He's been out now for about fifteen minutes. Beebe's just a few meters away. Clarke and Brander escort him on his maiden voyage, keeping their distance. Scanlon kicks, rises clumsily from the bottom; the mesh lets him swim like a man with splinted limbs. Vampires skim the edge of his vision like effortless shadows.
His helmet seems like the center of the universe. Wherever he looks, an infinite weight of black ocean presses in against the acrylic. A tiny flaw down by the neck seal catches his eye; he stares, horrified, as a hairline crack grows across his field of vision.
"Help! Get me in!" He kicks furiously towards Beebe.
Nobody answers.
"My helmet! My hel—" The crack isn't just growing now: it's squirming, twitching laterally across the corner of the helmet bubble like— like—
Yellow featureless eyes staring in from the ocean. A black hand, silhouetted in Beebe's halo, reaching for his face—
"Ahhh—"
A thumb grinds down on the crack in Scanlon's helmet. The crack smears, bursts; fine gory filaments smudge against the acrylic. The back half of the hairline peels off and writhes loose into the water, coiling, uncoiling—
Dying. Scanlon pants with relief. A worm. Some stupid fucking roundworm on my faceplate and I thought I was going to die, I thought—
Oh Christ. I've made a complete fool of myself.
He looks around. Brander, hanging off his right shoulder, points to the gory remnants sticking to the helmet. "If it ever really cracked you wouldn't have time to complain. You'd look just like that."
Scanlon clears his throat. "Thanks. Sorry, I— well, you know I'm new here. Thanks."
"By the way."
Clarke's voice. Or what's left of it, after the machinery does its job. Scanlon flails around until she comes into view overhead.
"How long are you going to be checking up on us?" she asks
Neutral question. Perfectly reasonable.
In fact, you've got to wonder why nobody asked it before…
"A week at least." His heart is slowing down again. "Maybe two. As long as it takes to make sure things are running smoothly."
She's silent for a second. Then: "You're lying." It doesn't sound like an accusation, somehow; just a simple observation. Maybe it's the vocoder.
"Why do you say that?"
She doesn't answer. Something else does; not quite a moan, not quite a voice. Not quite faint enough to ignore.
Scanlon feels the abyss trickling down his back. "Did you hear that?"
Clarke slips down past him to the seabed, rotating to keep him in view. "Hear? What?"
"It was— " Scanlon listens. A faint tectonic rumble. That's all. "Nothing."
She pushes off the bottom at an angle, slides up through the water to Brander. "We're on shift," she buzzes at Scanlon. "You know how the 'lock works."
The vampires vanish into the night.
Beebe shines invitingly. Alone and suddenly nervous, Scanlon retreats to the airlock.
But I wasn't lying. I wasn't. He hasn't had to, yet. Nobody's asked the right questions.
Still. It seems odd that he has to remind himself.
TRANS/OFFI/230850:0830
I'm about to embark on my first extended dive. Apparently, the participants have been asked to catch a fish for one of the Pharm consortiums. Washington/Rand, I believe. I find this a bit puzzling— usually Pharms are only interested in bacteria, and they use their own people for collecting— but it provides the participants with a change from the usual routine, and it provides me an opportunity to watch them in action. I expect to learn a great deal.
Brander is slouched at the library when Scanlon comes through the lounge. His fingers rest unmoving on the keypad. Eyephones hang unused in their hooks. Brander's empty eyes point at the flatscreen. The screen is dark.
Scanlon hesitates. "I'm heading out now. With Clarke and Caraco."
Brander's shoulders rise and fall, almost indiscernibly. A sigh, perhaps. A shrug.
"The others are at the Throat. You'll be the only— I mean, will you be running tender from Comm?"
"You told us not to change the routine," Brander says, not looking up.
"That's true, Michael. But—"
Brander stands. "So make up your mind." He disappears down the corridor. Scanlon watches him go. Naturally this has to go into my report. Not that you care.
You might, though. Soon enough.
Scanlon drops into the wet room and finds it empty. He struggles into his armor single-handed, taking an extra few moments to ensure that the helmet bubble is spotless. He catches up with Clarke and Caraco just outside; Clarke is checking out a quartet of squids hovering over the seabed. One of them is tethered to a specimen canister resting on the bottom, a pressure-proof coffin over two meters long. Caraco sets it for neutral buoyancy; it rises a few centimeters.
They set off without a word. The squids tow them into the abyss; the women in the lead, Scanlon and the canister following behind. Scanlon looks back over his shoulder. Beebe's comforting lights wash down from yellow to gray, then disappear entirely. Feeling a sudden need for reassurance, he trips through the channels on his acoustic modem. There: the homing beacon. You're never really lost down here as long as you can hear that.
Clarke and Caraco are running dark. Not even their squids are shining.
Don't say anything. You don't want them to change their routine, remember?
Not that they would anyway.
Occasional dim lights flash briefly at the corner of his eye, but they always vanish when he looks at them. After an endless few minutes a bright smear fades into view directly ahead, resolves into a collection of copper beacons and dark angular skyscrapers. The vampires avoid the light, head around it at an angle. Scanlon and cargo follow helplessly.
They set up just off the Throat, at the borderline between light and dark. Caraco unlatches the canister as Clarke rises into the column above them; she's got something in her right hand, but Scanlon can't see what it is. She holds it up as though displaying it to an invisible crowd.
It gibbers.
It sounds like a very loud mosquito at first. Then it dopplers down to a low growl, slides back up into erratic high frequency.
And now, finally, Lenie Clarke turns her headlight on.
She hangs up there like some crucified ascendant, her hand whining at the abyss, the light from her head sweeping the water like, like—
— a dinner bell, Scanlon realizes as something charges out of the darkness at her, almost as big as she is and Jesus the teeth on it—
It swallows her leg up to the crotch. Lenie Clarke takes it all in stride. She jabs down with a billy that's magically appeared in her left hand. The creature bloats and bursts in a couple of places; clumps of bubbles erupt like silvery mushrooms through flesh, shudder off into the sky. The creature thrashes, its gullet a monstrous scabbard around Clarke's leg. The vampire reaches down and dismembers it with her bare hands.
Caraco, still fiddling with the canister, looks up. "Hey, Len. They wanted it intact."
"Wrong kind," Clarke buzzes. The water around her is full of torn flesh and flashing scavengers. Clarke ignores them, turning slowly, scanning the abyss.