What it all comes to is what I already know: No one knows who built the Room or the station it’s on. No one knows when it was built—only that it predates the known human colonization of this sector. No one knows what its purpose was or why it was abandoned.
No one knows anything, except that people who go in do not come out.
Unless they’re protected by Riya Trekov’s device.
The device, as my father explains it, is a personal shield, developed by a company that’s related to my father’s old business. The shield relies on technology so old that few people understand it.
Sometimes I think all of human history is about the technology we’ve lost. We’re constantly reinventing things.
Or recovering them.
Apparently, this device is something reinvented.
How it works is simple: It acts like a spacesuit—creating a bubble around the user that contains both environment and gravity and anything else the user might need.
It has the same flaws a spacesuit has as welclass="underline" It allows a person to enter an environment but not interact with it—or at least, not interact in important ways.
But the shield is different from a spacesuit as well. From the first discovery of the Room, humans have tried to enter wearing spacesuits, and that has not worked.
So Riya Trekov’s device negates something—or protects against something—that a spacesuit does not. Somehow, that device—that bubble it creates—is the perfect protection against the Room.
At least that is what my father wants me to believe.
That’s what Riya Trekov showed me briefly on Longbow Station.
But now I have more qualms than before. Because the more my father talks, the more disgusted I become.
He has spent all this time studying the Room. He has made that Room his life’s work.
Yet he has never been able to risk that life, not even to pull me or my mother out of the Room.
As he paces around me, I think of all the times I’ve gone into a wreck, how I’ve looked for trapped divers, what I’ve risked to recover their bodies.
I’ve only failed to recover one.
People have devoted their lives to the mystery that is the Room, and have learned nothing.
Unlike them, I do not want to learn anything. I don’t even want to recover my mother or Ewing Trekov—both of whom I consider dead.
I want to see the Room for myself, to satisfy some curiosity that has plagued me since I was ten years old. In that, perhaps, I am more like my mother than my father. If his story is to be believed—and I am not sure it is—then my mother just wanted to see the anomaly for herself.
Which is, in part, what I want to do. But more than that, I want to see, experience, and understand from an adult perspective what had so influenced me as a child.
I want to know how much the Room formed me, the embittered wreck diver, the woman who once believed that preserving the past was more important than any money that could be made from it.
The woman who believed—and maybe still does—that the past holds secrets, secrets which, if understood, can teach us more about ourselves than any science can.
I do not tell my father any of this. I let him believe I’m doing a job. I pretend to be interested in all that he tells me.
And I pretend to be surprised when he tells me he wants to join me.
He says he wants to see the Room one last time.
EIGHTEEN
It takes months to put a team together. The people who want to go to the Room are not experienced divers or experienced space travelers for that matter. The people who do not want to go are the ones I need.
I am able to buy some of them—money goes a long way with people who live on the edge—but I cannot buy all. Most important, I cannot buy Karl.
At first, he won’t even talk to me. But eventually, his curiosity gets the better of him. He agrees to meet me in the old spacers’ bar in Longbow Station.
I am at the station alone. I told my father that I would not be able to recruit when he was around. He has a reputation for being difficult and for thinking he’s in charge. I actually got him to sign legal documents attesting to the fact that he would not run anything on board my ship or do anything to command (or jeopardize) my expedition.
I am using three factors in picking my team: I want people who are creative—both mechanically and intellectually; I want people who have dived the most dangerous wrecks in the sector; and I want people who are honest.
Finding the last two is relatively easy—divers have to be honest or they don’t survive. The survivors are usually the ones who have been on the most dangerous missions.
But most divers leave the creativity to the person in charge of the mission. Since, in the past, that was me, I never had the opportunity to work with other dive team leaders.
Except Karl.
He started his business after I quit mine. He took over my routes, and I didn’t interfere with him because I believed I would never wreck dive again.
But that isn’t the only reason I want him.
I want him because he’s trustworthy—and he’s dangerous.
I don’t know a lot about his personal history, but I do know a few things, things I’ve observed and things he’s told me.
He’s ex-military and he’s excellent with a knife. He can kill anything - and has, most recently after he opened his own business and trusted the wrong person.
He’s cautious to a fault and yet oddly fearless. I say “oddly” because I’ve seen him back away from a dive because of worries about it, only to see him conquer those worries and go in.
I respect that about him.
I also know he can get my people back to Longbow if something happens to me.
He can get them back and he can handle my father.
Those elements are more important than creativity, more important than diving ability, more important than survival skills.
He has just come off a run of his own. He won’t tell me where, which leads me to believe he has discovered a wreck he doesn’t want me to know about.
His angular face has thinned, and his gray eyes seem silver in this light. He looks older, as if leading his own expeditions has taken something out of him.
He wears a thin white shirt over his broad chest. His pants are too loose, suggesting that the thinness in his face isn’t my imagination. He’s lost weight.
He straddles a chair across from me, using the chair’s back as protection between us. He wraps his arms around it and stares at me.
“You have some nerve,” he says.
“Yes, I do.” I smile.
He doesn’t smile back.
Then I sigh and let the smile fade. “I would like to hire you for a run.”
“And I would like to tell you to go fuck yourself.” But he doesn’t move. “But if I do, you’ll just keep asking me. So I came to hear what you have to say and to tell you no in person.”
I understand why he’s angry at me. I also understand if he never works with me again.
“Just hear me out,” I say to him.
This time, I tell him everything. I tell him about my past, about my father, about Riya Trekov and her father. I tell him about the Room and its dangers. I tell him about the pilgrimages and the quasi-religious symbolism others have found in the place.
Then I tell him what I remember of the Room itself.
That’s when he finally moves. Just a little, but enough so that I know I’ve hooked him somehow.
And I’m not quite sure how.
“If what you say is true,” he says, “this is the second wreck you want to bring me to that’s out of time.”