L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume 35 Page 12

  “What does your ship’s doctor say on the subject?” I asked.

  I knew the answer already. The captain would not have brought this up with a member of his crew for fear of losing their confidence. It was why a passenger had been escorted to this cabin. The other man focussed on me with such intensity that I was sure I’d asked the wrong question.

  Smith said, “Of our two doctors, one is asleep and will not wake.”

  “Won’t wake?”

  “He sleeps, fitfully, thrashing and mumbling, but nothing rouses him.”

  And nothing will, not during this voyage at least. “And your second doctor?”

  “We have no idea.” The captain returned to his seat. “He disappeared in the night.”

  Disappeared. Three of the most important men onboard affected by the book’s influence.

  “Captain, given present circumstances, I recommend a return to England.”

  Anger flashed in the man’s eyes, his mouth becoming a slit. For a moment I feared being struck, then the storm passed and Smith shook his head. “I can’t do that. The shipping strikes at home have caused too much difficulty. I have my duty to the company and crew.”

  “How can you continue without a ship’s doctor?”

  “Yes, quite right.” The captain drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. “Doctor Shaw, I know it’s an imposition and you are here to enjoy the voyage, but would you consider filling in until we reach New York?”

  Refusal perched on my tongue, but then an image of the gates flitted through my mind. I closed my mouth with a sharp clack. “Of course, Captain. We all do what we must.”

  A sigh of relief. “My thanks.”

  “I would need a note from you,” I continued, “to pass to any section of the ship where I am needed … unless you have a uniform in my size.”

  At that Smith laughed again, but a genuine thing this time that broke the last of the nightmare’s grip on him. He went to his desk and wrote a hasty note which he handed to me. “This will do.”

  I opened it and read:

  To whom it may concern,

  Dr. Shaw will be acting as ship’s doctor until further notice. Please convey every courtesy to him and allow access to any area of the ship he deems necessary.

  Sincerely,

  Captain Edward Smith

  I tucked it into the inside pocket of my jacket. “Now, my first duty is to prescribe something for you to sleep.”

  “Nonsense. I’m fine.”

  “And the ship needs you to stay that way.”

  The captain mulled this over before throwing his hands up in surrender, mumbling, “Never argue with the ship’s doctor.”

  “Quite right. When are you due on the bridge?”

  A look at the clock and he jumped to his feet. “I should be there now.”

  “And when will you return?”

  “Before dinner, but I need to be at my table.”

  “Fine. I can give you something after dinner to sleep through the night.”

  I headed for the nearest gate in high spirits.

  The captain’s letter turned the impossible task of getting through into a simple one. Each of the stewards read it then rushed to open their barrier.

  Now I stood at the base of the stairs in third class, eyes closed and listening for the book.

  “Damn it.”

  My mood plummeted in the span between heartbeats.

  The book was indeed nearby, that much was obvious. It should have been simple to pinpoint now that we were on the same level. It wasn’t. Unlike first class where the location had a constant downward sensation to it, now it felt to be everywhere.

  Its power was growing.

  “God damn it to hell.”

  All around me were people who had spent their every penny for this voyage, full of hope for a better life, but one of them was not what he appeared to be.

  Would he be recognizable when I saw him? Would the book call to me when I got closer?

  I had to hope so.

  Announcing myself as ship’s doctor I started talking to the nearest people. These third-class passengers expressed surprise that any attention was being paid to them by the ship’s crew. They knew their place on the ladder of society.

  Word of a doctor in third class would precede me, and that should offset the surprise of a first-class passenger being down here. I didn’t want to alarm the thief.

  Many complained of general ill-feelings, lack of energy and, of course, the expected nightmares. One passenger who had boarded in Ireland muttered that the voyage was cursed and there was no arguing against that.

  The rest of the morning and all that afternoon was spent in a slow circuit through third class, eliminating many as suspects but nowhere near enough. Too many had a natural distrust of the upper-class, which matched how the thief could be expected to react. There was no sudden recognition with any passenger, and no pull from the book.

  Calling to the damned thing might knock me into another coma or destroy my mind completely.

  Was I desperate enough to try it?

  No. Not yet.

  In the end, I made my way back to first class, tired and frustrated, ready for a meal and knowing that finding the book was no closer than it had been when I first boarded the ship.

  The dining room was three-quarters full at most. Every table held one empty seat at least, and those present were more subdued than the previous night. Captain Smith spoke with his table guests but it was forced, the man exhausted.

  After dinner I accompanied him to his cabin as promised and shared some of my stock of morphine. There had been precious little in the ship’s stores and it had already been added to my own. Keeping the captain in dreamless sleep would mean exhausting these supplies faster than expected, but I needed him in his right mind, both to keep this ship on schedule and to retain my ability to get through those gates.

  April 13

  The next morning, I found myself summoned to the captain’s cabin once again.

  Captain Smith stood erect, commanding, and in control. The perfect image of an experienced sea captain. He sipped a cup of tea. “Good morning, Doctor.”

  “You slept well?”

  “Can’t let a few dreams stop me. I have a job to do.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Smith sat and gestured toward the other chair and the tea. I poured myself a cup.

  “Last night, three first-class passengers needed confining to their cabins,” he said.

  The crewman, Johnson, had filled me in. “People who were trying to harm themselves or others, as I understand it.”

  It would only get worse.

  The captain sighed. “Our sleeping doctor is gone as well.”

  This was new information. “Gone?”

  “He woke and scrawled a message on his wall, in blood no less, presumably his own.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Insanity. Voices speaking to him. Sleeping things waiting to rise. Nightmares.” The captain shuddered without noticing. “He concluded by saying he would fling himself off the ship.”

  “Did he?”

  “I would say so,” Smith shrugged. “Apparently he went from his cabin to wherever he ended up without a soul seeing him.”

  We sat in silence a moment before he spoke again. “The crew is calling this ‘The Ravings.’ Doctor, what is happening on my ship?”

  Nightmares notwithstanding, I doubted this man was ready to hear that the doctor’s wall scrawlings were true. I could be confined to my cabin, if I tried.

  “The Ravings is as fitting a name as any,” I began. “I’ve seen a similar illness before. It attacks the mind, affecting it with a temporary alienation.”

  “Temporary?”

  “Yes, until the patient is removed from the cause. In
this case, the ship—or something on it.”

  The captain mulled this over before replying. “Very well. We’ll need to keep these people confined to cabin until we reach New York then, and keep an eye out for any other strange behaviour.”

  “Unless you are willing to turn back.”

  Smith shook his head. “Even if I could, it would be a moot point. We have reached the point of no-return. We are closer to our destination now.”

  The captain put his cup down and got to his feet. “Doctor, please look in on these affected first-class passengers before doing anything else.”

  “Of course.”

  Leaving the captain’s cabin, I headed straight for steerage.

  The first-class passengers were a waste of time. There was little I could do other than sedate them, and I wasn’t about to waste morphine on overly sensitive, easily influenced people. My time was better spent with continuing my search.

  Smith’s words rang in my ears as I walked: We’re closer to our destination now.

  While I was no closer to finding the book.

  “Where the hell is it?” I said, stepping into second class. “Where?”

  The book’s presence hammered into me, pulling a groan from my throat. It was everywhere on this level, as it had been yesterday in third class.

  “No! No, no, no.”

  I rushed for the gate leading to steerage. This sensation in second class could mean the thief was on the move, or …

  I flashed my letter at the steward. “Let me through.”

  “Are you well, Doctor?” he asked. “You seem …”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Just open the damn gate.”

  The man complied and I started to the next level.

  “No. God damn it, no.”

  The thief wasn’t on the move, but the influence of the book was. It had spread like a pestilence, covering the lower two levels. Soon it would occupy the entire ship.

  Time was running out.

  Like diving deeper into water, the pressure of evil was greater down here, and the effect on the passengers was evident. Many were lethargic, eyes haunted by visions only they saw. One man leaned over his gathered family speaking in hissing whispers, warning them. Another stood in a corner, back to the wall and eyes darting, ensuring nothing could sneak up on him.

  All stared at me with trepidation.

  How had none of the ship’s crew noticed this?

  “I’m here to help,” I managed.

  Those that would speak to me told me about their nightmares. I knew what those visions would hold and moved on, searching for the one who would be less affected.

  Some asked if I was well, as if I were acting in a demented manner.

  Insanity.

  I spent fruitless hours searching for the thief in this way, but there were too many people, and missing one in that crowd was easy.

  “Where is it?”

  Would finding the book be enough? There were still two more days at sea.

  Two more days under this influence.

  A ghost ship would arrive in New York.

  I laughed, without knowing the reason why.

  Could I throw the book overboard?

  “It wouldn’t stay there though, would it? No, it needs to be hidden. Guarded. This ship full of people is fair exchange.”

  There! That man was suspicious.

  “You!” I rushed at him, drawing the knife the first thief had carried. “Where is it?”

  I had the man pressed against the wall, knife in one hand.

  “Where is that damned book?”

  “What? I …”

  “Daddy?”

  I turned to see the terrified face of a five-year-old boy. He hid behind the doorway, staring up at us.

  “Go back inside, Jamie,” the man said.

  No. That wasn’t right. The thief wouldn’t be travelling with a child, wouldn’t care about his safety.

  I backed away from the man, seeing the terror in his eyes matching his child’s.

  “No, you aren’t him. You aren’t.”

  I turned and headed down the hall, making it ten steps before men were on me. They wrestled me to the floor, taking my knife away.

  “No! I must find it. Can’t you feel the evil?”

  “Someone get the steward.”

  I lie there, under the weight of all these people, warning of the danger surrounding them. Couldn’t they feel it for themselves?

  “Doctor!” The gate steward, three other men in ship’s uniform standing behind him.

  “The Ravings,” one muttered.

  A second one added. “Another doctor affected.”

  They pulled me to my feet, my arms held fast.

  “Help me find the book! Help me find the thief!”

  “Yes, of course, Doctor.”

  They said they would help, yet they herded me toward the stairs.

  “No. You don’t understand.”

  “Easy with him,” one of the crew said. “He’s a friend of the captain’s.”

  The next I knew I was being eased onto my bed.

  Then I started screaming.

  Dreams of blood, death, and destruction. The entire world and everyone I’d ever cared for destroyed and defiled.

  Archibald Shaw revelled in it.

  Piled before me were all the bodies of those Whitechapel women, and many more that had only been possibilities. All of the men who had gone into that part of London with him there too, torn apart, eyes vacant and mad.

  And Singh. The boy I had rescued. He lay, disembowelled on an altar.

  In my hand, the long ceremonial blade of the thief, dripping with redness, my mind dripping with madness.

  NO!

  This was everything I’d fought against, everything I’d dedicated my life to preventing. This was not me. I rejected it.

  I am not the Ripper.

  Not anymore.

  APRIL ??

  In my desperation to find the book, I had called to it, and it had answered. I saw this now that I was awake again, now that the madness had passed.

  How long had I been unconscious?

  I retrieved my cane from the floor and hurried to the cabin’s one window.

  Still at sea, and the sun only starting to set. I’d regained my senses before it was too late.

  The clock on the table said 6:00. Beside it sat a meal, lunch by the look of it. Cold to the touch.

  The door to the cabin was locked, which was no surprise. People with the Ravings were being confined to cabin.

  I shook my head, trying to clear the lingering fog, and paced the confined space. My body screamed in complaint and reminded me about the morphine.

  Did I still have my bag?

  Yes. On the trunk where I’d left it. Luckily the stewards had ignored that when they’d dropped me here. I crossed the cabin and opened the bag, pulling out a syringe.

  For five minutes I gazed at it, wanting it, before sliding the drug into my jacket pocket with a regretful sigh.

  No, I need my wits.

  What I needed more was to get out of here.

  How though? I lacked the strength to break the door down, and the window was no exit.

  Until someone came I was trapped in here.

  While waiting, I changed my shirt and pants, the current ones being soaked in the sweat of madness. In the end I sat in the reading chair, facing it toward the door and eating the cold lunch, though I had little appetite. My cane laid across my leg in a casual manner.

  A little over an hour later, the handle twitched as someone unlocked it from the other side. A deep breath and a mental reminder to be calm and unthreatening.

  The steward, Thompkins, entered, a platter of food to replace my hours old lunch balanced on one hand. When he saw me out of be
d, he stopped, then turned to leave.

  “I’m fine now, Thompkins,” I said. “The fever, or whatever it was, has left me.”

  Thompkins nodded, coming no closer. “I’m happy to hear that, Doctor.”

  After another moment’s indecision, he stepped forward to place the meal on my table, not picking up what remained of the previous one. He wanted to keep his hands free around me. Sensible.

  “Can I get you anything, Doctor?”

  “Just some news if you would.”

  “News?”

  “Yes.” I tried to keep any impatience from showing. “What has been happening on the ship in the hours I’ve been locked away?”

  “Hours? Doctor, I’m sorry, but … you’ve been in here since yesterday morning.”

  I’d lost an entire day? “No. God damn it.”

  Thompkins took a step back and I forced a calming expression to my face.

  “Sorry. I was thinking of all the people I could have helped in that time.”

  The steward relaxed, somewhat.

  “Have there been many more afflicted?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’m not sure on the number, but quite a few. Both passengers and crew.”

  “The captain?”

  “Oh no, sir! Captain Smith is rock steady.”

  “Good,” I said. “That’s good.”

  The captain had slept through the night without relapsing into his nightmares. Perhaps he’d found something in the ship’s pharmacy to help.

  I leaned on my cane and got to my feet, suffering at least half of the effort I let Thompkins see. The man took another step back toward the door but looked embarrassed for doing so.

  “Obviously you can’t let me out,” I said, “but would you take a message to Captain Smith for me?”

  “Of course, Doctor. Is it urgent? I have other meals to deliver.”

  “After will be fine.”

  I crossed to my nightstand and scribbled on one of the papers there, then folded it into four. Turning back I headed for Thompkins, the paper held out in two fingers of my free hand. As he reached for the note I dropped it.

  “So sorry,” I muttered. “Must still be weak.”

  “Quite all right, Doctor.”