clue, lad. Me an' mine had barely got
our arses back on board when there was a sudden weeping
and wailing and gnashin' of teeth and the place was full of
civvies gone apeshit crazy with tha' pillock Jerkoff Jack at
their head, crying havoc and settin' loose the dogs of civil
unrest. It's got to him too, I'd say, although it had
plenty of material to work with."
"What do you mean," Madison said through clenched
teeth, "'Got to him?' What?"
"It, them, I dunno, lad. It makes you go funny in the head.
Talks to you, like. Your anger, your fear, your vanity.
Desire, tha' sort of thing." Pateman scratched his crotch
meditatively. "It's no so bad here, I'd say it's the
distance that makes the difference. And we had days of it
on the Base, so this is like being pissed on when you've
just had three days nose high in a latrine used by clap-
ridden whores with the runs. But I'd say Jerkoff Jack and
the nutters with him have 'ad their heads turned good and
proper."
"What are you going to do about it?" Madison asked.
"Turn 'em back." Pateman said simply. "Any how I can.
Art thou with me, lad?"
Madison looked at him narrowly. Pateman was smiling a
broad and disingenuous smile, but his eyes were bright
and sharp.
Retrieving his wrench from the wall, Madison weighed it
in his hand.
"Don't look like I have much fucking choice, does it? Not
if I want to get out of this alive. And one fucking ship
burned around me is enough for this week."
"Aye, lad, tha's the spirit!" Pateman said, staggering
Madison with a slap on the back. "Despairin' resignation
to the inevitable! Tha's what made the Federation great!"
"Oh, that's what it was, was it?" Madison drawled. "I was
wondering."
"Well, it sure an' certain wasn't the intelligence of
Starfleet brass." Pateman said.
"Fat Harry," said Madison, following him down the
corridor, "I think we may just get along."
She could hear the singing.
For a long time, it had made no sense to her. Just another
sound, in another second which was full of sounds. It was
information, just as the red, viscous liquid on her hands
was information, the metallic smell, the tiny sprawled
figure at the corner of her vision. She saw them, and saw
them, and saw them again, and each time was the first
time, and each time was the last.
There was only the now.
Her hands were no longer in her field of vision, and the
floor was further away, and she couldn't see the figure any
more. The door was closer. The door was in front of her.
The door was behind her.
Fragments of her past returned to her and whirled away
again.
Now she could hear the singing, and knew it was singing.
The instant of that revelation brought a wave of nameless
horror and she was on her knees again. She realised it was
singing and shied away from the word, the idea. She
realised it was singing and couldn't bear to think about it.
She realised it was singing and that she was hearing it, not
in her head but through her ears. Vocal chords were
making that sound. That, of course, meant nothing,
because Loretta had spoken aloud -
The wall was smooth against her face and she could taste
salt in her mouth, and someone was singing. The white
wall was cool under her hand and the salt taste of tears
was on her lips, and people were singing. The wall was
long and clean, except for the red marks her hands had left
on it, and Uhura was singing.
~Not Uhura, please no,~ she thought, ~I can't possibly - ~
~Not Uhura, please no,~ she thought, ~that's unbearable - ~
~Not Uhura, after all,~ she thought, ~that's the song they've
been rehearsing, not one of its games.~
~And it's not like I have any choice.~
Larssen straightened up and began to walk towards the
voices. They weren't far away, she could tell. Singing,
she went forward, looking forward now and never
glancing back.