Free Behemoth by Peter Watts Page A

autopilot.”
    She turns her head to look at him. Eyes dark enough to be called black look back at her. Clarke catches her breath; she keeps forgetting what naked really means, down here. What is it the drybacks say? The eyes are the windows to the soul . But the windows into rifter souls are supposed to have frosted panes. Uncapped eyes are for corpses: this doesn’t look right, it doesn’t feel right. It looks as though Lubin’s eyes have been pulled right out of his head, as though Clarke is looking into the wet sticky darkness inside his skull.
    He rises on the table, oblivious to his own gory blindness, and swings his legs over the edge. His teleop withdraws to the ceiling with a few disapproving clicks.
    A comm panel decorates the bulkhead within easy reach. He taps it. “Ambient channel. Grace. How are you coming with those ’skins?”
    Nolan answers in her outdoor voice: “We’re ten meters off your shoulder. And yes, we remembered to bring extra eyecaps.” A soft buzz—acoustic modems are bad for background noise sometimes. “If it’s okay with you, though, we’ll just leave ’em in the ’lock and be on our way.”
    â€œSure.” Lubin’s face is expressionless. “No problem.”
    Clanks and hisses from down on the wet deck.
    â€œThere you go, sweetie,” Nolan buzzes.
    Lubin drills Clarke with those eviscerated eyes. “You coming?”
    Clarke blinks. “Any place in particular?”
    â€œAtlantis.”
    â€œMy leg—” but her teleop is folding up against the ceiling as she speaks, its slicing and dicing evidently completed.
    She struggles to prop her upper body up on its elbows; she’s still dead meat below the gut, although the hole in her thigh has been neatly glued shut. “I’m still frozen. Shouldn’t the field—”
    â€œPerhaps they were hoping we wouldn’t notice.” Lubin takes a handpad off the wall. “Ready?”
    She nods. He taps a control. Feeling floods her legs like a tidal bore. Her repaired thigh awakens, a sudden tingling swarm of pins and needles. She tries to move it. She succeeds, with difficulty.
    She sits up, grimacing.
    â€œWhat’re you doing out there?” the intercom demands. After a moment, Clarke recognizes the voice: Klein. Shutting down the field seems to have caught his attention.
    Lubin disappears into the wet room. Clarke kneads her thigh. The pins and needles persist.
    â€œLenie?” Klein says. “What—”
    â€œI’m fixed.”
    â€œNo you’re not.”
    â€œThe teleop—”
    â€œYou have to stay off that leg for at least six more hours. Preferably twelve.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll take it under advisement.” She swings her legs over the edge of the table, puts some weight on the good one, gradually shifts weight to the other. It buckles. She grabs the table in time to keep from keeling over.
    Lubin steps back into view, a carrysack slung over his shoulder. “You okay?” His eyes are capped again, white as fresh ice.
    Clarke nods, strangely relieved. “Hand me that diveskin.”
    Klein heard that. “Wait a second—you two have not been cleared for—I mean—”
    The eyes go in first. The tunic slithers eagerly around her torso. Sleeves and gauntlets cling like welcome shadows. She leans against Lubin for support while she dons the leggings—the tingling in her thigh is beginning to subside, and when she tries out the leg again it takes her weight for a good ten seconds before giving out. Progress.
    â€œLenie. Ken. Where are you going?”
    Seger’s voice, this time. Klein’s called for reinforcements.
    â€œWe thought we’d come for a visit,” Lubin says.
    â€œAre you sure you’ve thought that through?” Seger says calmly. “With all due respect—”
    â€œIs there some reason we shouldn’t?” Lubin