Submerged

by Seanan McGuire

  The ice walls flow by, smooth and cylindrical, the only disturbance the vibration of sliding along the rails.

  The armature stops and I’m afraid there’s been a problem until the hatch slides shut beneath me.

  I’m here.

  I begin the post-dive checks.

  I hesitate, worrying about what’ll happen to me if I try to return and they’ve already woken “me” up and taken me out of the tank. Will I dissolve in the tank’s blue gel? Will I be held in some buffer in a computer?

  I don’t know. I’ve avoided learning how any of it works.

  At least they’ll get the vid of me and Twitchy saluting each other. Something for the scientists to chew on. Maybe I’ll get an honorable mention in the Nobel Prize speech.

  Post-dive checks are through.

  I hesitate again. Then, like flipping a switch in my mind, I leave.

  GO WITH THE FLOW

  Esther Friesner

  “Honey, is something wrong?” Brent Crawn drew back from the lingering kiss he’d bestowed upon his fiancée, Cecilia. “Your mind’s elsewhere; I can tell. Is that the welcome I deserve when I’ve been away so long? Don’t tell me you’ve found someone else!”

  He couldn’t help chuckling sotto voce at that. How could “someone else” hope to compete with what he brought to the table…and the bed? From one to ten on the Handsome scale, Brent ranked as Wowee and Then Some in the opinion of a lot of discerning ladies. Meanwhile, Cecilia’s appearance and mien both could be filed under Oh, Is That You? I Thought You Were a Desk. (It wasn’t a completely accurate assessment: unlike Cecilia, most desks fit in somewhere.) The only reason she didn’t have a cat was because she was so mousey, according to some of her more shrewish acquaintances.

  Cecilia shook her head meekly. “Nothing’s the matter, dear. It’s just that—”

  “Great!” Brent slipped his arm around her waist and steered her into the living room. “I need a drink. How’d you like to bring me a bourbon, rocks?” Without waiting for her to reply, he gave her an encouraging swat on the rump and slouched gracefully into his favorite chair, the lambskin upholstery bleating softly as he settled down.

  She brought his drink and took her usual place, perched on the ottoman at his feet. Although the posh penthouse and everything in it belonged to her, she couldn’t help looking like a barely tolerated visitor in her own home. Brent emptied his glass and rattled the ice cubes at her, the silent command for seconds, chop-chop. Only a man of his charisma could make such an imperious gesture seem like a priceless favor. Cecilia leaped up to demonstrate her gratitude. However, though she was swiftly back with his refill, she balked at handing it over. Instead she held it just out of reach as she rocked nervously from foot to foot beside his chair.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked. This question was not perfunctory since it concerned bourbon; his bourbon.

  “Dearest, do you—do you recall the girl I sponsored up until last May?”

  “Of course.” He frowned impatiently. “I was stuck telling her she’d washed out of the Crawn Institute voice studies program. I had such high hopes when she first enrolled! That’s why I chose you to be her patron. It was very hard on me when I realized she was a dead end. Why are you bringing up something so upsetting?”

  “I—no—I—”

  “Listen, I know we had that girl—Rita-something—we had her come here a lot while she was one of my students. I know you took a real liking to her. Do you want to see her again? Forget it. It’d give her the wrong idea, make her think the Institute’s giving her a second shot.”

  “No, no, it’s not that I want to reconnect with her; it’s just—” Cecilia nibbled her lower lip, unable to go on. Her hand trembled enough to set the ice cubes tinkling.

  Brent shook his head. “Cecilia, I am tired. Why are you working my last nerve? Am I being punished for leaving you alone for a month? It wasn’t a pleasure trip. I was scouting new talent for the Institute. I hear what some of your so-called friends say: ‘Oh, that Brent, Cecilia’s bought-and-paid-for pet! He wouldn’t look at her twice if she was poor.’” He glanced up. “Is that what this is about? Have they convinced you? Fine. Feel free to break our engagement. I can move out tonight. Never mind that I’m about to drop; I’ll do what makes you happy.”

  “No! Please don’t talk like that! I love you!” Tears smeared Cecilia’s face. The rattling of the ice cubes went from allegro to prestissimo. “It’s only—oh, I don’t want to say it!”

  “Your choice.” He sighed and let his body slump pathetically. “But if you’re going to make me play Twenty Questions, at least have the courtesy to let me do it drunk.” He held out one limp hand for the glass.

  She passed him his drink. The ice had diluted the bourbon to an abominable degree, but before he could demand a replacement, Cecilia took a deep breath and blurted: “Rita came by to see me a week after you left and she said you slept with her and with some of the other girls and you expelled them from the Institute when you broke up with them and you paid them off with enough to go to a trade school if they kept their mouths shut and she could use the money, especially now, but she said I was always so good to her that she’d rather give me the truth than have you give her the cash and—and—and—” She paused to get her second wind. “—and she’s pregnant and it’s yours.”

  Watered-down bourbon made for a bad drink but an excellent spit-take.

  The scene that ensued was epic in scope. Brent had to unleash all his past methods for convincing Cecilia that being a puppet was much better than becoming a Real Girl. He tried jollying her out of believing Rita’s revelations—mean girls and their mean pranks! Surely Cecilia was smart enough to see that she was being played? He tried slut-shaming—so many girls out there who were no better than unpaid whores! Surely Cecilia was smart enough to see that this false accusation of paternity was the little bitch’s get-rich gambit? He appealed to her sense of dedication to the future of Art. Surely Cecilia was smart enough to see that Rita was a vengeful harpy? If she couldn’t become an opera star, no one would! She’d destroy the school with this fake scandal.

  When these came a cropper, he tried acting hurt. Why was she treating him so shabbily? Didn’t she trust him? How could she let an outrageous lie destroy a love so true, so pure, so immortal?

  No dice.

  Then he just tried bullying and yelling.

  For once, Cecilia held her ground. She cringed and shivered and sobbed, but she did not concede. It was an exhausting battle for them both, one that Brent soon recognized as a possible Pyrrhic victory. When he’d set out on his trip—seeking starry-eyed wannabe singers who just happened to be beautiful, pliant young women—his fond parting words included making Cecilia swear she’d pay a visit to her lawyer. He sought no bequest for himself while he was merely her fiancé—that would be too blatant. Ah, but a hefty endowment for the Crawn Institute—? So charitable, so altruistic! (So discreetly to be used at the eponymous Founder’s discretion.) He didn’t want to risk alienating her if she hadn’t finalized that arrangement yet.

  First things first.

  “Baby, please stop crying.” He took her into his arms with premeditated tenderness. “Why don’t we talk this out later? I’ve got a much better idea of how we should spend tonight.”

  Cecilia crumpled into a damp little ball of acquiescence. She hated conflict as much as she loved her fiancé. Brent proceeded to pull out all the stops on the mighty Wurlitzer of Romance: he cooked her a gourmet dinner with lots and lots of wine. He presented all the trinkets he’d bought for her while on the road. (No need to mention that he’d had some shopping help from this or that young woman who’d warmed the solitary traveler’s bed.) He devastated the bouquet of red roses from the coffee table and cast their blooms over the sheets before making intense, expert love to her. Afterwards, he ran her a scented bubble bath and strewed the remaining petals atop the foam.

  As he helped her out of her robe, he kissed her neck and said, “Now wasn’t
that nicer than fighting?”

  “Nice mucher,” she said in fluent Merlot. A tipsy giggle punctuated her wobbly approach to the luxuriously deep, freestanding black marble tub.

  “You take a nice, long soak, darling,” he said. “Call me when you’re ready to come out. I’ll have some brandy waiting for us. Then you can tell me the good things you’ve done since I’ve been gone. You know, wedding plans?” He raised one eyebrow in a roguish manner. “Honeymoon details? A little chat with your lawyer about the Institute bequest?”

  “Of course, dear,” she cooed. “I saw him the day after you went away. I know that’s been on your mind.”

  “I don’t suppose you got around to mentioning the pre-nup while you were there?” he asked, giving her a steadying hand as she swung one leg over the bath’s massive rim. “Maybe tell them you’d like it to be a bit less …harsh?”

  “I didn’t think of it.” She teetered just a bit as she prepared to lift her other foot into the tub. “But I’ll do that next time, when I set up the trust for Rita’s baby. You know, only if the paternity test proves he’s—”

  “WHAT?!” Brent’s shock was explosive. He threw his arms wide, in a dramatic gesture many a soap-opera hero might mimic for the climactic Revelation of the Week.

  What happened next was even more theatric. Brent’s sudden movement yanked away Cecilia’s only means of balance. She plummeted backwards into the tub, hitting the base of her head sharply on the rim as she fell. Horrified, Brent reacted without thinking, diving forward to save her.

  In the instant before he could plunge his hands beneath the water, he did think. They were not generous thoughts. No, they were quiet, calculating, deathly practical ones. He was still thinking them as he calmly strolled into the living room, there to pour himself a fresh drink and wait however long would sound plausible before calling 911. I thought she was enjoying her bath. I had no idea. By the time I checked on her, she was—was—

  Add one choked sob plus one heartrending breakdown into convincing, manly grief, and scene!

  Trying to save her would’ve been useless anyway, he told his half-starved conscience. She was probably dead as soon as she hit her head. The thread of bubbles that had broken the surface of the scented water as he left gave him the lie, but those had been lost among the rose petals.

  * * *

  “Roses? I love roses. Can I have some?”

  Cecilia blinked. Her head felt funny, heavier than usual. The same could be said for her entire body. She wondered who’d spoken. “I—I guess so?”

  “Thanks!” The wavering image of a fresh-faced girl solidified before her, like a gradually resolving reflection on a pebble-troubled pool. The apparition’s slim fingers reached up to scoop a handful of crimson petals from somewhere above her head. She buried her face in them and sniffed appreciatively. “Mmm, delicious,” she said with a happy sigh. “Did he give them to you?”

  “He…who—?” Cecilia was woozy. Somewhere behind the wall of fog now occupying her brain was a small, urgent voice trying to impart a vital message, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what it was.

  “You know, the man who just killed you. Although if you want to get technical, I guess he’s only the man who let you die. Either way, you’re dead. Pleased to meet you; I’m Lara. How’re you doing? Aside from being dead, that is.”

  When something dawned on a cartoon character, the moment called for a light bulb flashing on above his head. Cecilia’s Thunderbolt Moment merited the Paris Opera House chandelier. Memories of her last minutes of life swarmed over her, including one of supreme bitterness.

  “He could have saved me.” Her whole body sagged. “Why didn’t he even try?”

  “Aw, don’t cry,” Lara said, drifting closer and offering the comfort of a gentle hug. “No one’s going to notice a few more droplets. Not down here.” Cecilia jerked her head up, perplexity writ large in her expression. “Down here,” Lara repeated. “Under the water. In your bathtub. With your corpse.” She gave her an amiable grin. “Don’t mind the corpse part: they’ll be taking it away soon. Once it’s out of your element, you’ll be free as a fluke!”

  Cecilia looked all around, bewildered. “If we’re in my bathtub, with my—with my—me, how can the three of us fit?”

  Lara dismissed the matter with a wave of her hand. “If myths and the spirits of dead things took up actual space, you wouldn’t be able to brush your teeth without jamming your elbow into a harpy and we’d all be up to our nostrils in classroom hamsters.”

  “I’m going to guess you’re a myth.”

  “Well, I’m no dead hamster, sister! I’m a naiad, a water nymph.”

  “I thought that beings like you only lived in streams and rivers,” Cecilia said, finally finding a use for her Classical education. “What are you doing in my bathtub?”

  “I came for you. It’s my job. I’m also a psychopomp. That means I—”

  “You guide the souls of the dead to the next world. I thought that was Mercury’s line of work.”

  Lara was taken aback. “That’s…right. How did you know? I mean, Mercury and I are a couple, so it’s always nice to hear someone giving him credit, but—”

  “You and Mercury?”

  “Oh, yes.” Lara bobbed her head with enthusiasm. “I tattled to Juno about Jupiter playing Here Comes the Lightning with one of my sister nymphs, so he told Mercury to take me to the Underworld, except he—Mercury, not Jupiter—fell in love with me and now I handle all the psychopomping when the client’s underwater because my sweet Merkypoo absolutely hates getting those adorable little ankle-wings of his wet.” The naiad giggled behind a veiling hand. “You’re the first of my Special Cases to know what a psychopomp is. The others all thought it meant I was insane and being snooty about it.”

  “Latin major,” Cecilia explained. “Vassar.”

  “My condolen—oh hey, they’re here!” The naiad was jubilant, for the bath water began to swirl violently, sending the two of them spinning wildly around the tub. When things settled down again, Lara explained: “That was the Coroner’s crew removing your body. Nifty ride, right?”

  A dizzied Cecilia held her head and asked, “What happened to the E.M.T.s? What about the police? Didn’t anyone try to bring me back?”

  “They’ve all come and gone. Time moves differently when you stand between mortality and Next. For some it stretches out, others it scrunches in, kind of like a cosmic accordion. It’ll all go back to normal once you allow me to escort you over the River Styx or across the spiritual borderland of your choice.”

  Like every human being even mildly susceptible to catching a bad case of Philosophy, Cecilia had often thought about death and what might come thereafter. None of her musings ever included words like “allow” and “choice.” When she queried Lara about this, the reply was enlightening in the extreme:

  “Of course it’s up to you! You can go Over any time you like, to whichever afterlife you prefer. Just remember, you’ll have to stay put and abide by the local rules once you get there. Eternity’s a strictly no backsies deal, so take your time. Any questions?”

  It was like asking “Who wants chocolate?” in a crowded anywhere. Cecilia’s spate of inquiry as to the Spiritual “Now What?” yielded some startling information tidbits from her naiad guide, most amazing among these being:

  “—and while you’re making up your mind, we can have some fun. You don’t need to stay in the tub. You can go any place you like.”

  “Really?” Lara’s confirming nod made Cecilia smile for the first time since her death. “I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids at Giza.”

  “We could do that. From a distance. In the Nile.”

  “But the river’s so far from the site!” Cecilia protested. “I know; I researched it when I was planning—” She stopped herself before she could say: when I was planning where we should spend our honeymoon. It hurt too much. “You said I could go anywhere. Why not right up to the pyramids, and the Sphinx, a
nd the—?”

  “Because it’s too dry, okay?” Lara blurted. “You’re free to leave this tub, but you’ve got to travel someplace where you can stay submerged. I can help you puddle-jump, but there’s got to be at least this much water waiting for you at the other end of the trip.” She cupped her pale hands. “Sure, tourists carry water bottles, but they’re usually the opaque kind, or tucked away. You wouldn’t be able to see a thing. Hey, don’t blame me for rules I never made. Just stick to them, pick a different destination, and enjoy the privileges of an Elementary death!” Seeing Cecilia’s fresh confusion, she was quick to clarify that she wasn’t speaking of Sherlock Holmes. “You know, death by one of the elements? I mean the back-in-the-day kind, not your periodic table hodge-podge. The Big Four: Earth, Air, Fire and—your favorite—Water.”

  “How is it my favorite? It killed me! Where’s the ‘privilege’ in that?”

  “It’s a privilege because it’s not for everyone. You have to be one person who dies by the action of one element and the action—in your case, the inaction—of one other person. If someone breaks your skull with a rock, that’s a bankable death-by-Earth. If you’re caught in Pompeii on the wrong day, not so much.”

  “I still don’t see how you can call Water my favorite element,” Cecilia said. “I barely squeaked by on my college swimming test.”

  “Well, those days are over because—”

  “Because I’m dead?”

  “No. Uh, actually yes, but now it’s your Best Fluid Forever because—” The naiad spread her arms. “—because here you are, in it and of it, breathing it and being it until further notice. Water’s your servant. Water’s your home. Water’s your self for as long as you like. But why don’t I demonstrate? One splash is worth a thousand words. Come on!”

  Lara grabbed Cecilia by the wrist and dragged her deeper into the tub. The bronzed plug glimmered dimly beneath them, the faucet above was a fleeting shadow glimpsed through a haze of rose petals and foam. Cecilia felt a moment of icy dread—Are we actually going to go down the drain? Into the sewer? Ew, ew, ew!—and then she was…elsewhere.