Deeptide Vents . . . of Fire

by Donald Ray Schwartz

  As it also happens to human beings caught up in the middle of oppression and war, despair and death may be the only choices of the pursued.

  An orgy of death and survival, blood now streaked the white-blue of the water, whilst human blood poured over the decks of the ship upon the sea.

  Somehow the birds so obsessed with their own prey and the athletic grace and brilliance of their own dives to capture it, they twirled into the waters oblivious to the hunters and hunted upon the man-made floating machine, now transformed to place of valor and death. Death wreaked a wide range across and beneath the splashing froth of the ocean that day.

  She saw all this, illuminated with the great light that God must have ordered upon the firmament, above the waters and below the waters. She watched, transfixed, for a long while, and only for a few seconds at the same time.

  Stray bullets whizzed past the birds. Jennifer watched, praying the projectiles missed the animals, willing their trajectories to bend in ballistic flight. Then she knew the other reason she had waited here. She had gathered her strength, her will. She was transcended. A wraith with light of justice a halo over her. The light of vengeance radiated from within her.

  She could no longer feel the pain. In her large bare feet, she padded up the deck to the companionway, grasping the rail.

  “XO, radio com.”

  “Bridge aye.”

  “Reports coming in from Alpha Leader. All decks. Starr secured. Holdouts still engaged. Bridge not yet secure.”

  “Anything on the enemy vessel?”

  “Hostile secure all decks. Torpedoes, missile controls and overrides in friendly lands.”

  “Navigation.”

  “Nav aye. Course plotted.”

  “Take her in X0. One-half speed. Remain decks awash.”

  “One-half speed aye.”

  “X0, Captain. Sonar. I don’t believe this. It, it’s impossible.”

  “Calm down Mr. Egerton.” Corvales thought to himself. Now what. At that moment when we were starting to get things under control.

  “Sir, I’m showing something one and one-half miles west south west. Now due west. Now sout—it’s like it’s under no direction or control. Yes! That’s it. It’s being buffeted about …”

  “Egerton, X0. Calm down, son. What the hell is it? Report on the QT.”

  “X0, aye. Copy that. Holy mother of God. It has the signature of the Ex-Gee.”

  The entire ship heard him. At any given moment, there is constant chatter on board, internal communications back and forth. For the only time he had ever been on any vessel, other than silent running, silence washed over his fleet ship of the Navy. After a moment, Corvales broke it.

  “Nav, bridge.”

  “Nav, aye. Course plotted sir.” The man had almost shouted it. Hope reborn in joy had arisen in his voice.

  Corvales had it also, Olgelby noted. But he also knew the people aboard were probably dead, as Egerton already knew. Clearly the small submersible was being aimlessly buffeted about in the valleys and crests of the waves.

  “X0. Turn about. Flank speed. Notify Alpha Leader he’s got to be on his own a while longer. We’ll be there as soon as we can. Get the medical team to the bridge. Expedite. Rescue teams equipment check. ETA two minutes.”

  The huge ship turned about on flank speed. It was a maneuver she didn’t often make nor was designed to do well. Soon enough water foamed along side her bow and stern, as she listed 300 degrees to the turn before righting herself in ballast.

  She fairly cut the water to the new coordinates.

  A pitched battle, she surmised the final one, circulated about the bridge steps. It was grisly, knives flashing, and no sound other than flesh tearing, grunts, groans. They were mean looking men, a motley group, and they did not seem to realize they had already lost at the hands of these professionals.

  They did not see her. No one saw her. She realized then she had her mantle of invisibility on. She was a wraith. A demon-harpy. A chameleon-ninja. Lilith in resurrection. Females are the more dangerous, she thought. Poor men. They know nothing.

  It was easy then to open the door. In fact, she did not need to open it. She passed through it. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Fire in her eyes, her hair matted into the spikes of the wraith, snake-tongues flitting in and out from the ends of the spikes, sniffing the putrid air of anxiety and gunpowder and blood.

  Then, there they were, the two. The traitors. The ones who had caused her to lose any chance of helping Susan find her way back. Now her comrade, her teacher, her colleague, the woman she admired and loved was gone and this bastard and this bitch still stood, the last holdouts.

  When she spoke, it was with a voice rained upon with ice, a voice seemingly to echo with a meaning beyond time and place, beyond air, beyond water, beyond fire. They turned.

  “Wells. Foxworth. Meet thy fate. Turn. It is over.” They turned. They had been posed to shoot it out to the end. The plan of great wealth and power was over. They were unprepared for rafts from the sea transporting to the fray well-trained men and women.

  It was as though at first sight they saw her not. Then, they did.

  “Well, Littleton,” Foxworth said. Sweat beaded upon her face and arms. Her hair matted to her head. Her eyes were mad and wild, as though a part of her were no longer alive. There wasn’t much pretty about her now, Jennifer thought to herself, recalling her own image in the glass. And not just from the fighting. Good. It was just as well. There was no beauty in this. Only cold revenge that reached into a place deeper and darker than beauty could ever penetrate.

  “We thought you were dead.”

  “Not hardly. Just decided to go for a swim is all.”

  “Yeah. Web-footed bitch like you could survive the drink, I guess.”

  The traitor lifted her weapon. At last the beautiful scientist transmuted into a killing wraith pulled up her weapon. She fired. Jennifer released her harpoon from within her blanket. Unerringly it passed through the woman’s throat. Blood spattered all around. Blood and snot and tissue sprayed all about her head. That pink mist surrounded her already-dead body suspended in space, then slowly, as in a dance of death, fell to the floor. Foxworth’s body levitated in the air, vibrated, and fell back against the opposite door. “The one below, the one still bel …,” the woman gurgled, in an awful bubbling from where her throat had been. Then she said nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing.

  Wells fired at her. He was a sure shot and they were five feet apart. But of course the bullets couldn’t hit her.

  She knew this. She was a wraith. The projectiles whizzed to the left of her, to the right of her, above her head. She took her time. This time her fingers did not fumble. She felt the spring of the second dart seated in its housing.

  She didn’t bother to aim. She knew its aim would be true. She released the spring. The harpoon dashed through the air, spinning. The barb pierced the eyelid of his right eye, closed against it, then straight through his pupil into the jell-like substance in the cavity of the orb, through his retina, on into the optic nerve of his brain and out through the brain’s membranes and its skull. The Team Leader and three members of the SEAL team ran in, guns at the ready. They surveyed the scene before them.

  Wells looked at them with his remaining eye. Blood flowed forth as from a large fountain with a human figure sculpture from all his orifices at once. He fell to the floor, slowly, spinning, floating.

  “Med corps, Alpha Leader. AL to all Alpha team. Bridge secured. I say again, bridge secured. Complete final phase. Med corps, we need medical help here ASAP. Ms. Littleton’s wounded.”

  “Copy that. We tried to find her earlier. We’re on our way.”

  She looked down. The blanket had fallen off. She stood naked before them all. Nude, blood, snot, lymph, salts from the sea, filth, sweat-ridden.

  Again her wound opened.
Her blood mixed with the blood of her enemies against her naked body. Like an Amazon in the days of yore, or a woman-warrior in the ancient days of dim historical beginnings, she rubbed the bloods together against her cheeks, her neck, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She clenched her hands. She flexed the sinews of her muscles, more powerful and strong than ever she had felt them. She spread her powerful arms wide above her head, fists at the top of the great Y formed. She bellowed a chilling skirr of victory over the corpses of her enemies. So loud the victory yell penetrated the walls of the pilot house and carried over the ocean waves as far as the submarine. The crew there turned from their tasks for the moment, as though they had heard the songs of Odysseus’s sirens.

  The soldiers peered at her in astonishment. She gazed back at them with a gaze penetrating from before life on earth. Then she closed her eyes, one lid slowly after the other, and she fell, down, slowly, spinning and floating like Wells’ body had done, falling into the soldier’s arms, finally releasing the harpoon gun she had held onto all this time. It clanged when it hit the floor, bounced, clanged again, bounced, thence, at last, whirled to a spinning rest.

  A small pinpoint of light penetrated the sweet nothingness. Susan had been in a void, in oblivion, unaware. Now they were coming for her, to take her to the light. It wouldn’t be as peaceful as the oblivion, but it would be all right. Then the light got larger and mightier. The voices of men, and cool rush of air: It was heaven or life on earth.

  But whichever it was she knew she’d never go to hell for she had seen it and been there. Now, men and cool air sought her out. Ocean fluids came for her. The ocean poured into her veins, restoring life to her body. So it was life on earth still. That was OK. For now, she knew it was a taste of heaven. Soon the pain would return. She would welcome it. She was alive.

  It took a while. But they were experts. They released the Ex-Gee’s hatch. The two men and two women lay strewn about the cabin, as if someone had picked them up like sticks and dropped them. Arms and legs splayed everywhere, intertwining. Air rushed in. The rescue team rushed in.

  “Pulse weak, spotty. BP, 95 over 45.” So the reports went, back to the Nebraska’s bridge. They were barely alive. But they were alive and might yet survive. Somehow all four of them were alive.

  Olgelby saw his commander punch the air, dance a little jig step. His decisions had been good ones after all.

  “Bridge, radio.”

  “Bridge, aye.”

  “All areas secured by Alpha team. Resistance ended. Twenty down. Thirty wounded. Fourteen prisoners. One casualty AT. One casualty civilian. Code name Blondie. Receiving medical attention at this time.”

  “Copy that. Notify ATL our situation. Ex-Gee secured. Well, what’s left of her. Huh. The only thing left is the cabin with them in it. All hands alive in critical condition. Rendezvous ETA—XO.”

  “Forty minutes, skipper. We need to secure these people with care, and secure the vessel. As you say, sir, what is left of it. Forty min—forty-five minutes.”

  “Copy that X0.” He received another report on the medical condition of the crew inside what was left of the small submersible. “Better make that ninety minutes.”

  On the Ex-Gee, the men worked furiously to hook up IV’s. The Corpsman instructed full-bore wide-open drip-piggy-back second-bag saline solution, prophylactic vaccines and antibiotics.

  “Jesus. Carl. Look at their skin, eyebrows. There. I’ve never seen, my God. It’s their second layer of skin. The outer has been excoriated. But how—”

  “Burned off I suppose. Damn. Move them gingerly. Here, the burn cot. They’ve got first and second-degree burns everywhere. Going to be a long hard recovery for these folks.”

  “Keep the IV’s pouring in, the oxygen masks and bags going. They’ve been to hell. Let’s give them a fighting chance.”

  “Copy that.”

  8

  Cooltide

  Jennifer drove into the parking lot. She parked the rented car. She opened the door. She turned to exit. A soft swift breeze caught her skirt, billowing it high, exposing her well formed thighs. Two marines happened by. In an ages-old interplay of stolen glances and furtive turning at the last timed second, the men walked by.

  She didn’t mind. She felt flattered. She felt good that after all she went through, there were those who felt she still had her figure. She was beginning to feel it herself, that enviable, confident inner feeling of being a beautiful woman and knowing it.

  She opened the back door. She reached in the back seat. She pulled out the plant. Susan liked ferns. They reminded her of sea plants, reaching upwards. Everything in the sea seemed to reach up, to try to reach the surface.

  On land we reach, Jennifer thought; whilst into the sea we dive deep. Or try to.

  Only three days ago, she had been released from the hospital. Her wound healed well. In a few days she would return to have her stitches removed. Now she came practically every day to see Susan. Hodges came to see her also. He stayed by her bedside as long as he could. He held her hand.

  She thought of Allen. He was home most weekends now. That was nice. As for Magruder …

  Magruder was, well, she couldn’t say. He had always acted strange, a little strange man. It wasn’t just the close call of sabotage and his also being a patient. Something else. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Well, what did it matter, after all?

  The thing bothered her as it had bothered her before. She had deduced it. She had tried to tell them, but kept slipping in and out of consciousness. Foxworth mentioned the other one down there. She hadn’t been able to understand that at first.

  The woman meant there was a third. A third conspirator on board the small submersible, on board. The third traitor had been on the Ex-Gee after all. Only he couldn’t do anything since he had been unconscious. Fortunately, his recovery was slower than the others. She had finally been able to tell Barnstone. Magruder was now somewhere else, in a prison hospital. There was sufficient evidence. He would heal. He would make a deal and serve some time. After all, there were still others of the conspiracy, probably world-wide linked, out there.

  This was the day Susan might be able to sit up. Perhaps later in the day, she could walk out to the hall.

  The doctors were amazed that the crew of the Ex-Gee had survived. Indeed the outer layer of protective skin, the exoderm, had been excoriated. Only the second layer of skin, the endoderm, had saved them. And these were blisters, abrasions, deteriorated conditions. There was no skin to transpose or transplant. They gave them full-drip IVs, Demerol and morphine in high dosages, heavy vitamin E and other vitamin injections, and vitamin E and aloe vera gel rubs gingerly upon them, and frequently they were kept in ice baths or cool water baths.

  Mostly however, they were compelled to wait it out.

  As the days and now weeks proceeded, they all realized with serendipity that those resultant hideous skin-scar masks of burn victims would be only subtly apparent. In effect, they would not form the grotesque so often formed in a patchwork quilt of healed and inlaid skin.

  The doctors and nurses were amazed.

  Susan, Jennifer, and Barnstone thought this curative generation resulted from some unknown exposure that had happened to them in the vent, in the heat of the volcanic chambers, or in the belly of Leviathan, as they now referred to the creature. Or, creatures. They recalled they thought they had caught glimpses of others.

  The doctors were uncertain the cause of this beneficent dermatological phenomenon. But Jennifer and Susan believed the answer indeed lay in the fires under the sea. For something else had occurred there.

  Susan’s palsy had disappeared. Her clinical presentation showed none of the disease’s remarkable features.

  Was there some sort of electro-chemical energy generated by the myriad, teeming pleomorphic life down there, a sort of Rife Ray blast that cured diseases even without needing t
o dissect the genetics? Jennifer, seriously wounded, and not tending to it properly at all at first, should have taken longer to recover, and also astonished her physicians. Perhaps someday they could return. The design had to be improved though. There was a way … if they could …

  Her mind turned the design over again, the nips and tucks, the double bat wing of titanium and silicon she considered.

  Jennifer Littleton walked up the circular concrete walk. Azaleas bloomed from the center-round median of the walkway.

  At a distance she heard a sprinkler. Men and women in surgical greens, in military uniforms, in day-to-day civilian business and casual wear came and went through the circular revolving doors she was about to enter.

  She stopped at the entrance. She turned. She looked up. She had thought she heard them. Three gulls glided low over the area. They seemed to gaze down upon her. They turned with a masterful grace. They swooped back out to sea. She continued on her way. She knew the route well by now.

  “Susan, you’re OK.”

  She was sitting up in bed for the first time. She smiled. Yes, she was beautiful once and would be beautiful again. “We’re going to publish a paper.”

  “I know.”

  “’Non-Photosynthetic DNA Origins Within Sentient Entities in a Large Aperture Thermo-generating Deep-Sea Vent: Silicon and Methane Origins of Carbon-Based Systemics.’ Something like that. You’re better with titles.”

  “We have time now. We’ll put something together.”

  “It’s a momentous discovery, Jennifer. Momentous.”

  “I know, Susan.”

  “Look at us. We should be dead. Or appearing like it. We’re practically back on our feet. Hell, you have been for a while. What, a day, no two or three.”

  Jennifer noticed that since she had been back, there was an earthy, non-academic side to her mentor and friend that had not been there before. The vents changed many things, she guessed. Or men did. A man.