Free The Diving Bundle: Six Diving Universe Novellas by Kristine Kathryn Rusch Page B

distorted, but I do remember being unable to understand the emotion behind it. Was that from the distortion? Or my lack of attention?
    Jypé has forgotten to use his cameras. He’s moved so close to the objects in the pile that all we can see now are rounded corners and broken metal (apparently these did break off then) and sharp, sharp edges.
    Move your arm.
    But I see no corresponding movement. The visuals remain the same, just like they did when I was watching from the skip.
    Just a little to the left .
    And then:
    We’re five minutes past departure .
    That was panic. I had missed it the first time, but the panic began right there. Right at that moment.
    Karl covers his mouth.
    On screen, Jypé turns slightly. His hands grasp boots and I’m assuming he’s tugging.
    Great. But I see nothing to feel great about. Nothing has moved. Keep going .
    Going where? Nothing is changing. Jypé can see that, can’t he?
    The hands seem to tighten their grip on the boots, or maybe I’m imagining that because that’s what my hands would do.
    We got it.
    Is that a slight movement? I step away from the wall, move closer to the vid, as if I can actually help.
    Now careful.
    This is almost worse because I know what’s coming, I know Junior doesn’t get out, Jypé doesn’t survive. I know—
    Careful—son of a bitch!
    The hands slid off the boot, only to grasp back on. And there’s desperation in that movement, and lack of caution, no checking for edges nearby, no standard rescue procedures.
    Move, move, move—ah, hell.
    This time, the hands stay. And tug—clearly tug—sliding off.
    C’mon.
    Sliding again.
    C’mon son,
    And again.
    just one more,
    And again.
    c’mon, help me, c’mon .
    Until, finally, in despair, the hands fall off. The feet are motionless, and, to my untrained eye, appear to be in the same position they were in before.
    Now Jypé’s breathing dominates the sound—which I don’t remember at all—maybe that kind of hiss doesn’t make it through our patchwork system—and then vid whirls. He’s reaching, grabbing, trying to pull things off the pile, and there’s no pulling, everything goes back like it’s magnetized.
    He staggers backwards—all except his hand, which seems attached—sharp edges? No, his suit wasn’t compromised—and then, at the last moment, eases away.
    Away, backing away, the visuals are still of those boots sticking out of that pile, and I squint, and I wonder—am I seeing other boots? Ones that are less familiar?—and finally he’s bumping against walls, losing track of himself.
    He turns, moves away, coming for help even though he has to know I won’t help (although I did) and panicked—so clearly panicked. He gets to the end of the corridor, and I wave my hand.
    “Turn it off.” I know how this plays out. I don’t need any more.
    None of us do. Besides, I’m the only one watching. Turtle still has her face in her hands, and Karl’s eyes are squinched shut, as if he can keep out the horrible experience just by blocking the images.
    I grab the controls and shut the damn thing off myself.
    Then I slide onto the floor and bow my head. Squishy was right, dammit. She was so right. This ship has stealth tech. It’s the only thing still working, that one faint energy signature that attracted me in the first place, and it has killed Junior.
    And Jypé.
    And if I’d gone in, it would’ve killed me.
    No wonder she left. No wonder she ran. This is some kind of flashback for her, something she feels we can never ever win.
    And I’m beginning to think she’s right, when a thought flits across my brain.
    I frown, flick the screen back on, and search for Jypé’s map. He had the system on automatic, so the map goes clear to the cockpit.
    I superimpose that map on the exterior, accounting for movement, accounting for change—
    And there it is, clear as anything.
    The probe, our stuck probe, is pressing against whatever’s near Junior’s faceplate.
    I’m worried about