The Abyss

by Orson Scott Card

  Lindsey was shocked when Bud came up through the water of the moonpool. He was supposed to get up through hatch six and come into the sub bay on his feet. "Bud's in the pool," she said. "And Catfish isn't with him."

  "Jesus," whispered One Night.

  Jammer gave an extra jerk as he wrapped more tape around Schoenick. Hippy joined Lindsey at the monitor.

  "What's he doing?" Lindsey asked. Bud wasn't heading for the door, he was moving up behind Coffey, walking slow, quiet. Then he reached down and picked up a length of steel pipe - a drive shaft.

  "He can't get to the door," said Hippy. "I think he's going to try and take him himself."

  "He couldn't be that dumb!" Lindsey cried. "The guy's a trained killer."

  "He's got three feet of pipe," said Hippy. "Of course he's going to try to take him out." Didn't Lindsey know Bud at all?

  Yeah, she knew him. That's why she was so scared for him. He didn't have any sense of what was possible, just what was necessary. It was necessary to take out Coffey, so Bud was going to try it, even though he didn't have a chance in hell of doing it. Lindsey reprimanded him, spoke to his image in the monitor. "Bud!"

  Bud raised the pipe, ready to slam it down on the back of Coffey's head. But he hesitated. Made as if to swing, then hesitated again.

  He can't do it, thought Lindsey. He has this one chance to take Coffey from behind, and his goddam sense of fair play won't let him do it. Fair play is great for touch football, but it's a luxury we can't afford right now.

  But it wasn't some chivalric ideal that stayed Bud's hand, it wasn't some "you draw first" ethos drawn from the bad TV westerns he'd grown up with. It was a much deeper sense of justice. Bud knew that if he hit Coffey anywhere but in the head, it wouldn't stop him - and if he did hit him in the head with this pipe, it would probably kill him. Before I execute this guy, where's the judge and jury? Coffey's probably a decent guy. It isn't the real Coffey doing this stuff; it's HPNS-induced paranoia. Get him topside, get him out of this pressure, and Coffey'd be horrified at what he was planning to do down here. He'd thank Bud for stopping him. But he wouldn't thank anybody if he was dead.

  Still, Bud would've hit him if he hadn't found any other course of action. It had to be better for one man to die unjustly than to launch an unprovoked nuclear attack, to unleash war between species. So Coffey would've died right then, except that Bud realized that Coffey's pistol was right there in easy reach. Pull that out, point it at him, and Coffey would do what he was told. Or else Bud could shoot him in the leg or something, take him out of commission without killing him.

  In the control room, they watched as Bud lowered the pipe and reached out with his other hand for the pistol at Coffey's belt. It was a bad move. Whether Coffey felt the wind of the pipe moving down or heard something or had some sixth sense, he knew Bud was there. He turned, pulling his gun, leveling it at Bud's head.

  "No!" Lindsey cried.

  Bud stood there looking into the barrel of the gun. "Coffey," he said. Sounding reasonable. "Coffey." He knew that talking wouldn't make any difference. There are men who are content to wave their guns around and make threats. Then there are the men who shoot. Bud's dad used to talk about that, and one time Bud said, "Yeah, I heard that in wartime maybe only twenty percent of the guys ever fire their weapons."

  "Bullshit," Daddy said. "Whoever said that was a plain liar. You get out there in battle, under fire, it's you and the guy next to you, if he isn't firing you know it, only he always is. The hard part is to get your boys to stop firing. I'm not talking about battle, anyway. I'm talking about one on one, when a guy's holding a weapon on you and nobody's looking and he has a choice, he can either capture you or blow your brains out, either one's a fair choice, it's his option. There are guys who'll shoot, and guys who won't."

  "How do you know which one is which?" Bud asked him then.

  "If you're still breathing, he wasn't the kind that shoots."

  Which kind are you, Coffey? You don't have to kill me. You can disarm me, you can get me out of the way just fine. But you're crazy with HPNS and scared shitless about what you think you've got to do and besides, I saw you crying.

  Coffey pulled the trigger.

  Bud flinched, but nothing happend. No bullet through the head, no hot red impact above the eyes.

  Misfire, of course. The next bullet would do it.

  Coffey pulled the trigger again. Click. Again.

  Back in the control module, they couldn't believe it when the pistol didn't fire. How could something that lucky possibly happen?

  Monk knew. He reached into his coat and pulled out the answer. Sonny caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, grabbed Monk by the wrist - but then they realized what he was holding. The ammo clip from Coffey's pistol. How did he get it? Back when Coffey gave it to him in the mess hall, when Coffey still trusted him. Monk must have realized he was crazy even then, must have taken it while he still had the chance.

  Schoenick looked at him with eyes full of venom. "You son of a bitch!"

  In the sub bay,, though, there was no explanation. They only knew that now it was just the two of them, no gun. Bud, worn out from swimming, armed with a drive shaft, and having no serious training in combat, against Coffey, with his knife and years of training as a killer, and the craziness of HPNS. And both of them convinced that the fate of the human race depended on what he did here. God help me, thought Bud. I've got to kill a man here, and I don't want to. I also don't have the faintest idea how I'm going to do it.

  Chapter 13

  Drowning

  In the city at the bottom of the Cayman Trench, the builders were at the border of despair. They had put themselves at risk to meet the humans in their atmosphere. They had tried to show their desire to communicate. What was the result? A doorway closed across the probe with no warning. They had come to help the humans save themselves from their own murderous instincts, and in response the humans had tried to murder the messengers. They knew that the human who tried to kill them was not the same as Lindsey and Bud and the others. The builders also knew that most of the crew was afraid of the SEALS, especially Coffey. But who decided to put the weapons into the hands of these men? Just because they delegated their killing to specialists didn't mean that the gentler humans weren't responsible. The humans, as a species, weren't even trying to curb their desire to kill.

  No, they are trying. They're afraid that if one side gives up their weapons, then the side that doesn't will rule them all.

  A vicious quandary. One that can't be resolved, for the very good reason that if one side disarmed, the other certainly would take advantage of it or some third party would. We've seen their television - they're no different up in the atmosphere than these that have come down nearer to us. Therefore we should leave and let them destroy each other. That will sweep away the problem well enough.

  We can't give up. Part of this is our fault. Even inside Deepcore it's partly the fear of what he thinks we are that has made this Coffey so afraid.

  What more can we do? We can't safely go inside again. When we speak to them, they don't know we're speaking. We could force them to think the thoughts we want them to have, but what would that accomplish? That isn't communication, it's slavery. Let them be.

  We can still watch them, can't we?

  Watch, then. See them act out the murder and destruction that has filled their history.

  In the bubble of air inside hatch six, Catfish knew that he should head back for the hatch he had come from. The longer he waited, the colder he'd get, here in this water. Yet he couldn't stand the thought of giving up, leaving it all up to Bud. If Bud made it, he'd have to come out of the water and face Coffey, and dammit, Bud wasn't up to it. He didn't have the fighting skills. Catfish did. They made fun of him for talking about it, but he really was a fighter, and he still had the arm.

  I'm a damn fool, but I'm going for the moonpool or I'm gonna die trying.

  Catfish hyperventilated, then dropped down into
the water. It took only a moment to spot the moonpool. Not that far away. Not impossible. I can make it.

  He surged forward through the water, big sweeping strokes. Caught the pipes, pulled himself along. But he wasn't making it. He was too tired, the cold was getting to him. The air was burning in his lungs like icy fire. Dumb macho schmuck, you ain't worth shit alive or dead but if you're gonna die, do it under the moonpool so you'll float up and they'll know what happened to you.

  He did not see the builder that floated in the water out beyond the reach of the lights, far enough away that she didn't damp the power in the rig. She was aware of the debate that had raged in the city after the humans tried to kill the probe. She knew that their role now was only to watch. But here was one of the humans, struggling to survive out in the water, almost naked, as fragile as the probe they had sent inside Deepcore. He was only following his friend, who seemed to be younger and stronger than he was. Wouldn't it be as great a crime to let this one die out here as it was for the one inside to try to kill our probe? Isn't letting them die a kind of murder, too?

  So she thickened the tendrils and reached out part of her own intelligence toward him. She slipped between the crease of his lips, down his throat, into his lungs. It wasn't hard for her to make the catalysts that broke the carbon dioxide in his lungs back into carbon and oxygen. She absorbed the excess carbon herself and carried it back along the tendrils. It wasn't much, really, not too much interference. Just enough oxygen that he could rise up to the surface of the pool and breathe for himself. When he broke out into the gaseous space, she drew back her tendrils and retreated. She would be rebuked for this, probably. Her memories would probably be shameful ones when she brought them to the city. But she was alone, and she had made the decision she would certainly have made if Catfish had been a builder and not a man.

  Catfish breathed deep, astonished that he had made it after all. Right at the end it had seemed like he found new reserves. A spare lung.

  He looked around and spotted Coffey and Bud. It was ugly as sin, watching them fighting. Bud was about as ready to fight Coffey as a baby squirrel is ready for a hunting cat. They were dodging around in some cables and chains and a light fixture dangling from the ceiling, but it was a matter of time, that was for sure.

  Catfish heaved himself out of the water. He could barely stand up, he was so cold. He flexed his muscles, swung his arms, twisted around as he staggered across the deck to where they were fighting. Coffey was tossing a cable around Bud's neck, strangling him. Damn, thought Catfish, can't I move any faster? "Hey!" he shouted. Anything to distract Coffey from his killing fever.

  Coffey whirled around to face him. Completely unprepared. Easiest punch Catfish ever had the pleasure of taking. Caught the lieutenant in the jaw with a right and laid him on his ass. Down for the count, yes sir. Didn't call it the Hammer for nothing.

  He went to help Bud, who was unwinding the cable from around his neck. But Buddy-boy wasn't interested in no howdys or how-the-hell-did-you-get-heres. "Get Coffey!" he shouted.

  Coffey was up. Catfish could hardly believe it. Nobody got up after a punch like that. But it wasn't more fight that Coffey was after. He could count - there was two of them and one of him, and he had a mission to perform. So he ran for the edge, jumped over onto Flatbed floating there in the moonpool, clambered up the side and down into the driver's seat. Catfish was right behind him, but by the time he got to the hatch it was already closed. And locked down tight. "He's dogged it off" he shouted.

  Now Bud was on Flatbed, staggering but upright. Seeing how bad off Bud was after the fight made Catfish feel more useful than he'd ever felt before. He took a chance, trying to be a hero, and by damn if he didn't make it.

  Bud didn't seem impressed, though. He was already busy, grappling with Big Geek, trying to get it free from Flatbed's huge steel claw. "Help me get this off," he said.

  Catfish helped as best he could, but it was no good. They could hear Flatbed's motors starting to go. Bud switched from trying to unhook Big Geek from Flatbed - now he was reaching underneath, trying to unstrap the warhead from the ROV. No good. Coffey was submerging Flatbed right under them, taking them right back down into the water. Too cold, they couldn't do any more than that. He was down.

  They clambered out of the water. Bud was about worn out. "You go get the door," he said.

  Catfish hit the button and went through the automatic door the second it was wide enough for his body to fit. He pounded down the corridor like he'd never run before, his beer gut doing a rhumba. He hit the door and pulled out the piece of pipe Coffey had wedged in the wheel.

  Of course they'd been watching all this in the control room, so they were ready by the time Catfish got there. Too ready. The second the wheel could turn, Hippy shoved the door open so fast it rammed Catfish right up against the wall. Then Hippy was down the corridor to the sub bay, carrying the assault rifle like he thought he was in a Chuck Norris movie. Catfish managed to pry the hatch wheel out of his belly and took off after him; he could hear Lindsey right behind him.

  By the time they got to the sub bay, Bud was out there on the deck pulling on a dry suit. Hippy was standing there like an idiot looking down into the pool. No sweat - Coffey was still down there. With all the damage to Deepcore, it wasn't easy finding a way to get something as big as Flatbed out through the wreckage without getting fouled on something. So there he was in the bubble, big as life, looking right up at the assault rifle and not even looking worried.

  "Shoot!" Catfish shouted. "Shoot!"

  Hippy was squeezing the trigger and nothing was happening.

  Hadn't the fool kid ever handled a gun before? "The safety's on!" Catfish screamed at him. "The safety's on!"

  Hippy didn't seem to know what a safety was. Catfish grabbed the gun, flipped the safety, and let fly. Recoil damn near tore his arms off. The bullets went just about everywhere except into Flatbed's dome.

  "Forget that!" Lindsey shouted. She was over with Bud. It had nearly killed her, watching the fight, helpless to do anything. When Catfish showed up on the monitor she thought he was God. Now she wanted to know Bud was OK, just wanted to touch him for a second.

  Bud didn't have time for that right now. He still thought it was possible to stop Coffey. "Come on, let's go! Help me on!" He pulled the neck-dam over his head. "Give me a hand, let's move it."

  Lindsey could see that Jammer and Sonny would be enough to get Bud's helmet and pack on him. So she thought about what she could do. "What about Cab One?" she asked One Night.

  "Ready to launch." One Night was already headed around the pool to the winch that held Cab One halfway over the water. "I'll unhook."

  Lindsey started to climb up the side of the submersible, then hesitated. One Night would expect to drive this.

  "Go!" One Night shouted. "You're better in these than I am."

  Lindsey recognized this for what it was: a sign of respect. Reconciliation. Something that she never thought she'd get from One Night. She nodded, clambered up onto the top. One Night already had the winch going. Lindsey rode the submersible out over the water. How many hours ago was it that Byron lowered her out over the Explorer's launch pool in Cab One's twin? If only I'd crashed Cab Three right then, with Coffey inside. I wouldn't have been down here in Deepcore, but then I wouldn't have been needed down here, either.

  Over on the deck they had Bud's pack on him. "All right, give me the hat." Sonny lifted the helmet with his good arm; Bud took it, lowered it down over his head.

  They were babbling, checking everything, checking again. "Got air?"

  "Got air."

  "That's it, you got air, you got air, you got air."

  It was all chanting, meaningless by now, but they had to do it. They were praying. They were giving him a benediction before he went down into the labyrinth to fight the minotaur. He felt them locking down the ring, getting a firm fit between the helmet and the neck-dam. The tetramix was coming in strong. Go. Go.

  He jumped straig
ht forward into the pool, pulled himself down. Flatbed was out from under the moonpool now, but not free of the wreckage. Coffey still had to pick his way - Bud, being a lot smaller, didn't have the same problems. His problem was just getting to Flatbed in time to hitch a ride. He pulled along the steel pipe of the frame, making good time, good time. But he was still fifteen feet, maybe twenty behind Flatbed when Coffey saw his clear path and started to accelerate.

  But Flatbed wasn't exactly a sprinter. Bud managed to swim his way forward and gain on Flatbed, despite the resistance of the water, the drag of his pack, the sheer mass of his body and his clothing and his gear. He just missed the last handhold on Flatbed, but he managed to catch onto a tie-down strap trailing along behind.

  He held on with both hands as the submersible jerked him along, tossing him around in the turbulence behind the thrusters. They got out into the open and headed straight for the edge of the canyon. The faster Flatbed went, the harder it was to hold on. But he still managed to inch his way forward, hand over hand, until he had a hold on the stern rail of Flatbed's platform.

  It was easier to hang on now, but the current was still dragging at him; he couldn't make any headway. Then they got to the rim of the canyon and Flatbed stopped. It was the break Bud needed. He made his way forward to where Big Geek was strangling in the mechanical arm. Tried to get the ROV loose, but he couldn't do it. Tried to get the warhead free, but it was impossible, not in gloves, not in time.

  Bud cast about, looking for something, some kind of tool he could use, anything at all. The only thing he saw was one of the yellow nylon safety lines. That was something. Yes, sir, he could tether it onto something, keep it from going down there. Never mind that it meant a warhead with a three-hour timer was ticking away not fifty yards from Deepcore. If they could keep Big Geek up close, then they had a chance of getting the warhead off and disarming it. And even if they couldn't, better to have it blow up here than down there, an act of war against the NTIs.