Peter Watts - Starfish

It's a good idea. Someone else thought so too, at least that's what Scanlon heard from Mezzich a couple of weeks ago. Nothing official, of course, but there may already be a few prototypes in the system. Someone right here in Beebe, maybe, a walking testament to Induced False Memory Syndrome. Maybe Lubin. Maybe Clarke. Could be anyone, really.

They should have told me.

They told him, all right. They told him, when he first started, that he was coming in on the ground floor. You'll have input on pretty much everything , was what Rowan had promised. The design work, the follow-ups . They even offered him automatic coauthorship on all unclassified publications. Yves Scanlon was supposed to be a fucking equal . And then they shut him off in a little room, mumbling to recruits while they made all the decisions up on the thirty-fifth fucking floor.

Standard corporate mentality. Knowledge was power. Corpses never told anybody anything.

I was an idiot to believe them as long as I did. Sending up my recommendations, waiting for them to honor a promise or two. And this is the bone they throw me. Stick me at the bottom of the fucking ocean with these post-traumatic head cases because no one else wants to get shit on their hands.

I mean, fuck. I'm so far out of the loop I have to coax rumors from a has-been hack like Mezzich?

Still. He wonders who it might be. Brander or Nakata, maybe. Her record shows a background in geothermal engineering and high-pressure tech, and he's got a Masters in systems ecology with a minor in genomics. Too much education for your average vampire. Assuming there is such a thing.

Wait a second. Why should I trust these files? After all, if Rowan's keeping this thing under wraps she might not be stupid enough to leave clues lying around in the GA personnel records.

Scanlon ponders the question. Suppose the files have been modified. Maybe he should check out the least likely candidates. He orders an ascending sort by educational background.

Lenie Clarke. Premed dropout, basic virtual-tech ed. The GA hired her away from the Hongcouver Aquarium. PR department.

Hmm. Someone with Lenie Clarke's social skills, in public relations? Not likely. I wonder if—

Jesus. There it is again.

Yves Scanlon strips the phones from his eyes and stares at the ceiling. The sound seeps in through the hull, barely audible.

I'm almost getting used to it, actually.

It sighs through the bulkhead, recedes, dies. Scanlon waits. He realizes he's holding his breath.

There. Something very far away. Something very—

Lonely. It sounds so lonely.

He knows how it feels.

The lounge is empty, but something casts a faint shadow through the Communications hatchway. A soft voice from inside: Clarke, it sounds like. Scanlon evesdrops for a few seconds. She's reciting supply consumption rates, listing the latest bits of equipment to break down. A routine call up to the GA, from the sound of it. She hangs up just before he steps into view.

She's sitting slumped in her chair, a cup of coffee within easy reach.

They eye each other for a moment, without speaking.

"Anyone else around?" Scanlon wonders.

She shakes her head.

"I thought I heard something, a few minutes ago."

She turns back to face the console. A couple of icons flash on the main display.

"What are you doing?"

She makes a vague gesture to the console. "Running tender. Thought you'd like that, for a change."

"Oh, but I said—"

"Not to change the routine," Clarke cuts in. She seems tired. "Do you always expect everyone to do everything you say?"

"Is that what you think I meant?"

She snorts softly, still not looking back.

"Look," Scanlon says, "Are you sure you didn't hear something, like— like—" like a ghost, Clarke? A sound like poor dead Acton might make, watching his own remains rotting out there on the rift?

"Don't worry about it," she says.

Aha. "So you did hear something." She knows what it is, too. They all do.

"What I hear," she says, "is my own concern."

Take a hint, Scanlon. But there's nowhere else to go, except back to his cubby. And the prospect of being alone, right now— somehow, even the company of a vampire seems preferable.

She turns around to face him again. "Something else?"

"Not really. Just can't seem to sleep." Scanlon dons a disarming smile. "Just not used to the pressure, I guess." That's right. Put her at ease. Acknowledge her superiority.

She just stares at him

"I don't know how you take it, month after month," he adds.

"Yes you do. You're a psychiatrist. You chose us."

"Actually, I'm more of a mechanic."

"Of course," she says, expressionless. "It's your job to keep things broken."

Scanlon looks away.

She stands up and takes a step towards the hatchway, her tending duties apparently forgotten. Scanlon stands aside. She brushes past, somehow avoiding physical contact in the cramped space.

"Look," he blurts out, "how about a quick review of the tending procedure? I'm not all that familiar with this equipment."

It's too obvious. He knows she sees through it before the words are even out of his mouth. But it's also a perfectly reasonable request from someone in his role. Routine evaluation, after all.

She watches him for a moment, her head cocked a bit to one side. Her face, expressionless as usual, somehow conveys the impression of a slight smile. Finally she sits down again.

She taps on a menu. "This is the Throat." A cluster of luminous rectangles nested in a background of contour lines. "Thermal readout." The image erupts into psychedelic false color, red and yellow hot spots pulsing at irregular intervals along the main fissure. "You don't usually bother with thermal when you're tending," Clarke explains. "When you're out there you find that stuff out sooner first-hand anyway." The psychedelia fades back to green and gray.

And what happens if someone gets taken by surprise out there and you don't have the readings in here to know they're in trouble? Scanlon doesn't ask aloud. Just another cut corner.

Clarke pans, finds a pair of alphanumeric icons. "Alice and Ken." Another red hot-spot slides into view in the upper left corner of the display.

No, wait a minute; she turned thermal off …

"Hey," Scanlon says, "that's a deadman switch— "

No audio alarm. Why isn't there an alarm— His eyes dart across the half-familiar console. Where is it, where—shit—

The alarm's been disabled.

" Look! " Scanlon points at the display. "Can't you—"

Clarke looks up at him, almost lazily. She doesn't seem to understand.

He jabs his thumb down. "Somebody just died out there!"

She looks at the screen, slowly shakes her head. "No—"

" You stupid bitch, you cut off the alarm! "

He hits a control icon. The station starts howling. Scanlon jumps back, startled, bumps the bulkhead. Clarke watches him, frowning slightly.

" What's wrong with you? " He reaches out and grabs her by the shoulders. " Do something! Call Lubin, call—" The alarm is deafening. He shakes her, hard, pulls her up out of the chair—

And remembers, too late: you don't touch Lenie Clarke.

Something happens in her face. It almost crumples , right there in front of him. Lenie Clarke the ice queen is suddenly nowhere to be seen. In her place there's only a beaten, blind little kid, body shaking, mouth moving in the same pattern over and over, he can't hear over the alarm but her lips shape the words, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—