Starfish (36 page)

"What we want," something buzzes from the darkness, "is to be left alone."

"That's not going to happen. No matter what you do to me. You can't stay down here forever."

Nobody bothers to disagree. Fischer continues to float before him, his head cocked to one side.

"Listen, C— Lenie. Mike. All of you." The headlight beam sweeps back and forth, empty. "It's just a
job
. It's not a lifestyle." But Scanlon knows that's a lie. All these people were rifters long before the job existed.

"They'll come for you," he says softly, and he doesn't know whether it's a threat or a warning.

"Maybe we won't be here," the abyss replies at last.

Oh, God.
"Look, I don't know what's happening down here, but you can't
want
to stay here, nobody in their— I mean— Jesus,
where are you?
"

No answer. Only Fischer.

"This wasn't how it was supposed to go," Scanlon says, pleading.

And then, "I never meant for— I mean I didn't—"

And then only "I'm
sorry
. I'm sorry..."

And then nothing at all, except the darkness.

* * *

Eventually the lights come back on, and Beebe beeps reassuringly on its designated channel. Gerry Fischer is gone by then; Scanlon isn't sure when he left.

He's not sure the others were ever there. He swims back to Beebe, alone.

They probably didn't even hear me. Not really.
Which is a shame, because there at the end he was actually telling the truth.

He wishes he could pity them. It should be easy; they hide in the dark, they hide behind their eyecaps as though photocollagen is some sort of general anesthetic. They warrant the pity of real people. But how can you pity someone who's somehow better off than you are? How can you pity someone who, in some sick way, seems to be happy?

How can you pity someone who scares you to death?

And besides, they walked all over me. I couldn't control them at all. Have I made a single real choice since I came down?

Sure. I gave them Fischer, and they let me live.

Yves Scanlon wonders, briefly, how to put
that
into the official record without making himself look like a complete screwup.

In the end, he doesn't really care.

* * *

TRANS/OFFI/300850:1043

I have recently encountered evidence of... that is, I believe...

The behavior of Beebe Station personnel is distinctively...

I have recently participated in a telling exchange with station personnel. I managed to avoid outright confrontation, although...

Ah, fuck it.

* * *

T minus twenty minutes, and except for Yves Scanlon, Beebe is deserted.

It's been like this for the past couple of days. The vampires just don't come inside much any more. Maybe they're deliberately excluding him. Maybe they're just reverting to their natural state. He can't tell.

It's just as well. By now, the two sides have very little left to say to each other.

The shuttle should be almost here. Scanlon summons his resolve: when they come, they're not going to find him hiding in his cubby. He's going to be in the lounge, in plain view.

He takes a breath, holds it, listens. Beebe creaks and drips around him. No other sounds of life.

He gets off the pallet and presses an ear against the bulkhead. Nothing. He undogs the cubby hatch, opens it a few centimeters, peers out.

Nothing.

His suitcase has been packed for hours. He grabs it off the deck, swings the hatch all the way open, and strides purposefully down the corridor.

He sees the shadow just before he enters the lounge, a dim silhouette against the bulkhead. A part of him wants to turn and run back to his cubby, but it's a much smaller part than it used to be. Most of him is just tired. He steps forward.

Lubin is waiting there, standing motionless beside the ladder. He stares through Scanlon with eyes of solid ivory.

"I wanted to say goodbye," he says.

Scanlon laughs. He can't help it.

Lubin watches impassively.

"I'm sorry," Scanlon says. He doesn't feel even slightly amused. "It's just— you never even said
hello
, you know?"

"Yes," Lubin says. "Well."

Somehow, there's no sense of threat about him this time. Scanlon can't quite understand why; Lubin's background file is still full of holes, the rumors are still festering over Galápagos; even the other vampires keep their distance from this one. But none of that shows through right now. Lubin just stands there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks almost vulnerable.

"So they're going to be bringing us back early," he says.

"I honestly don't know. It's not my decision."

"But they sent you down to— prepare the way. Like John the Baptist."

It's a very strange analogy, coming from Lubin. Scanlon says nothing.

"Did you— didn't they
know
we wouldn't want to come back? Didn't they count on it?"

"It wasn't like that." But he wonders, more than ever, what the GA knew.

Lubin clears his throat. He seems very much to want to say something, but doesn't.

"I found the windchimes," Scanlon says at last.

"Yes."

"They scared the hell out of me."

Lubin shakes his head. "That's not what they were for."

"What
were
they for?"

"Just— a hobby, really. We've all got hobbies here. Lenie does her starfish. Alice— dreams. This place has a way of taking ugly things and lighting them in a certain way, so they almost look beautiful." A shrug. "I build memorials."

"Memorials."

Lubin nods. "The windchimes were for Acton."

"I see."

Something drops onto Beebe with a clank. Scanlon jumps.

Lubin doesn't react. "I'm thinking of building another set," he says. "For Fischer, maybe."

"Memorials are for dead people. Fischer's still alive."
Technically, anyway.

"Okay then. I'll make them for you."

The overhead hatch drops open. Scanlon grips his suitcase and starts to climb, one-handed.

"Sir—"

Scanlon looks down, surprised.

"I—" Lubin stops himself. "We could have treated you better," he says at last.

Scanlon knows, somehow, that this is not what Lubin intended to say. He waits. But Lubin offers nothing more.

"Thanks," Scanlon says, and climbs out of Beebe forever.

The chamber he rises into is wrong. He looks around, disoriented; this isn't the usual shuttle. The passenger compartment is too small, the walls studded with an array of nozzles. Forward, the cockpit hatch is sealed. A strange face looks back through the porthole as the ventral hatch swings shut.

"Hey..."

The face disappears. The compartment resonates with the sound of metal mouths disengaging. A slight lurch and the 'scaphe is rising free.

A fine aerosol mist hisses from the nozzles. It stings Scanlon's eyes. An unfamiliar voice reassures him from the cabin speaker. Nothing to worry about, it says. Just a routine precaution.

Everything's just fine.

Maybe things are getting out of hand,
Lenie Clarke wonders.

The others don't seem to care. She hears Lubin and Caraco talking up in the lounge, hears Brander trying to sing in the shower—
as if we didn't all get enough abuse during our
childhoods— and envies their unconcern. Everyone hated Scanlon— well, not
hate
, exactly, that's a bit strong— but there was at least a sort of—

Contempt—

That's the word. Contempt. Back on the surface, Scanlon ticked everyone. No matter what you said to him he'd nod, make little encouraging noises, do everything to convince you that he was on your side. Except actually agree with you, of course. You didn't need fine-tuning to see through that shit; everyone down here already had too many Scanlons in their past, the official sympathizers, the instant friends who gently encouraged you to go back home, drop the charges, carefully pretending it was
your
interests being served. Back then Scanlon was just another patronizing bastard with a shaved deck, and if fortune put him down here on rifter turf for a while, who could be blamed for having a little fun with him?

But we could have killed him.

He started it. He attacked Gerry. He was holding him
hostage.

As if the GA's going to make any sort of allowance for
that...

So far, Clarke's kept her doubts to herself. It's not that she fears no one will listen to her. She fears the exact opposite. She doesn't
want
to change anybody's mind. She's not out to rally the troops. Initiative is a prerogative of leaders; she doesn't want the responsibility. The last thing she wants to be is

Leader of the pack, Len. Head wolf. A-fucking-kayla.

Acton's been dead for months and he's still laughing at her.

Okay. Scanlon was a nuisance at worst. At best he was an amusing diversion. "Shit," Brander said once, "You tune him in out there? I bet the
GA
doesn't even take him seriously." The Grid needs them, and it's not going to pull the plug just because a few rifters had some fun with an asshole like Scanlon. Makes sense.

Still, Clarke can't help thinking about consequences. She's never been able to avoid them in the past.

Brander's finally out of the shower; his voice drifts down from the lounge. Showers are an indulgence down here, hardly necessary when you live inside a self-flushing semipermeable diveskin but a sheer hot hedonistic pleasure just the same. Clarke grabs a towel off the rack and heads up the ladder before anyone else can cut in.

"Hey, Len." Caraco, seated at the table with Brander, waves her over. "Check out the new look."

Brander's in real shirtsleeves. He doesn't even have his caps in.

His eyes are brown.

"Wow." Clarke doesn't know what else to say. Those eyes look really strange. She looks around, vaguely uncomfortable. Lubin's over on the sofa, watching. "What do you think, Ken?"

Lubin shakes his head. "Why do you want to look like a dryback?"

Brander shrugs. "Don't know. I just felt like giving my eyes a rest for a couple of hours. I guess seeing Scanlon down here in shirtsleeves all the time." Not that anyone would even
think
of popping their caps in front of Scanlon.

Caraco affects an exaggerated shudder. "Please. Tell me he's not your new role model."