"Who was it?" Lubin wants to know.
"I don't know," Nakata says. "I think, no one that we've spoken to before."
"And that was all he said? Evac in twelve?"
"And we are supposed to remain inside Beebe until then."
"No explanation? No reason given?"
"He hung up as soon as I acknowledged the order." Nakata looks vaguely apologetic. "I did not get the chance to ask, and nobody answered when I called back."
Brander stands up and heads for Comm.
"I've already set retry," Clarke says. "It'll beep when it gets through."
Brander stops, stares at the nearest bulkhead. Punches it.
"This is bullshit!"
Lubin just watches.
"Maybe not," Nakata says. "Maybe it's good news. If they were going to leave us here when they detonated, why would they lie about extraction? Why talk to us at all?"
"To keep us nice and close to ground zero," Brander spits. "Now here's a question for you, Alice: if they're really planning on evacuating us, why not tell us the reason?"
Nakata shrugs helplessly. "I do not know. The GA does not often tell us what is going on."
Maybe they're trying to psyche us out, Clarke muses. Maybe they want us to make a break, for some reason.
"Well," she says aloud, "how far could we get in twelve hours anyway? Even with squids? What are the chances we'd reach safe distance?"
"Depends on how big the bomb is," Brander says.
"Actually," Lubin remarks, "assuming that they want to keep us here for twelve hours because that would be enough time to get away, we might be able to work out the range."
"If they didn't just pull that number out of a hat," Brander says.
"It still makes no sense," Nakata insists. "Why cut off our communications? That is guaranteed to make us suspicious."
"They took Judy," Lubin says.
Clarke takes a deep breath. "One thing's true, anyway."
The others turn.
"They want to keep us here," she finishes.
Brander smacks fist into palm. "And that's the best single reason for getting the fuck out, you ask me. Soon as we can."
"I agree," Lubin says.
Brander stares at him.
"I'll find him," she says. "I'll do my best, anyway."
Brander shakes his head. "I should stay. We should all stay. The chances of finding him—"
"The chances of finding him are best if I go out alone," Clarke reminds him. "He still comes out, sometimes, when I'm there. You wouldn't even get close."
He knows that, of course. He's just making token protests; if he can't get absolution from Fischer, at least he can try and look like a saint to everyone else.
Still, Clarke remembers, it's not entirely his fault. He's got baggage like the rest of us.
Even if he did mean harm…
"Well, the others are waiting. I guess we're off."
Clarke nods.
"You coming outside?"
She shakes her head. "I'll do a sonar sweep first. You never know, I might get lucky."
"Well, don't take too long. Only eight hours to go."
"I know."
"And if you can't find him after an hour—"
"I know. I'll be right behind you."
"We'll be—"
"Out to the dead whale, then steady bearing eighty-five degrees," she says. "I know."
"Look, you sure about this? We can wait in here for you. One hour's probably not going to make much difference."
She shakes her head. "I'm sure."
"Okay." He stands there, looking uncomfortable. One hand starts to rise, wavers, falls back.
He climbs down the ladder.
"Mike," she calls down after him.
He looks up.
"Do you really think they're going to blow that thing up?"
He shrugs. "I dunno. Maybe not. But you're right: they want us here for some reason. Whatever it is, I bet we wouldn't like it."
Clarke considers that.
"See you soon," Brander says, stepping into the 'lock.
"'Bye," she whispers.
When the lights go out in Beebe Station, you can't hear much of anything these days.
Lenie Clarke sits in the darkness, listening. When was the last time these walls complained about the pressure? She can't remember. When she first came down here the station groaned incessantly, filled every waking moment with creaking reminders of the weight on its shoulders. But sometime since then it must have made peace with the ocean; the water pushing down and the armor pushing back have finally settled to equilibrium.
Of course, there are other kinds of pressure on the Juan de Fuca Rift.
She almost revels in the silence now. No clanging footfalls disturb her, no sudden outbursts of random violence. The only pulse she hears is her own. The only breath comes from the air conditioners.
She flexes her fingers, lets them dig into the fabric of the chair. She can see into the communications cubby from her position in the lounge. Occasional telltales flicker through the hatchway, the only available light. For Clarke, it's enough; her eyecaps grab those meager photons and show her a room in twilight. She hasn't gone into Comm since the rest of them left. She didn't watch their icons crawl off the edge of the screen, and she hasn't swept the rift for signs of Gerry Fischer.
She doesn't intend to now. She doesn't know if she ever did.
Far away, Lubin's lonely windchimes serenade her.
Clank.
From below.
No. Stay away. Leave me alone.
She hears the airlock draining, hears it open. Three soft footsteps. Movement on the ladder.
Ken Lubin rises into the lounge like a shadow.
"Mike and Alice?" she says, afraid to let him begin.
"Heading out. I told them I'd catch up."
"We're spreading ourselves pretty thin," she remarks.
"I think Brander was just as happy to be rid of me for a while."
She smiles faintly.
"You're not coming," he says.
Clarke shakes her head. "Don't try—"
"I won't."
He folds himself down into a convenient chair. She watches him move. There's a careful grace about him, there always has been. He moves as though always afraid of damaging something.
"I thought you might do this," he says after a while.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know myself until, well…"
He waits for her to continue.
"I want to know what's going on," she says at last. "Maybe they really are playing straight with us this time. It's not that unlikely. Maybe things aren't as bad as we thought…"
Lubin seems to consider that. "What about Fischer? Do you want me to—"
She barks a short laugh. "Fischer? You really want to drag him through the muck for days on end, and then haul him onto some fucking beach where he can't even stand up without breaking both his legs? Maybe it'd make Mike feel a bit better. Not much of an act of charity for Gerry, though."
And not, she knows now, for Lenie Clarke either. She's been deluding herself all this time. She felt herself getting stronger and she thought she could just walk away with that gift, take it anywhere. She thought she could pack all of Channer inside of her like some new prosthetic.
But now. Now the mere thought of leaving brings all her old weakness rushing back. The future opens before her and she feels herself devolving, curling up into some soft prehuman tadpole, cursed now with the memory of how it once felt to be made of steel.
It's not me. It never was. It was just the rift, using me…