SecondWorld

by Jeremy Robinson

  Wonderful silence.

  No worried NOAA voices. No traffic. No cell phone calls. He thought about telling the director that the time off had convinced him to retire. Sure, he was only thirty-nine, but life without responsibility was fun. He held out the remote, positioned his thumb over the Play button, and—

  Thunk!

  The noise wasn’t loud, but was so unexpected that Miller flinched, lost his balance, and toppled over. He struck his head hard on the metal floor.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  He lay there for a moment, wondering exactly how he’d ended up on the floor, and then felt the back of his head. One area, the size of an apple, was swollen, pulsing with pain, but there was no blood. He wouldn’t need stitches, which was good because he couldn’t get them here. In fact, if there was any kind of emergency, he was pretty much screwed. A nine-mile boat ride, and a fifty-foot dive, did not make for an easy 911 rescue.

  He was on his own.

  With a sigh, he rolled his head to the side and caught his reflection in the polished stainless steel base of a workbench. He grunted at the sight of himself. He flashed what he thought was a winning smile, sharpening the fine spread of crow’s-feet around his blue eyes, but his current disheveled appearance hid his good looks. He hadn’t seen himself look this bad since just after …

  He pushed the images from his mind, still not fully prepared to deal with his past—not with a movie to finish, and a mysterious noise needing investigating.

  He sat up. Pain surged through his head twice, following the rhythm of his heartbeat, and then faded away. When he stood, the pain rose up again, but only momentarily. Shuffling over to the fridge to grab an ice pack, he passed by the small bedroom containing six bunks, three on each side, with a large viewing portal between them. He stopped suddenly, his eyes focusing on the glass portal.

  Something wasn’t right.

  It was a fish, not an uncommon sight, but something was odd about this one. Its movements were all wrong. He squeezed between the beds to get a better look.

  Thunk!

  The fish was back, this time smacking hard against the window.

  Miller blinked a couple times. The fish, a black grouper, wasn’t moving on its own. The ocean’s currents were pushing it up against the hull.

  Well, that’s damn annoying.

  He was about to head back to the fridge when something else flitted by the window. It looked like a large piece of fish food. This time, Miller focused on the water beyond the dead fish. There were other fish out there—scores of them—and they zipped through the water in a miniature feeding frenzy. The fish, normally concealed by the reef that Aquarius had been built to study, had come out of hiding, drawn by what looked like a Jolly Green Giant–sized handful of TetraMin. Most of the fish snatched up the flakes with gaping mouths, then spit the reddish stuff back out. If they were smart, anyway. Many fish, dumb enough to swallow the “fish food,” floated belly-up. Poisoned.

  Not seeing any large green legs in the vicinity, Miller searched his mind for answers and came up with only one—some jerks were actually dumping waste on top of the research station. Not only were they polluting and killing wildlife, they were also ruining his vacation. Why couldn’t you have waited just a few more days? He was as pissed at these polluters as he was at the terrorists he helped track, and a piece of his mind was just the beginning of what he was going to give them.

  Miller ran to the wet porch and hastily pulled on a full tank of air, dive fins, and a mask. In these tropical waters, he didn’t need a wet suit, plus he was already dressed only in shorts—another perk of solitary living on board Aquarius.

  He slid into the water and took in the scene around him. The flakes were falling everywhere. Fish, thousands of them, were either eating eagerly, twitching in violent death throes, or already dead. A few small white-tip sharks picked off the twitchers in the distance. The sharks didn’t pose much of a threat, but he would have to watch out for tigers and bulls. All this action could draw their attention, which meant he could easily be mistaken for one of the twitchers—not that tiger sharks cared. He could be a car and they’d still take a bite.

  He kicked out from under the Aquarius cylinder and looked up. What he saw made no sense.

  The normally blue surface of the ocean …

  … was red.

  4

  Miller scanned the fuchsia waves above, looking for some sign of dumping—a thicker plume of material, for example, or better yet, a ship’s hull. When he found what he was looking for, he intended to rise from the depths like the Kraken and bring a world of hurt to the people responsible. But he could see nothing to direct his anger toward, just an endless sea of red. Visibility had been cut in half, not just by the fog falling from above, but because much of the sun’s light was being blocked by the maroon film covering the ocean’s surface.

  Miller looked down. The normally sandy brown seabed was coated in the ruddy ash; the coral reef had been buried. Dying fish thrashed about, sending plumes of the foreign substance upward like dust.

  How had he missed this? It couldn’t have just started. There was too much. He hadn’t been outside Aquarius for days, but had he really not bothered to look out one of the portals?

  A ladyfish struck his side, its silver body twitching as the last of its neurons fired. He took the fish by the tail and pulled it closer; its body went rigid, giving way to death. Pulling its mouth open, he peered inside. Red sludge lined the dark cave, thick as paint. He checked the gills and found the same phenomenon.

  His eyes darted back to the snowy scene of death surrounding him. Some fish and the sharks in the distance had taken to eating the recently dead instead of chasing after the poisonous flakes. Perhaps they would survive? He hoped so. A massive die-off in the Florida Keys would have a profound effect on the surrounding ecosystems, not to mention the many migratory species that passed through. A pod of blue whales had recently been spotted heading north. The red cloud, which looked like krill, would be absolutely irresistible to the one-hundred-foot giants.

  A fluttering piece of red material, about the size of a corn flake, caught his eye. He reached out and caught it in his palm, then grasped it between two fingers. It was surprisingly firm. He squeezed and it broke apart. He rubbed his fingers together, releasing a bloodlike cloud as the material dissolved.

  He took a deep breath from his regulator, tasting the metallic-flavored air, and let it out slowly, releasing a cascade of bubbles, which fled to the surface. His eyes followed them. He knew the answer to this mystery lay up there. The more he saw, however, the less he wanted to know what was happening.

  But he had no choice.

  He kicked hard, pumping his muscles, an action that ate up the air in his tank more quickly than would a leisurely swim. He checked the pressure gauge—still plenty of air remaining. This would most likely be a short dive, so he could take the risk. Besides, the wet porch was only fifty feet below and he could free dive that if he had to. Holding your breath for long periods of time is a handy talent to have as a SEAL, and one he had worked on over the years. The skill had yet to save his life, but he had a feeling it would, eventually.

  As he neared the surface, the material grew dense, which meant it was definitely coming from above and not being pushed into the area by ocean currents. The material had to be coming from a boat, or a plane, or … Well, he didn’t want to consider the last possibility, and wouldn’t, until he confirmed it with his own eyes.

  Through the haze he found the umbilical cord that connected Aquarius to its life support buoy, or LSB. The LSB supplied power and provided wireless communications and telemetry to the station and held air compressors, as well. It also made for a convenient viewing platform. While standing on top of the LSB, which was shaped like a super-sized yellow chess piece, Miller would be able to see from horizon to horizon. If someone was dumping this garbage, he’d spot them.

  Approaching the buoy, Miller kicked harder, building speed so he could l
aunch himself onto the platform. As he broke the surface, clumps of wet slime slid from his back and arms. A glob clung to his hair, but he paid it no attention. What he was seeing distracted him from doing anything else. He didn’t stand, remove his goggles, or take out his regulator. He simply gaped.

  The world was red. As far as he could see, a crust, like refrigerated pudding, coated the surface of the ocean. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, yet crimson flakes fell like snow from a sky that looked more purple than blue.

  Heart beating hard, he stood up and looked in every direction. He spotted a sailboat off to the north, its sail limp as wilted lettuce, but nothing else caught his eye.

  Miller tentatively held out a hand and caught another flake. Its surface felt rough and porous to his touch, like a petrified snowflake. Curious, he removed his regulator and placed the flake on his tongue. The flavor of blood struck him immediately. He gagged and spit several times, then took a deep, shaky breath. The air did no good. He felt winded, as though he’d just run a sprint.

  He took another breath. His chest began to ache. He grew light-headed.

  He took a third, deeper breath—

  —and fell to his knees.

  Was it poison? Could these flakes kill so quickly?

  Spots danced in his vision as he realized the truth.

  He was suffocating.

  Drowning in the open air like a fish.

  He shoved the regulator back into his mouth and breathed deeply, this time relishing the metallic-tasting air. He continued taking deep breaths until his head cleared and he felt relatively normal again. It wasn’t until then that he let his mind fill in the blanks.

  He couldn’t breathe in the open air! What did it mean? What …

  Oh shit! Miller thought. I can’t breathe because … there’s no oxygen!

  5

  Miller shot up out of the water and into the wet porch, yanked out his regulator, and slipped out of his swim fins. During his frantic dive back to Aquarius he’d had time to run through some possibilities. This event could be local, regional, or—disastrously—global. All three scenarios were bad for him. With no oxygen in the air, rescue might be impossible.

  If there was anyone left to rescue him.

  He threw off his gear and raced to the computer terminal. He sat, still wet, in the computer chair, bouncing his legs while the system booted.

  “C’mon, you son of a bitch. Start!” The computer’s typical thirty-second boot time felt like an eternity. When the desktop appeared, he was forced to wait as programs opened in the background and the wireless searched for a signal.

  “Connect … connect…”

  A message appeared at the bottom right of the screen.

  NO WIRELESS NETWORKS DETECTED

  “Shit!”

  He opened the network window and clicked Reconnect.

  The same message came up. He had no Internet. No e-mail. No webcam.

  But the life support buoy had a radio antenna. He rolled across the floor and wiped the bachelor detritus—wrappers, empty bottles, crumbs—from its surface, and switched the radio on. He quickly set the radio to broadcast on all frequencies and held down the Transmit button.

  “This is Aquarius Research Station, nine miles south of Key Largo. Does anyone copy? Over.”

  He waited to a count of ten. “This is Aquarius Research Station, south of Key Largo. I seem to be experiencing some kind of atmospheric event. It’s killing the fish. And … and the air. There’s no oxygen in the air.”

  Oxygen.

  His mind was trying to tell him something.

  Air.

  He let go of the Transmit button for a moment. Then his navy training kicked in and he pushed the button back down for a brief moment. “Over.”

  The microphone fell to the floor, dangling by its springy cord. He rolled back to the computer hoping he could still access the internal network. All of the station’s systems could be checked and monitored from here—pressure, batteries, backup systems … and air. It was the last item on this list with which he was most concerned.

  The digital gauges rose and fell as the system calibrated and then displayed the current levels. Miller leaned back in his chair, his jaw slack. The air gauge was near the bottom and blinking red, the universal signal for: You’re screwed.

  He punched up the maintenance schedule. The station was due for a recharge of air, pumped into the storage tanks from a ship that connected with the LSB. The refill had been scheduled for two days ago, but something had gone wrong. Miller was getting the awful feeling that a refill wasn’t ever going to come.

  According to the readouts, he had three more days of air left. The emergency reserve would give him another two after that. Plus, three high-pressure way stations sat approximately one thousand feet from Aquarius. They were originally meant to refuel the air tanks of divers on extended dives, but perhaps he could rig them so that they could supply Aquarius?

  Which left him a definite five days to be rescued, maybe more with the air from the way stations.

  And if he wasn’t?

  Then I’ll die, he thought. From a slow, painful asphyxiation.

  There had to be a solution. There had to be something he—

  With the force of a train, something huge struck the side of Aquarius and tossed Miller into the air. His head struck the computer table as he fell, knocking him unconscious.

  He woke a short time later to warm liquid oozing down the side of his face. He groaned at the pain in his head, and when he reached up to feel his skull for the second time in one day, he expected his hand to come away with a fresh coating of blood.

  But there was no blood.

  He leaped to his feet, realizing in an instant the awful truth. He fought to remain upright on a wet, steadily tilting floor. The Aquarius had sprung a leak and was leaning at a sickening angle. Miller turned toward the nearest portal. Something dark blocked his view. He hobbled to the bedroom viewport and found the same thing. Something massive had struck the research station and was now pinned up against it.

  A pop followed by a metallic groan echoed through the cabin.

  The weight of whatever was out there was tipping Aquarius over. If the station leaned too far, the ocean would pour in through the open wet porch. He could seal himself in the living quarters, but then what? Eventually, he would run out of air. And if Aquarius gave all at once, the wet porch might be slammed against the seafloor and he’d be trapped like a lobster in a cage.

  He had to get out.

  His thoughts raced. He needed to gather as many oxygen tanks as he could. Any supplies he could carry. And—

  The lab tilted another ten degrees. He heard rushing water. He felt, more than saw, the lab continuing to roll. It was going to flip.

  There was no time!

  He ran for the wet porch, splashing through a foot of water. His foot caught on something sharp, sending a stab of pain through his leg. But he didn’t slow down to check the damage. He could see water surging in through the open pool. And a shadow beyond it. He ignored the massive shape, thrust his hands into the water, and found his dive fins, mask, and air tank. He threw the tank onto his back and locked it in place. He took a small, portable pony bottle air tank and strapped it to his wrist.

  He was reaching for a second pony bottle when a support beam gave way. Slowed by the tremendous amount of water pressing against the sides of the research station, the beam didn’t buckle completely. It simply started to fall, then roll.

  Realizing what had happened, Miller dove into the water and kicked hard without looking back. He was still holding the swim fins and the mask when he entered the water, but he knew how to streamline his body and swim efficiently with his finless feet. When a large pressure wave struck him from behind, he knew that Aquarius had hit the bottom. His home away from home was no more. He kicked until his lungs burned, then stopped, fumbled for his regulator, and thrust it in his mouth.

  He put his mask on next, blowing out his nose to clear i
t. When his vision returned, he slipped on his swim fins and steeled himself for a shock. He turned toward Aquarius’s position and saw the impossible. What had to be a hundred-foot blue whale was twisted about the station like a leech. The whale was dead. The ocean currents that passed by the station had carried the body, turning it into a deadly projectile.

  Miller started kicking for the surface, but stopped short. Heading to the surface would do him no good.

  There was no air up there.…

  He took the air gauge in his hand and checked the pressure. Seeing how much time he had left, he felt tempted to remove the regulator from his mouth and let out a great, bubbly scream. He managed to stop himself just in time. He needed that air.

  Then he remembered the way stations. Each was a thousand feet away. He could refill his tank at one of them, but how many times could he keep doing that? He shook his head in denial. The cold, hard facts didn’t matter right now. He had no choice but to keep trying to survive. He kicked hard, heading north toward the way station.

  And as he kicked, he prayed he could make the swim in twenty minutes.

  Because that’s all the air he had left in his primary tank.

  6

  Each kick brought him closer to the way station. Each kick also used oxygen, of which he had precious little left. He checked the gauge. Four minutes.

  Four minutes. For what? To live? To die trying?

  He wondered for a moment if he should start contemplating the outcome of his eternal soul. If he didn’t make it to the way station he would be dead in four minutes. Well, twenty minutes. The pony bottle would give him a little more time. But twenty minutes wasn’t much time to figure out his fate.

  He’d never been one to worry about religion, why start now? Without a priest, rabbi, or pastor around, how could he make up his mind anyway? Being totally uninformed, he would most likely choose the wrong religion and be doomed to Hell anyway. And he was pretty sure praying to a generic god wouldn’t do him much good. All religions had their own steps to salvation you had to follow, or saints you had to pray to, or whatever else was being offered. He doubted simply shouting out to an “all of the above” god would seal the deal. So he ignored the question of how he was going to spend his eternity and focused on the here and now—finding the white, cylindrical way station.