Brian Evenson - Dead Space - Martyr

He switched on his vid feed so the man could see him.

“Harmon,” he said. “It’s Altman. You’re alive?”

“I thought I was the last one,” said Harmon. “It’s great to see you.”

“Where are you?”

Harmon looked around distractedly, as if for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. “I’m in the Marker chamber,” he said. “I thought I was trapped, but for whatever reason, those things won’t come near the Marker. I’m glad I’m not the only one left alive.”

“I’ll come get you,” said Altman.

“That’s not possible,” said Harmon. “Before you even go a few steps, they’ll tear you to bits.”

“Can you do me a favor?” asked Altman. “Is there a way you can open the submarine bay doors from there? Do you have authorization?”

“Sure,” said Harmon. “Why?”

“Open them and leave them open,” Altman said. “That’s how I’ll get to you. Oh, and one other thing.”

“Name it,” said Harmon.

“Gather everything you can from the system about the Marker. Signal, composition, dimensions, makeup, anything at all.”

“All right,” said Harmon. “It’ll give me something to do.”

“I may have figured out what the Marker wants,” said Altman. “I’ll know when I get there. If I get there.”

Harmon started to say something, but Altman had already switched off. He made his way out of the lab and back in the direction from which he’d come. He searched through lockers and cabinets, looking for either oxygen or a wet suit, but found nothing. He’d just have to risk it. He looked at the chain saw. It was hardly the ideal weapon; when the chain had caught, it almost got him killed. In any case, he couldn’t take it. The water would ruin it. The plasma cutter, though, was another matter. It would probably work even after having been through the water.

He found two fifteen-meter coils of rope and hooked them over his shoulder. Then he started climbing the ladder again, back to the hatch.

He climbed down the dome to the boat platform, bucking now with the swells. The submarine bay was below and a little to the left. He went to the far edge of the platform and looked down for it.

There, there it was. He could just make out the glow coming out through the open bottom of the hangar.

He tied the two coils of rope together, tugging on either side of the knot until he was satisfied, and then carefully measured its length. He tied the plasma cutter’s strap onto one end of the rope, double-knotting it just to be safe. The other end, he hitched fast around a mooring.

Carefully, he lowered the plasma cutter and the rope into the water until they were gone, little more to see than the first few meters of rope. He stripped to the waist and carefully limbered up, thinking.

He’d have one chance, he knew. Once he’d gone a certain way down, he’d be committed. Either he’d make it into the submarine bay or he’d drown.

He breathed rapidly in and out and then dived, letting the air out through his nose as he went. He swam as quickly as he could straight down, following the rope. The pressure built quickly, his head feeling like it was being squeezed. It felt incredibly slow, like he was making no progress, like he was still just a few meters below the platform.

He kept swimming, trying to keep his strokes even and steady and his heart rate constant, trying not to panic. He could hear the blood beating in his ears now, a steady thudding growing slower and slower. Were his limbs slowing down, or did they just feel like they were?

He saw lights. He was close to the submarine bay. No, he thought, don’t look, stay focused, just keep swimming down.

He felt his lungs struggle, wanting to breathe in air that wasn’t there. He made a gurgling sound, had to force himself not to breathe in water. Things all around him seemed slower, much slower.

And then he saw it, floating near the end of the rope, the plasma cutter, like a shadow in the darkness. His heart leapt with exhilaration and things started going dark around the edges and he thought for a moment he was going to pass out.

But when he reached it and grabbed hold of it, he realized he’d never be able to struggle it into the bay with him. He didn’t have enough air left, didn’t have the strength. He’d have to leave it behind.

He let go. He looked to the side and there it was, just a few meters away: the open submarine bay. He left the rope and swam for it. He would never make it, he realized. He might make it into the submarine bay, but he didn’t have enough strength left to close the floor and then wait for the time it took to pump the water out. It was pointless.

But something in him kept him swimming anyway. He crossed through the opening and into the bay. He was just heading for the door lock when he caught a flash above him and suddenly had an idea. He shot up as quickly as he could, striking his head hard against the roof, almost knocking himself unconscious. But there, in the corner, was a thin layer of trapped air. He put his face up against the roof and took a gasping breath, water lapping against the sides of his mouth.

He hung there, floating, breathing in more, until he stopped wheezing, until his heart stopped pounding. It was okay. He was going to be okay.

When he felt calm, he dived back into the water and swam down. But instead of swimming to the floor controls, he swam through them and outside. For a moment he was lost, disoriented in the open ocean, and thought he’d gone in the wrong direction. And then he caught sight of the shadow of the rope, realized he was looking too high. He looked down a little and there it was.

He swam to the plasma cutter and grabbed it, immediately striking back for the submarine bay, dragging the rope along with him. With the rope, it was too heavy, the progress very slow. For a moment he considered abandoning the cutter, and then an idea struck him. He turned and switched the cutter on and cut through the rope with it.

The cutter was heavy, making it so he could use only one arm to swim. It threatened to drag him down. He made it to just beneath the bay floor and then swam desperately up, kicking hard with his legs, a little panicked. By the time he got his fingers around the edge and pulled himself in, he was nearly as exhausted as he’d been from the initial swim down. He thrust it into a corner and then swam quickly for the controls for the floor.

He pressed the button and held it down. The emergency lights in the room began to flash. Slowly, he saw, the floor was sliding out of its channel and coming across, coming closed. He swam up for the pocket of air and for a moment couldn’t find it. Where was it? He swam back along the ceiling and found a pocket about the size of his fist, just enough to get his face into. He sucked it in, then breathed quickly out, the pocket growing larger. Below him, he heard the water-dulled clang of the submarine bay floor closing and then the gentle throb of the pumps.

The water level began to drop and he got his head completely out, took a deep gasping breath, and immediately blacked out.

Michael, the voice said. Michael. Wake up.

He opened his eyes. It was his father. I asked you to get up, his father said. How many times do I have to ask?

In a minute, Dad, he said. His voice sounded strange, hollow, as if coming from a distance.

I said now, said his father. Get up or I’ll drag you out of bed myself.

He didn’t move. His dad shook him. He moaned, shook his head. Dad—

Get up! His father was screaming now, so close to his face that he could smell the liquor on his breath. Get up!