by Unknown
Jonah kept his voice even and matter-of-fact, the way a vessel captain should, even though his stomach churned with dread, explaining how external keel weights saved interior cargo space. Also, newer craft used bubbles with slimmer walls. You didn’t want to penetrate them with too many inlets, valves, and such.
“And no one else has your new pump,” Petri added. And her approving tone meant more to Jonah, in these final minutes, than he ever would have expected.
“Of course. . . .” he mused.
“Yes? You’ve thought of something?”
“Well, if we could somehow cut the tether cable. . . .”
“We’d sink back to safety!” Then Petri frowned. “But we’re the only chance they have, on the Pride of Laussane. Without our weight, they would shoot skyward like a seed pip from a lorgo fruit.”
“Anyway, it’s up to them to decide,” Jonah explained. “The tether release is at their end, not ours. Sorry. It’s a design flaw that I’ll fix as soon as I get a chance, right after repainting your name on the stern.”
“Hm. See that you do,” she commanded.
Then, after a brief pause, “Do you think they might release us, when they realize both ships are doomed?”
Jonah shrugged. There was no telling what people would do when faced with such an end. He vowed to stand watch though, just in case.
He sneezed hard, twice. Pressure effects were starting to tell on him.
“Should we inform the others?” he asked Petri, with a nod back toward Bird’s other two compartments, where the crying had settled down to low whimpers from a couple of younger kids.
She shook her head. “It will be quick, yes?”
Jonah considered lying and dismissed the idea.
“It depends. As we rise, the water pressure outside falls, so if air pressure inside remains high, that could lead to a blowout, cracking one of our shells, letting the sea rush in awfully fast. So fast, we’ll be knocked out before we can drown. Of course, that’s the least gruesome end.”
“What a cheerful lad,” she commented. “Go on.”
“Let’s say the hull compartments hold. This is a tough old bird.” He patted the nearest curved flank. “We can help protect against blowout by venting compartment air, trying to keep pace with falling pressure outside. In that case, we’ll suffer one kind or another kind of pressure-change disease. The most common is the bends. That’s when gas that’s dissolved in our blood suddenly pops into tiny bubbles that fill your veins and arteries. I hear it’s a painful way to die.”
Whether because of his mutation, or purely in his mind, Jonah felt a return of the scratchy throat and burning eyes. He turned his head barely in time to sneeze away from the window, and Petri.
She was looking behind them, into the next compartment. “If death is unavoidable, but we can pick our way to die, then I say let’s choose—”
At that moment, Jonah tensed at a sudden, jarring sensation—a snap that rattled the viewing patch in front of him. Something was happening, above and ahead. Without light from the Cleopatra domes, darkness was near total outside, broken only by some algae glow bulbs placed along the flank of the Pride of Laussane. Letting go of Petri, he went to all the bulbs inside the Birds’s forward compartment and covered them, then hurried back to press his face against the viewing patch.
“What is it?” Petri asked. “What’s going on?”
“I think. . . .” Jonah made out a queer, sinuous rippling in the blackness between the two submarines.
He jumped as something struck the window. With pounding heart, he saw and heard a snakelike thing slither across the clear zone of bubble, before falling aside. And beyond, starting from just twenty meters away, the row of tiny glow spots now shot upward, like legendary rockets, quickly diminishing, then fading from view.
“The tether,” he announced in a matter-of-fact voice.
“They let go? Let us go?” A blend of hope and awe in her voice.
“Made sense,” he answered. “They were goners anyway.” And now they will be the heroes, when all is told. Songs will be sung about their choice, back home.
That is, assuming there still is a home. We have no idea if Leininger Dome was the only victim, this time.
He stared at the pressure gauge. After a long pause when it refused to budge, the needle finally began to move. Opposite to its former direction of change.
“We’re descending,” he decreed with a sigh. “In fact, we’d better adjust. To keep from falling too fast. It wouldn’t do, to reach safety down there, only to crack open from impact.”
Jonah put the Sadoulite dad—Xerish—to work, pumping in the opposite direction, less frantically than before, but harder work, using compressed air to push out and overboard some water from the ballast tanks, while Petri, now experienced, handled the valves. After supervising for a few minutes, he went back to the viewing port and peered outside. I must keep a sharp lookout for the lights of Cleo Canyon. We may have drifted laterally and I can adjust better while we’re falling than later, at the bottom. He used the rudder and stubby elevation planes to turn his little sub, explaining to Petri how it was done. She might have to steer, if Jonah’s strength was needed on the propeller crank.
A low, concussive report caused the chamber to rattle and groan. Not as bad as the horrid thump had been, but closer, coming from somewhere above. Jonah shared eye contact with Petri, a sad recognition of something inevitable. The end of a gallant ship—Pride of Laussane.
Two more muffled booms followed, rather fainter, then another.
They must have closed their inner hatches. Each compartment is failing separately.
But something felt wrong about that. The third concussion, especially, had felt deep-throated, lasting longer than reasonable. Amid another bout of sneezing, Jonah pressed close against the view patch once again, in order to peer about. First toward the bottom, then upward.
Clearly, this day had to be the last straw. It rang a death knell for the old, complacent ways of doing things. Leininger had been a big, important colony, and perhaps not today’s only major victim. If thumps were going unpredictable and lethal, then Cleopatra might have to be abandoned.
Jonah knew very little about the plan concocted by Petri’s mysterious cabal of young women and men, though he was glad to have been chosen to help. To follow a rascal’s legend in search of new homes. In fact, two things were abundantly clear. Expeditions must get under way just as soon as we get back. And there should be more than just one, following Melvil’s clues. Subs must be sent in many directions! If Venus created other realms filled with hollow volcanic globes that can be seeded with Earthly life, then we must find them.
A second fact had also emerged, made evident during the last hour or so. Jonah turned to glance back at a person he had barely known, until just a day ago.
It appears that I married really well.
Although the chamber was very dim, Petri glanced up from her task and noticed him looking at her. She smiled—an expression of respect and dawning equality that seemed just as pleased as he now felt. Jonah smiled back— then unleashed another great sneeze. At which she chirped a short laugh and shook her head in fake-mocking ruefulness.
Grinning, he turned back to the window, gazed upward—then shouted— “Grab something! Brace yourselves!”
That was all he had time or breath to cry, while yanking on the tiller cables and shoving his knee hard against the elevator control plane. Bird heeled over to starboard, both rolling and struggling to yaw-turn. Harsh cries of surprise and alarm erupted from the back compartments, as crates and luggage toppled.
He heard Petri shout, “Stay where you are!” at the panicky Xerish, who whimpered in terror. Jonah caught a glimpse of them, reflected in the view patch, as they clutched one of the air-storage bottles to keep from tumbling across the deck, onto the right-side bulkhead.
Come on, old boy, he urged the little sub and wished he had six strong men cranking at the stern end, driving the propeller to
accelerate Bird of Tairee forward. If there had been, Jonah might—just barely—have guided the sub clear of peril tumbling from above. Debris from a catastrophe, only a small fraction of it glittering in the darkness.
Hard chunks of something rattled against the hull. He glimpsed an object, thin and metallic—perhaps a torn piece of pipe—carom off the view patch with a bang, plowing several nasty scars before it fell away. Jonah half expected the transparent zone to start spalling and cracking at any second.
That didn’t happen, but now debris was coming down in a positive rain, clattering along the whole length of his vessel, testing the sturdy old shells with every strike. Desperate, he hauled even harder, steering Bird away from what seemed the worst of it, toward a zone that glittered a bit less. More cries erupted from the back two chambers.
I should have sealed the hatches, he thought. But then, what good would that do for anyone, honestly? Having drifted laterally from Cleo Canyon, any surviving chambers would be helpless, unable to maneuver, never to be found or rescued before the stored air turned to poison. Better that we all go together.
He recognized the sound that most of the rubble made upon the hull—bubble stone striking more bubble stone. Could it all have come from the Pride of Laussane? Impossible! There was far too much.
Leininger.
The doomed dome must have imploded, or exploded, or simply come apart without the stabilizing pressure of the depths. Then, with all its air lost and rushing skyward, the rest would plummet. Shards of bubble wall, dirt, pinyons glowing feebly as they drifted ever lower . . . and people. That was the detritus Jonah most hoped to avoid.
There. It looks jet-black over there. The faithful old sub had almost finished its turn. Soon he might slack off, setting the boat upright. Once clear of the debris field, he could check on the passengers, then go back to seeking the home canyon. . . .
He never saw whatever struck next, but it had to be big, perhaps a major chunk of Leininger’s wall. The blow hammered all three compartments in succession, ringing them like great gongs, making Jonah cry out in pain. There were other sounds, like ripping, tearing. The impact—somewhere below and toward portside, lifted him off his feet, tearing one of the rudder straps out of Jonah’s hand, leaving him to swing wildly by the other. Bird sawed hard to the left as Jonah clawed desperately to reclaim the controls.
At any moment, he expected to greet the harsh, cold sea and have his vessel join the skyfall of lost hopes.
6.
Only gradually did it dawn on him—it wasn’t over. The peril and problems, he wasn’t about to escape them that easily. Yes, damage was evident, but the hulls—three ancient, volcanic globes—still held.
In fact, some while after that horrible collision, it did seem that Bird of Tairee had drifted clear of the heavy stuff. Material still rained upon the sub, but evidently softer items. Like still-glowing chunks of pinyon vine.
Petri took charge of the rear compartments, crisply commanding passengers to help one another dig out and assessing their hurts, in order of priority. She shouted reports to Jonah, whose hands were full. In truth, he had trouble hearing what she said over the ringing in his ears and had to ask for repetition several times. The crux: one teenager had a fractured wrist, while others bore bruises and contusions—a luckier toll than he expected. Bema—the Sadoulite mother—kept busy delivering first aid.
More worrisome was a leak. Very narrow, but powerful, a needle jet spewed water into the rear compartment. Not through a crack in the shell—fortunately—but via the packing material that surrounded the propeller bearing. Jonah would have to go back and have a look, but first he assessed other troubles. For example, the sub wouldn’t right herself completely. There was a constant tilt to starboard around the roll axis . . . then he checked the pressure gauge and muttered a low invocation to ancient gods and demons of Old Earth.
“We’ve stopped falling,” he confided to Petri in the stern compartment, once the leak seemed under control. It had taken some time, showing the others how to jam rubbery cloths into the bearing, then bracing it all with planks of wood torn from the floor. The arrangement was holding, for now.
“How can that be?” she asked. “We were heavy when the Pride let us go. I thought our problem was how to slow our descent.”
“It was. Till our collision with whatever hit us. Based on where it struck, along the portside keel, I’d guess that it knocked off some of our static ballast—the stones lashed to our bottom. The same thing that happened to Pride during that awful thump quake. Other stones may have been dislodged or had just one of their lashings cut, leaving them to dangle below the starboard side, making us tilt like this. From these two examples, I’d say we’ve just learned a lesson today, about a really bad flaw in the whole way we’ve done sub design.”
“So which is it? Are we rising?”
Jonah nodded.
“Slowly. It’s not too bad yet. And I suppose it’s possible we might resume our descent if we fill all the ballast tanks completely. Only there’s a problem.”
“Isn’t there always?” Petri rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated.
“Yeah.” He gestured toward where Xerish—by luck a carpenter—was hammering more bracing into place. Jonah lowered his voice. “If we drop back to the seafloor, that bearing may not hold against full-bottom pressure. It’s likely to start spewing again, probably faster.”
“If it does, how long will we have?”
Jonah frowned. “Hard to say. Air pressure would fight back, of course. Still, I’d say less than an hour. Maybe not that much. We would have to spot one of the canyon domes right away, steer right for it, and plop ourselves into dock as fast as possible, with everyone cranking like mad—”
“—only using the propeller will put even more stress on the bearing,” Petri concluded with a thoughtful frown. “It might blow completely.”
Jonah couldn’t prevent a brief smile. Brave enough to face facts . . . and a mechanical aptitude, as well? I could find this woman attractive.
“Well, I’m sure we can work something out,” she added. “You haven’t let us down yet.”
Not yet, he thought, and returned to work, feeling trapped by her confidence in him. And cornered by the laws of chemistry and physics—as well as he understood them with his meager education, taken from ancient books that were rudimentary and obsolete when the Founders first came to Venus, cowering away from alien invaders under a newborn ocean, while comets poured in with perfect regularity.
Perfect for many lifetimes, but not forever. Not anymore. Even if we make it home, then go ahead with the Melvil Plan, and manage to find another bubble-filled canyon less affected by the rogue thumps, how long will that last?
Wasn’t this whole project, colonizing the bottom of an alien sea with crude technology, always doomed from the start?
In the middle compartment, Jonah opened his personal chest and took out some treasures—books and charts that he had personally copied under supervision by Scholar Wu, onto bundles of hand-scraped pinyon leaves. In one, he verified his recollection of Boyle’s Law and the dangers of changing air pressure on the human body. From another he got a formula that—he hoped—might predict how the leaky propeller-shaft bearing would behave if they descended the rest of the way.
Meanwhile, Petri put a couple of the larger teen girls to work on a bilge pump, transferring water from the floor of the third compartment into some almost full ballast tanks. Over the next hour, Jonah kept glancing at the pressure gauge. The truck appeared to be leveling off again. Up and down. Up and down. This can’t be good for my old Bird.
Leveled. Stable . . . for now. That meant the onus fell on him, with no excuse.
To descend and risk the leak becoming a torrent, blasting those who worked the propeller crank . . . or else. . . .
Two hands laid pressure on his shoulders and squeezed inward, surrounding his neck, forcefully. Slim hands, kneading tense muscles and tendons. Jonah closed his eyes, not wanting to divulge
what he had decided.
“Some wedding day, huh?”
Jonah nodded. No verbal response seemed needed. He felt married for years—and glad of the illusion. Evidently, Petri knew him now, as well.
“I bet you’ve figured out what to do.”
He nodded again.
“And it won’t be fun, or offer good odds of success.”
A headshake. Left, then right.
Her hands dug in, wreaking a mixture of pleasure and pain, like life.
“Then tell me, husband,” she commanded, coming around to bring their faces close. “Tell me what you’ll have us do. Which way do we go?”
He exhaled a sigh. Then inhaled. And finally spoke one word.
“Up.”
7.
Toward the deadly sky. Toward Venusian Hell. It had to be. No other choice was possible.
“If we rise to the surface, I can try to repair the bearing from inside, without water gushing through. And if it requires outside work, then I can do that by putting on a helmet and coveralls. Perhaps they’ll keep out the poisons long enough.”
Petri shuddered at the thought. “Let us hope that won’t be necessary.”
“Yeah. Though while I’m there I could also fix the ballast straps holding some of the weight stones to our keel. I . . . just don’t see any other way.”
Petri sat on a crate opposite Jonah, mulling it over.
“Wasn’t upward motion what destroyed Leininger Colony and the Pride?”
“Yes . . . but their ascent was uncontrolled. Rapid and chaotic. We’ll rise slowly, reducing cabin air pressure in pace with the decreased push of water outside. We have to go slow, anyway, or the gas that’s dissolved in our blood will boil and kill us. Slow and gentle. That’s the way.”
She smiled. “You know all the right things to say to a virgin.”
Jonah felt his face go red, and was relieved when Petri got serious again.
“If we rise slowly, won’t there be another problem? Won’t we run out of breathable air?”
He nodded. “Activity must be kept to a minimum. Recycle and shift stale air into bottles, exchanging with the good air they now contain. Also, I have a spark separator.”