In his rational being he had no frame of reference for all that had happened in the four months since he had been assigned command of this nameless ship-his first and last command. He could not comprehend Purgatory, or Hell, or The End of the World. But there was a word for the mood that pervaded this boat and its crew: "dread." Death was afoot belowdecks, quite literally, and the living suffered its unspeakable presence in duty and purest dread.

Dread not, he mused. Dread not, dread naught, dreadnought. Dreadnaut-he had to smile at that one: Jason and the Argonauts, meet Lulu and the Dreadnauts. Not exactly the stuff of Greek legend; it sounded more like a cheesy cover band. And they already had one of those aboard.

Climbing down through the dank chambers in the monolithic black sail, Coombs thought as he often did lately about the choices, the sheer chance, that had led him into the Navy, and by extension to this strange, infernal place. It might so easily have never happened at all. He might be out there even now, lost beyond that dark shore, amid the blue multitude. The same as everyone else.

He could feel the anxious eyes of the crew on him now as he passed through the control center, searching him for confirmation of what they all felt and what they wanted him to feel. So that they could be reassured he was doing something about it, being the cool, competent leader they needed him to be. But he couldn't-Harvey couldn't give them that assurance. He had no such hope to offer.

"Keep to our present heading," he said. "Rich, take the conn for a minute."

"Yes, sir," said his executive officer darkly. "Robles, you and Phil go down with him."

Lt. Dan Robles stood up from his console.

"Stand down, Dan. I don't need an escort this time."

"It's just a precaution."