Free ReVISIONS by Julie E. Czerneda Page B

is still working, not that there’s anyone at the receiving end of it.
    â€œNo subs reported to be in your waters.” Another voice from Topside, a cool, competent female voice. Thanks, babe. If there had been anyone prowling our zone, we would have known about it before Topside. Useless, they were all useless up there.
    That second klaxon was the one indicating hull breach. Worst case scenario. Hope kills. But hope is all we’ve got right now.
    By the time console five chimes in, I’m at the master board, checking the displays in real time. Not that I don’t trust what my people have to say, but they might have missed something, might have overlooked or misread.
    â€œReports coming in from other research stations.” That female voice again. “Chatter’s jumped, everyone wants to know what’s happened.” She reels off names; scientific outposts and military installations halfway around the world have felt it. The only thing that travels faster than gossip is gossip underwater. The ocean’s a superconductor of disaster.
    I can almost feel my brain split into two halves: listening to the clamor from Houston coming into the wire in my ear, sorting out what’s needful and important and discarding the panic—panic filter turned way up high—the other half moving my hands, coaxing instrumentation in a desperate, already—damn it—hopeless effort to raise someone, some way.
    â€œSite Fourteen. Site Fourteen, this is Gateway Control. Site Fourteen, respond. Gary, talk to me.” My jumpsuit sticks to my back when I reach across the board, sweat thickening and stiffening the fabric. The two halves of my brain chatter at each other, trading information, making connections. So damn cold in here, shivers consuming my skin. No time for that now. Don’t waste brain on it. “Fuck. Michaels, what’s your ETA?”
    â€œThree minutes.” The voice from the minisub is hollow, fluted, metallic.
    â€œToo much time.” An impatient voice from Topside: worried, older, male. Not Frants.
    â€œI know that,” I snap. “Let me do my damned job, will you?” Just cut off a general, probably. Screw it. I’ll suck up to him later.
    â€œCome on, people, give me something.” Please. Please, God.
    â€œSir . . . site pressure’s dropping, fast. Down to—Sir. We’ve lost all readings, sir.”
    â€œLife-support backup has failed.” The red display on the left corner of my screen has already told me that.
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    â€œThat’s it, then.” Topside, graveled voice of authority dropping and leaving silence in its wake.
    â€œNo!” Voices rise around me in protest against that silence. We still believe. We still have to believe. Those are our people down there. Our responsibility.
    â€œGateway this is Mariner Three. I’m almost on site. Too much silt down here, can’t see for a damn. . . . Oh hell!”
    â€œMichaels?” His voice had been panicked, beyond fright into an awareness of something dire and unavoidable. And then an awful, quiet whoosh in my headset, followed by wet crackling static.
    â€œMichaels!”
    Something inside me breaks; very quiet, very gentle. I don’t have time for this, not now.
    I hold hope in my lungs for half a second, then: “Allen, send out a warning along the trajectory of the blast. Code it for widest vector—every language of the nations known to be seaworthy. Declare this area off-limits until further notice. All subs, back to dock. I repeat, all subs back to dock. Mission Control, we hereby request an AUSS system be dispatched.” Advanced Unmanned Search System—the janitor of the seas, sent in to clean up where humans no longer go.
    I feel the dull-edged stares in my back, and fight the urge to defend myself against them. Hope kills. Whatever’s going on down there—we have no idea what’s happened. It might have been a freak