She stares out past Beebe's electric halo. There is so much blackness there. It almost hurts to look at it. Without lights, without sonar, how far could she go into that viscous shroud and still return?
Clarke kills her headlight. Night edges a bit closer, but Beebe's lights keep it at bay. Clarke turns until she's face to face with the darkness. She crouches like a spider against Beebe's hull.
She pushes off.
The darkness embraces her. She swims, not looking back, until her legs grow tired. She doesn't know how far she's come.
But it must be light-years. The ocean is full of stars.
Behind her, the station shines brightest, with coarse yellow rays. In the opposite direction, she can barely make out the Throat, an insignificant sunrise on the horizon.
Everywhere else, living constellations punctuate the dark. Here, a string of pearls blink sexual advertisements at two-second intervals. Here, a sudden flash leaves diversionary afterimages swarming across Clarke's field of view; something flees under cover of her momentary blindness. There, a counterfeit worm twists lazily in the current, invisibly tied to the roof of some predatory mouth.
There are so many of them.
She feels a sudden surge in the water, as if something big has just passed very close. A delicious thrill dances through her body.
It nearly touched me, she thinks. I wonder what it was. The rift is full of monsters who don't know when to quit. It doesn't matter how much they eat. Their voracity is as much a part of them as their elastic bellies, their unhinging jaws. Ravenous dwarves attack giants twice their own size, and sometimes win. The abyss is a desert; no one can afford the luxury of waiting for better odds.
But even a desert has oases, and sometimes the deep hunters find them. They come upon the malnourishing abundance of the rift and gorge themselves; their descendants grow huge and bloated over such delicate bones—
My light was off, and it left me alone. I wonder—
She turns it back on. Her vision clouds in the sudden glare, then clears. The ocean reverts to unrelieved black. No nightmares accost her. The beam lights empty water wherever she points it.
She switches it off. There's a moment of absolute darkness while her eyecaps adjust to the reduced light. Then the stars come out again.
They are so beautiful. Lenie Clarke rests on the bottom of the ocean and watches the abyss sparkle around her. And she almost laughs as she realizes, three thousand meters from the nearest sunlight, that it's only dark when the lights are on.
"What the hell is wrong with you? You've been gone for over three hours, did you know that? Why didn't you answer me?"
Clarke bends over and removes her fins. "I guess I turned my receiver off," she says. "I was—wait a second, did you say—"
"You guess? Have you forgotten every safety reg they drilled into us? You're supposed to have your receiver on from the moment you leave Beebe until you get back!"
"Did you say three hours?"
"I couldn't even come out after you, I couldn't find you on sonar! I just had to sit here and hope you'd show up!"
It only seems a few minutes since she pushed off into the darkness. Clarke climbs up into the lounge, suddenly chilled.
"Where were you, Lenie?" Ballard demands, coming up behind her. Clarke hears the slightest plaintive tone in her voice.
"I–I must've been on the bottom," Clarke says. "that's why sonar didn't get me. I didn't go far."
Was I asleep? What was I doing for three hours?
"I was just — wandering around. I lost track of the time. I'm sorry."
"Not good enough. Don't do it again."
There's a brief silence. It's ended by the sudden, familiar impact of flesh on metal.
"Christ!" Ballard snaps. "I'm turning the externals off right now!"
Whatever it is gets in two more hits by the time Ballard reaches Comm. Clarke hears her punch a couple of buttons.
Ballard comes back into the lounge. "There. Now we're invisible."
Something hits them again. And again.
"Or maybe not," Clarke says.
Ballard stands in the lounge, listening to the rhythm of the assault. "They don't show up on sonar," she says, almost whispering. "Sometimes, when I hear them coming at us, I tune it down to extreme close range. But it looks right through them."
"No gas bladders. Nothing to bounce an echo off of."
"We show up just fine out there, most of the time. But not those things. You can't find them, no matter how high you turn the gain. They're like ghosts."
"They're not ghosts." Almost unconsciously, Clarke has been counting the beats: eight — nine—
Ballard turns to face her. "They've shut down Piccard," she says, and her voice is small and tight.
"What?"
"The grid office says it's just some technical problem. But I've got a friend in Personnel. I phoned him when you were outside. He says Lana's in the hospital. And I get the feeling—" Ballard shakes her head. "It sounded like Ken Lubin did something down there. I think maybe he attacked her."
Three thumps from outside, in rapid succession. Clarke can feel Ballard's eyes on her. The silence stretches.
"Or maybe not," Ballard says. "We got all those personality tests. If he was violent, they would've picked it up before they sent him down."
Clarke watches her, listens to the pounding of an intermittent fist.
"Or maybe — maybe the rift changed him somehow. Maybe they misjudged the pressure we'd all be under. So to speak." Ballard musters a feeble smile. "Not the physical danger so much as the emotional stress, you know? Everyday things. Just being outside could get to you after a while. Seawater sluicing through your chest. Not breathing for hours at a time. It's like—living without a heartbeat—"
She looks up at the ceiling; the sounds from outside are a bit more erratic, now.
"Outside's not so bad," Clarke says. At least you're incompressible. At least you don't have to worry about the plates giving in.
"I don't think you'd change suddenly. It would just sort of sneak up on you, little by little. And then one day you'd just wake up changed, you'd be different somehow, only you'd never have noticed the transition. Like Ken Lubin."
She looks at Clarke, and her voice drops a bit.
"And you."
"Me." Clarke turns Ballard's words over in her mind, waits for the onset of some reaction. She feels nothing but her own indifference. "I don't think you have much to worry about. I'm not the violent type."
"I know. I'm not worried about my own safety, Lenie. I'm worried about yours."
Clarke looks at her from behind the impervious safety of her lenses, and doesn't answer.
"You've changed since you came down here," Ballard says. "You're withdrawing from me, you're exposing yourself to unnecessary risks. I don't know exactly what's happening to you. It's almost like you're trying to kill yourself."
"I'm not," Clarke says. She tries to change the subject. "Is Lana Cheung all right?"
Ballard studies her for a moment. She takes the hint. "I don't know. I couldn't get any details."
Clarke feels something knotting up inside her.
"I wonder what she did to set him off?" she murmurs.
Ballard stares at her, openmouthed. "What she did? I can't believe you said that!"
"I only meant—"
"I know what you meant."
The outside pounding has stopped. Ballard does not relax. She stands hunched over in those strange, loose-fitting clothes that Drybacks wear, and stares at the ceiling as though she doesn't believe in the silence. She looks back at Clarke.