Peter Watts - Starfish

Nothing flesh and blood…

He refuses to finish the thought. He opens his eyes.

When it moves again, Scanlon is staring right at it.

A black plume, jetting from a chimney of rock on the seabed. And this time it doesn’t just sigh; it moans .

A smoker. That’s all it is. Acton went down one of those.

Maybe this one—

The eruption peters out. The sound whispers away.

Smokers aren’t supposed to make sounds. Not like that, anyway.

Scanlon edges up to the lip of the chimney. 501C. Inside, anchored about two meters down, is some sort of machine. It’s been built out of things that were never meant to fit together; rotary blades spinning in the vestigial current, perforated tubes, pipes anchored at haphazard angles. The smoker is crammed with junk.

And somehow, the water jets through it and comes out singing. Not a ghost. Not an alien predator, after all. Just— windchimes. Relief sweeps through Scanlon’s body in a chemical wave. He relaxes, soaking in the sensation, until he remembers:

Six contacts. Six.

And here he is, floodlit, in full view.

Scanlon retreats back into darkness. The machinery behind his nightmares, exposed and almost pedestrian, has bolstered his confidence. He resumes his patrol. The Throat rotates slowly to his right, a murky monochrome graphic.

Something fades into view ahead, floating above an outcropping of featherworms. Scanlon slips closer, hides behind a convenient piece of rock

Vampires. Two of them.

They don't look the same.

Vampires usually look alike out here, it's almost impossible to tell them apart. But Scanlon’s sure he’s never seen one of these two before. It’s facing away from him, but there’s still something— it’s too tall and thin, somehow. It moves in furtive starts and twitches, almost birdlike. Reptilian. It carries something under one arm.

Scanlon can’t tell what sex it is. The other vampire, though, looks female. The two of them hang in the water a few meters apart, facing each other. Every now and then the female gestures with her hands; sometimes she moves too suddenly and the other one jumps a little, as if startled.

He clicks through the voice channels. Nothing. After a while the female reaches out, almost tentatively, and touches the reptile. There’s something almost gentle— in an alien way— about the way she does that. Then she turns and swims off into the darkness. The reptile stays behind, drifting slowly on its axis. Its face comes into view.

Its hood seal is open. Its face is so pale that Scanlon can barely tell where skin ends and eyecaps begin; it almost looks as if this creature has no eyes.

The thing under its arm is the shredded remains of one of Channer’s monster fish. As Scanlon watches, the reptile brings it up to its mouth and tears off a chunk. Swallows.

The voice in the Throat moans in the distance, but the reptile doesn’t seem to notice.

Its uniform has the usual GA logo stamped onto the shoulders. The usual name tag underneath.

Who—?

Its blank empty face sweeps right past Scanlon’s hiding place without pausing. A moment later it’s facing away again.

It’s all alone out there. It doesn’t look dangerous.

Scanlon braces against his rock, pushes off. Water pushes back, slowing him instantly. The reptile doesn’t see him. Scanlon kicks. He’s only a few meters away when he remembers.

Ganzfeld Effect. What if there’s some Ganzfeld Effect down h—

The reptile spins suddenly, staring directly at him.

Scanlon lunges. Another split-second and he wouldn’t even have come close, but fortune smiles; he catches onto one of the creature’s fins as it dives away. Its other foot lashes back, bounces off the helmet. Again, lower down; Scanlon’s sonar pistol spins away from his belt.

He hangs on. The reptile comes at him with both fists, utterly silent. Scanlon barely feels the blows through his preshmesh. He hits back with the familiar desperation of a childhood punching bag, cornered again, feeble self-defense his only option.

Until it dawns on him that this time, somehow, it’s working .

He’s not facing the neighborhood bully here. He’s not paying the price for careless eye contact with some australopithecine at the local drink’n’drug. He fighting a spindly little freak that’s trying to get away . From him. This guy is downright feeble .

For the first time in his life, Yves Scanlon is winning a fight.

His fist connects, a chain-mail mace. The enemy jerks and struggles. Scanlon grabs, twists, wrestles his quarry into an armlock. His victim flails around, utterly helpless.

“You’re not going anywhere, friend.” Finally, a chance to try out that tone of easy contempt he’s been practicing since the age of seven. It sounds good. It sounds confident, in control. “Not until I find out just what the fuck is—”

The lights go out.

The whole Throat goes dark, suddenly and without fuss. It takes a few seconds to blink away the afterimages; finally, in the extreme distance, Scanlon makes out a very faint gray glow. Beebe.

It dies as he watches. The creature in his arms has grown very still.

"Let him go, Scanlon."

"Clarke?" It might be Clarke. The vocoders don't mask everything, there are subtle differences that Scanlon's just beginning to recognize. "Is that you?" He gets his headlamp on, but no matter where he points it there's nothing to see.

"You'll break his arms," the voice says. Clarke. Got to be.

"I'm not that—" strong— "clumsy," Scanlon says to the abyss.

"You don't have to be. His bones have decalcified." A momentary silence. "He's fragile."

Scanlon loosens his grip a bit. He twists back and forth, trying to catch sight of something. Anything. All that comes into view is his prisoner's shoulder patch.

Fischer.

But he went missing— Scanlon counts back— seven months ago!

"Let him go , cocksucker." A different voice, this time. Brander's.

" Now, " it buzzes. "Or I'll fucking kill you."

Brander? Brander actually defending a pedophile? How the hell did that happen?

It doesn't matter now. There are other things to worry about.

"Where are you?" Scanlon calls out. "What are you so afraid of?" He doesn't expect such an obvious goad to work. He's just buying time, trying to delay the inevitable. He can't just let Fischer go ; he's out of options the moment that happens.

Something moves, just to the left. Scanlon spins; a flurry of motion out there, maybe a hint of limbs caught in the beam. Too many for one person. Then nothing.

He tried to do it , Scanlon realizes. Brander just tried to kill me, and they held him back.

For now.

"Last chance, Scanlon." Clarke again, close and invisible, as though she's humming in his ear. "We don't have to lay a hand on you, you know? We can just leave you here. You don't let him go in ten seconds and I swear you'll never find your way back. One."

"And even if you did," adds another voice— Scanlon doesn't know who— "we'd be waiting for you there."

"Two."

He checks the helmet dashboard laid out around his chin. The vampires have shut off Beebe's homing beacon.

"Three."

He checks his compass. The readout won't settle. No surprise there; magnetic navigation is a joke on the rift.

"Four."

"Fine," Scanlon tries. "Leave me here. I don't care. I'll—"

"Five."

"— just head for the surface. I can last for days in this suit." Sure. As if they'll just let you float away with their— what is Fischer to them, anyway? Pet? Mascot?