Kristine Rusch - Diving into the Wreck

I hope that thing won’t trigger as we maneuver our way into the ship. She says it’s easy to operate and not something to fear, but I do worry.

I worry about everything.

“Keep an eye out,” I say to Hurst, and then I put my helmet on.

We head to the airlock as he extends the tether between the skip and the Dignity Vessel.

Here we go, I think, but do not say. Here we go.

We reach the wreck in less than five minutes. I stop us as we touch the hull. I want to make certain we haven’t moved too quickly.

“Check your monitors,” I say to Odette.

She tilts her head. The clear part of her helmet reflects the lights from the skip. “Heart rate normal,” she says. “Breathing normal. I’m fine.”

My breathing is up and so is my heart rate, but I don’t tell her that. Because my elevated heart rate is also normal for me every single time I return to diving after a layoff.

Of course, I also don’t mention that the elevation is the highest I’ve seen on a return dive. I chalk that up to the fact we’re about to do something illegal.

Something illegal and something that would normally go against every principle that I have.

“Good,” I say. “Because now we’re at the tough part.”

I lead her to the hatch and am surprised to find that it’s open. I have no idea if Karl and I left it that way, not that it matters. I’m sure military divers have been inside.

For the first time, I cringe, realizing we might find other bodies—newer bodies—in that cockpit.

I make myself take a deep breath. I’m glad I’ve brought along extra breathers, because I’m using a lot of oxygen at the moment. Hurst, bless him, has said nothing.

This is the last time he could speak to us before we go into the wreck, and he doesn’t. He doesn’t remark on my elevated heart rate or my breathing. Maybe he’s not monitoring them.

Given how nervous he was when we left, he might only be monitoring the surrounding space.

Which is probably good enough—considering. If something goes wrong, he can’t come and rescue us anyway.

I turn on the lights under my boots. I know better than to light up like a tourist on her first dive—I remember how blinding that was in the small space that leads into the ship—but I’m tempted. I’m very tempted.

I slide into the hatch first. I’m going to lead the way to the cockpit.

I’ve reviewed the directions. I’ve also put them on a small map that can run in front of my faceplate if I press the right button. The map will overlay on the plate, leaving my field of vision clear, but helping me maneuver.

I hope I don’t have to use it. I will have part of it on when we go inside, however. If I get turned around, I want the navigation system to beep at me so that we don’t waste time being lost.

The hatch is wider than I remember, but the ladder seems even more fragile. I grip it with my gloved hands, and it seems like the rungs are loose.

As I go down, I check the bolts. They don’t seem to be screwed in as tightly as they had before.

Or maybe that’s my memory again.

I thought my memory of this place was clear, but maybe it’s not. Maybe the overlay of trauma has heightened the wrong things. I’m glad I decided to use the special map and the guidance system. I’m beginning to worry that I’m wrong about a lot of things.

Some things are different. The particles that floated around us like snow are gone. Maybe that’s because the hatch has been open to space for a long time. Or maybe enough military divers have gone in and have knocked things loose.

“I thought you said this thing was narrow,” Odette says. Her voice sounds a bit hollow through her suit system and into mine.

“It is,” I say.

“You haven’t seen narrow,” she says, and she’s right. By some dive standards, this is wide open. I have been in situations so tight that I was afraid I would get stuck.

But I don’t call those places narrow. I call them dangerous.

Still, I can understand her initial worry and her relief. She’s got an extra half meter of material attached to her front.

“This is as narrow as it gets outside the cockpit,” I say.

“Good.”

We make it to the bottom. The corridors open away from the entry, just like I remember.

Just like I dream.

The nightmares of Jypé and Junior joined the nightmare of my mother’s death shortly after they died. Only the Jypé-and-Junior nightmare is less a distortion of what happened than a memory of it.

My stomach clenches. It almost feels like I’m back in the dream. I make myself move forward.

I’m surprised I remember where the handholds are and where we pushed off from. But my navigation system never beeps at me, and we move quickly down the corridor.

As we do, I hear voices. Faint voices. They’re whispering. I make myself focus on them, reminding myself that these aren’t voices at all, but something to do with stealth tech.

The focus enables me to separate out the sounds. Not whispering, but a soft thrum. Several soft thrums on different levels.

I get an idea.

“Do you hear anything unusual?” I ask Odette.

“Just my own breathing,” she says. “That’s the only part of diving I hate. Why? Do you think someone’s here?”

There’s an edge to that final question, as if she’s afraid we’re going to get attacked while we’re inside the vessel. If we do, we’ll never get out.

Surprisingly, that thought calms my own breathing. My heart rate has slowed now that we’re inside.

“No,” I say. “It’s just that there’s a sound I associate with stealth tech. I thought maybe if you heard it too, you have the marker.”

“Oh.” She’s following me, careful to put her hands where mine have been. “That doesn’t sound very scientific.”

“It’s not,” I say.

The corridors seem cleaner. Except “clean” isn’t quite the right word. They’re not as dismal. They’re just as dark, but it almost looks like someone has scraped off a layer of dirt—or something—that accumulated over time.

Although I have no idea how dirt could have formed way out here in the middle of nowhere. Just like rust couldn’t form without oxygen.

Yet everything seems just a little shinier, just a little newer. The words and numbers running along the doorways are clearer.

I’m becoming more and more certain, as we move, that this isn’t a fault of my memory. The Dignity Vessel is different.

People have been here.

A lot of people, during the time I was gone.

We reach the final corridor. I check with Odette.

“Everything still okay?” I ask.

“Fine,” she says, but she doesn’t add anything. I don’t know what she thinks of the ship.

I’m not sure I should know what she thinks of the ship, given what we’re about to do.

So I don’t ask for her opinion.

However, I do check the time.

Less than five minutes to the hatch. Less than eight minutes to get here. We should make it to the cockpit with five minutes to spare.

I slow us through that corridor. I want to make certain we’re both calm. Because this is the tricky part.

Odette has walked me through it before, but I’m still nervous. I’ve never set an explosive device.

She’s offered to do it—it doesn’t have to be near the stealth tech, given the power of the explosive—but I want it to be there. If anything gets obliterated, I want it to be those stealth tech controls.

I want to shut the whole thing off.

Or, at least, send it to oblivion.

I swallow against a dry throat. The corridor widens a little.

We’re here.

And now I have confirmation that the military has spent a lot of time in this Dignity Vessel. Modern signs litter this part of the corridor.