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Site content may offend. Content includes horror, murder, torture, lawlessness, military carnage, Anglo Saxon crudities, occasional adult incidents and George Bush |
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| No. It was not falling. It had merely settled a little. But the settling of the ship had opened a new wound in the hull, and bubbles were bursting outwards from an opened seam a fathom uphill from the entrance wound which Heineman was facing. Even has he watched, the swarms of bubbles dwindled to nothing. That breached air pocket has filled. Anyone inside is breathing water. And normative humans can't do that. You cannot wait. If you wait, the dying will die. Maybe there's nobody left alive. But you have to do an audit. This is not a write-off. A single life is a hundred per cent profit. Got that? One hundred per cent tax-free profit. So go for it. Heineman swam forward, entering via the ship's impact wound, swimming through the gash into the orange arena of the hard, remorseless emergency lighting of the interior. The orange light gleamed on ceramic tiles. Floors of tiles. Walls of tiles. Even when dying, this ship was a hard, polished, gleaming place, a testimony to high-technology hygiene. The very ceiling glittered, clean and orange and aseptic. Heineman floated, watching, listening, orientating himself to the new environment. The ship was noisy. Somewhere, there was the rhythmic hammering of air punching water. Somewhere, a sea-boom slap of water testing and retesting a cavity. And there was a pumping gurgling of air bleeding, an amplified aquarium sound suggesting the scurry of a billion bubbles, a high-pitched whine like that of a bearing overheating, and a jibbering arrhythmical thumping from a machine which had torn loose from its task and was destroying itself somewhere in the surrounding mechanical maze. The alien, unorchestrated noises emphasised to Heineman that he was in a strange place. This was a ship from the west, from Barth Banchup Bakchakris, ruling city of the Chasms of Hell. This ship was the product of an advanced high-technology society which had precious little in common with his own. Wrecks were always dangerous, but this one particularly so, because it was a fresh wreck, a wreck still in the process of dying, a wreck where machines and processes were still at work, a wreck which might roll or settle or burst or sunder, a wreck which he had every reason to fear. Then, as if Heineman's entry into the ship had been a signal for failure, a cue for disaster, the orange lights fluctuated, then abruptly faded down to something close to darkness. There was just sufficient light to see by. Heineman glanced at the blue-green gel-light on his wrist. It would be enough to get him out alive if all other lights failed. He had no excuse to stop. Heineman swam through the wrecked hullside chamber, gained a corridor. The corridor curved away to where something gleamed a dull red, like a huge squid's eye, waiting for him. But squid didn't have red eyes. Did they? The orange ship lights strengthened without warning, making the faint red disappear. Eye? What eye? Just your imagination. Heineman had to believe that, otherwise he could not go on. He glanced back. Looking back through the hullside chamber, he could see the night sea, misty with spilt light. Nobody else was visible. Nobody would know if he merely skulked by the opening, then ascended, claiming his search completed. He could run, then. He could turn tail and run, swimming away from all this, daring no further, venturing no risk of boiling water, chancing no encounters with red-eyed monsters. No. He could not, would not go back. Not empty-handed. Conscious of the members of his Family waiting on the prau above, conscious of the expectations of his sister Atlanta, his cousin Dug Mantis, his grandfather Zinjanthrop, Heineman began to swim along the curving corridor, looking for a companionway, a set of stairs leading upwards. Upwards. You have to go upwards. Search the third level. And that's it? No. Then, above that -- Business, Heineman. The present moment demands your attention. Does it have it? Good. Thank you. Now. Stairs. Or - let's be nautical here, for this is a ship, after all - companionways. He knew there were such stairs, he had seen them in little boy Loki's model skyship, the model was true to life, or so he hoped. Heineman paused, realized he was floating by a red light - one of the cold everburn lights which marked the locations of fire extinguishers in high-technology installations. He had seen such lights in La Lantis, the cool and orderly research facility on the shore. He should have known it for what it was. How could he have thought it an eye? He had almost allowed himself to be panicked by a fire-extinguisher light! But remember. This is not La Lantis. This is a wreck. Don't let the familiar fool you. This place is not secure. Wrecks are unpredictable ... so be careful. Up ahead, a gel-torch. A fellow diver? The light moved slightly. Waving? No. Closing with the diver, Heineman found the man was dead. The corpse was being gently rocked by a faint flux of water within the hull of the wrecked skyship. Who? The ship's internal orange lighting strengthened as Heineman rolled the body. The strengthening light seemed to make the water colder. Heineman looked at the dead man's face, fearfully afraid that it would be someone he knew. But it was nobody. A stranger. Another diver must have tagged this lifeless corpse with the gel-torch to mark it for later recovery. Well - why not recover it now? Here was his excuse! He could take this corpse and go. But Dug would ask him about the living. Heineman touched the dead man with his hand, touched the fine skeins of hair which floated free in the water. Then he started to swim past the blundering obstacle. The corpse rolled to embrace him as he passed. His hand brushed its face. He pushed it away, feeling the hardness of teeth against his fingers. Then he had got past the thing. Somewhere, a loud bang. The thumping impact, communicated through the water, made Heineman's head hurt. The ship's lights pulsed with a spasm of blackness, then settled to a dull mango glimmering. Momentarily, Heineman was disoriented. Which way was up? His mouth was foul with the taste of stress, of fear. He sucked in seawater, but that tasted worse. Its chemical taste reminded him of burnt plastic. And this foul water was what was being cycled through his own flesh, going straight into his own water-lung! Heineman spat out the seawater, then floated. Be cool. Be calm. Deliberately, he made himself look back at the free-floating corpse. It reminded him of something. Dead kittens seen in childhood - something like that. He was getting cold. Just your imagination? No. The adaptive skin helped keep him warm, since its cladding kept on warmth. And chemicals from the creature's blood had entered his own, prompting an increase in his metabolic rate. But, even so, Heineman was losing heat to the sea, since his water-lung was processing a continual stream of cold sea water. As he gilled water, heat fled his flesh for the ocean. He was being cooled dangerously by the very process which let him breathe beneath water. - So don't hang around. Get a move on. Heineman swam on along the orange-flooded corridor. Mosaic by mosaic, the ceramic tiles slipped away beneath him. Tesselated squares, triangles, rhomboids. Hard and polished. Geometry. Trigonometry. He had never liked that. Arithmetic had always been his preference, even as a child. He liked arithmetic, abominated geometry. He particularly hated circles. He was disturbed by the nature of pi, 3.14 whatever it was, the ratio of something to the circumference. - Attend to the wreck! This is reality! And it will kill you if you skimp your attention. This is no place for daydreaming. Focus. Heineman hung in the water, trying to center himself, to concentrate on the reality in which he was immersed. Up ahead, a green light. Again, he was reminded of La Lantis. In the public library at La Lantis, every exit was marked with a green light, as was every emergency stairwell. He suspected this light would mark a companionway. And he was right. Gaining the companionway, Heineman swam upward to the second level of the Zuzu Magore, which was much like the lowest level. No need to search this - Dug had said the first two levels had already been searched. The third donut, that's what you want. A linking companionway went straight up to that third level. Heineman took it. Once in the third level, Heineman began to search individual rooms. In the silence of the very first chamber, he found something floating in the center of the room, a pinkness rimmed with white. He realized it was a set of false teeth. He left them there, floating in the fluctuating light. He felt as if he had been in the wreck a long time, so long that he half-imagined that his very skin was turning orange in the orange emergency lighting. Periodically, the internal illumination swooned altogether before recovering to a state of convalescent mango, each swooning plunge precipitating a darkness which would have been utterly utter, but for Heineman's gel-torch. Search as fast as you can, then, before the light goes altogether. In some rooms, air pockets. Dank with the sea-slop, foul with the smell of alien chemicals. Rising to one such air pocket, Heineman found his own reflection staring back at him from a mirror. A grotesque sight it made. Wearing the adaptive skin, he looked like a kind of two-legged black-skinned seal with the pale limbs of a corpse, and a head to match. The vetavetch, the specially tailored holes in the flanks of the adaptive skin, revealed the gaping fissures between his floating ribs, the membranous tongue-fleshed chasms which went down to his water-lung. Heineman shuddered, gave a quick look round, then dived. In the very next chamber, he found a set of free-floating false teeth. False teeth, floating in absolute silence. And he realized he had made a complete circuit of the ship's third, uppermost donut ring. That was it. Job done. Go back and report success. Right? No! You're forgetting something. On top of the three rings, on top of the stack of three quoits, there was half a tennis ball (the great observation deck) topped by a carbuncle (a bar for first-class passengers). Heineman wanted to deny his knowledge of those details. But the truth was that Heineman knew the layout of the ship better than he should. The time that should have been invested in preparing his compulsory three-monthly campaign finance report had been wasted, instead, on playing with little boy Loki's true-to-life model of the skyship. The result? Heineman could not honestly pretend ignorance. Reluctantly, Heineman found a companionway and swam slowly upwards into the observation deck, a single dome with a spiraling central staircase which led up to the bar. Ascending, he left the world of failing mango behind him and entered a world of darkest emerald. The great dome of the observation deck was flooded, a vast volume of contained water, a huge aquarium with a floor of glowing green. In the glassy curvature of the walls, a crack. The sea had breached the dome and had flooded it utterly, leaving not a single air pocket. Corpses ... one, two ... three ... more ... floated loose-limbed ... no timetables in death, no bank balance ... no stress ... Slowly, meditatively, Heineman kicked with his feet, starting a leisurely drifting journey upwards. He was ascending toward the bar for first-class passengers at the top of the spiraling central staircase - toward the carbuncle on top of the observation dome. - The last thing. Realizing that his task was almost over, Heineman felt stronger. Once he had checked out the carbuncle, the ultimate eyrie, the whole ship would be clear. He could claim one of the corpses as proof of courage, proof of effort, and start making his way out of here. At the top of the central stairway, a heavy fire door. Heineman manhandled it open, exposing a portal into a realm of unknown darkness. Cautiously, he swam inside. The gel-torch was little help - he had to feel ahead for wires, ropes, obstacles. Heineman broke through the surface. There was an air pocket here, but hosing sprays of water told him that the sea was forcing its way in via cracks in the hull. Before very much longer, this space, too, would be one with the ocean. Heineman breathed the darkness. Tasted it. The air was dank, dirty, thick, hot, hard to process. He pulled himself out of the water, felt broken glass grate beneath the toughness of his reef boots, heard a wine glass shatter. Did something move in the recesses of absolute shadow? It was hard to be sure. The place was noisy, alive with splattering water, testament to the relentless ingress of the sea. "Get away from us!" The fearful voice from the dark so startled Heineman that he almost panicked and fled. He extended his wrist, to maximize the effect of the gel-torch, the bubble of blue-green light which he was wearing strapped on like an wristwatch. He peered into the gloom. Three people. Three ... men? Yes, men. All scrabbling back as if trying to get out through the walls. One had armed himself with a broken bottle. Having so recently seen himself in a mirror, Heineman had an idea how he must look to them. Like some kind of sea-monster. Doubtless they were all strangers to Chalakanesia. Even if they had been briefed on what to expect in the islands, briefings had a way of fleeing one's head in a time of trauma. "Get away from us!" Heineman heard panic in the voice, heard fear. Keyed to that panic, the men started to ghost. Their internal panic, their lack of self-control, made them vulnerable to the destabilizing effects of the metapsychic faultline, which started producing ephemeral doppelgangers of the victims. A mob of half-substantial ghosts filled the air with thrashing blurs. But the ghosts were brief-lived, their generation the work of the panic of men close to utter exhaustion. Most perished before they had the chance to even question their own condition. As Heineman had spent his entire life living on top of the metapsychic faultline, he could often accurately judge a person's condition by the quality of their ghosting - and he knew that these strangers were close to physical failure. He had to do something, and quickly. In a moment of quick decision, Heineman ripped the adaptive skin away from his body, enduring the necessary lacerating pain as its blood supply separated from his in an action which left him with thousands of tiny blood-spotted wounds. Grief, how that hurt! The jets of water busily flooding the remaining airspace beat on Heineman's tenderized flesh like whips. Hold your ground. Show what you are made of. This is your audit, my man. We will find out who you are. You are blood and bone, yes. But is there a man's spirit inside that blood and bone? We will see. As the ghosts cleared, Heineman stood there, his naked body illuminated by the gel-torch. He felt calm, now. Resolved. There was pain, yes, but he decided to think about his pain ... later. When? At noon, tomorrow. That is a promise, pain. We will have a meeting, and you will be able to set your demands before me. You want to bring a lawyer? Sure, pain. That's fine by me. You bring your lawyer and I will bring mine. Having set up that appointment with his pain, Heineman concentrated on the present moment. The enormous, lubbery, waterlogged weight of the adaptive skin hung over his right hand, writhing slightly. He gave the adaptive skin a shake. "It's a kind of suit," said Heineman. "You wear it, you can breathe water." "But don't you also need a water-lung?" said one of the survivors, pointing at Heineman. Heineman realized the gaps between his floating ribs had not closed completely. Because he had just come out of the water, those gaps stood ajar, so his water-lung was ready for instant action should he submerge again. "Genetics," said Heineman, embarrassed, smoothing his skin beneath his fingers to make the gaps close. "Look - you need an airplane to fly, but a parachute is all you need to survive. This adaptive skin is a parachute - okay?" That was all the explanation he thought he had time for, but the attitude of the men indicated that it was not enough. Another brief-lived ghost popped forth from one, bleated piteously, then vanished. "Put this on," said Heineman, pointing at the nearest man. "No." So much for the strong commanding line! "We don't have time to talk," said Heineman. No, they didn't. The water level was relentlessly rising. But these people were not yet ready to do what Heineman wanted. To stay was to die. But - what if monster Heineman was going to eat them? Better to die in twenty minutes rather than die right now. Get help? No time for that. All right, then. Imagine these are your creditors, hungry for immediate payment, and you have to pacify them. Settle them down. Teach them trust. Persuade them to accept your promise that, yes, the company is sound, and the receivables due next month will more than amply cover the present shortfall in funds. Our only problem is a temporary cash-flow thing - okay? "Look," said Heineman, in his most reassuring voice, "I'm not some kind of monster from the deep, or anything. I'm not even a diver. My name's Heineman, Heineman Yakaskam ... well, Heineman Jubiladilia, actually. Heineman Yakaskam Jubiladilia. You probably won't have heard of me, but I'm a senator, a politician, you know, one of those people you like to throw tomatoes at." One of the men grunted. A sign of intelligent life! Obviously Heineman had struck a chord. The throwing of tomatoes at politicians was, then, as much a part of the traditions of Hell as it was of Chalakanesia. "This is a diving suit," said Heineman, hefting the adaptive skin. "Put it on, you can swim underwater. It'll get you out of here. And, hey - I'm not the world's greatest salesman, but let me put this proposition to you. What have you got to lose? If you stay here, you're dead. The water's rising. I mean, I don't want to eat you or anything. I just want to help you." Heineman had never before felt so calm, so patient, so strangely lucid. The dire desperation of the situation had completely annulled all his usual worries. When things were going well, Heineman worried inordinately about every small trifling thing which might go wrong. But this extreme situation had put things in perspective. He had adjusted his priorities, and, apart from worrying in case one of the men attacked him with a bottle, he felt perfectly at ease. One of the three men spoke: "Do you have any identity?" "Identity?" said Heineman. "You know. A Census Card. A flip-disk. A jump-start, even." To Heineman, this reaction seemed bizarre. In Chalakanesia, most people knew most other people, and problems of personal identity really didn't arise, except in the case of people who had been shunted. If you were shunted in a big way - displaced into the future by the action of the metapsychic faultline - then you could find yourself a stranger on your home island. But Heineman had never been shunted - that was his story, and he was sticking to it - and massively displaced people were few and far between. Essentially, Heineman lived in a world of recognised faces, so he had never bothered to study the systems of identification and verification so meticulously employed in Hell, where populations numbered in the hundreds of millions made issues of identity a key to social control. Obviously, the man was still badly frightened, and so less than completely logical. "Look," said Heineman, evading the issue of identity altogether, "how would you like to have a look at this thing? This diving suit, it's a biological construct, a kind of animal. Wearing this, you don't have to worry about the bends." "The bends?" said one man fearfully. "What's that?" Heineman realized he had made a bad mistake. In Chalakanesia, everyone knew about the bends. Those who were descended from the sealines, like Heineman, had no reason to fear any such danger, since their genetic modifications allowed them to dive as freely as seals. But normative humans like the Gan had no such immunity, and needed the protection of adaptive skins if they wanted to dive to depth. Could he explain it? No! Don't even try! This was no time for lectures on the anatomy and physiology of diving. "I do scuba, if that's any help," said a man all tattooed with flowers. "No, no," said Heineman, now truly fearful of getting bogged down in explanations. "You don't have to worry about insurance," he said, using that bit of nonsense to slide around the question about the bends. Then, cutting off further comments from the tattooed man, he addressed himself to the fearful one: "What's your name?" "Ralmond," said the fearful one. "Ralmond," said Heineman, repeating it, committing it to memory, as if busy on the presidential campaign trail. Then, using it to confirm it and retain it: "Ralmond, how would you like to introduce me to these people?" The others were Grindle-Joyce and Glynn, Grindle-Joyce being the one with all the tattoos. "Well, Ralmond," said Heineman, using the names for all they were worth, "Ralmond, Grindle-Joyce, Glynn, if you don't have to go anywhere in a hurry then I'd like to do some explaining." His jokes got no laughs, but the atmosphere was easier as Heineman launched himself into an explanation of the adaptive skin and its functions. As Heineman had often been told by his fellows in the senate, he was a supremely boring speaker, since he never made alogical intuitive jumps. His mind had been trained in the profession of accountancy, where everything must be proved out step by step, from order form to invoice to check to bank balance. This had given Heineman an unshakable confidence in the merits of step-by-step logic. In the face of Heineman's sheer matter-of-fact logic, his unassailable dullness, his complete lack of personal drama, the men grew calm. "I'll go," said Grindle-Joyce at last. "I've done scuba, it's not so bad for me." "Then help me talk Ralmond here into this diving suit of mine," said Heineman, gesturing at the lubbering tubular horror of his adaptive skin. "You stay here and keep the other guy calm." Helped by Grindle-Joyce, Heineman was able to talk Ralmond into the adaptive skin. Then Heineman got him into the water. In politics, Heineman was no genius, but he had learnt something about getting people to do what they don't want to do. First you show them that a little doesn't hurt. Then you take them deeper. With Grindle-Joyce assisting, Heineman got Ralmond into the water bit by bit, toe by shin then shin by kneecap, kneecap by thigh, and at last got him submerged. "Now try it again," said Heineman. "But breathe out before you go under. Empty your lungs." Ralmond complied. Then, skipping no step - do it once, and do it right! - Heineman brought Ralmond to the surface and told him to explain the sensation to his fellows. "It's like," said Ralmond, "it's like you were floating, and dreaming. It's painless." Heineman guessed that Ralmond was one of those who become intoxicated when their blood streams merge with that of an adaptive skin. Such things happen. There are also a few individuals who got allergic reactions to toxins in the blood of the adaptive skins, and died. Heineman didn't like to think about that, or what might happen if this man died. "Okay," said Heineman. "We're going to swim out of the ship now. I'll be back, or my sister will be back. It may take some time, but, believe me, my sister's worth waiting for." "But we don't have time," said Grindle-Joyce. That was when Heineman was forced to face the insoluble problem. The air pocket was flooding fast. By the time he got out of the ship with Ralmond, the others would be dead. They had lost too much time going over explanations. You killed them, Heineman. You killed them by talking too much. "Others are on the way," said Heineman, lying. "If you can't wait for my sister, try my brother." This got a chuckle. Heineman didn't see that it was funny - he had never found sex amusing - but Zinjanthrop had taught him the art of making dirty jokes, and in his political life Heineman routinely employed those jokes in accordance with his grandfather's protocols. "Let's go then," said Heineman. He wanted to hurry, now, because Ralmond was looking woozy, and Heineman guessed he was becoming so intoxicated that he might get seriously blood-drunk, or even pass out. He could do himself a lot of damage if he breathed water in the process. And because he wanted to be away from here. Away from the men he had killed with his incompetence. Cut your losses. That's basic accountancy, isn't it? Save something, even if you can't save everything. Go! Go! Go! So thinking, Heineman took Ralmond down into the water-depths of the ship. And, as they descended, he remembered. False teeth. Floating in silence. Silence! No incoming water! There was air down below. A stable air pocket, in the ship's third ring. You can bring the men down there in relays. As they worked their way down through the ship, Ralmond's actions became erratic, and Heineman guessed he was becoming seriously blood-drunk. But Ralmond had enough self-control left to keep his mouth shut, and so sucked no water into his lungs. Ralmond's life was sustained by the adaptive skin, which acted in effect as a set of gills and did his breathing for him. Heineman was sustained by his own water-lung, which gave him air sufficient for the business of guiding his charge through the depths, though not air sufficient for prolonged hard work underwater. Air, however, was not Heineman's chiefest problem. His problem was cold. The adaptive skin had helped keep him warm, and, with its loss, he was quickly getting chilled. The activity of his water-lung pumped a constant stream of cold seawater to his gut, and bled him of heat as effectively as if he had been harpooned with a javelin of ice. Was this the room? No. This one? No. Ralmond was starting to struggle sluggishly, realizing that something was wrong, that Heineman was lost on the ship's third level. Was this the ....? Yes! In here. Drag Ralmond in. Force him upwards. "What?" said Ralmond, shocked by the sudden, unexpected contact with air. "A way station," said Ralmond. And started to tear the adaptive skin from Ralmond's flesh. Ralmond struggled, and screamed. But Heineman prevailed. He got the adaptive skin off the man and left him screaming in the darkness. And went back for the others. After taking the second man to the safety of the air pocket, Heineman went back for the third, Grindle-Joyce. Grindle-Joyce he took all the way out. And his strength was still holding up when they got outside the ship, where he spotted the salvage rope thanks to its gel-torches. The gel-torches were at the end of their effective life, and were burning a sickly yellow. But the rope was guidance sufficient. - Up, then! Up, up they went to the surface, though it was something of a fight, for Grindle-Joyce had also become blood-drunk, so blood-drunk that he was no longer properly oriented to the surface, and started fighting his rescuer. When they broke surface, Heineman was shocked by the loudness of the night, the vigor of wave-slap and shouting, the sudden flurry of grabbing and hauling, the confusion of orders and activity. It was like waking from a slow-motion pressurized dream to the babble of a birthday party. "Heineman." It was Atlanta, again. She was wearing an adaptive skin, and reef boots, and her hands were sheathed with a pair of those metal-armor gloves which are so handy for working a reef, since they allow one to handle coral and sea urchins with impunity. Heineman wished he had a pair, and was almost going to ask for Atlanta's when she forestalled him. "Any more down there?" said Atlanta. "Yes," said Heineman. "How many?" said Atlanta, impatiently. "Two," said Heineman. "Show me," said Atlanta. And they dived together. Dawn. The beach. Heineman was exhausted. And, though he had made a deal with his pain - though he had promised that they would meet at noon to settle their accounts - his pain was getting impatient. It wanted an accounting, in full, right now. "Total frog-bleeding disaster," said Heineman exhaustedly, contemplating the disaster which had befallen his affairs. Too late, now, for Heineman to file his report on his campaign finances. Unless he could get a special dispensation, then, he would be out of the presidential race. "Great work," said Dug Mantis, as he and Atlanta joined Heineman. "Come on, let's go inside. They're barbecuing steaks right now." "Steaks?" said Heineman. "To celebrate," said Atlanta. "What's there to celebrate?" said Heineman. "I'm finished." "How so?" said Dug Mantis. Realizing that they would find out soon enough in any case, Heineman told them his problem. "Your problem is no problem," said Atlanta. "You can get the dispensation, no problem. You saved people's lives, didn't you?" "And," said Dug Mantis, "you now have a political platform on which to campaign." "Which is?" said Heineman. "Character," said Atlanta, supplying the obvious. "The hero of the wreck of the Zuzu Magore volunteers his services to the nation." And Heineman saw that she was telling the truth. Yes: you have done it. You have faced your audit, and you have survived it. The books balance. Okay, pain, come on in. You, me and a couple of bottles of beer are going to have a get together. Right now. "Will there be fried onion with the steaks?" said Heineman. "Of course," said Atlanta. "Then," said Heineman, "my happiness is complete." And it was. |
This story,"Diving on the Wreck", was first posted on the SUCCESS by DESIGN SF&F website www.motordoc.net/sf&f October 2002 (ed. Howard W. Penrose, Ph.D.)(9,830 words)(science fiction). |
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