Clarke checks. "He's about nine hundred meters out. Not too bad, if he's using a squid."
"He's not. He never does."
"Hmm. At least he seems to be beelining in." Clarke looks up at Caraco. "You two are on shift when?"
"Ten minutes."
"No big deal. He'll be fifteen minutes late. Half hour tops."
Caraco stares at the display. "What's he doing out there?"
"I don't know," Clarke says. She wonders, not for the first time, if Caraco really belongs down here. She just doesn't seem to get it, sometimes.
"I was wondering if you could maybe talk to him," Caraco says.
"Acton? Why?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
"Okay." Clarke rises from the Communications chair. Caraco backs out of the hatchway to let her past.
"Um, Lenie…"
Clarke turns.
"What about you?" Caraco asks.
"Me?"
"You said Lubin nearly killed his wife. Brander tried to kill himself. What did you do, I mean, to…qualify?"
Clarke watches her steadily.
"I mean, I guess, if it's not too—"
"You don't understand," Clarke says, her voice absolutely level. "It's not how much shit you've raised that suits you for the rift. It's how much you've survived."
"I'm sorry." Caraco manages, with eyes utterly devoid of feeling, to look abashed.
Clarke softens a bit. "In my case," she says, "Mostly I just learned to roll with the punches. I haven't done much worth bragging about, you know?"
I'm sure enough working on it, though.
She doesn't know how it could have happened so fast. He's been here only two weeks, yet the 'lock can barely contain his eagerness to get outside. The chamber floods, she feels a single shiver scurry along his body; and before she can move, Acton hits the latch and they drop outside.
He coasts out from under the station, his trajectory an effortless parallel of her own. Clarke fins off towards the Throat. She feels Acton at her side, although she cannot see him. His headlamp, like hers, stays dark; for her it's become a gesture of respect to the more delicate lanterns that dwell here.
She doesn't know what Acton's reasoning is.
He doesn't speak until Beebe's a dirty yellow smudge behind them. "Sometimes I wonder why we ever go back inside."
It can't be happiness in that voice. How could any emotion make it through the mechanical gauntlet that lets people speak out here?
"I fell asleep near the Throat yesterday," he says.
"You're lucky something didn't eat you," she tells him.
"They're not so bad. You just have to know how to relate to them."
Clarke wonders if he relates to other species with the same subtlety that he relates to his own. She keeps the question to herself.
They swim through sparse, living starlight for a while. Another smudge glimmers ahead, weak and sullen; the Throat, dead on target. It's been months now since Clarke has even thought of the guide rope that's supposed to lead them back and forth, like blind troglodytes. She knows where it is, but she never uses it. Other senses come awake down here. Rifters don't get lost.
Except Fischer, maybe. And Fischer was lost long before he came down here.
"So what happened to Fischer, anyway?" Acton says.
The chill starts in her chest, reaches her fingers before the sound of Acton's voice has died away. It's a coincidence. It's a perfectly normal question to ask.
"I said—"
"He disappeared," Clarke says.
"They told me that much," Acton buzzes back. "I thought you might have a bit more insight."
"Maybe he fell asleep outside. Maybe something ate him."
"I doubt that."
"Really? And what makes you such an expert, Acton? You've been down here for what, two weeks now?"
"Only two weeks? Seems longer. Time stretches when you're outside, doesn't it?"
"At first," Clarke says.
"You know why Fischer disappeared?"
"No."
"He outlived his usefulness."
"Ah." Her machine parts turn it into half creak, half growl.
"I'm serious, Lenie." Acton's mechanical voice does not change. "You think they're going to let you stay down here forever? You think they'd let people like us down here at all if they had any choice?"
She stops kicking. Her body continues to coast. "What are you talking about?"
"Use your head, Lenie. You're smarter than I am, inside at least. You've got the keys to the city here—you've got the keys to the whole fucking seaboard, and you're still acting like a victim." Acton's vocoder gurgles indecipherably—a laugh, mistransposed? A snarl?
More words: "They count on that, you know."
Clarke starts kicking again, stares ahead to the brightening glow of the Throat.
It isn't there.
There's a moment's disorientation — We can't be lost, we were headed right for it, has the power gone out? — before she sees the familiar streak of coarse yellow light, bearing four o'clock.
How could I have gotten turned around like that?
"We're here," Acton says.
"No. The Throat's way over—"
A nova flares beside her, drenching the abyss with blinding light. It takes Clarke's eyecaps a moment to adjust; when the starbursts have faded from her eyes, the ocean is a muddy black backdrop for the bright cone from Acton's headlamp.
"Don't," she says. "It gets so dark when you do that, you can't see anything—"
"I know. I'll turn it off in a moment. Just look."
His beam shines down on a small rocky outcropping rising from the mud, no more than two meters across. Jagged cookie-cutter flowers litter its surface, radial clusters shining garish red and blue in the artificial light. Some of them lie flat along the rock face. Others are contorted into frozen calcareous knots, clenched around things Clarke can't see.
Some of them move, slowly.
"You brought me out here to look at starfish?" She tries, and fails, to squeeze some hint of bored contempt through the vocodor. But inside there's a distant, frightened amazement that he has led her here, that she could be guided, utterly unsuspecting, so completely off course. And how did he find this place? No sonar pistol, compass doesn't work worth shit this close to the Throat…
"I figured you probably hadn't looked at them very closely before," Acton says. "I thought you might be interested."
"We don't have time for this, Acton."
His hands reach down into the light and lock onto one of the starfish. They peel it slowly from the rock; there are filaments of some kind along the creature's underside, anchoring it to the substrate. Acton's efforts tear them free, a few at a time.
He holds the animal up for Clarke's inspection. Its upper surface is colored stone, encrusted with calcareous spicules. Acton flips it over. The underside writhes with hundreds of thick squirming threads, jammed into dense rows along the length of each arm. Each thread has a tiny sucker at its tip.
"A starfish," Acton tells her, "is the ultimate democracy."
Clarke stares, quietly repelled.
"This is how they move," Acton is saying. "They walk along on all these tube feet. But the weird thing is, they have no brains at all. Not surprising for a democracy."
Rows of squirming maggots. A forest of translucent leeches, groping blindly into the water.
"So there's nothing to coordinate the tube feet, they all move independently. Usually that's not a problem; they all tend to go towards food, for example. But it's not unusual for a third of these feet to be pulling in some other direction entirely. The whole animal's a living tug-o-war. Sometimes, some really stubborn tube feet just don't give up, and they literally get torn out at the roots when the others move the body someplace they don't want to go. But hey: majority rules, right?"