The gulper closes its mouth and passes. It extends around them now, in a great meandering arc. The head turns back to look at them. It opens its mouth.
“Fuck this,” Ballard says, and charges.
Her first stroke opens a meter-long gash in the creature’s side. The gulper stares at Ballard for a moment, as if astonished. Then, ponderously, it thrashes.
Clarke watches without moving. Why can’t she just let it go? Why does she always have to prove she’s better than everything?
Ballard strikes again; this time she slashes into a great tumorous swelling that has to be the stomach.
She frees the things inside.
They spill out through the wound; two huge giganturids and some misshapen creature Clarke doesn’t recognize. One of the giganturids is still alive, and in a foul mood. It locks its teeth around the first thing it encounters.
Ballard. From behind.
“Lenie!” Ballard’s knife hand is swinging in staccato arcs. The giganturid begins to come apart. Its jaws remain locked. The convulsing gulper crashes into Ballard and sends her spinning to the bottom.
Finally, Clarke begins to move.
The gulper collides with Ballard again. Clarke moves in low, hugging the bottom, and pulls the other woman clear.
Ballard’s knife continues to dip and twist. The giganturid is a mutilated wreck behind the gills, but its grip remains unbroken. Ballard can’t twist around far enough to reach the skull. Clarke comes in from behind and takes the creature’s head in her hands.
It stares at her, malevolent and unthinking.
“Kill it!” Ballard shouts. “Jesus, what are you waiting for?”
Clarke closes her eyes, and clenches. The skull in her hand splinters like cheap plastic.
There is a silence.
After a while, she opens her eyes. The gulper is gone, fled back into darkness to heal or die. But Ballard’s still there, and Ballard is angry.
“What’s wrong with you?” she says.
Clarke unclenches her fists. Bits of bone and jellied flesh float about her fingers.
“You’re supposed to back me up! Why are you so damned—passive all the time?”
“Sorry.” Sometimes it works.
Ballard reaches behind her back. “I’m cold. I think it punctured my diveskin—”
Clarke swims behind her and looks. “A couple of holes. How are you otherwise? Anything feel broken?”
“It broke through the diveskin,” Ballard says, as if to herself. “And when that gulper hit me, it could have—” She turns to Clarke and her voice, even distorted, carries a shocked uncertainty. “—I could have been killed. I could have been killed!”
For an instant, it’s as though Ballard’s ’skin and eyes and self-assurance have all been stripped away. For the first time Clarke can see through to the weakness beneath, growing like a delicate tracery of hairline cracks.
You can screw up too, Ballard. It isn’t all fun and games. You know that now.
It hurts, doesn’t it?
Somewhere inside, the slightest touch of sympathy. “It’s okay,” Clarke says. “Jeanette, it’s—”
“You idiot!” Ballard hisses. She stares at Clarke like some malign and sightless old woman. “You just floated there! You just let it happen to me!”
Clarke feels her guard snap up again, just in time. This isn’t just anger, she realizes. This isn’t just the heat of the moment. She doesn’t like me. She doesn’t like me at all.
And then, dully surprised that she hasn’t seen it before:
She never did.
Beebe Station floats tethered above the seabed, a gunmetal-gray planet ringed by a belt of equatorial floodlights. There’s an airlock for divers at the south pole and a docking hatch for ’scaphes at the north. In between there are girders and anchor lines, conduits and cables, metal armor and Lenie Clarke.
She’s doing a routine visual check on the hull; standard procedure, once a week. Ballard is inside, testing some equipment in the Communications cubby. This is not entirely within the spirit of the buddy system. Clarke prefers it this way. Relations have been civil over the past couple of days—Ballard even resurrects her patented chumminess on occasion—but the more time they spend together, the more forced things get. Eventually, Clarke knows, something is going to break.
Besides, out here it seems only natural to be alone.
She’s examining a cable clamp when a razormouth charges into the light. It’s about two meters long, and hungry. It rams directly into the nearest of Beebe’s floodlamps, mouth agape. Several teeth shatter against the crystal lens. The razormouth twists to one side, knocking the hull with its tail, and swims off until barely visible against the dark.
Clarke watches, fascinated. The razormouth swims back and forth, back and forth, then charges again.
The flood weathers the impact easily, doing more damage to its attacker. Over and over again the fish batters itself against the light. Finally, exhausted, it sinks twitching down to the muddy bottom.
“Lenie? Are you okay?”
Clarke feels the words buzzing in her lower jaw. She trips the sender in her diveskin: “I’m okay.”
“I heard something out there,” Ballard says. “I just wanted to make sure you were—”
“I’m fine,” Clarke says. “Just a fish.”
“They never learn, do they?”
“No. I guess not. See you later.”
“See—”
Clarke switches off her receiver.
Poor stupid fish. How many millennia did it take for them to learn that bioluminescence equals food? How long will Beebe have to sit here before they learn that electric light doesn’t?
We could keep our headlights off. Maybe they’d leave us alone—
She stares out past Beebe’s electric halo. There is so much blackness there. It almost hurts to look at it. Without lights, without sonar, how far could she go into that viscous shroud and still return?
Clarke kills her headlight. Night edges a bit closer, but Beebe’s lights keep it at bay. Clarke turns until she’s face to face with the darkness. She crouches like a spider against Beebe’s hull.
She pushes off.
The darkness embraces her. She swims, not looking back, until her legs grow tired. She doesn’t know how far she’s come.
But it must be lightyears. The ocean is full of stars.
Behind her, the station shines brightest, with coarse yellow rays. In the opposite direction, she can barely make out the Throat, an insignificant sunrise on the horizon.
Everywhere else, living constellations punctuate the dark. Here, a string of pearls blink sexual advertisements at two-second intervals. Here, a sudden flash leaves diversionary afterimages swarming across Clarke’s field of view; something flees under cover of her momentary blindness. There, a counterfeit worm twists lazily in the current, invisibly tied to the roof of some predatory mouth.
There are so many of them.
She feels a sudden surge in the water, as if something big has just passed very close. A delicious thrill dances through her body.
It nearly touched me, she thinks. I wonder what it was. The rift is full of monsters who don’t know when to quit. It doesn’t matter how much they eat. Their voracity is as much a part of them as their elastic bellies, their unhinging jaws. Ravenous dwarves attack giants twice their own size, and sometimes win. The abyss is a desert; no one can afford the luxury of waiting for better odds.
But even a desert has oases, and sometimes the deep hunters find them. They come upon the malnourishing abundance of the rift and gorge themselves; their descendants grow huge and bloated over such delicate bones—