So most of the habs are unguarded and unclaimed. Occupants come and go, rise into any convenient bubble to fuck or feed or—more rarely—socialize, before returning to their natural environment. Any place is as good as any other. There’s little need to stand jealous guard over anything so ubiquitous as a Calvin Cycler or a repair bench, and there’s hardly more that rifters need beyond these basics. Privacy is everywhere; swim two minutes in any direction and you can be lost forever. Why erect walls around recycled air?
Lenie Clarke has her reasons.
She’s not entirely alone in this. A few other rifters have laid exclusive claims, pissed territorially on this cubby or that deck or—in very rare cases—an entire hab. They’ve nested refuge within refuge, the ocean against the world at large, an extra bubble of alloy and atmosphere against their own kind. There are locks on the doors in such places. Habs do not come with locks—their dryback designers had safety issues—but the private and the paranoid have made do, welding or growing their own fortifications onto the baseline structure.
Clarke isn’t greedy. Her claim is a small one, a cubby on the upper deck of a hab anchored sixty meters northeast of Atlantis. It’s scarcely larger than her long-lost quarters on Beebe Station; she thinks that may have been why she chose it. It doesn’t even have a porthole.
She doesn’t spend much time here. In fact, she hasn’t been here since she and Walsh started fucking. But it doesn’t matter how much time she actually spends in this cramped, spartan closet; what matters is the comforting knowledge that it’s hers, that it’s here, that no one can ever come in unless she lets them. And that it’s available when she needs it.
She needs it now.
She sits naked on the cubby’s pallet, bathed in light cranked almost dryback-bright; the readouts she’ll be watching are color-coded, and she doesn’t want to lose that information. A handpad lies on the neoprene beside her, tuned to her insides. Mosaics of green and blue glow on its face: tiny histograms, winking stars, block-cap letters forming cryptic acronyms. There’s a mirror on the opposite bulkhead; she ignores it as best she can, but her empty white eyes keep catching their own reflection.
One hand absently fingers her left nipple; the other holds a depolarizing scalpel against the seam in her chest. Her skin invaginates smoothly along that seam, forms a wrinkle, a puckered geometric groove in her thorax: three sides of a rectangle, a block-C, pressed as if by a cookie-cutter into the flesh between left breast and diaphragm and midline.
Clarke opens herself at the sternum.
She unlatches her ribs at the costochondrals and pulls them back; there’s a slight resistance and a faint, disquieting sucking sound as the monolayer lining splits along the seam. A dull ache as air rushes into her thorax—it’s a chill, really, but deep-body nerves aren’t built to distinguish temperature from pain. The mechanics who transformed her hinged four of her ribs on the left side. Clarke hooks her fingers under the fleshy panel and folds it back, exposing the machinery beneath. Sharper, stronger pain stabs forth from intercostals never designed for such flexibility. There are bruises in their future.
She takes a tool from a nearby tray and starts playing with herself.
The flexible tip of the tool, deep within her thorax, slips neatly over a needle-thin valve and locks tight. She’s still impressed at how easily she can feel her way around in there. The tool’s handle contains a thumbwheel set to some astronomical gear ratio. She moves it a quarter turn; the tip rotates a fraction of a degree.
The handpad at her side bleeps in protest: NTR and GABA flicker from green to yellow on its face. One of the histogram bars lengthens a smidge; two others contract.
Another quarter turn. More complaints from the pad.
It’s such a laughably crude invasion, more rape than seduction. Was there any real need for these fleshy hinges, for the surgical butchery that carved this trap door into her chest? The pad taps wirelessly into the telemetry from her implants; that channel flows both ways, sends commands into the body as well as taking information out of it. Minor adjustments, little tweaks around approved optima, are as simple as tapping on a touchpad and feeling the machinery respond from inside.
Of course, the tweaks Lenie Clarke is about to indulge in are way beyond “minor”.
The Grid Authority never claimed to own the bodies of their employees, not officially at least. They owned everything they put inside, though. Clarke smiles to herself. They could probably charge me with vandalism.
If they’d really wanted to keep her from putting her grubby paws all over company property then they shouldn’t have left this service panel in her chest. But they were on such a steep curve, back then. The brownouts weren’t waiting; Hydro-Q wasn’t waiting; the GA couldn’t wait either. The whole geothermal program was fast-tracked, rearguard, and on the fly; the rifters themselves were a short term stopgap even on that breakneck schedule. Lenie Clarke and her buddies were prototypes, field tests, and final product all rolled into one. How could any accountant justify sealing up the implants on Monday when you’d only have to cut your way back in on Wednesday to fix a faulty myocell, or install some vital component that the advance sims had overlooked?
Even the deadman alarms were an afterthought, Clarke remembers. Karl Acton brought them down to Beebe at the start of his tour, handed them out like throat lozenges, told everyone to pop themselves open and slide ’em in right next to the seawater intake.
Karl was the one who discovered how to do what Lenie Clarke is doing right now. Ken Lubin killed him for it.
Times change, Clarke reflects, and tweaks another setting.
Finally she’s finished. She lets the fleshy flap fall back into her chest, feels the phospholipids rebind along the seam. Molecular tails embrace in an orgy of hydrophobia. Another ache throbs diffusely inside now, subtly different from those that have gone before: disinfectants and synthetic antibodies, spraying down the implant cavity in the unlikely event that its lining should fail.
The outraged handpad has given up; half of its readouts are yellow and orange.
Inside Clarke’s head, things are beginning to change. The permeability of critical membranes is edging up a few percent. The production of certain chemicals, designed not to carry signals but to blockade them, is subtly being scaled back. Windows are not yet opening, but they are being unlocked.
She can feel none of this directly, of course. The changes, by themselves, are necessary but not sufficient—they don’t matter here where lungs are used, where pressure is a mere single atmosphere. They only matter when catalyzed by the weight of an ocean.
But now, when Lenie Clarke goes outside—when she steps into the airlock and the pressure accretes around her like a liquid mountain; when three hundred atmospheres squeeze her head so hard that her very synapses start short-circuiting—then, Lenie Clarke will be able to look into men’s souls. Not the bright parts, of course. No philosophy or music, no altruism, no intellectual musings about right and wrong. Nothing neocortical at all. What Lenie Clarke will feel predates all of that by a hundred million years. The hypothalamus, the reticular formation, the amygdala. The reptile brain, the midbrain. Jealousies, appetites, fears and inarticulate hatreds. She’ll feel them all, to a range of fifteen meters or more.