Peter Watts - Beyond the Rift

Ballard swims up through the fallout and pops an access plate on one of the generators. “Well, according to this there’s no damage,” she calls down, after looking inside. “Hang on, let me switch channels here—”

Clarke touches one of the cylindrical sensors strapped to her waist, and stares into the fissure. I should be able to fit through there, she decides.

And does.

“We were lucky,” Ballard is saying above her. “The other generators are okay too. Oh, wait a second; number two has a clogged cooling duct, but it’s not serious. Backups can handle it until— get out of there !”

Clarke looks up, one hand on the sensor she’s planting. Ballard stares down at her through a chimney of fresh rock.

“Are you crazy ?” Ballard shouts. “That’s an active smoker!”

Clarke looks down again, deeper into the shaft. It twists out of sight in the mineral haze. “We need temperature readings,” she says, “from inside the mouth.”

“Get out of there! It could go off again and fry you!”

I suppose it could at that , Clarke thinks. “It already blew,” she calls back. “It’ll take a while to build up a fresh head.” She twists a knob on the sensor; tiny explosive bolts blast into the rock, anchoring the device.

“Get out of there, now !”

“Just a second.” Clarke turns the sensor on and kicks up out of the seabed. Ballard grabs her arm as she emerges, starts to drag her away from the smoker.

Clarke stiffens and pulls free. “Don’t —” touch me! She catches herself. “I’m out, okay? You don’t have to—”

“Further.” Ballard keeps swimming. “Over here.”

They’re near the edge of the light now, the floodlit Throat on one side, blackness on the other. Ballard faces Clarke. “Are you out of your mind ? We could have gone back to Beebe for a drone! We could have planted it on remote!”

Clarke doesn’t answer. She sees something moving in the distance behind Ballard. “Watch your back,” she says.

Ballard turns, and sees the gulper sliding toward them. It undulates through the water like brown smoke, silent and endless; Clarke can’t see the creature’s tail, although several meters of serpentine flesh have come out of the darkness.

Ballard goes for her knife. After a moment, Clarke does too.

The gulper’s jaw drops open like a great jagged scoop.

Ballard begins to launch herself at the thing, knife upraised.

Clarke puts her hand out. “Wait a minute. It’s not coming at us.”

The front end of the gulper is about ten meters distant now. Its tail pulls free of the murk.

“Are you crazy?” Ballard moves clear of Clarke’s hand, still watching the monster.

“Maybe it isn’t hungry,” Clarke says. She can see its eyes, two tiny unwinking spots glaring at them from the tip of the snout.

“They’re always hungry. Did you sleep through the briefings?”

The gulper closes its mouth and passes. It extends around them now, in a great meandering arc. The head turns back to look at them. It opens its mouth.

“Fuck this,” Ballard says, and charges.

Her first stroke opens a meter-long gash in the creature’s side. The gulper stares at Ballard for a moment, as if astonished. Then, ponderously, it thrashes.

Clarke watches without moving. Why can’t she just let it go? Why does she always have to prove she’s better than everything?

Ballard strikes again; this time she slashes into a great tumorous swelling that has to be the stomach.

She frees the things inside.

They spill out through the wound; two huge giganturids and some misshapen creature Clarke doesn’t recognize. One of the giganturids is still alive, and in a foul mood. It locks its teeth around the first thing it encounters.

Ballard. From behind.

“Lenie !” Ballard’s knife hand is swinging in staccato arcs. The giganturid begins to come apart. Its jaws remain locked. The convulsing gulper crashes into Ballard and sends her spinning to the bottom.

Finally, Clarke begins to move.

The gulper collides with Ballard again. Clarke moves in low, hugging the bottom, and pulls the other woman clear.

Ballard’s knife continues to dip and twist. The giganturid is a mutilated wreck behind the gills, but its grip remains unbroken. Ballard can’t twist around far enough to reach the skull. Clarke comes in from behind and takes the creature’s head in her hands.

It stares at her, malevolent and unthinking.

“Kill it!” Ballard shouts. “Jesus, what are you waiting for?”

Clarke closes her eyes, and clenches. The skull in her hand splinters like cheap plastic.

There is a silence.

After a while, she opens her eyes. The gulper is gone, fled back into darkness to heal or die. But Ballard’s still there, and Ballard is angry.

“What’s wrong with you?” she says.

Clarke unclenches her fists. Bits of bone and jellied flesh float about her fingers.

“You’re supposed to back me up! Why are you so damned— passive all the time?”

“Sorry.” Sometimes it works .

Ballard reaches behind her back. “I’m cold. I think it punctured my diveskin—”

Clarke swims behind her and looks. “A couple of holes. How are you otherwise? Anything feel broken?”

“It broke through the diveskin,” Ballard says, as if to herself. “And when that gulper hit me, it could have—” She turns to Clarke and her voice, even distorted, carries a shocked uncertainty. “—I could have been killed. I could have been killed !”

For an instant, it’s as though Ballard’s ’skin and eyes and self-assurance have all been stripped away. For the first time Clarke can see through to the weakness beneath, growing like a delicate tracery of hairline cracks.

You can screw up too, Ballard. It isn’t all fun and games . You know that now.

It hurts, doesn’t it?

Somewhere inside, the slightest touch of sympathy. “It’s okay,” Clarke says. “Jeanette, it’s—”

“You idiot !” Ballard hisses. She stares at Clarke like some malign and sightless old woman. “You just floated there! You just let it happen to me!”

Clarke feels her guard snap up again, just in time. This isn’t just anger, she realizes. This isn’t just the heat of the moment. She doesn’t like me. She doesn’t like me at all.

And then, dully surprised that she hasn’t seen it before:

She never did.

Beebe Station floats tethered above the seabed, a gunmetal-gray planet ringed by a belt of equatorial floodlights. There’s an airlock for divers at the south pole and a docking hatch for ’scaphes at the north. In between there are girders and anchor lines, conduits and cables, metal armor and Lenie Clarke.

She’s doing a routine visual check on the hull; standard procedure, once a week. Ballard is inside, testing some equipment in the Communications cubby. This is not entirely within the spirit of the buddy system. Clarke prefers it this way. Relations have been civil over the past couple of days—Ballard even resurrects her patented chumminess on occasion—but the more time they spend together, the more forced things get. Eventually, Clarke knows, something is going to break.

Besides, out here it seems only natural to be alone.

She’s examining a cable clamp when a razormouth charges into the light. It’s about two meters long, and hungry. It rams directly into the nearest of Beebe’s floodlamps, mouth agape. Several teeth shatter against the crystal lens. The razormouth twists to one side, knocking the hull with its tail, and swims off until barely visible against the dark.