Peter Watts - Starfish

"I see," Scanlon said.

"So now we're in something of a situation," Rowan went on. "Maybe the Beebe crew thinks that Caraco was just another accidental casualty. Or maybe they're getting suspicious. So do we let it lie, hope things blow over? Will they make a break if they think we're covering something up? Will some go and some stay? Are they a group, or a collection of individuals?"

She fell silent.

"A lot of questions," Scanlon said after a while.

"Okay, then. Here's just one. Would they obey a direct order to stay on the rift?"

"They might stay on the rift," Scanlon said. "But not because you ordered them to."

"We were thinking, maybe Lenie Clarke," Rowan said. "According to your report she's more or less the leader. And Lubin's— Lubin was — the wild card. Now he's out of the picture, perhaps Clarke could keep the others in line. If we can reach Clarke."

Scanlon shook his head. "Clarke's not any sort of leader, not in the conventional sense. She adopts her own behaviors independently, and the others just— follow her lead. It's not the usual authority-based system as you'd understand it."

"But if they follow her lead, as you say…"

"I suppose," Scanlon said slowly, "she's the most likely to obey an order to stay on site, no matter how hellish the situation. She's hooked on abusive relationships, after all." He stopped.

"You could always try telling them the truth," he suggested.

She nodded. "It's a possibility, certainly. And how do you think they'd react?"

Scanlon said nothing.

"Would they trust us?" Rowan asked.

Scanlon smiled. "Do they have any reason to?"

"Perhaps not." Rowan sighed. "But no matter what we tell, them, the issue's the same. What will they do when they learn they're stuck down there?"

"Probably nothing. That's where they want to be."

Rowan glanced at him curiously. "I'm surprised you'd say that, Doctor."

"Why?"

"There's no place I'd rather be than my own apartment. But the moment anyone put me under house arrest I'd want very much to leave it, and I'm not even slightly dysfunctional."

Scanlon let the last part slide. "That's a point," he admitted.

"A very basic one," she said. "I'm surprised someone with your background would miss it."

"I didn't miss it. I just think other factors outweigh it." On the outside, Scanlon smiled. "As you say, you're not at all dysfunctional."

"No. Not yet, anyway." Rowan's eyes clouded with a sudden flurry of data. She stared into space for a moment or two, assessing. "Excuse me. Bit of trouble on another front." She focused again on Scanlon. "Do you ever fell guilty, Yves?"

He laughed, cut himself off. "Guilty? Why?"

"About the project. About— what we did to them."

"They're happier down there. Believe me. I know."

"Do you."

"Better than anyone, Ms. Rowan. You know that. That's why you came to me today."

She didn't speak.

"Besides," Scanlon said, "Nobody drafted them. It was their own free choice."

"Yes," Rowan agreed softly. "Was."

And extended her arm through the window.

The isolation membrane coated her hand like liquid glass. It fit the contours of her fingers without a wrinkle, painted palm and wrist and forearm in a transparent sheath, pulled away just short of her elbow and stretched back to the windowpane.

"Thanks for your time, Yves," Rowan said.

After a moment Scanlon shook the proffered hand. It felt like a condom, slightly lubricated. "You're welcome," he said. Rowan retracted her arm, turned away. The membrane smoothed behind her like a soap bubble.

"But—" Scanlon said.

She turned back. "Yes?"

"Was that all you wanted?" he said.

"For now."

"Ms. Rowan, if I may. There's a lot about the people down there you don't know. A lot. I'm the only one who can give it to you."

"I appreciate that, Y—"

"The whole geothermal program hinges on them. I'm sure you see that."

She stepped back towards the membrane. "I do, Dr. Scanlon. Believe me. But I have a number of priorities right now. And in the meantime, I know where to find you." Once more she turned away.

Scanlon tried very hard to keep his voice level: "Ms. Rowan —"

Something changed in her then, a subtle hardening of posture that would have gone unnoticed by most people. Scanlon saw it as she turned back to face him. A tiny pit opened in his stomach.

He tried to think of what to say.

"Yes, Dr. Scanlon," she said, her voice a bit too level.

"I know you're busy, Ms. Rowan, but— how much longer do I have to stay in here?"

She softened fractionally. "Yves, we still don't know. In a way it's just another quarantine, but it's taking longer to get a handle on this one. It's from the bottom of the ocean, after all."

"What is it, exactly?"

"I'm not a biologist." She glanced at the floor for a moment, then met his eyes again. "But I can tell you this much: you don't have to worry about keeling over dead. Even if you have this thing. It doesn't really attack people."

"Then why—"

"Apparently there are some— agricultural concerns. They're more afraid of the effect it might have on certain plants."

He considered that. It made him feel a little better.

"I really have to go now." Rowan seemed to consider something for a moment, then added, "And no more döpplegangers. I promise. That was rude of me."

She'd told the truth about the döppelgangers. She'd lied about everything else.

After four days Scanlon left a message in Rowan's cache. Two days later he left another. In the meantime he waited for the spirit which had thrust its finger up its ass to come back and tell him more about primordial biochemistry. It never did. By now even the other ghosts weren't visiting very often, and they barely said a word when they did.

Rowan didn't return Scanlon's calls. Patience melted into uncertainty. Uncertainty simmered into conviction. Conviction began to gently boil.

Locked up in here for three fucking weeks and all she gives me is a ten-minute courtesy call. Ten lousy minutes of my-experts-say-you're-wrong and it's-such-a-basic-point-I-can't-believe-you-missed-it and then she just walks away. She just fucking smiles and walks away.

"Know what I should have done," he growled at the teleop. It was the middle of the day but he didn't care any more. Nobody was listening, they'd deserted him in here. They'd probably forgotten all about him. "What I should have done is rip a hole in that fucking membrane when she was here. Let a little of whatever's in here out to mix with the air in her lungs. Bet that'd inspire her to look for some answers!"

He knew it was fantasy. The membrane was almost infinitely flexible, and just as tough. Even if he succeeded in cutting it, it would repair itself before any mere gas molecules could jump through. Still, it was satisfying to think about.

Not satisfying enough. Scanlon picked up a chair and hurled it at the window. The membrane caught it like a form-fitting glove, enfolded it, let it fall almost to the floor on the other side. Then, slowly, the window tightened down to two dimensions. The chair toppled back into Scanlon's cell, completely undamaged.

And to think she'd had the fucking temerity to lecture him with that inane little homily about house arrest! As though she'd caught him in some sort of lie , when he'd suggested the vampires might stay put. As though she thought he was covering for them.

Sure, he knew more about vampires than anyone. That didn't mean he was one. That didn't mean—

We could have treated you better , Lubin had said, there at the last. We . As though he'd been speaking for all of them. As though, finally, they were accepting him. As though—