By now it’s evolved into something quite different. The nerves still function, but buried beneath five years of generalist overlay. Cyclers and food processors were the first additions to the mix. Then a handful of sleeping pallets, brought in during some emergency debug that went three times around the clock; once strewn across the deck, they proved too convenient to remove. Half a dozen VR headsets, some with Lorenz-lev haptic skins attached. A couple of dreamers with corroded contacts. A set of isometrics pads, fashionable among those wishing to retain a measure of gravity-bound muscle tone. Boxes and treasure chests, grown or extruded or welded together by amateur metalworkers in Atlantis’sexpropriated fabrication shops; they hold the personal effects and secret possessions of whoever brought them here, sealed against intruders with passwords and DNA triggers and, in one case, a clunky antique combination padlock.
Perhaps Nolan and the others looked in on the Gene Erickson Show from here, perhaps from somewhere else. Either way, the show’s long since over. Erickson, safely comatose, has been abandoned by flesh and blood, his welfare relegated to the attentions of machinery. If there was ever an audience in this dim and cluttered warren, it has dispersed in search of other diversions.
That suits Clarke just fine. She’s here in search of private eyes.
The hab’s lightstrips are not in use; environmental readouts and flickering surveillance images provide enough light for eyecaps. A dark shape startles at her appearance—then, apparently reassured, moves more calmly towards the far wall and settles onto a pallet.
Bhanderi: he of the once-mighty vocab and the big-ass neurotech degree, fallen from grace thanks to a basement lab and a batch of neurotropes sold to the wrong man’s son. He went native two months ago. You hardly ever see him inside any more. Clarke knows better than to talk to him.
Someone’s delivered a canister of hydroponic produce from the greenhouse: apples, tomatoes, something that looks like a pineapple glistening listless and sickly gray in the reduced light. On a whim, Clarke reaches over to a wall panel and cranks up the lumens. The compartment glows with unaccustomed brightness.
“Shiiiittt…” Or something like that. Clarke turns, catches a glimpse of Bhanderi disappearing down the well into the wet room.
“Sorry,” she calls softly after—but downstairs the airlock’s already cycling.
The hab is even more of a festering junk pile with the lights up. Improvised cables and hoses hang in loops, stuck to the module’s ribs with waxy blobs of silicon epoxy. Dark tumors of mould grow here and there on the insulated padding that lines the inner surfaces; in a few places, the lining has been ripped out entirely. The raw bulkhead behind glistens like the concave interior of some oily gunmetal skull.
But when the lights come on, and Lenie Clarke sees with some semblance of dryback vision—the produce in the canister verges on psychedaelia. Tomatoes glow like ruby hearts; apples shine green as argon lasers; even the dull lumpy turds of force-grown potatoes seem saturated with earthy browns. This modest little harvest at the bottom of the sea seems, in this moment, to be a richer and more sensual experience than anything Clarke has ever known.
There’s an apocalyptic irony to this little tableau. Not that such an impoverished spread could induce rapture in a miserable fuck-up like Lenie Clarke; she’s always had to take her tiny pleasures wherever she could find them. No, the irony is that by now, the sight would probably evoke the same intense reaction among any dryback left alive back on shore. The irony is that now, with a whole planet dying by relentless degrees, the healthiest produce in the world may have been force-grown in a tank of chemicals at the bottom of the Atlantic.
She kills the lights. She grabs an apple—blighted gray again—and takes a bite, ducking beneath a loop of fiberop. The main monitor flickers into view from behind a mesa of cargo skids; and someone watching it, lit by that bluish light, squatting with his back against accumulated junk.
So much for privacy.
“Like it?” Walsh asks, nodding at the fruit in her hand. “I brought ’em in for you.”
She drops down beside him. “It’s nice, Kev. Thanks.” And then, carefully filtering the irritation from her voice: “So, what’re you doing here?”
“Thought you might show up.” He gestures at the monitor. “You know, after things died down.”
He’s spying on one of Atlantis’s lesser medbays. The camera looks down from the junction of wall and ceiling, a small God’s-eye view of the compartment. A dormant teleop hangs down into picture like an insectile bat, limbs folded up against its central stalk. Gene Erickson lies face-up on the operating table, unconscious; the glistening soap-bubble skin of an isolation tent separates him from the rest of the world. Julia Friedman’s at his side, holding his hand through the membrane. It clings to the contours of her fingers like a whisper-thin glove, unobtrusive as any condom. Friedman’s removed her hood and peeled her diveskin back to the forearms, but her scars are obscured by a tangle of chestnut hair.
“You missed all the fun,” Walsh remarks. “Klein couldn’t get him to go under.”
An isolation membrane. Erickson’s been quarantined.
“You know, because he forgot about the GABA washout,” Walsh continues. A half-dozen tailored neuroinhibitors curdle the blood of any rifter who steps outside; they keep the brain from short-circuiting under pressure, but it takes a while for the body to flush them out afterwards. Wet rifters are notoriously resistant to anesthetics. Stupid mistake on Klein’s part. He’s not exactly the brightest star in Atlantis’s medical firmament.
But that’s not uppermost in Clarke’s mind at the moment. “Who ordered the tent?”
“Seger. She showed up afterward, kept Klein from screwing up too badly.”
Jerenice Seger: the corpses’ master meat-cutter. She wouldn’t take an interest in routine injuries.
On the screen, Julia Friedman leans toward her lover. The skin of the tent stretches against her cheek, rippling with slight iridescence. It’s a striking contrast, Friedman’s tenderness notwithstanding: the woman, black-’skinned and impenetrable, gazing with icy capped eyes at the naked, utterly vulnerable body of the man. It’s a lie, of course, a visual metaphor that flips their real roles a hundred and eighty degrees. Friedman’s always been the vulnerable half of that couple.
“They say something bit him,” Walsh says. “You were there, right?”
“No. We just ran into them outside the lock.”
“Shades of Channer, though, huh?”
She shrugs.
Friedman’s speaking. At least, her mouth is moving; no sound accompanies the image. Clarke reaches for the panel, but Walsh lays a familiar hand on her arm. “I tried. It’s muted from their end.” He snorts. “You know, maybe we should remind them who’s boss here. Couple of years ago, if the corpses tried to cut us out of a channel we’d shut off their lights at the very least. Maybe even flood one of their precious dorms.”
There’s something about Friedman’s posture. People talk to the comatose the way they talk to gravestones—more to themselves than the departed, with no expectation of any answer. But there’s something different in Friedman’s face, in the way she holds herself. A sense of impatience, almost.
“It is a violation,” Walsh says.
Clarke shakes her head. “What?”
“Don’t say you haven’t noticed. Half the surveillance feeds don’t work any more. Long as we act like it’s no big deal they’ll just keep pushing it.” Walsh points to the monitor. “For all we know that mic’s been offline for months and nobody’s even noticed until now.”