by Peter Watts
Elevator Boy
The Pacific Ocean slopped two kilometers under his feet. He had a cargo of blank-eyed psychotics sitting behind him. And the lifter was being piloted by a large pizza with extra cheese. Joel Kita liked it all about as much as could be expected.
At least he had been expecting it, this time. For once the GA hadn’t sprung one of their exercises in chaos theory onto his life without warning. He’d seen it coming almost a week in advance, when they’d sprung one onto Ray Stericker instead. Ray had been in this very cockpit, watching the pizza being installed and no doubt wondering when the term “job security” had become an oxymoron.
“I’m supposed to baby-sit it for a week,” he had said then. Joel had climbed up into the ’scaphe for the usual preflight check and found his friend waiting by the controls. Ray had gestured up through the open hatchway to the lifter’s cockpit, where a couple of techs were busy interfacing something to the controls. “Just in case it screws up in the field. Then I’m gone.”
“Gone where?” Joel couldn’t believe it. Ray had been on the Juan de Fuca run forever, even before the geothermal program. He’d even been an employee, back when such things were commonplace.
“Probably the Gorda circuit for a while. After that, who knows? They’ll be upgrading everything before long.”
Joel glanced up through the hatch. The techs were playing with a square vanilla box, half a meter on a side and about twice as thick as Kita’s wrist. “What is the fucking thing? Some kind of autopilot?”
“With a difference. This takes off and lands. And all sorts of lovely things in between.”
This was not good news. Humans had always been able to integrate 3-D spatial information better than the machines that kept trying to replace them. Not that machines couldn’t recognize a tree or a building when such objects were pointed out to them, but they got real confused whenever you rotated any of those objects a few degrees. The shapes changed, contrast and shadow shifted, and it always took way too long for any of those arsenide pretenders to update its spatial maps and recognize that yes, it’s still a tree, and no, it didn’t morph into something else, dummy, you just changed your point of view.
In some places that wasn’t a problem. Ocean surfaces, for example. Or controlled-access highways where the cars had their own ID transponders. Or even lashed to the underside of a giant squashed doughnut filled with buoyant vacuum, floating in midair. These had been respected and venerable environments for autopilots since well before the turn of the century.
Takeoffs and landings were a different scene altogether, though. Too many real objects going by too fast, too many things to keep an eye on. A few billion years of natural selection still had the edge when the fast lane got that crowded.
Until now, apparently.
“Let’s get out of here.” Ray dropped down onto the landing pad. Joel followed him out to the edge of the roof. Green tangled blankets of kudzu4 spread out around them, shrouding the roofs of surrounding buildings. It always made Joel think post-apocalypse—weeds and ivy crawling back in from the wilderness to strangle the residue of some fallen civilization. Except, of course, these particular weeds were supposed to save civilization.
Way out by the coast, barely visible, streamers of smoke dribbled into the sky from the refugee strip. So much for civilization.
“It’s one of those smart gels,” Ray said at last.
“Smart gels?”
“Head cheese. Cultured brain cells on a slab. The same things they’ve been plugging into the Net to firewall infections.”
“I know what they are, Ray. I just can’t fucking believe it.”
“Well, believe it. They’ll be coming for you too, give ’em enough time.”
“Yeah. Probably.” Joel let it sink in. “I wonder when.”
Ray shrugged. “You’ve got some breathing space. All that unpredictable volcanic shit, things blowing up under you. Nastier than flying a hoover. Harder to replace you.”
He looked back at the lifter, and the ’scaphe nestled into its underbelly.
“Won’t take long, though.”
Joel fished a derm out of his pocket; a tricyclic with a mild lithium chaser. He held it out without a word.
Ray just spat. “Thanks anyway. I want to feel pissed for a while, you know?”
* * *
And now, eight days later, Ray Stericker was gone.
He’d disappeared after his last shift, just the day before. Joel had tried to track him down, drag him out, piss him up, but he hadn’t been able to find the man on site and Ray wasn’t answering his watch. So here was Joel Kita, back on the job, alone except for his cargo: four very strange people in black suits, blank white lenses covering their eyes. They all had identical GA logos stamped onto their shoulders, tags with their surnames printed just below. At least the surnames were different, although the difference seemed trivial; male, female, large or small, they all seemed minor variants of the same make and model. Ah yes, the Mk-5 was always such a nice boy. Kind of quiet, kept to himself. Who would’ve thought …
Joel had seen rifters before. He’d ferried a couple out to Beebe about a month ago, just after construction had ended. One of them had seemed almost normal, had gone out of her way to chat and joke around as if trying to compensate for the fact that she looked like a zombie. Joel had forgotten her name.
The other one hadn’t said a word.
One of the ’scaphe’s tactical screens beeped a progress report. “Bottom’s rising again,” Joel called back. “Thirty-five hundred. We’re almost there.”
“Thanks,” one of them—FISCHER, according to his shoulder tag—said. Everyone else just sat there.
A pressure hatch separated the ’scaphe’s cockpit from the passenger compartment. If you sealed it you could use the aft chamber as an airlock, or even pressurize it for saturation dives if you didn’t mind the hassle of decompression. You could also just swing the hatch shut if you wanted a bit of privacy, if you didn’t like leaving your back exposed to certain passengers. That would be bad manners, of course. Joel tried idly to think of some socially acceptable excuse for slamming that big metal disk in their faces, but gave up after a few moments.
Now, the dorsal hatch—the one leading up into the lifter’s cockpit—that one was closed, and that felt wrong. Usually they kept it open until just before the drop. Ray and Joel would shoot the shit for however long the trip would take—three hours, if you were going to Channer.
Yesterday, without warning, Ray Stericker had dropped the hatch shut fifteen minutes into the flight. He hadn’t said an unnecessary word the whole time, had barely even used the intercom. And today—well, today there wasn’t anyone up there to talk to anymore.
Joel looked out one of the side ports. The skin of the lifter blocked his view just a few centimeters on the other side; metal fabric stretched across carbon-fiber ribs, a gray expanse sucked into concave squares by the hard vacuum inside. The ’scaphe rode tucked into an oval hollow in the lifter’s center. The only port that showed anything but gray skin was the one between Joel’s feet; ocean, a long way down.
Not so far down now, though. He could hear the hisses and sighs of the lifter’s ballast bags deflating overhead. Sharper sounds, more distant, cracked through the hull as electrical arcs heated the air in a couple of trim bags. This was still regular autopilot territory, but Ray used to do it all himself anyway. If it weren’t for the closed hatch, Joel couldn’t have told the difference.
The head cheese was doing a bang-up job.
He’d actually seen it a few days ago, during a delivery to an undersea rig just out of Gray’s Harbor. Ray had hit a stud and the top of the box had slid away like white mercury, slipping back into a little groove at the edge of the casing and revealing a transparent panel underneath.
Beneath that panel, packed in clear fluid, was a ridged layer of goo, a bit too gray to be mozzarella. Dashes of brownish glass perforated the goo in neat parallel rows.
“I’m no
t supposed to open it up like this,” Ray had said. “But fuck ’em. It’s not as though the blighter’s photosensitive.”
“So what are those little brown bits?”
“Indium tin oxide over glass. Semiconductor.”
“Jesus. And it’s working right now?”
“Even as we speak.”
“Jesus,” Joel had said again. And then: “I wonder how you program something like this.”
Ray had snorted at that. “You don’t. You teach it. Learns through positive reinforcement, like a bloody baby.”
A sudden, smooth shift in momentum. Joel pulled back to the present; the lifter was hanging stable, five meters over the waves. Right on target. Nothing but empty ocean on the surface, of course; Beebe’s transponder was thirty meters straight down. Shallow enough to hone in on, too deep to be a navigational hazard. Or to serve as a midwater hitching post for charter boats hunting Channer’s legendary sea monsters.
The cheese printed out a word on the ’scaphe’s tactical board: LAUNCH?
Joel’s finger wavered over the OK key, then came down. Docking latches clanked open; the lifter reeled Joel Kita and his cargo down to the water. Sunlight squinted through viewports for a few seconds as the ’scaphe swung in its harness. A wavetop batted at the forward port.
The world jerked once, slewed sideways, and turned green.
Joel opened the ballast tanks and looked back over his shoulder. “Going down, folks. Your last glimpse of sunlight. Enjoy it while you can.”
“Thanks,” said FISCHER.
Nobody else moved.
Crush
Pre-adapted.
Even now, at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, Fischer doesn’t know what Scanlon meant by that.
He doesn’t feel pre-adapted, not if that means he’s supposed to be at home here. Nobody even talked to him on the way down. Nobody talked much to anyone else, either, but when they didn’t talk to Fisher it seemed especially personal. And one of them, Brander—it’s hard to tell with the eyecaps and all, but Fischer thinks Brander keeps looking at him, like they know each other from somewhere. Brander looks mean.
Everything’s out in the open down here; pipes and cable bundles and ventilation ducts are all tacked onto the bulkheads in plain sight. He saw it on the vids before he came down, but those somehow left the impression of a brighter place, full of light and mirrors. The wall he’s facing now, for instance; there should be a mirror there. But it’s just a gray metal bulkhead with a greasy, unfinished sheen to it.
Fischer shifts his weight from one foot to the other. At one end of the lounge Lubin leans against a library pedestal, his capped eyes pointed at them with blank disinterest. Lubin’s said only one thing to them in the five minutes they’ve been here:
“Clarke’s still outside. She’s coming in.”
Something clanks under the floor. Water and nitrox mix, gurgling, nearby. The sound of a hatch swinging open, movement from below.
She climbs up into the lounge, droplets beading across her shoulders. Her diveskin paints her black below the neck, a skinny silhouette, almost sexless. Her hood is undone; blond hair, plastered against her skull, frames a face paler than Fischer’s ever seen. Her mouth is a wide thin line. Her eyes, capped like his own, are blank white ovals in a child’s face.
She looks around at them: Brander, Nakata, Caraco, Fischer. They look back, waiting.
She shrugs. “I’m changing the sodium on number two. A couple of you could come along, I guess.”
She doesn’t seem exactly human. There is something familiar about her, though.
What do you think, Shadow? Do I know her?
But Shadow isn’t talking.
* * *
There’s a street where none of the buildings have windows. The streetlamps shine down with a sick coppery light on masses of giant clams and big ropy brownish things emerging from mucous-gray cylinders (tubeworms, he remembers: Riftia fuckinghugeous, or something). Natural chimneys rise here and there above the invertebrate multitudes, pillars of basalt and silicon and crystallized sulfur. Every time Fischer visits the Throat, he thinks of really bad acne.
Lenie Clarke leads them on a flight down Main Street: Fischer, Caraco, a couple of cargo squids on remote. The generators lean up over them on both sides. A dark curtain billows across the road directly ahead, and it sparkles. A school of small fish darts around the edges of the streaming cloud.
“That’s the problem,” Lenie buzzes. She looks back at Fischer and Caraco. “Mud plume. Too big to redirect.”
They’ve come past eight generators so far. That leaves six up ahead, drowning in silt. Double shift, even if they call out Lubin and Brander.
He hopes they don’t have to. Not Brander, anyway.
Lenie fins off toward the plume. The squids whine softly behind, dragging their tools. Fischer steels himself to follow.
“Shouldn’t we check thermal?” Caraco calls out. “I mean, what if it’s hot?”
He was wondering that himself, actually. He’s been wondering about such things ever since he overheard Caraco and Nakata comparing rumors from the Mendocino fracture. Nakata heard it was a really old minisub, with Plexiglas ports. Caraco heard they were thermoacrylate. Nakata said it got wedged inside the center of the rift zone. Caraco said no, it was just cruising over the seabed and a smoker blew up under it.
They agreed on how fast the viewports melted, though. Even the skeletons went to ash. Which didn’t make much difference anyway, since every bone in every body had already been smashed by the ambient pressure.
Caraco makes a lot of sense, in Fischer’s opinion, but Lenie Clarke doesn’t even answer. She just fins off into that black sparkly cloud and disappears. At the spot she disappears the mud glows suddenly, a phosphorescent wake. The fish swarm toward it.
“She doesn’t even care, sometimes,” Fischer buzzes softly. “Like, whether she lives or dies…”
Caraco looks at him for a moment, then kicks off toward the plume.
Clarke’s voice buzzes out of the cloud. “Not much time.”
Caraco dives into the roiling wall with a splash of light. A knot of fish—a couple of them are a fair size now, Fischer sees—swirl in her wake.
Go on, Shadow says.
Something moves.
He spins around. For a moment there’s only Main Street, fading in distance.
Then something big and black and … and lopsided appears from behind one of the generators.
“Jeez.” Fischer’s legs move of their own volition. “They’re coming!” he tries to yell. The vocoder scales it down to a croak.
Stupid. Stupid. They warned us, the sparkles bring in the little fish and the little fish bring in the big fish and if we don’t watch it we just get in the way.
The plume is right in front of him now, a wall of sediment, a river on the bottom of the ocean. He dives in. Something nips lightly at his calf.
Everything goes black, with occasional sparkles. He turns his headlight on; the flowing mud swallows the beam half a meter from his face.
But Clarke can see it somehow: “Turn it off.”
“I can’t see—”
“Good. Maybe they won’t either.”
He kills the light. In the darkness he gropes the gas billy from its sheath on his leg.
Caraco, from a distance: “I thought they were blind.…”
“Some of them.”
And they’ve got other senses to fall back on. Fischer runs through the list: smell, sound, pressure waves, bioelectric fields … Nothing relies on vision down here. It’s just one of the options.
If the plume blocks only light, they’re fucked.
But even as he watches, the darkness is lifting. Black murk turns brown, then almost gray. Faint light filters in from the floodlamps on Main Street.
It’s the eyecaps, he realizes. They’re compensating. Cool.
He still can’t see very far, though. It’s like being caught in dirty fog.
“Remember.” Clarke,
very close. “They’re not as tough as they look. They probably won’t do much real damage.”
A sonar pistol stutters nearby. “I’m not getting anything,” Caraco buzzes. Milky sediment swirls on all sides. Fischer puts his arm out; it fades at the elbow.
“Oh shit.” Caraco.
“Are you—”
“Something’s on my leg something’s Christ it’s big—”
“Lenie—” Fischer cries.
A bump from behind. A slap on the back of his head. A shadow, black and spiny, fades into the murk.
Hey, that wasn’t so—
Something clamps onto his leg. He looks down: jaws, teeth, a monstrous head fading away into the murk.
Oh Jeez—
He jams his billy against scaly flesh. Something gives, like gelatin. A soft thump. The flesh bloats, ruptures; bubbles explode from the rip.
Something else smashes him from behind. His chest is in a vise. He lashes out, blindly. Mud and ash and black blood billow into his face.
He grabs blindly, twists. There’s a broken tooth in his hand, half as long as his forearm; he tightens his grip and it splinters. He drops it, brings the billy around and jams it into the thing on his side. Another explosion of meat and compressed CO2.
The pressure lifts from his chest. Whatever’s clamped onto his leg isn’t moving. Fischer lets himself sink, drifts down against the base of a barite chimney.
Nothing charges him.
“Everyone okay.” Lenie’s vocoded monotone. Fischer grunts yes.
“Thank God for bad nutrition,” Caraco buzzes. “We’re fucked if these guys ever get enough vitamins.”
Fischer reaches down, pries the dead monster’s jaws off his calf. He wishes he had breath to catch.
Shadow?
Right here.
Was this what it was like for you?
No. This didn’t take so long.
He lies against the bottom and tries to shut his eyes. He can’t; the diveskin bonds to the surface of the eyecaps, traps the eyelids in little cul-de-sacs. I’m sorry, Shadow. I’m so sorry.
I know, she says. It’s okay.