Jeremy Robinson - SecondWorld

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.

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.