The Wheel of Darkness

He planted a foot on the lowest rung and pulled himself up. Fine spray washed over him and he was shocked to taste saltwater here, over two hundred feet above the waterline. He couldn’t see the ocean—the rain and spray were too thick—but he could hear the boom and feel the shudder of the waves as they struck blow after blow against the hull. It sounded like the pounding of some angry, wounded sea god. At this height, the movements of the ship were especially pronounced, and he could feel each slow, sickening roll deep in his gut.

Should he attempt it? Kemper was right: it was totally crazy. But even as he asked himself the question, he knew what the answer would be. He had to look her in the face.

Grasping the rungs with all his might, he heaved himself up the ladder, one hand and one foot after the other. The wind lashed at him so violently that he was forced to close his eyes at times and work upward by feel, his rough seaman’s hands closing like vises on the grit-painted rungs. The ship yawed under a particularly violent wave and he felt as if he were hanging over empty space, gravity pulling him down, down into the cauldron of the sea.

One hand at a time.

After what seemed like an endless climb, he reached the top rail and pulled his head up to the level of the windows. He peered in, but he was far out on the port bridge wing and could see nothing but the dim glow of electronic systems.

He was going to have to edge around to the middle.

The bridge windows sloped gently outward. Above them was the lip of the upper deck, with its own toe-rail. Waiting for a lull between gusts, LeSeur heaved himself up and gasped the upper rim, simultaneously planting his feet onto the rail below. He stood there a long moment, heart pounding, feeling dreadfully exposed. Plastered against the bridge windows, limbs extended, he could feel the roll of the ship even more acutely.

He took a deep, shivery breath, then another. And then he began to edge his way around—clinging to the rim with freezing fingers, bracing himself afresh with every gust of wind. The bridge was one hundred sixty feet across, he knew; that meant an eighty-foot journey along the rail before he faced the bridge workstation and helm.

He edged around, sliding one foot after the other. The rail was not gritted—it was never meant for human contact—and as a consequence it was devilishly slippery. He moved slowly, deliberately, taking most of his weight with his fingers as he crept along the polished rail, his fingers clinging to the gel-coated edge of the upper toe-rail. A big, booming wind buffeted him, sucking his feet from the rail, and for a moment he dangled, terrified, over churning gray space. He scrambled for purchase, then hesitated yet again, gulping air, his heart hammering, fingers numb. After a minute he forced himself onward.

At last, he reached the center of the bridge. And there she was: Captain Mason, at the helm, calmly looking out at him.

He stared back, shocked at the utter normality of her expression. She didn’t even register surprise at his improbable appearance: a specter in foul-weather gear, clinging to the wrong side of the bridge windows.

Taking a renewed grip on the upper rail with his left hand, he banged on the window with his right. “Mason!

Mason!”

She returned his gaze, making eye contact, but in an almost absent-minded fashion.

“What are you doing?”

No response.

“God damn it, Mason,

talk to me

!” He slammed his fist against the glass so hard it hurt. Still she merely looked back.

“Mason!”

At last, she stepped around from the helm and walked up to the glass. Her voice came to him faintly, filtering through the glass and the roar of the storm. “The question is, Mr. LeSeur, what are

you

doing?”

“Don’t you realize we’re on a collision course with the Carrion Rocks?”

Another twitch of the lips, harbinger of a smile. She said something he couldn’t hear over the storm.

“I can’t hear you!” He clung to the rim, wondering how long until his fingers gave out and he fell away into the furious gray spume.

“I said”—she moved to the glass and spoke louder—“that I’m well aware of it.”

“But why?”

The smile finally came, like sun glittering on ice. “That

is

the question, isn’t it, Mr. LeSeur?”

He pressed himself against the glass, struggling to maintain his grip. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer.

“Why?”

he screamed.

“Ask the company.”

“But you . . . you can’t be doing this

deliberately

!”

“Why not?”

He stopped himself from screaming to her that she was mad. He had to reach her, find her motives, reason with her. “For God’s sake, you don’t mean to murder four thousand people like this!”

“I have nothing against the passengers or crew. However, I

am

going to destroy this ship.”

LeSeur wasn’t sure if it was rain or tears on his face. “Captain, look. If there are problems in your life, problems with the company, we can work them out. But this . . . there are thousands of i

“People die every day.”

“Is this some kind of terrorist attack? I mean”—he swallowed, trying to think of a neutral way of putting it—“are you representing a . . . a particular political or religious point of view?”

Her smile remained cold, controlled. “Since you ask, the answer is no. This is strictly personal.”

“If you want to wreck the ship, stop it first. At least let us launch the lifeboats!”

“You know perfectly well that if I even slow the ship down, they’ll be able to land a SWAT team and take me out. No doubt half the passengers have been e-mailing the outside world. A massive response is unquestionably under way. No, Mr. LeSeur, speed is my ally, and theBrita