We’ll get through it, and we’ll have our prize, and no one, not any one person, will be able to take that away from us.
Only I’m not sure we will get through it. Not after what happened this afternoon.
I’m captaining the skip. Squishy’s back at the Business, taking a boss-ordered rest. I’m tired of her complaints and her constant negative attitude. At first, I thought she’d bring Turtle to her point of view, but Turtle finally got pissed and decided she’d enjoy this run.
I caught Squishy ragging on J&J, my strong links, asking them if they really want to be mining a death ship. They didn’t listen to her, not really— although Jypé argued with her just a little—but that kind of talk can depress an entire mission, sabotage it in subtle little ways, ways that I don’t even want to contemplate.
So I’m manning the skip alone, while J&J are running their dive, and I’m listening to the commentary, not looking at the grainy, nearly worthless images from the handheld. Mostly I’m thinking about Squishy and how to send her back without sending information too, and I can’t come to any conclusions at all when I hear:
“… yeah, it opens.” Junior.
“Wow.” Jypé.
“Jackpot, eh?” Junior again.
And then a long silence. Much too long for my tastes, not because I’m afraid for J&J, but because a long silence doesn’t tell me one goddamn thing.
I punch up the digital readout, see we’re at 25:33—plenty of time. They got to the new section faster than they ever have before.
The silence runs from 25:33 to 28:46, and I’m about to chew my list off, wondering what they’re doing. The handheld shows me grainy walls and more grainy walls. Or maybe it’s just grainy nothing. I can’t tell.
For the first time in weeks, I want another person in the skip with me just so that I have someone to talk to.
“Almost time,” Jypé says.
“Dad, you gotta see this.” Junior has a touch of breathlessness in his voice. Excitement—at least that’s what I’m hoping.
And then there’s more silence … thirty-five seconds of it, followed by a loud and emphatic “Fuck!”
I can’t tell if that’s an angry “fuck,” a scared “fuck,” or an awed “fuck.” I can’t tell much about it at all.
Now I’m literally chewing on my thumbnail, something I haven’t done in years, and I’m watching the digital, which has crept past thirty-one minutes.
“Move your arm,” Jypé says, and I know then that wasn’t a good fuck at all.
Something happened.
Something bad.
“Just a little to the left,” Jypé says again, his voice oddly calm. I’m wondering why Junior isn’t answering him, hoping that the only reason is he’s in a section where the communications relay isn’t reaching the skip.
I can think of a thousand other reasons, none of them good, that Junior’s communication equipment isn’t working.
“We’re five minutes past departure,” Jypé says, and in that, I’m hearing the beginning of panic.
More silence.
I’m actually holding my breath. I look out a portal, see nothing except the wreck, looking like it always does. The handheld has been showing the same grainy image for a while now. 37:24
If they’re not careful, they’ll run out of air. Or worse.
I try to remember how much extra they took. I didn’t really watch them suit up this time. I’ve seen their ritual so many times that I’m not sure what I think I saw is what I actually saw. I’m not sure what they have with them, and what they don’t.
“Great,” Jypé says, and I finally recognize his tone. It’s controlled parental panic. Sound calm so that the kid doesn’t know the situation is bad. “Keep going.”
I’m holding my breath, even though I don’t have to. I’m holding my breath and looking back and forth between the portal and the handheld image. All I see is the damn wreck and that same grainy image.
“We got it,” Jypé says. “Now careful. Careful—son of a bitch! Move, move, move—ah, hell.”
I stare at the wreck, even though I can’t see inside it. My own breath sounds as ragged as it did inside the wreck. I glance at the digitaclass="underline"
44:11
They’ll never get out in time. They’ll never make it, and I can’t go in for them. I’m not even sure where they are.
“C’mon.” Jypé is whispering now. “C’mon, Son, just one more, c’mon, help me, c’mon.”
The “help me” wasn’t a request to a hearing person. It was a comment. And I suddenly know.
Junior’s trapped. He’s unconscious. His suit might even be ripped. It’s over for Junior.
Jypé has to know it on some deep level.
Only he also has to know it on the surface, in order to get out.
I reach for my own communicator before I remember there’s no talking to them inside the wreck.
“C’mon, Son.” Jypé grunts. I don’t like that sound.
The silence that follows lasts thirty seconds, but it seems like forever. I move away from the portal, stare at the digital, and watch the numbers change. They seem to change in slow motion:
45:24 to
… 25 to
…2…6…
to
…2………7…
until I can’t even see them change anymore.
Another grunt, and then a sob, half muffled, and another, followed by—
“Is there any way to send for help? Boss?”
I snap to when I hear my name. It’s Jypé and I can’t answer him.
I can’t answer him, dammit.
I can call for help, and I do. Squishy tells me that the best thing I can do is get the survivor—her word, not mine, even though I know it’s obvious too—back to the Business as quickly as possible.
“No sense passing midway, is there?” she asks, and I suppose she’s right.
But I’m cursing her—after I get off the line—for not being here, for failing us, even though there’s not much she can do, even if she’s here, in the skip. We don’t have a lot of equipment, medical equipment, back at the Business, and we have even less here, not that it matters, because most of the things that happen are survivable if you make it back to the skip.
Still, I suit up. I promise myself I’m not going to the wreck, I’m not going to help with Junior, but I can get Jypé along the guideline if he needs me too.
“Boss. Call for help. We need Squishy and some divers and oh, shit, I don’t know.”
His voice sounds too breathy. I glance at the digital.
56:24.
Where has the time gone? I thought he was moving quicker than that. I thought I was too.
But it takes me a while to suit up, and I talked to Squishy, and everything is fucked up.
What’ll they say when we get back? The mission’s already filled with superstitions and fears of weird technology that none of us really understand.
And only me and Jypé are obsessed with this thing.
Me and Jypé.
Probably just me now.
“I left him some oxygen. I dunno if it’s enough….”
So breathy. Has Jypé left all his extra? What’s happening to Junior? If he’s unconscious, he won’t use as much, and if his suit is fucked, then he won’t need any.
“Coming through the hatch
I see Jypé, a tiny shape on top of the wreck. And he’s moving slowly, much too slowly for a man trying to save his own life.
My rules are clear: let him make his own way back.
But I’ve never been able to watch someone else die.
I send to the Business: “Jypé’s out. I’m heading down the line.”
I don’t use the word help on purpose, but anyone listening knows what I’m doing. They’ll probably never listen to me again, but what the hell.