Nick Cutter - The Deep

Next: a voice, close to the microphone.

“Test one. Wednesday, the thirteenth of August, 5:13 p.m.”

Westlake’s voice. Keening, slightly nasal. The voice of a dead man.

“I noticed it just last night. Last night? I think so, yes, yes —time has a way of slipping through one’s fingers down here. In the wall… eating through it, you might say. Behind a box of equipment. This was why I missed it at first.”

The buzz settled. Westlake breathed heavily into the microphone.

“A… hole. This is the best means of description, though that does not adequately describe the phenomenon. A hole, after all, is a… an emptiness , yes? This, on the other hand… the phenomenon is roughly two inches in diameter. I’d measure to get its exact size but it may be unwise to draw too near. It exudes a certain disturbance. ”

A hole? Luke thought. In the station? Couldn’t be. Insanity.

“Its surface is black, shimmery. I cannot discern whether it is simply lying atop the wall, or whether an exterior influence—something outside the station, in the water—has managed to eat its way through. Either way, it appears to be growing incrementally. Amazingly, it has not breached the structural integrity of the Trieste . I wouldn’t be here to transcribe this if so.”

Ambient noises: clickings, snappings.

“The bees do not seem troubled by it. In fact, they display great interest. They cluster at the edge of their containment unit facing the phenomenon, occasionally bashing their bodies against the glass. The other specimens, my lizards, display the opposite reaction: they huddle as far away from it as possible.

“I covered it with several long strips of duct tape. I have not alerted Drs. Nelson or Toy. They are occupied with their own labors and… this will sound foolish, and doubtlessly unprofessional, but I don’t want them interfering. Clayton most especially—if he knew about this, he would swing his hammer of divine authority.” Westlake’s voice changed. It became flinty, obsessive. “This? This is… mine . My discovery.”

A gulf of silence punctuated by Westlake’s breathing. Then:

“Hah, listen to me! A covetous schoolboy hoarding my packet of candy! Good God, if the ethics committee could see me now! I imagine they would…”

Westlake’s voice trailed off. His breathing grew heavier.

“Can you hear that? Is the microphone picking it up?”

Luke strained his ears. Nothing but that buzz and Westlake’s ragged breaths.

“Sounds emanating from the phenomenon. I hear them… feel them. There’s a prickling sensation over my skin. How very bizarre.”

Silence.

“Can you hear them? Can you?”

Click .

The file ended abruptly.

Dreamily, his blood racing, Luke opened the next one.

“ Test two.”

The buzz again. Quite a bit louder now.

“The hole has doubled in size. Ceaselessly, the phenomenon chews into the wall. The bees—surely you can hear them?—they are compelled by it. I let one out yesterday and it flew straight toward the hole. But it banked sharply away and settled on the wall a foot above. It made a few creeping attempts to approach the phenomenon, its antennae flicking, but never drummed up the gumption. When it settled back on the lab equipment, I cupped it in my palms in order to return it to its hive-mates.

“The little brute stung me! These are the most docile creatures I’ve ever dealt with. They were so tame I could almost sing them to sleep. Never once have I been stung without cause. I… I killed it. Ground it to paste between my palms. I was in a rare rage.”

The buzz rose and fell rhythmically.

“The other specimens have expired. Every lizard, dead. They made it down here without issue, adjusting well to their new habitat. Then yesterday I awoke—I’ve been sleeping in the lab the last few nights—to discover them all unmoving. Their bodies stiff, strangely white. It was as if they’d been injected with liquefied chalk. I’ve never seen anything like this. I wondered for a moment: could they have died of fright? Surely they cannot feel emotions. The bees, however, are thriving. Their numbers seem to be increasing.”

Luke could hear Westlake fumbling around. A sharp click! Suddenly his voice was amplified, the sound of it much richer.

“I’ve hooked up a microphone. Hello? Hello? Good. It runs on a long cord. I’ll attempt to feed the mic into —through —the hole. This sounds absurd. How could I push a microphone through a hole eaten into the wall of an undersea station? Were I even able to do so, where would it go? That I am unable to answer as yet .”

A series of staticky raps. The mic scratching against the weave of Westlake’s clothes, Luke figured.

“I’ve hooked the microphone to a metal rod. I’ll feed it through the hole from a safe distance. In all objectivity, the hole… alarms me. It exerts a pull. Not on one’s body so much as the mind. I can only compare it to the sensation of some kind of, of claw I suppose, sunk into the tissues of the brain .”

More noises as the microphone, clipped to the metal rod, bumped along the laboratory floor.

“Careful now… careful.”

A series of harsh baps! as the mic bumped up the wall. Luke could discern the exact moment it slipped through the hole: the resonance became watery, as if the mic had slid into a deep pool. But Westlake’s voice remained clear.

“It’s in! I’ve run a secondary audio channel to record my own commentary. Both my voice and whatever the microphone picks up should be clear .”

For a very long while, nothing. Only the liquid shifting as the microphone drifted in whatever lay beyond the hole.

Then: a powerful knock. Distant, yet resonant.

“Hello?”

Westlake made a noise of his own: a chiding tsk , as if sickened at himself for thinking someone— something —might answer him.

The noise came again. That faraway knock. And again. An even, careful cadence. There was something knowing in it. Luke couldn’t say why he felt that, yet he did.

He broke out in a sweat. The clammy kind he associated with onrushing sickness—the maiden signs of the flu.

The knock. Watery but insistent. Again. Again.

“Is someone there?”

Knock.

“ Who is it?”

Luke almost laughed at the inanity of Westlake’s question—but the fearful quail of the man’s voice stilled that impulse.

The silence ran thick as a current. Then: knock .

“All right. Let’s try this. When I ask a question now, you may answer by knocking. One knock for yes, two knocks for no. Will that be acceptable?”

Knock.

“You understand?”

Knock .

“Well. Good. Very good.”

The excitement in Westlake’s voice was palpable.

“Are you extraterrestrial?”

Knock… knock .

“So you are of this planet?”

Knock… knock .

“Are you friendly?”

No reply.

“Do you know what that means? Friendly?”

Knock.

“How many of you are there? Knock once for only one. Knock twice for more than one.”

Knock… knock.

“ Do you come in peace? ”

No reply.

“Do you come to share information with us? To help?”

Knock .

“Do you know what is happening to us? Of the disease we’ve come down in search of a cure for?”