SecondWorld (5 page)

“This is Aquarius Research Station, nine miles south of Key Largo. Does anyone copy? Over.”

He waited to a count of ten. “This is Aquarius Research Station, south of Key Largo. I seem to be experiencing some kind of atmospheric event. It’s killing the fish. And … and the air. There’s no oxygen in the air.”

Oxygen.

His mind was trying to tell him something.

Air.

He let go of the Transmit button for a moment. Then his navy training kicked in and he pushed the button back down for a brief moment. “Over.”

The microphone fell to the floor, dangling by its springy cord. He rolled back to the computer hoping he could still access the internal network. All of the station’s systems could be checked and monitored from here—pressure, batteries, backup systems … and air. It was the last item on this list with which he was most concerned.

The digital gauges rose and fell as the system calibrated and then displayed the current levels. Miller leaned back in his chair, his jaw slack. The air gauge was near the bottom and blinking red, the universal signal for: You’re screwed.

He punched up the maintenance schedule. The station was due for a recharge of air, pumped into the storage tanks from a ship that connected with the LSB. The refill had been scheduled for two days ago, but something had gone wrong. Miller was getting the awful feeling that a refill wasn’t ever going to come.

According to the readouts, he had three more days of air left. The emergency reserve would give him another two after that. Plus, three high-pressure way stations sat approximately one thousand feet from Aquarius. They were originally meant to refuel the air tanks of divers on extended dives, but perhaps he could rig them so that they could supply Aquarius?

Which left him a definite five days to be rescued, maybe more with the air from the way stations.

And if he wasn’t?

Then I’ll die,
he thought.
From a slow, painful asphyxiation.

There had to be a solution. There had to be something he—

With the force of a train, something huge struck the side of Aquarius and tossed Miller into the air. His head struck the computer table as he fell, knocking him unconscious.

He woke a short time later to warm liquid oozing down the side of his face. He groaned at the pain in his head, and when he reached up to feel his skull for the second time in one day, he expected his hand to come away with a fresh coating of blood.

But there was no blood.

He leaped to his feet, realizing in an instant the awful truth. He fought to remain upright on a wet, steadily tilting floor. The Aquarius had sprung a leak and was leaning at a sickening angle. Miller turned toward the nearest portal. Something dark blocked his view. He hobbled to the bedroom viewport and found the same thing. Something massive had struck the research station and was now pinned up against it.

A pop followed by a metallic groan echoed through the cabin.

The weight of whatever was out there was tipping Aquarius over. If the station leaned too far, the ocean would pour in through the open wet porch. He could seal himself in the living quarters, but then what? Eventually, he would run out of air. And if Aquarius gave all at once, the wet porch might be slammed against the seafloor and he’d be trapped like a lobster in a cage.

He had to get out.

His thoughts raced. He needed to gather as many oxygen tanks as he could. Any supplies he could carry. And—

The lab tilted another ten degrees. He heard rushing water. He felt, more than saw, the lab continuing to roll. It was going to flip.

There was no time!

He ran for the wet porch, splashing through a foot of water. His foot caught on something sharp, sending a stab of pain through his leg. But he didn’t slow down to check the damage. He could see water surging in through the open pool. And a shadow beyond it. He ignored the massive shape, thrust his hands into the water, and found his dive fins, mask, and air tank. He threw the tank onto his back and locked it in place. He took a small, portable pony bottle air tank and strapped it to his wrist.

He was reaching for a second pony bottle when a support beam gave way. Slowed by the tremendous amount of water pressing against the sides of the research station, the beam didn’t buckle completely. It simply started to fall, then roll.

Realizing what had happened, Miller dove into the water and kicked hard without looking back. He was still holding the swim fins and the mask when he entered the water, but he knew how to streamline his body and swim efficiently with his finless feet. When a large pressure wave struck him from behind, he knew that Aquarius had hit the bottom. His home away from home was no more. He kicked until his lungs burned, then stopped, fumbled for his regulator, and thrust it in his mouth.

He put his mask on next, blowing out his nose to clear it. When his vision returned, he slipped on his swim fins and steeled himself for a shock. He turned toward Aquarius’s position and saw the impossible. What had to be a hundred-foot blue whale was twisted about the station like a leech. The whale was dead. The ocean currents that passed by the station had carried the body, turning it into a deadly projectile.

Miller started kicking for the surface, but stopped short. Heading to the surface would do him no good.

There was no air up there.…

He took the air gauge in his hand and checked the pressure. Seeing how much time he had left, he felt tempted to remove the regulator from his mouth and let out a great, bubbly scream. He managed to stop himself just in time. He needed that air.

Then he remembered the way stations. Each was a thousand feet away. He could refill his tank at one of them, but how many times could he keep doing that? He shook his head in denial. The cold, hard facts didn’t matter right now. He had no choice but to keep trying to survive. He kicked hard, heading north toward the way station.

And as he kicked, he prayed he could make the swim in twenty minutes.

Because that’s all the air he had left in his primary tank.

6

Each kick brought him closer to the way station. Each kick also used oxygen, of which he had precious little left. He checked the gauge. Four minutes.

Four minutes. For what? To live? To die trying?

He wondered for a moment if he should start contemplating the outcome of his eternal soul. If he didn’t make it to the way station he would be dead in four minutes. Well, twenty minutes. The pony bottle would give him a little more time. But twenty minutes wasn’t much time to figure out his fate.

He’d never been one to worry about religion, why start now? Without a priest, rabbi, or pastor around, how could he make up his mind anyway? Being totally uninformed, he would most likely choose the wrong religion and be doomed to Hell anyway. And he was pretty sure praying to a generic god wouldn’t do him much good. All religions had their own steps to salvation you had to follow, or saints you had to pray to, or whatever else was being offered. He doubted simply shouting out to an “all of the above” god would seal the deal. So he ignored the question of how he was going to spend his eternity and focused on the here and now—finding the white, cylindrical way station.

He swam up and over the now ruddy reef, making sure to stay well above the ocean floor where the carpet of red flakes could be kicked up, further obscuring his flake-impeded view. It was like swimming through a snowstorm on acid. As he rose above the reef, he could see what looked like a large propane tank resting on the ocean floor.

The way station.

He glanced at his air-pressure gauge. Two minutes to spare.

His heart raced as he leveled out over the flat seabed, and then skipped a startled beat when a large object caught the corner of his eye. For a moment he wondered if he’d seen anything at all, then decided he had. The swirling plumes of flakes in the distance indicated something was out there. Something fast.

Miller kicked hard and performed the swimmer’s version of a sprint. He went rigid, streamlining his body, pumped his legs, and dug through the water with cupped hands. As he closed to within thirty feet of the way station he relaxed. Whatever it was had either not seen him, or
had
seen him and not cared.

With one minute of air remaining, he slowed his approach, conserving the last few breaths in his tank before switching to the pony bottle while the large tank refilled. He’d never used the way station before, but could see the hookups clearly as he closed to within fifteen feet. It wouldn’t take long to refill his tank, but—

Miller’s entire body jerked violently, and then was yanked backward by his left foot. He spun about and the pressure on his foot dropped away. He was free, but ten feet farther from the way station. He glanced at his foot, which throbbed with pain. A quarter of the fin was missing, though his foot was still intact.

Or was it?

A brown cloud seeped out from inside the fin. Blood. He remembered cutting his foot as he was escaping the floundering Aquarius. He had left a trail of blood through shark-infested waters.

Idiot!
Miller cursed himself, as he searched for the shark.

It circled, ten feet away.

A fourteen-foot tiger shark. It was second in size only to the great white, but its unpredictability and ferocity more than made up for the size difference. And right now it clearly had little interest in the tiny pink flakes or scores of small dying fish. It was interested in larger, still-living prey, most likely drawn by Miller’s oozing blood and rapid heartbeat.

Staying alert, he moved carefully toward the way station while turning in time with the striped shark. He unstrapped the pony bottle and readied it for use. In about thirty seconds he was going to need it to breathe. He also planned to expel some of the air to scare the shark off. If the beast managed to get hold of him again, he could always use the bottle to pummel the shark’s snout. Without help, without air, he wouldn’t survive, anyway, but he’d rather not be eaten alive.

As the shark came between him and the way station, it twitched twice and then, with a snap of its tail, turned toward him. There was no time to blow the pony bottle. Miller reacted instinctively, kicking up and reaching out. His hands caught the shark’s snout as it charged. He pushed up, moving his torso away from the open maw and squeezing the predator’s sensitive, jelly-filled snout. The shark thrashed and slipped away from Miller’s grip, but its large body smashed into him, spinning him around and knocking the pony bottle free. It sank to the seabed like a falling leaf. A puff of red debris exploded upward as the bottle landed.

He desperately wanted to swim down to that bottle, but his gut told him to watch out. He spun, looking for the shark, and found it bearing down on him from his left. With only a single breath remaining in the air tank, he removed the regulator from his mouth, held it out, and purged the tank. The shark veered off at the last moment, circling once again as it tried to figure out the best way to attack this defiant prey.

Miller let his last breath escape from his mouth and sank to the seafloor, never taking his eyes off the ocean’s tiger. When he reached the bottom, he knelt by the pony bottle, picked it up, and put its regulator in his mouth.

He could breathe again.

He had fifteen minutes.

Staying close to the seafloor, Miller kicked toward the way station, hoping his proximity to the bottom and the large cloud of pink kicked up by his movements would confuse the predator. He reached the station, breathing heavily. He realized that if he kept sucking on the pony bottle like a hungry baby, it wasn’t going to last nearly as long as it was supposed to. So he took one long, deep breath, and held it. After a count of three seconds, he slowly let out his pent-up breath, and, calmer now, set to work on refilling his air tank.

After removing his tank and detaching the regulator, he attached the tank to the way station valve, screwing the connector tight. The entire process took less than thirty seconds. He opened the way station valve and watched his pressure gauge.

It didn’t move.

He closed and opened the valve again.

Nothing.

Panic set in and he began breathing heavily again. He’d done everything right. This was a basic setup! What could be—

Miller closed his eyes and shook his head.

The way station was empty.

But how?

As he searched his mind for answers, a looming shadow caught his eye. The shark still circled, but was now above him. As his eyes followed the shark around, his vision caught an aberration on the ocean surface. A long cigar shape.

A hull!

The sailboat he’d seen before.

Damn them!
he thought. Whoever was on the sailboat had taken his air!

He pulled himself to the top of the way station. He was fifty feet down with a pony bottle and a fourteen-foot man-eater. One fin was ruined and his foot was bleeding. He would never make it. With all the air in the world, he would never make it.

Then I’ll make it with no air,
he thought.