“Let's get below the smoker,” said the professor reluctantly.
Tanaka agreed. The American-born Japanese nodded at the technician and together they completed the maneuver.
Beads of sweat dribbled into Professor Boyle's eyes while he watched the monitor. The screen displayed what was visible on the volcanic plate just beyond the bow of the Shinkai, as well as providing real-time data for sea depth, current direction and speed, sea temperature, and hull pressure. The temperature, barely 37°F sixty-six feet away, was climbing rapidly as the sub neared the hydrothermal vent.
What had seemed to be bare rock gradually became a meadow of enormous pale yellow tube worms captured in the Shinkai's lights. The tube worms, each over a yard in length, swayed in the gentle convection current. A movement at the corner of the screen caught the scientists' attention. Dr. Tanaka toggled the external camera so that the view in the monitor swept left. A huge white spider crab crawled into view, reminding Tanaka of something from a horror movie. It was gobbling something, long and slender poles ending in claws feeding torn strips of worm into its mouth. “Christ, what a monster,” muttered Boyle.
An angelfish drifted into view as the submersible continued its descent. “Now there's a face only its mother would love,” said the technician. The small fish dangled its glowing lantern in front of a grotesque, lethal-looking underbite, the brutal fangs in its wide mouth poised for the strike. Alarmed by the sound of the sub's motors, the spider crab darted away.
The temperature climbed further as they descended. “Anyone for a hot tub?” inquired the technician.
“Pass,” Boyle muttered, eyes glued to the screen in front of him. The sea temperature had soared to 86°F as the smoker came into view. They were several yards up-current from the volcano that was spewing a plume of black, superheated seawater, hydrogen sulphide, and iron monosulphide into the surrounding sea. By rights, this area should have been devoid of life. There was no oxygen down here, and no light, only boiling liquids capable of stripping the paint off a ship's hull. And yet around the base of the smoker's funnel was a thriving community of life, life that would, perversely, find existence in a more conventional environment lethal.
“Jesus,” Boyle said under his breath.
As far as Boyle and Tanaka knew, this was the deepest anyone had ever dived on a smoker, and here laid out before them was an improbable Garden of Eden. The bed of worms had become denser and the creatures themselves were as big as anacondas. Shrimp the size of house cats darted between the tubes waving in the current. There were more giant spider crabs, and clams so big they looked like footballs. The tube worms and the mollusks had been well-documented phenomena present at other hydrothermal vents at shallower depths, but those were nowhere near as big as the ones here. Strange fish neither scientist had ever seen before hunted over the tube worm beds, chasing smaller fish and shrimp. None of the life bore the usual hallmarks of fish found at this depth — the huge eyes and teeth and the lights swinging from various protuberances. There was so much life down here it was literally bumping into itself.
“Amazing,” Boyle said, awestruck by the information provided by the monitor. It'd been years of theoretical slogging to get to this point. There were moments when they'd been skeptical themselves about finding such a biologically diverse world at — he checked the gauge — nearly 21,000 feet. And yet here it was. This discovery alone would have made them famous, except that their research was classified. The people paying the bills, the U.S. Department of Defense, wouldn't have it any other way.
The technician sitting beside Tanaka tapped his watch. The Shinkai ran on battery power and the needles were leaning toward the red. They had an hour and a half at most before they had to start the climb to the Natusima. Tanaka nodded.
“Let's get to it,” agreed Boyle.The technician turned to another panel and readied the Shinkai's arms. A thin appendage could be seen moving across the monitor, the clawlike hand flexing open and closed, ready to collect specimens. The motion reminded Boyle of the spider crab. And that thought reminded him there was a lot of work yet to be done.
The sea was flat; even the low swell of the past week had rolled onto the Japanese mainland beyond the western horizon. It was night and the Natusima could have been anchored on a lake of black glass. As he stumbled down the gunnel, Dr. Tanaka tripped on a part of the steel deck hidden in deep shadow. He swore under his breath and grabbed the railing to steady himself. He threw his head back to get some air and looked up into the cloudless night sky. The moon reminded him of a polished quarter, one that appeared glued to the Milky Way. The doctor managed to hum a couple of bars of “Moon River” before his stomach gave way, convulsing several times as a torrent of food and alcohol roared out of his mouth and spattered onto the sea below.
Vomiting made Tanaka feel better. He wasn't used to drinking alcohol — Red Bull was about as strong as his drinks got, and he never had more than three. But there was no Red Bull on board, so he'd been convinced to have an inch or two of Johnnie Walker. It was a celebration after all, and Boyle had been insistent. How many scientific quests end in failure? Tanaka didn't know the answer, but he reasoned the percentage would be high. And yet they'd struck gold on the very first day and bagged a huge variety of bizarre specimens. They'd had five days of uninterrupted diving and the hard work was largely done. Tomorrow, they would up anchor and leave, ahead of schedule. The ship's master informed them that the weather was going to turn nasty during the night — they were experiencing the proverbial calm before the storm — so they'd decided to end the expedition early and head for the port of Yokohama. With luck, the sulphide-oxidizing extremophiles they sought for further experimentation would be hiding among the specimens brought to the surface. No, damn the luck! “Luck's for schmucks,” Tanaka slurred aloud, directing his comment at a winch. He and the professor had made their own good luck, and it had paid off in spades.
The celebration in the mess was still going strong, the music leaking through the metal and glass superstructure and up on to the stern deck. Eminem and 5 °Cent were getting a rest. The Rolling Stones song “Sympathy for the Devil” played. One of the older members of the crew must be DJ-ing, Tanaka decided. There was a sudden short spike in the music volume, signifying that a hatch had opened and closed. Someone else had left the party to get some air. Tanaka peered drunkenly into the moonlight. The ship was illuminated by two large spotlights perched high on the crane's cross member, but the light was hard and stark and heavy black shadows thrown by a multitude of gear lay across the decks. “Hello,” Tanaka called, but got no answer. He shrugged. Leaning on the railing, he looked out across the polished obsidian sea, his head spinning a little, his mouth sour.
Suddenly, he felt himself being lifted from the waist. Before he could struggle, he was thrown over the railing. The world spun and a cry escaped his throat before he hit the water and plunged below the surface. The shock of the cold seawater made him gag. He broke the surface spluttering, choking, instantly sober. “Hey, what the fuck?” he shouted, the saltwater searing his throat. “Hey!” The Natusima's black hull reared up beside him, an unscaleable face. He slapped the steel slab with his open hand. “Hey!” There was no reply, although he thought he heard something. Was it a cough? There was a mechanical sound to it. “Hey! Someone there?” There was no repeat of the sound, just the distant beat of music coming from deep within the ship. He dashed the water's surface with his arms in frustration and anger, and kicked off his sneakers so that he could swim better. Phosphorescence swirled around him. “Who the fuck threw me in?” he screamed, the chill of the water like sandpaper rubbing against his skin. No answer. “Hey!” Tanaka's voice echoed back at him, bouncing off the cold steel hull. “Jesus…” he said in frustration, treading water. He peered up into the alternating dazzle and darkness of the ship and thought he saw the silhouette of a man's head and shoulders up behind the railing. “Hey, you!” he shouted. No response. Someone had thrown him in, right? Was it that shadow up there?