In last week’s episode, the crew of the St. Paul passed through the wicked eye of a microburst. In this week’s episode, David is paralyzed by an inner danger…
Not all of the members of the crew were cheering, however. David sat still in his seat, his hands clasped together in a desperate effort to conceal the terror that gripped him. The horrifying drop in altitude as the St. Paul careened towards the raging sea had been bad enough, but it was nothing compared to the descent into hell that Lieutenant Rodriguez was revealing to him now.
So, you think you can just dismiss me as a hallucination, David? The disembodied voice screamed at him. You have no idea what you are dealing with!
David squeezed his eyes shut tightly. He could only hope that anyone observing him would just think he was naturally frightened. His sheer panic, however, was almost beyond his control.
Now it’s my turn to tell you how it really is, David. You opened yourself up to me when you spilled innocent blood. And through me you have opened yourself up to one far greater than me. My master knows you by name. Because of me, he has seen through your eyes, he knows what you know, and he directs your actions. With that, Lieutenant Rodriguez flooded David’s mind with images of Tiānlóng feeding. Uncontrollable images of torture and the sounds of children screaming flooded through.
This can’t be happening. David rocked in his seat. I should be able to ignore this, but I can’t turn it off.
Against the background noise of relentless machine gun fire, Lieutenant Rodriguez showed David how he’d been manipulated into gathering critical information about the St. Paul, and how that information had been relayed, through the lieutenant, back to Tiānlóng. You have betrayed your shipmates, David. You will be the cause of their doom.
“Thank you, Hétóng Rén, for meeting with me on such short notice.” Ping spoke quietly and politely to the man who had just slipped into the back seat of his limousine from a darkened corner of an obscure Tanzanian alleyway.
“It is my honor to be of service,” he replied.
Of course, Hétóng Rén wasn’t his real name. Ping doubted that anyone knew this man’s real name anymore. His name was more of a description; Hétóng Rén literally meant “contract man.” Beyond that, Ping only knew him as a member of the Hai San Secret Society. Hétóng Rén was useful, and he was discreet, but most importantly to Ping; Hétóng Rén got results.
“How may I be of assistance?” asked the assassin.
Ping dispensed with standards protocols for engaging in small talk and came directly to the matter as he slid a file across the expensive leather seat. “There is an American airship scheduled to rendezvous with the British freighter Galeka near the port of Las Palmas in the Canary Islands tomorrow. Our attempts to gain access to its computer systems and flight controls have failed.”
Hétóng Rén picked up the file and flipped through its contents. “The level of detail is impressive, especially the schematics.”
“We have an asset aboard the ship.”
“An expendable asset?” Hétóng Rén was developing an understanding of what would be required.
“Yes. Completely expendable.” Ping replied.
“This airship is a threat to your interests?”
“It is an American attempt to establish an economic claim to the helium deposits in the Rukwa Valley.” Ping kept his explanation short. No more explanation would be asked, or required.
“What is your desire for this threat?”
“The St. Paul must be prevented from arriving in Tanzania. However, it is on a high-profile mission with international public attention. So, no trace of our involvement must be discovered.”
“I understand.” There was a ring of dreadful finality in the answer. “What about the failed attempts to gain access to the computer systems and flight controls? Do you have any other loose ends I need to attend to?”
“That will not be necessary,” Ping replied. He’d channeled his rage and fear of facing Tiānlóng with the news of that failure by lashing out at the low level officials that worked for him. “Our social credit systems have once again showcased the institutional advantages of the Chinese system and demonstrated the excellent qualities of perseverance and solidarity.” Ping’s answer was delivered without emotion and, in typically bureaucratic fashion, said nothing of substance. What he meant, however, was that the low level functionary who orchestrated the cyberattack on the St. Paul had been arrested and his family cast into ruin, poverty, and desolation. Still, the implied meaning of the words made it clear that Hétóng Rén’s special services would not be required to address that aspect of Ping’s problem.
“The Canary Islands are far away, and time is short.”
“You will take my private jet. I am dropping you off at Julius Nyerere International now.”
On the flight deck, the crew celebrated their close escape from the microburst. David could hear Captain Pruitt explain how a similar phenomenon had destroyed the USS Akron in 1933, killing seventy-five people. That was more than twice the number killed on the Hindenburg. The talk of death exacerbated the unwanted stream of consciousness pouring though David’s mind. On legs that were weak and wobbly with fear, he got up and made his way back down the hallway as if in a dream.
In David’s mind, the voice of Lieutenant Rodriguez mixed uncontrollably with his own thoughts so that he could scarcely tell one from another. He was assaulted with barrage after barrage of dreadful imagery, children screaming, muzzle flashes from machine guns lighting up darkened hallways, and image after image of the St. Paul exploding and crashing into the sea.
Why is this happening to me?
You dared to challenge my authority.
You’re just a hallucination!
Can a hallucination cause the destruction of this ship? It is your fault, David, your fault. You brought me on board, and through me you brought Him on board. You’re the Jonah.
You can’t read my mind. I don’t have to listen to you.
All of you are going to die, die, DIE. And I will feed on the banquet of your suffering!
I’m losing it, David thought. I’m losing my mind. As the St. Paul climbed slowly away from the raging Atlantic below, David felt as though he continued to sink down into it. As if he was plunging alone hopelessly into a tumultuous sea of madness.
David found himself in the galley. All of the cupboards, and the doors to the coolers were latched shut as a precaution against turbulent weather. Even the cutlery had a hasp that secured the chef’s knives. It was to these he turned now. Ranell kept a selection of ceramic cooking knives, and David withdrew the long black blade of the ‘santoku’ from its holder. Ranell had taught him that santoku was a Japanese term that meant “three virtues” for dicing, slicing, and mincing.
As the relentless cacophony of images and sounds poured through his mind, David marveled at how sharp the ceramic blade was. his contemplation of the blade was a tiny, but growing, bubble of serenity amidst a sea of chaos, and David focused on the it with desperate intensity. Ranell always gets top quality. David placed the blade’s edge against his palm. Just a test. He drew the edge against his skin, lightly at first. Just a scratch. It’s not even bleeding. He watched in fascination as tiny beads of blood began to well up from the white line of parted skin. It doesn’t even hurt. He pressed deeper, his blood flowing freely in a thin rivulet from the wound. There was pain. However, the pain in his hand acted to anesthetize the turmoil of his mind. The effect was almost instantaneous. He focused on the cut and stillness enveloped him.
Lieutenant Rodriguez redoubled his efforts, smashing through David’s temporary refuge. He goaded David with a veritable orgy of violent imagery and sound. Do it David! Just one quick slash and you will be free. One stroke is all that is required. Do it. Do it now!
“If I go, you go with me.” David said out loud, although he still mumbled the words, keeping his voice low so no one else would hear.
Is that what you think? Lieutenant Rodriguez’s voice cackled mercilessly. I’ve been feeding on humans for thousands of years. After you bleed for me, I’ll find a new host, and then another, and another, forever.
David shuddered with the realization that his mind had cracked and that he no longer had any hold on reality.
He was alone, and hopelessly lost.
He lifted his free hand to his neck, feeling the arteries pulsing blood there just behind his jawline. It all boils down to this, he thought. David viewed himself as standing on the edge of a precipice. Below him was a yawning infinite black hole of horror and pain. I’ve only got two choices. Either I continue falling into madness and despair, or I ‘cut ballast’ and drift away peacefully.
David tilted his chin up as he placed the razor sharp edge of the blade against his jugular. As he did, all the chattering and mental imagery ceased. He felt enveloped in a divine stillness, and it seemed as if he could see everything in crystal-clear relief. He could smell the faint scent of bleach from when he and Ranell had wiped down the kitchen. He could count each individual rivet in the stainless steel sink that he stood over, and he noticed that there was a tiny drop of water forming at the lip of the faucet. David watched it slowly grow larger as it prepared to fall into the drain below and distantly he wondered if he could manage to spill most of his own blood down there too. Sorry Doc, he thought sadly, for the mess you’re going to have to clean up.
David’s muscles tensed for the stroke, and he inhaled. But there was time for one final thought. He was suddenly reminded of the scene on the flight deck. Once again, he heard Captain Pruitt shouting, “Belay that!” to stop Foote from dumping ballast. “That’s exactly what happened to the Akron” he’d said. “No, the only way out is to run through it.”
David hesitated. He could feel his pulse beating against the scalpel-sharp edge of the santoku blade at his throat. Why did that image come to me?
In the silence of the galley, David could just make out the distant sound of the St. Paul’s engines. He trembled when he realized, as if for the first time, that he was holding a knife to his neck, and he pulled it away slowly. His hands continued to shake until the blade fell into the sink with a clatter.
David sunk to his knees, holding on to the lip of the sink with both hands. He wept. Part of him wanted to die. Yes, it was true. He wanted to be free of the terrible voices and images that tormented him. But another part of him wanted to live.
Despair washed over him again. How can I beat these voices by myself? Some part of him knew that he needed desperately to be part of a team again. To have people on his left and right that he could rely on, like it used to be when he was in the Army.
David remembered the Investor Brief Eighteen that the Rabban had shown him. Was there a way where he could be part of that global vision? No! His mind rebelled. No more holograms and XR glasses. They make it worse! I need something real and solid that I can touch and understand.
After a few moments, David regained some degree of composure. He could feel his racing heart begin to slow and his breathing returning to normal. He wiped his eyes and pulled himself up to his feet. Both physically and mentally he clung to the solidity of the stainless-steel sink, the floor beneath him, and the familiar arches of the bulkheads. This is real. David let that thought settle in his mind. The St. Paul is real. In that moment of deepest despair, David found he had the strength to dedicate himself to the great airship. Maybe I’ve got no one to help me, but this ship will keep me from going crazy. At a visceral level he understood that he needed her if he was to live. I’ll bite my tongue and obey their orders. I’ll do whatever they tell me to do, because I won’t make it if I don’t hold on.
Why did you rescue him? God asked. I did not command it.
I was moved by compassion, Father. Abdiel had never witnessed a creature suffer so much that it felt compelled to take its own life. Did I sin?
You did not sin. You feel compassion as I do. But you have only spared him for a short time. You have not saved him.
Abdiel reflected on this. David Wilson believes that he is alone.
Yes. And in this he is mistaken. He does not realize the multitudes that surround him and support him.
What will save him?
He must learn that when he cries out, his cry will be answered. Unless he realizes this truth, he will not be saved.