Nightingale

TEN

The crew of Nightingale, those surviving at least, prowled the silent chambers of the ship. The creaking and groaning put them on edge; they had long since shut out the sound of the engines from their ears. Prissy watched from her overlord position inside the observation room, eyes scanning furiously for anything that might help protect her companions. She couldn't understand why Duma could have gone rogue. It didn't make sense to her; they were so close to home after all. There was nothing that he had done wrong, and as far as she knew, their archaeologist didn't have a guilty conscious of anything. Prissy shuddered, rubbing her arms for warmth, before realising that she hadn't shivered due to any cold. There was simply something fundamentally wrong with the situation that they were in as a crew. Something very wrong.

          Holden opened the door to the dining room, mugs still lying unwashed. Plates still had the slight remains of the food-sludge clinging to their edges. He held the gun out straight, ready to shoot on sight for anything that moved. He looked behind the door, seeing nobody except his own imagination's ghosts. Eyes sharp, ears alert, he moved into the centre of the room, fully aware of his openness to attack. He had seen the body, gods he had puked over it, thrown up his stomach all over the floor of the ship. He had left it there, stinking in the corridor; thinking that his captain would forgive him for abandoning his janitorial duties under the circumstances. Yuki's body, slashed to ribbons, Holden's insides hadn't been able to take it.

          As a psychologist and having worked in a mental asylum for several years, he was well aware of the atrocities that people could do to their fellow civilians. He had once worked with a Vernite that had developed an unruly habit of biting the head of anyone who didn't say 'please' at the end of a sentence aimed towards it. He had seen images of the remains of his patient's meals, and had been disgusted yes, but never lost control. The Vernite in question, whose name was Kurochin, was very well mannered, quiet, receptive, and never did anything out of place as long as Holden was working with him. Then again, he always remembered to say 'please' at the end of his sentences. Throughout all of the sessions with him, he had found nothing wrong with his brain, no corruption of the mind, absolutely nothing. He had just had a strange habit, a violent little personal colloquialism of the teeth.

          Kurochin's violent behaviour had been hidden from his friends and family for over 148 years, his insectoid wings always humming perfectly soundly without ever skipping a beat. Holden now wondered if Duma had had some sort of issue or condition that had lain dormant until now. Maybe the stress of the situation set something off in his head, a little breakage in that mental chain that holds everyone together, and it had sent him just over the edge. Take a knife in the hand; slash everyone up for an inconceivable reason. Perhaps Duma was unaware of it himself.

          Holden moved down through the connecting corridor, checking and scanning for any sign of movement. His footsteps, to him, were impossibly loud, and he considered slipping off his shoes and walking barefoot through the ship to avoid detection. After due thought however, he decided to keep his feet in their scabbards, deciding that the pain of walking on the grated floors would outweigh the advantage he would gain from the silence of having them off. His footfalls were probably quieter than he thought anyway, he decided.

          He rounded a corner, whirling to check behind him, before a strange sensation came upon him. It was like a throbbing in his head, a pulsating headache of which he had never experienced in his life. He doubled over, the intensity was growing, causing him to lean against the rails of the ship and put his hands to his temples. It was as if someone was trying to probe into his head, attempting to determine all the secrets contained within. The agony was soon becoming excruciating, his vision was starting to blur. He was aware that if Duma saw him in this state, he would be dead quicker than an Eros-fish on a Brykthylosian's dinner plate.