Starfish (15 page)

The seabed is glowing. Cracks in the rock flicker comforting shades of orange, like hot coals, and he knows that's thermal; the scalding rivulets feel warm even through his 'skin, his thermister leaps around every time the current twitches. But there are places here where the rocks shine green, and others where they shine blue. He doesn't know whether to thank biology or geochemistry. All he knows is that it's beautiful. It's a city from high up, at night. It's a vid of the northern lights he saw once, only sharper and brighter. It's a brush fire in emeralds.

In a way he's almost grateful to Brander. If it weren't for Brander he'd never have come upon this place. He'd be sitting in Beebe with the rest of them, hooked into the library or hiding in his cubby, safe and dry.

But Beebe's no refuge with Brander inside. Beebe's a gauntlet. So today Fischer just stayed away when his shift ended, crawled off across the ocean floor, exploring. Now, somewhere far from the Throat, he discovers
real
sanctuary.

Don't fall asleep, Shadow says. If you miss your shift again it'll just give him an excuse.

So what? He won't find me out here.

You can't stay outside forever. You've got to eat sometime.

I know, I know. Be quiet.

He's the only person to have ever seen this place. How long has it been here? How many millions of years has this little oasis been glowing peacefully in the night, a pocket universe all to itself?

Lenie would like it out here, Shadow says.

Yeah.

A rattail cruises into view about half a meter up, its underside a jigsaw of reflected color. It thrashes once, suddenly; violent shivers run the length of its body. The water around it shimmers with heat distortion. The fish spins lopsidedly, tail-down, in the wake of the little eruption. Its body turns white in seconds, begins to fray at the edges.

Four hundred eight degrees Centigrade: that's maximum recorded temperature for hot seeps on the Juan de Fuca rift. Fischer thinks back for the temperature rating on diveskin copolymer.

One fifty.

He sculls up into the water column a bit, just in case. As soon as he clears bottom clutter he feels the faint, regular tapping of Beebe's sonar against his insides.

That's odd. This far out, he shouldn't be able to feel the signal, not unless they'd really cranked it up. And they wouldn't do
that
unless—

He checks the time.

Oh no. Not again.

By the time he makes it back to the Throat they're halfway through stripping number four. They open a space on the line for him. Lenie doesn't want to hear his apologies. She doesn't want to talk to him at all. That hurts, but Fischer can't really blame her. Maybe he can make it up to her soon. Maybe he can take her sightseeing.

It's not Brander's shift, thank God. He's back at Beebe. But Fischer's getting hungry again.

* * *

Maybe he's in his cubby. Maybe I can just eat and go to bed. Maybe—

He's sitting right there, all alone in the lounge, glaring up from his meal as soon as Fischer climbs into the room.

Don't get him mad.

Too late. He's
always
mad.

"I— thought we should clear some things up," he tries.

"Fuck off."

Fischer reaches the galley table, pulls out a chair.

"Don't bother," Brander says.

"Look, this place is small enough as it is. We've got to at least
try
to get along, you know? I mean, that's
assault
. It's
illegal
."

"So arrest me."

"Maybe you're not really mad at me at all," Fischer stops for a moment, surprised.
Maybe that's it.
"Maybe you've mixed me up with someone—"

Brander stands up.

Fischer pushes on: "Maybe someone
else
did something to you, once, and—"

Brander comes around the table, very deliberately.

"I haven't got you mixed up with anybody. I know exactly what you are."

"No, you don't, we never even
saw
each other until a couple of weeks ago!"
Of course that's it. It's not me at all, it's someone else!
"Whatever happened to you—"

"Is none of your fucking business, and if you say one more word I'll fucking
kill
you."

Let's just go, Shadow pleads. Let's leave, this is only making things worse.

But Fisher stands his ground. Suddenly everything seems so clear. "It wasn't me," he says quietly. "What happened— I'm sorry. But it wasn't me, you
know
it wasn't."

For a moment he thinks he might actually be getting through. Brander's face untwists a little, the knots of flesh and eyebrow unkinking just a bit around those featureless white eyes, and Fischer can almost see that face wearing something other than rage.

But then he feels something moving, it's his own arm reaching out
Shadow no you'll ruin everything
but Shadow's not listening, she's crooning Don't get him mad, don't get him mad don't get him mad—

This is what you
do
.

The growl starts low in Brander's throat, rising, like a distant wave pushed higher and higher out of the sea as it rushes shoreward.

"...don't
you Fucking TOUCH ME!
"

And nothing goes dead fast enough.

* * *

It stings at first. Then he feels clotted blood break around his eyelid, sees a fuzzy line of red light. He tries to bring his hand to his face. It hurts.

Something cold and wet, soothing. More clots come away.

"Nnnnnn..."

Someone is poking at his eyes. He tries to struggle, but all he can do is move his head feebly from side to side. That hurts even more.

"Don't move."

Lenie's voice.

"Your right eyecap's damaged. It could be gouging your cornea."

He relents. Lenie's fingers push between lids that feel as puffy as pillows. There's a sudden pressure on his eyeball, a tug of suction. A slurping sound, and the feel of ragged edges dragged across his pupil.

The world goes dark. "Hang on," Lenie says. "I'll turn up the lights."

There's still a reddish tinge to everything, but at least he can see.

He's in his cubby. Lenie Clarke leans over him, a bit of glistening wet membrane in one hand.

"You were lucky. He'd have ripped your costochondrals if your implants hadn't been packed in behind them." She drops the ruined cap out of sight, picks up a cartridge of liquid skin. "As it is, he only broke a couple of ribs. Lots of bruises. Mild concussion, maybe, but you'll have to go to Medical to be sure. Oh, and I'm pretty sure he broke your cheekbone too."

She sounds as if she’s reading a grocery list.

“
Why not—” Warm salt floods his mouth. His tongue does some careful exploring; his teeth are still intact, at least. “—in Medical, now?”

“
It would have been a bitch getting you down the ladder. Brander wasn’t going to help. Everyone else is outside.” She sprays foam across his bicep. It pulls his skin as it dries.

“
Not that they’d be any help,” she adds.

“
Thanks...”

“
I didn’t do anything. Just dragged you in here, basically.”

He wants desperately to touch her.

“
What is it with you, Fischer?” she asks after a while. "Why don't you ever fight back?"

"Wouldn’t work."

"Are you kidding? You know how
big
you are? You could take Brander apart if you just stood up to him."

Shadow says it only makes things worse. You fight back, it only gets them madder.

"Shadow?" Lenie says.

"What?"

"You said—"

“
Didn’t say anything...”

She watches him for a few moments.

"Okay," she says at last. She stands up. “I'll call up and send for a replacement."

“
No. That’s okay.”

“
You’re injured, Fischer."

Medical tutorials whisper inside his head. “We've got stuff downstairs."

"You still wouldn't be able to work for a week. More than twice that before you'd be fully healed."

"They planned for accidents. When they set up the schedules."

"And how are you going to keep clear of Brander until then?"

"I'll stay outside more," he says. "Please, Lenie."

She shakes her head. "You're crazy, Fischer." She turns to the hatch, undogs it. "None of my business, of course. I just don't think—"

Turns back.

“
Do you like it down here?” she asks.

“
What?”

“
Do you get off, being down here?”

It should be a stupid question. Especially now. Somehow it isn’t.

“
Sort of,” he says at last, realizing it for the first time.

She nods, blinking over white space. “Dopamine rush.”

“
Dopa—?”

“
They say we get hooked on it. Being down here. Being— scared, I guess.” She smiles faintly. “That’s the rumor, anyway.”

Fischer thinks about that. “Not so much I get off on it. More like, just used to it. You know?”

“
Yeah.” She turns and pushes the hatch open. “For sure.”

* * *

There's this praying mantis a meter long, all black with chrome trim, hanging upside-down from the ceiling of the medical cubby. It's been sleeping up there ever since Fischer first arrived. Now it hovers over his face, jointed arms clicking and dipping like crazy articulated chopsticks. Every now and then one of its feelers winks red light, and Fischer can smell the scent of his own flesh cauterizing. It kind of bothers him. What's even worse is, he can't move his head. The neuroinduction field in the Med table has got him paralyzed from the neck up. He keeps wondering what would happen if the focus slipped, if that damping energy ended up pointing at his lungs. At his
heart
.

The mantis stops in midmotion, its antennae quivering. It keeps completely still for a few seconds. "Hello, er— Gerry, isn't it?" it says at last. "I'm Dr. Troyka."

It sounds like a woman.

"How are we doing here?" Fischer tries to answer, but his head and neck are still just so much dead meat. "No, don't try to answer," the mantis says, "Rhetorical question. I'm checking your readouts now."

Fischer remembers: the medical equipment can't always do everything on its own. Sometimes, when things get too complicated, it calls up the line to a human backup.