Peter Watts - Starfish

"Mike, you're not going find him rooting around here in the dark. We're blind this far out."

A wave of pistol clicks sweeps across her face. "I've got this for close range," says the machinery in Brander's throat.

"I don't think he's out here," Clarke says again. "And even if he is, I don't know if he'd let you get close after—"

"That was a long time ago," the darkness buzzes back. "Just because you're still nursing grudges from the second grade…"

"That's not what I meant," she says. She tries to speak gently, but the vocoder strips her voice down to a soft rasp. "I only meant, it's been so long. He's gone so far, we barely even see him on sonar any more. I don't know if he'd let any of us near him."

"We've got to try. We can't just leave him here. If I can just get close enough to tune him in…"

"He couldn't tune back," Clarke reminds him. "He went over before we changed, Mike. You know that."

" Fuck off! That's not the point! "

But it is, and they both know it. And Lenie Clarke suddenly knows something else, too. She knows that part of her is enjoying Brander's pain. She fights it, tries to ignore the realization of her own realization, because the only way to keep it from leaking into Brander's head is to keep it out of her own. She can't. No: she doesn't want to. Mike Brander, know-it-all, destroyer of perverts, self-righteous self-appointed self-avenger, is finally getting some small payback for what he did to Gerry Fischer.

Give it up, she wants to shout at him. Gerry's gone. Didn't you tune him in when that prick Scanlon held him hostage? Didn't you feel how empty he was? Or was all that too much for you, did you just look the other way instead? Well here's the abstract, Mikey: he's nowhere near human enough to grasp your half-assed gestures of atonement.

No absolution this time, Mike. You get to take this to your grave. Ain't justice a bitch?

She waits for him to tune her in, to feel her contempt diluting that frantic morass of guilt and self-pity. It doesn't happen. She waits and waits. Mike Brander, awash in his own symphony, just doesn't notice.

"Shit," hisses Lenie Clarke, softly.

"Come in," calls Alice Nakata, from very far away. "Everybody, come in."

Clarke boosts her gain. "Alice? Lenie."

"Mike," Brander says a long moment later. "I'm listening."

"You should get back here," Nakata tells them. "They called."

"Who? The GA?"

"They say they want to evacuate us. They say twelve hours."

"This is bullshit," says Brander.

"Who was it?" Lubin wants to know.

"I don't know," Nakata says. "I think, no one that we've spoken to before."

"And that was all he said? Evac in twelve?"

"And we are supposed to remain inside Beebe until then."

"No explanation? No reason given?"

"He hung up as soon as I acknowledged the order." Nakata looks vaguely apologetic. "I did not get the chance to ask, and nobody answered when I called back."

Brander stands up and heads for Comm.

"I've already set retry," Clarke says. "It'll beep when it gets through."

Brander stops, stares at the nearest bulkhead. Punches it.

"This is bullshit !"

Lubin just watches.

"Maybe not," Nakata says. "Maybe it's good news. If they were going to leave us here when they detonated, why would they lie about extraction? Why talk to us at all?"

"To keep us nice and close to ground zero," Brander spits. "Now here's a question for you, Alice: if they're really planning on evacuating us, why not tell us the reason?"

Nakata shrugs helplessly. "I do not know. The GA does not often tell us what is going on."

Maybe they're trying to psyche us out , Clarke muses. Maybe they want us to make a break, for some reason.

"Well," she says aloud, "how far could we get in twelve hours anyway? Even with squids? What are the chances we'd reach safe distance?"

"Depends on how big the bomb is," Brander says.

"Actually," Lubin remarks, "assuming that they want to keep us here for twelve hours because that would be enough time to get away, we might be able to work out the range."

"If they didn't just pull that number out of a hat," Brander says.

"It still makes no sense," Nakata insists. "Why cut off our communications? That is guaranteed to make us suspicious."

"They took Judy," Lubin says.

Clarke takes a deep breath. "One thing's true, anyway."

The others turn.

"They want to keep us here," she finishes.

Brander smacks fist into palm. "And that's the best single reason for getting the fuck out, you ask me. Soon as we can."

"I agree," Lubin says.

Brander stares at him.

"I'll find him," she says. "I'll do my best, anyway."

Brander shakes his head. "I should stay. We should all stay. The chances of finding him—"

"The chances of finding him are best if I go out alone," Clarke reminds him. "He still comes out, sometimes, when I'm there. You wouldn't even get close."

He knows that, of course. He's just making token protests; if he can't get absolution from Fischer, at least he can try and look like a saint to everyone else.

Still , Clarke remembers, it's not entirely his fault. He's got baggage like the rest of us.

Even if he did mean harm…

"Well, the others are waiting. I guess we're off."

Clarke nods.

"You coming outside?"

She shakes her head. "I'll do a sonar sweep first. You never know, I might get lucky."

"Well, don't take too long. Only eight hours to go."

"I know."

"And if you can't find him after an hour—"

"I know. I'll be right behind you."

"We'll be—"

"Out to the dead whale, then steady bearing eighty-five degrees," she says. "I know."

"Look, you sure about this? We can wait in here for you. One hour's probably not going to make much difference."

She shakes her head. "I'm sure."

"Okay." He stands there, looking uncomfortable. One hand starts to rise, wavers, falls back.

He climbs down the ladder.

"Mike," she calls down after him.

He looks up.

"Do you really think they're going to blow that thing up?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. Maybe not. But you're right: they want us here for some reason. Whatever it is, I bet we wouldn't like it."

Clarke considers that.

"See you soon," Brander says, stepping into the 'lock.

"'Bye," she whispers.

When the lights go out in Beebe Station, you can't hear much of anything these days.

Lenie Clarke sits in the darkness, listening. When was the last time these walls complained about the pressure? She can't remember. When she first came down here the station groaned incessantly, filled every waking moment with creaking reminders of the weight on its shoulders. But sometime since then it must have made peace with the ocean; the water pushing down and the armor pushing back have finally settled to equilibrium.

Of course, there are other kinds of pressure on the Juan de Fuca Rift.

She almost revels in the silence now. No clanging footfalls disturb her, no sudden outbursts of random violence. The only pulse she hears is her own. The only breath comes from the air conditioners.

She flexes her fingers, lets them dig into the fabric of the chair. She can see into the communications cubby from her position in the lounge. Occasional telltales flicker through the hatchway, the only available light. For Clarke, it's enough; her eyecaps grab those meager photons and show her a room in twilight. She hasn't gone into Comm since the rest of them left. She didn't watch their icons crawl off the edge of the screen, and she hasn't swept the rift for signs of Gerry Fischer.