Ballard doesn’t answer. She punches some commands into a keyboard; the topographic image dissolves, reforms into a column of numbers.
“Just as I thought,” she says. “No heavy seismic activity for over forty-two hours.”
“Sonar doesn’t lie,” Clarke says calmly.
“Neither does seismo,” Ballard answers.
There’s a brief silence. There’s a standard procedure for such things, and they both know what it is.
“We have to check it out,” Clarke says.
But Ballard only nods. “Give me a moment to change.”
They call it a squid: a jet-propelled cylinder about a meter long, with a headlight at the front end and a towbar at the back. Clarke, floating between Beebe and the seabed, checks it over with one hand. Her other hand grips a sonar pistol. She points the pistol into blackness; ultrasonic clicks sweep the night, give her a bearing.
“That way,” she says, pointing.
Ballard squeezes down on her own squid’s towbar. The machine pulls her away. After a moment Clarke follows. Bringing up the rear, a third squid carries an assortment of sensors in a nylon bag.
Ballard’s traveling at nearly full throttle. The lamps on her helmet and squid stab the water like twin lighthouse beacons. Clarke, her own lights doused, catches up about halfway to their destination. They cruise along a couple of meters over the muddy substrate.
“Your lights,” Ballard says.
“We don’t need them. Sonar works in the dark.”
“Are you breaking regs for the sheer thrill of it, now?”
“The fish down here, they key on things that glow—”
“Turn your lights on. That’s an order.”
Clarke doesn’t answer. She watches the beams beside her, Ballard’s squid shining steady and unwavering, Ballard’s headlamp slicing the water in erratic arcs as she moves her head—
“I told you,” Ballard says, “turn your—Christ!”
It was just a glimpse, caught for a moment in the sweep of Ballard’s headlight. She jerks her head around and it slides back out of sight. Then it looms up in the squid’s beam, huge and terrible.
The abyss is grinning at them, teeth bared.
A mouth stretches across the width of the beam, extends into darkness on either side. It is crammed with conical teeth the size of human hands, and they do not look the least bit fragile.
Ballard makes a strangled sound and dives into the mud. The benthic ooze boils up around her in a seething cloud; she disappears in a torrent of planktonic corpses.
Lenie Clarke stops and waits, unmoving. She stares transfixed at that threatening smile. Her whole body feels electrified, she’s never been so explicitly aware of herself. Every nerve fires and freezes at the same time. She is terrified.
But she’s also, somehow, completely in control of herself. She reflects on this paradox as Ballard’s abandoned squid slows and stops itself, scant meters from that endless row of teeth. She wonders at her own analytical clarity as the third squid, with its burden of sensors, decelerates past and takes up position beside Ballard’s.
There in the light, the grin does not change.
Clarke raises her sonar pistol and fires. We’re here, she realizes, checking the readout. That’s the outcropping.
She swims closer. The smile hangs there, enigmatic and enticing. Now she can see bits of bone at the roots of the teeth, and tatters of decomposed flesh trailing from the gums.
She turns and backtracks. The cloud on the seabed is starting to settle.
“Ballard,” she says in her synthetic voice.
Nobody answers.
Clarke reaches down through the mud, feeling blind, until she touches something warm and trembling.
The seabed explodes in her face.
Ballard erupts from the substrate, trailing a muddy comet’s tail. Her hand rises from that sudden cloud, clasped around something glinting in the transient light. Clarke sees the knife, twists almost too late; the blade glances off her ’skin, igniting nerves along her ribcage. Ballard lashes out again. This time Clarke catches the knife-hand as it shoots past, twists it, pushes. Ballard tumbles away.
“It’s me!” Clarke shouts; the vocoder turns her voice into a tinny vibrato.
Ballard rises up again, white eyes unseeing, knife still in hand.
Clarke holds up her hands. “It’s okay! There’s nothing here! It’s dead!”
Ballard stops. She stares at Clarke. She looks over to the squids, to the smile they illuminate. She stiffens.
“It’s some kind of whale,” Clarke says. “It’s been dead a long time.”
“A—a whale?” Ballard rasps. She begins to shake.
There’s no need to feel embarrassed, Clarke almost says, but doesn’t. Instead, she reaches out and touches Ballard lightly on the arm. Is this how you do it? she wonders.
Ballard jerks back as if scalded.
I guess not—
“Um, Jeanette—” Clarke begins.
Ballard raises a trembling hand, cutting Clarke off. “I’m okay. I want to g—I think we should get back now, don’t you?”
“Okay,” Clarke says. But she doesn’t really mean it.
She could stay out here all day.
Ballard is at the library again. She turns, passing a casual hand over the brightness control as Clarke comes up behind her; the display darkens before Clarke can see what it is. Clarke glances at the eyephones hanging from the terminal, puzzled. If Ballard doesn’t want her to see what she’s reading, she could just use those.
But then she wouldn’t see me coming…
“I think maybe it was a ziphiid,” Ballard’s saying. “A beaked whale. Except it had too many teeth. Very rare. They don’t dive this deep.”
Clarke listens, not really interested.
“It must have died and rotted further up, and then sank.” Ballard’s voice is slightly raised. She looks almost furtively at something on the other side of the lounge. “I wonder what the chances are of that happening.”
“What?”
“I mean, in all the ocean, something that big just happening to drop out of the sky a few hundred meters away. The odds of that must be pretty low.”
“Yeah. I guess so.” Clarke reaches over and brightens the display. One-half of the screen glows softly with luminous text. The other holds the rotating image of a complex molecule.
“What’s this?” Clarke asks.
Ballard steals another glance across the lounge. “Just an old biopsych text the library had on file. I was browsing through it. Used to be an interest of mine.”
Clarke looks at her. “Uh huh.” She bends over and studies the display. Some sort of technical chemistry. The only thing she really under stands is the caption beneath the graphic.
She reads it aloud: “True Happiness.”
“Yeah. A tricyclic with four side chains.” Ballard points at the screen. “Whenever you’re happy, really happy, that’s what does it to you.”
“When did they find that out?”
“I don’t know. It’s an old book.”
Clarke stares at the revolving simulacrum. It disturbs her, somehow. It floats there over that smug stupid caption, and it says something she doesn’t want to hear.
You’ve been solved, it says. You’re mechanical. Chemicals and electricity. Everything you are, every dream, every action, it all comes down to a change of voltage somewhere, or a—what did she say—a tricyclic with four side chains—
“It’s wrong,” Clarke murmurs. Or they’d be able to fix us, when we broke down—
“Sorry?” Ballard says.
“It’s saying we’re just these—soft computers. With faces.”