Of course this wasn’t one of the great coral reserves or shelf fisheries, where schools of hake and cod still teemed under the watchful eyes of UNEPA guardians. One of Crat’s instructors told him most of the ocean had always been pretty empty. And yet there was another obvious reason he met so little life down here.
What a junkyard, he thought while moving at a steady pace. I never figured a place so big could turn into such a sty.
He’d seen so much man-made garbage in just the last hour… from rusting buckets and cans and a corroded mop handle to at least a dozen plastic bags, drifting like trademarked jellyfish, advertising discount stores and tourist shops thousands of miles away.
And then there was that kilometer-wide spew of organic refuse looking like a half-digested meal some immense creature had recently voided. Crat knew who that creature was — the Sea State floating town, which had passed this way only a little while before. Despite their nominal agreement to abide by UNEPA rules, clearly the poor folk of the barges had more urgent things to worry about than where their rubbish went. After all, the ocean seemed willing to take everything dumped into it, with nary a complaint.
The towns must leave trails like this everywhere, Crat realized. It was gross. But then, what choice did they have? The rich may worry about garbage disposal, but when you’re poor your concern is getting food.
Which raised another curious question. Why was the barge-city sticking around in this area when the fishing was so poor? Crat suspected it had to do with the Company, which seemed intensely interested in this bit of continental shelf and presumably wanted to keep the floating town around as a base of operations.
Or as a cover? Crat wondered. But he had no idea how to follow up on that thought. Anyway, presumably the company men paid well for the privilege. Hard currency was hard currency, and curiosity generally a waste of time.
“Okay Courier Four. Now take a heading of niner zero degrees.”
“Roger control,” he answered, checking his compass and changing course. “Niner zero degrees.”
Crat liked talking like an astronaut to the company comm guys. Sure, the smelly suit must have been retired as unfit for human use long ago. And it was hard work just lifting your feet to take each step. But the job had its moments. Like when the trainers actually seemed pleased and impressed with his education! That was a complete first for Crat.
Of course countless Sea State citizens were innately smarter, and some had much better learning. But few of those were likely to volunteer for such dangerous work. The company men spoke of his being “uniquely well qualified” for the job.
Imagine that. He’d never been well qualified for anything in his life! I guess lots of good things can come your way, if you don’t give a damn how long you live.
“Courier Four, cut respiration rate to thirty per minute. Slow down if you have to. Site Thirteen needs your cargo for backup, but they don’t expect you early.”
“Aye aye.” He measured his pace more carefully. Crat had decided he wanted this job after all. And that meant getting known as a team player. Another milestone for him.
During his first week they’d put him through exhaustive and exhausting tests… like barochambers, flooding in different gases and examining his hand-eye coordination under pressure. Then there were chem-sensitivity exams and psych profiles he was sure he’d fail, but which, apparently, he passed.
The company was engaged in a big enterprise here in the ocean southwest of Japan. Crat found out just how big when he was moved to an underwater base bustling with tech types — Japanese, Siberian, Korean, and others. There was talk of surveying and tapping nearby veins of valuable ores, a much more ambitious enterprise than just collecting manganese nodules from the open seabed. Obviously, the company was planning ahead for when nodules became scarce and therefore “protected.”
Crat didn’t understand most of what he overheard the engineers saying. (That was probably among the reasons he’d been hired.) But one thing was clear. If nodule harvesting was dangerous, working in deep mine shafts under half a kilometer of water would be doubly so! Not that Crat really cared. But maybe this explained the tight relationship between the corporation and this particular Sea State town — so close the floating city had even stayed put through a recent nasty storm, instead of taking shelter downwind of Kyushu. The Albatross Republic couldn’t afford to abandon jobs and cash.
It was weird, working as an expendable flunky so near others who were obviously high-priced tech types with fat, company-paid insurance policies. He’d expected to be treated like a dog or worse, but actually they were a lot more polite than the bosuns on the fishing boats had been, and smelled better, too.
Only why, when they were supposed to be working on digging a mine in the ocean, was everybody so excited this morning, jabbering over maps of the moon, for Gaia’s bleeding sake?
None of my dumpit business, I guess. And that was that.
Right now Crat was supposed to deliver his package to a company outpost ten kilometers from the main base. Apparently, it was a site so secret they didn’t even visit it often by submarine, in case competitors might track the boats with satellites. Single couriers like him, slogging back and forth on foot, minimized that risk. He had no idea what lay on the carry-rack across his back, but he’d get it there on time or croak trying!
Crat reached up and tapped his helmet. A high-pitched squeal had been growing louder for the last minute or two. So? More shitty equipment. What d’you expect?
“Hey, Control. Can you guys do anything about the dumpit—”
“Courier Four… we’re having…” Static interrupted, then surged again. “… better… ort this… ssion…” Crat blinked. What the hell were they talking about now? He decided to play it safe. If you don’t understand what the bosses are saying, just keep working hard. It may not be what they wanted, but they sure can’t fire you for that!
So he checked the helmet’s gyrocompass and adjusted his heading a bit before moving on, counting breaths as he’d been told. There were miles to go yet, and what mattered was delivering the goods.
As he slogged, the keening in his headphones grew more intense and oddly musical. Tones overlay each other, rising and falling to a puzzling rhythm. Could this be another test, perhaps? Was he supposed to name that tune? Or were they just having fun at his expense?
“Hey, Base. You guys there? Or what?”
“… ort and… back, Courier! We’re exper… ouble…”
This time he stopped, feeling rising concern. He still had no idea what the controller was saying, but it sounded bad. Crat’s glove collided with his helmet as he instinctively tried to wipe away the perspiration beading his nose. He wanted to rub his eyes, which had started itching terribly.
Suddenly it was important to remember all the warning signs he’d been taught in cram sessions. Nitrogen narcosis was one danger they’d warned of repeatedly. The suit’s monitor lights showed an okay gas balance… if you could trust the battered gauges. Crat checked his pulse and found it fast but steady. He squeezed his eyes shut till they hurt, then opened them and waited for the speckles to go away.
Only they didn’t. Instead they capered and bobbed as if a swarm of performing fireflies had gotten into his helmet. Their movements matched the eerie music surging through his headphones.