Free ReVISIONS by Julie E. Czerneda

over a long list of dignitaries and political foofahs to be the first down the Tube when NEREUS Station went live.
    Who says brown-nosing and sucking up never worked?
    â€œOf course, all this presupposes our go-live date doesn’t get pushed aside in favor of our brethren in the Armed Services getting some.” Gary’s voice is grim suddenly. “Tension’s climbing again.”
    Way to ruin my mood, pal. “Saw that.” Before he can make a crack I add, “Yes, I do catch the news on occasion. Personally, I think we should just go in there and shoot anyone holding a weapon, no matter what side they’re on.”
    I can visualize Gary shaking his head, gray eyes rolling up in mock exasperation. “There’s a reason they kept you in the civilian services.”
    â€œDamn straight.” The ocean has her boundaries, but they’re gentler ones of current and tide. And you rarely get shot for holding the wrong opinion on the wrong side. Unless that wrong opinion has to do with pressure per square inch.
    â€œKim says they almost didn’t let her people come down, that they’re talking about yanking everyone off the floor. For security reasons, they say.” His voice reveals what he thinks of that. A sound in the background, higher-pitched waaa-waaaaaa, is probably Kim adding her own comments.
    â€œSo long as they’re talking, we’re working.”
    â€œFrom your mouth to the president’s ears,” Gary says. “Leave us alone and we’ll get them their damned food sources.” One of the few projects they have going down there that Gary can talk about is sea-harvest: finding a way to use the geothermal vents to force-grow protein. What else they’re doing around the vents, I don’t ask. We may not be—officially—a military organization, but the government’s got its fingers in every pie, and I sleep better at night having lower clearances.
    â€œAnyway, just wanted to make the news official, before you heard it through the gossip train. Congratulations again. We’ll start warming up the welcome band now.”
    â€œYou do that. Gateway out.”
    I save the file I had been working on before his call interrupted and push the chair back as far as it will go, just enough room for me to put my feet up on the desktop and stretch my arms behind my head; the timeless pose of a soul in contemplative relaxation. But my brain’s going a mile a minute in a completely different direction than before. This kind of acknowledgment might mean I’m in line for a new assignment, something with higher visibility, better retirement levels. Problem is, most of those jobs are Topside, pushing papers and talking to the Press. Christ. I’m a Mariner, I’ll dry out and die if they ground me.
    On the other hand, it might also be a sop—sorry we can’t do more, but here’s your moment of fame and glory.
    There are pluses and minuses to both, and it’s going to take some weighing to figure out which option I’m hoping for. Still—
    â€œZweeeeet!”
    I’m out of my chair and on my feet before my mind recognizes what’s wrong.
    â€œZweeeet!” A klaxon bleating in the air, and amber lights flashing along the wall. The floor shakes once underfoot, and the desiccated giant red mysid perched on the top of my monitor falls to the carpet and breaks in two.
    A decade’s worth of drills takes over, and my heartbeat settles into something that’s only panic-level. A lifetime of swearwords fight to get out of my throat.
    â€œAll hands, all hands. This is not a drill. This is not a drill.”
    A failure at Gateway would be intense red lights and a ringing of bells. This is a Site failure . Please, God, let it be something small, let it be something repairable. . . .
    â€œKrrrreeeeee! Kreeeeeeeee!”
    A second alarm, this one harsher, starts in counterpoint to the first. A particularly