Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [84]
But why had the panel flared up that way? Could it be he hadn’t secured the circuit properly after all? Could it have been … was it his fault that the commander was lying here, in danger of his life?
Barclay set his jaw, placed his hands under La Forge’s armpits, and swiveled him around toward the entranceway to the tunnel. Unfortunately, the commander was heavier than he looked. And at this rate, it would take a long time to return to the airlock—maybe too long.
But he would do whatever was necessary. Commander La Forge had trusted him against his better judgment, hadn’t he? One way or another, Barclay would show him that he was worthy of that trust.
Leaving their light sources behind, since there didn’t seem to be any shortage of illumination, the thin man dragged the commander across the room. Stopping at the entrance to the tunnel, Barclay sat down and inserted himself backward. Then he tugged on La Forge. Again, he shoved himself backward. And again, he pulled his burden after him.
It was slow going, and Barclay’s back and shoulder muscles hadn’t worked so hard in a long time—or maybe ever. But he didn’t let that stop him. Inch by inch, meter by meter, he negotiated the length of the tunnel. Eventually, he could see the end of it with a glance over his shoulder. And not long after that, he reached it.
He was just about to dig his heels in and push himself out into the corridor when he thought he heard the omnipresent humming start to grow louder. And not just louder—more ominous, somehow. A sixth sense told Barclay that he was in danger. Terrible danger.
Just in time, he bent himself forward as far as he could go—and felt the hatch close behind him, so close it scraped the skin beneath the bottom of his uniform top. With nothing else to impede it, the metal piece slammed into the deck below it with a resounding clang.
A chill climbed Barclay’s spine and didn’t let go. It seemed to spread throughout his whole body, turning his blood to ice, making him shiver uncontrollably.
Another second, and the hatch would have closed on him. In his mind’s eye, he replayed the horror of what had happened to Varley. He saw the guillotinelike descent of cold, dark metal, heard the crunch of bone and cartilage, saw the pool of blood that spread along the smooth, shiny deck.
It started a gibbering in his throat. He tried to swallow it back, but he couldn’t. He had to let it out, to set it free or choke on it. Despite his shame and humiliation, he screamed—just like that other time. He screamed long and loud, and barely noticed when the hatch slid open again—as if enticing him to try to make it through.
But then, just when Barclay thought he’d lie in that tunnel and scream forever, his eyes focused on the helpless form of Commander La Forge. He’d made a promise to himself to return the commander to the airlock. And damn it, he would do it—hatch or no hatch, Varley or no Varley.
Taking a deep breath, then another, he hooked his hands under La Forge’s arms with renewed purpose and thrust himself backward. The hatch gave no indication of coming down again. But outside in the corridor, the racing lights created a strobe effect, and the hum was definitely grinding deeper.
Swallowing hard, Barclay forced himself to pull the commander after him. Then he slid backward again, all the while keeping his eyes on the slot that the hatch had retreated into. It was almost directly above him now.
If the thing came down, he might have enough time to avoid it—or he might not. Closing his eyes against the thought, he yanked La Forge along.
Another slide backward, and part of him had to be past the hatch, in the curving hallway outside it. Just to make sure, Barclay opened his eyes—and saw the hard, dark edge of the hatch looming right in front of him. As his heart slammed hard against his ribs, he had a sudden desire to run—to leave the commander behind and save himself from its deadly, crushing weight.
But, biting deep into the inside of his