by Blaze Ward
And Chike didn’t have any insulation.
Well, a small beer belly, but hypothermia would be setting in quickly in this environment.
Fairchild started to swim hard, digging with her hands and kicking with her powerful legs, as if she could outrun the river itself to sunlight.
Chike
It was the cold that brought him to his senses.
Chike had thrown off the covers while he slept and was now too cold to stay asleep.
But he couldn’t find them when he reached to pull those covers back up.
Floating.
That wasn’t right.
He opened his eyes. At least he thought he did.
The darkness didn’t change.
The cold was bone deep. It was becoming painful.
Chike splashed his hands out of the water.
Water?
Water. Cold water, seeping into his boots, his belt, and his wrists. Already, his core temperature was dropping.
Where the hell was he?
Escudra VI. Puquios. Landslide.
Things flashed back suddenly.
Falling. Tumbling. Blackout.
Now he was in an underground river. That was what Fairchild had said. She had been following a man–made artifact above ground that she thought was an aqueduct.
Why hadn’t he drowned when he fell in?
He was floating upright. How was that possible?
And he could breathe.
Helmet. Emergency suit to jump out of a Survey Shuttle named Calypso–2.
Chike’s brains felt like they had rattled loose in his skull. He wondered if this was what it felt like to have suffered a concussion. Certainly, everything was muddled.
More muddled than normal for him.
He was in an underground river, floating along on the current, and he was so cold that it hurt.
He was also in an emergency suit.
“Helmet, lights on, please,” he said out loud, hoping that the onboard system was smart enough to overcome a dumb user.
A single beam of light suddenly lit in the middle of his forehead, like a unicorn fish.
The walls were smooth, but he could see where stones had been cut to shape and set.
The suit was holding him upright. Apparently, there was one of those automated inflation devices, like aircraft and ground–to–orbit shuttles were always carrying on about, during the pre–flight safety lecture everybody ignored. It was holding his head above water, and letting his feet drag below him in the current.
But it was still damned cold.
Chike turned his unicorn helmet to the sides, trying to figure out how he could escape the water before hypothermia set in and he was too weak to move.
Lacumaces was up above. Fairchild was as well. And Eleanor. It had been delightful to meet a fully sentient AI. Those were so rare.
But it made sense that someone like Lady Danielle Cooper would have one. He would have to figure out a way to let her know that he knew who she was, if only so he could cover for her.
Gods, it was getting hard to think, as well. The cold was leeching into his brains and turning them to molasses.
At least Lacumaces had put him in the suit before the smoke jump. Otherwise, he would have already passed out.
How to use the time he had left?
Chike let the light play on his right. There seemed to be a lip of some sort, like a swimming pool might have.
Ledge, that was the word.
This is getting bad. I need to get warm. Does the suit have any brains, or just the helmet?
“Suit, temperature up, please,” he said in a weak voice.
Nothing responded, so he couldn’t tell if it didn’t understand, or just couldn’t do that. Hard to tell.
Chike the Adventurer was going to have to save his own ass, if he wanted out of this alive.
Next week, survival classes that include rapid–water immersion. Maybe I should become a paramedic, while I’m at it.
Chike laughed out loud at the overall silliness of a forty–six–year–old geologist inventing a second life for himself as an adventurer. But hadn’t Lacumaces given up being a fabulously–overpaid doctor to live as a Ground Services expert?
You gotta do what’s going to make you happy, maybe, instead of what society expects of you.
He could add some adventuring to his life. He was already having more fun and felt more alive that he had in decades.
Okay, first, swim.
Chike’s helmet made motion awkward, since it refused to go under water for longer than a moment. He ended up kind of dog–paddling to one side and drawing closer to the lip.
He found the stone to be smooth as it carried him along, unable to hold on to anything before the current ripped his hands loose.
Oh, dear. Growing weaker.
He felt his hands begin to curl into angry, painful, little talons. At least his legs were still warm from all the kicking. But he needed to get out of the water quickly.
Aqueduct. Ancient Roman method of delivering water from the mountains to a city, usually by means of elevated stone platforms that traveled at a very, very gentle slope.
Qanat was an even older technique that dated to ancient Persia, but served the same general principle. Deliver water from a frigid, mountain spring to a city so that you could have agriculture in the desert.
But the ones he remembered were much smaller. Perhaps a few meters wide and barely a meter deep. He would have been able to stand up in one of those and free himself.
This was a monstrous undertaking, delivering a tremendous amount of water somewhere.
And he needed to help his rescuers.
Would it better to try to swim upriver, on the assumption that they would be coming after him, or downriver on the assumption that the faster he got to daylight, the better off he would be?
An adventurer would know this answer. The geologist was stumped.
Chike saw a flash of light above him as he tried to get enough friction to hold himself still against the current.
Skylight.
No, another puquios.
The water was rougher suddenly, almost white and choppy.
Chike realized why the shaft was angled and threaded. It would channel wind down into the tube and help push the water faster.
He also felt a jar as his fingers encountered some sort of flaw in the stone of the walkway.
That made sense, if this was man–made. Or whomever made.
If you came down the shaft, you might want to tie up a boat so you could explore and repair the tunnel.
How far apart were they?
Fairchild had said they were regular, and she had been seeing them without realizing what they signified until she looked down one.
The rest of the roof was smooth, except for the hole near the top on his right as he tried to swim against the current and hold his place.
It was a futile gesture.
But he could work his way downriver, using the exercise to keep his muscles warm, and see if he could catch the next one.
Riding an underground river was nice, but he was cold, miserable, and trapped.
He wanted out.
Now.
Fairchild
Times like this, she really could have used the electronics that had gotten shattered by the face of the mountain last night. Her radio wouldn’t punch through thirty meters of rock, but it would have worked just fine down in this tunnel to call Chike and let him know that help was on the way.
Yelling would have required her to open the faceplate and risk sucking in water.
And there was no other way to signal.
Or was there?
Fairchild had her headlights blasting away at the darkness like cutting lasers. She turned down river and looked, but she was too close to the surface of the rough water to see anything.
She could, however, signal him with the lights, if he was awake. Let him know that help was in the tunnel.
Fairchild reached up and bli
nked her lights three times. Three, the ancient and standard way to indicate distress.
There was no response, but she really didn’t expect any. Chike had gotten a long head start from the time he had fallen until she could get Lacumaces to understand the next steps. Then she had glided down the ramp where he had free–fallen.
Call it two minutes, water speed unknown but fast enough to have pushed him forward.
She looked up as she thought, seeing the tunnel without the benefit of Eleanor’s brains and encyclopedic memory. Definitely a made–thing, and not the result of gigantic moles. Organic ones, anyway. Although that would have made for an even cooler discovery: Fairchild’s Monstrous Moles.
Chike was never going to let her get away with not claiming at least some credit for this discovery. Especially not after she rescued him from it.
She would have to embrace fame. See if she could parley it into fortune, or at least a better flying gig.
Grow up, although she growled angrily at herself and the universe for even suggesting the concept.
Lady Danielle Cooper, that quivering, mewing little airhead who was only useful as an adornment on some man’s arm, was going to have to die. Right here, in this darkness. Buried in this wet tomb.
Only Fairchild would be allowed to live.
Or neither of them. Because if she couldn’t handle it, there were still ways. But she was never going back to Alphonse Cooper’s orbit.
She would die first. That much, she could promise.
Fairchild took a deep breath and let go.
Crying inside a sealed life support environment was a stupid thing to do. She didn’t care. The tears squeezed themselves out and splashed off the inside of her faceplate, salty kisses when she opened her mouth to breathe.
Fairchild would survive and none of the rest of them.
Did that mean Eleanor was no longer needed?
Her oldest friend in the world had also been her constant minder for over twenty–five years. Had she helped keep Dani sane, or retarded her emotionally so that Alphonse Cooper could control his wayward daughter?
So many questions.
Lady Danielle Cooper might have sought answers. Dani would have wanted to know.
Fairchild didn’t give a shit.
She was a Golden Eagle, flying the skies of Escudra VI even as she swam the chthonic depths, seeking Pluto.
This was the River Styx. There was a ferryman awaiting his two silver pieces for her soul, somewhere down there.
He couldn’t have it.
Not without a fight.
Fairchild was not about to surrender.
A chill came over her soul, starting behind her belly–button and spreading to her limbs before it turned to liquid fire in her veins.
Where had this new demanding bitch come from?
The other bitch had wanted her to surrender, to curl up and die. To not fight any more.
But she was still Alphonse Cooper’s daughter in her blood.
Try me, lady.
Fairchild unconsciously took a breath as she dove, even with the life support cocooning her.
She let the rage power her legs as she started a aggressive dolphin kick and pushed herself hard against the water.
Charon might be willing to take Chike’s soul down here.
She would just have to fight him for it.
Chike
The cold was growing worse. He could feel it seeping in through a gap in the jumpsuit near his waist, into his socks, and around his wrists where the gloves weren’t water tight.
Why did a smoke jumper need to be water tight, anyway?
The swimming helped. His legs were tight and stiff, but still moving. He could breathe as he forced himself to dog–paddle down river, working to use every muscle and keep them warm enough that he could try his luck at the next overhead tunnel entrance.
Chike was afraid he had missed the next vertical in the darkness as he swam, the monotony was so great. But he saw it far enough ahead that he could get himself turned sideways and do a long stroke to try and stay even, relative to the water.
It worked, for the most part. He kept bumping his nose against the rock, but he managed to get close and was just barely moving down river at this point.
What he didn’t know was how long he could keep it up. Being an adventurer was requiring way more effort than his forty–six–year–old butt could handle. Add that to the list of things next week. More pushups, more sit–ups, get your lazy bottom out of the chair and do some exercise so you can keep up with these kids.
Otherwise, crap like this might kill you.
Chike counted his too–fast heartbeats and hoped he was close enough. He surged up and got his head above the level of the stone lip.
There. Dark spot. Hopefully nothing is living there. Or at least, hopefully, they aren’t venomous.
He stabbed out with his left hand and managed to hook his fingers into the little, recessed dimple. There was a ring or something there. He couldn’t tell without climbing out of the water, but that presented its own problem.
The water did not relent in trying to drag him down into the darkness. And there was nothing else to grab onto if he wanted to pull himself out of the water.
And it was cold.
The coldness had seeped all the way into his bones now, worse since he was just hanging on and not swimming.
And now his arm was starting to go to sleep.
But he could see daylight overhead, a Roman–style Oculus letting late–afternoon sun down into his abyss.
Rain was up there somewhere, circling and waiting for a signal. Lacumaces would be along soon and he would have a plan.
But it was cold.
Chike wondered if he should just let go. The waves would try to claim him, but the helmet would keep them at bay, at least for a while.
And if this was an aqueduct, it had to come out somewhere.
Or did, once upon a very long time ago.
What happened to major feats of engineering, when your society has so collapsed that all evidence of your species had vanished?
It was possible that the river never surfaced. Perhaps it just went on underground forever, and he would never make it out. The battery in his unicorn lamp would last for a long time, even after his oxygen had given out.
They would have to send specialist dive teams down to recover his body, assuming that he hadn’t been eaten by fish. At least not too badly.
Something caught his eye.
Lights below him nearly made Chike wet himself.
Something was moving beneath the water, and it glowed.
And it was coming closer.
Okay, maybe it was time to pee.
At least that was warm, even as his heart turned to ice.
Fairchild
So far, so good.
The water was almost transparent as Fairchild swam along, letting her life support protect her from what must be glacially–cold temperatures while she looked for Chike’s body.
If he had drowned, he would be down here somewhere, floating just below the surface. Bodies didn’t start floating until the decay of death caused them to fill up with gas and rise to the surface.
Nothing.
She had not missed him. And she couldn’t imagine that he could have gotten himself out of the water.
Briefly, Fairchild considered surfacing, just so she could pop her faceplate and yell once. The tunnel would echo badly, but he would at least know someone was there.
Plus, the headlights would help.
What was that?
Ah, found him.
He’d managed to grab onto something and hold still against the current.
Almost swam right by him.
Fairchild turned her lithe body like an eel and began to dig hard against the water.
It was flowing at barely a walking pace. Implacable, but not impossible. She managed to make good headway, getting a significant distance back before she surfaced.
Wouldn’t do to p
op up so close she blasted right by him, nor managed to knock him loose from whatever he was holding onto.
Once clear, she turned around and surfaced, somewhere between a submarine probe and a sturgeon.
Quickly, she unlocked her faceplate and opened it. It was fine if she got water inside right now. Her neck was sealed, and the helmet was designed with enough positive pressure and backflow valves that it would empty itself back out quickly.
It was like she had bought the absolute most expensive, top of the line model, or something.
Never jump out of a shuttle with cheap gear.
She wouldn’t be able to hold perfectly still, swimming on her side, but it would be close enough to talk.
“Hiya, doc,” she called.
“God, I thought you were a shark or something,” Chike exhaled back. “Do you have any idea what those lights look like underwater when you move around?”
Nope, but it sounded like yet another interesting sport she could invent when she got home. Or at least back to civilization.
She laughed instead, and accidentally swallowed a mouthful of water. It was pure. Colder than hell, but tasted lovely.
“You okay?” she finally sputtered. “Hold on.”
Fairchild took a deep breath, popped her faceplate closed, and dolphin–kicked hard a few times to gain a couple of body lengths before she surfaced and opened her helmet.
“I’ve got a grommet to hold, or something,” Chike yelled as she swam. “But the water’s too cold and I can’t find a way to get up on the rock.”
Fairchild drove herself up in the air, using both legs and the glider membrane hooked to her ankles. She was going to have to build a version of this suit for scuba diving, when she got home. Pretend to be a manta or something, and just free–glide the water. She’d need a stinger tail or something, though. Partly for verisimilitude, partly for protection against large predators sneaking up on her.
More hobbies for Fairchild. Good thing I’m about to become a fashion icon, too. I’ll be able to afford more toys.
Inspiration took the form of a shark. She could hear the orchestral music start up in her head so loud she nearly burst out laughing.