A fear of dark water

Craig Russell A fear of dark water

CRAIG RUSSELL Prologue Chapter One

Fifteen Years before the Storm

Too deep.

Korn hit the Pharos One comms link again. He heard Wiegand’s voice but the transmission was breaking up. No crackle or hiss: the digital communications system had no degrees of function; the signal was either there or it was not. Wiegand’s anxiety came to Korn in severed syllables and silences. Shards of words. Sharp-edged.

Korn looked at the submersible’s depth meter. Oh Jesus, too deep, too deep. And still dropping. Dropping faster. Three thousand metres. Three thousand, two hundred. Three thousand, six hundred. No sense of falling, of descent. Just the relentless plunge of the reading on the depth meter.

Beneath him the trench. Around him the water: chill, dense, crushing. Black.

It was a different universe. A different reality.

Pharos One had travelled the shortest of distances. A journey of three and a half kilometres. On land, you could walk it comfortably in three-quarters of an hour. Yet Korn was now in a place as remote to mankind as space. As the moon.

Four thousand metres.

Now Korn was on the edge of the abyss. Literally. This was where the abyssopelagic zone began. The water outside was now beyond any normal understanding of the concepts of water, of a liquid. This was deep in the aphotic layers of the ocean, where all life was blind in a lightless universe. The readings showed that the water temperature outside was near freezing, yet it remained fluid because of its intense salinity. It was a liquid, yet had an unimaginable, crushing density. Korn knew that already the pressure was four hundred times that of the atmosphere at sea level, and it increased by one atmosphere for every ten metres that the Pharos One submersible sank.

‘I’ve lost control,’ he shouted into the comms. ‘The control desk is completely dead. You have to try to bring me up remotely…’

More sharp shards of speech came through the comms. Korn knew that that was how he would have sounded to the mother ship on the surface. If basic communications were not working, then there was no chance of them establishing a reliable remote-control link. And, even if they could link in, there was no guarantee that whatever system failure had robbed him of control had not also severed the link with the remote-navigation computer.

Another shatter of syllables.

Korn didn’t attempt to answer. He tried to think. Or more accurately he tried to slow his brain, to clear it of panic, so that he could think. Why had Pharos One’ s main motors cut? Why had he no control from the helm? And why had the submersible experienced such a catastrophic loss of buoyancy? It was as if the whole system had collapsed. He was sure that the engines were okay, the steering gear. It was an electronic fault, rather than mechanical. Why didn’t he know? He had helped to design the Pharos One; planned its electronic management himself; designed fail-safe systems with Wiegand. How had this happened?

And having helped design the Pharos One, Korn knew that, unlike a bathyscaphe, it did not have ultimate buoyancy. Its mix of gasoline and electromagnet-capture ballast was limited. Korn had insisted on a submersible capable of reaching significant depth, but which could ‘fly’ through its environment. Without motive power its weight would, ultimately, sink it.

Korn stared out through fused quartz into the dark water, the beams of the iodine floodlights picking out an upward snowstorm of particles. Then something pale was caught in the external navigation lights. An intricate basket star, like a lost lace doily, drifted up and past the window; the only life he could see. If you could call it life. Bloodless, capable of regenerating parts of itself, even of reproducing a complete new creature from a lost tentacle. A being with a sixty-five-million-year-old pedigree.

I should not be here. The thought hit Korn as he watched the basket star drift up and out of sight. Not a passing thought; a revelation. A rejection of years of study; of millions in investment. Of a lifetime’s devotion. I should not be here. Suddenly it struck Korn that his presence in this place was as preposterous as the basket star he had just sunk past exploring the heights of Mount Everest. I have no right to be here. This is not our world. He thought of the time, the effort, the money he had poured into the Pharos Project. Millions.

Void. Korn heard Wiegand’s one complete word before the comms went completely dead. Void. Void what? It was a word well suited to the black, crushing emptiness around him. But Wiegand had been trying to tell him something. Korn tried to raise the mother ship again, but there was no response. He hit the main motor control. Nothing. The desk was still dead. I am going to die here, he thought. I’m going to die and no one will ever find my body and I deserve it because I should not be here.

Creaking.

It was a low, rumbling groan, like a sea creature moaning in the abyss. But Korn knew it was the ribs of the pressure hull protesting. He looked desperately around the cabin; at the tightly, claustrophobically confined space of reinforced steel that surrounded him; at the thick quartz of the portholes. Maybe it would be quick. He had imagined himself coming to rest at the bottom of the trench, trapped and motionless, going claustrophobically insane as he waited for the one hundred hours of oxygen to run out. Screaming and clawing. But he realised that the Pharos One would soon exceed its safe operating parameters. Maybe it would be a rivet that would kill him; fired, bullet-like, from its socket by the intense pressure of crushing water. Or maybe, and more likely, he would be squeezed to death, like a bug between fingers, by the implosion of steel as the hull yielded.

Wiegand’s voice again. This time clear.

‘Dominik!’

Korn stared at the depth meter. Four thousand, eight hundred metres. Five thousand. Oh God, no. Too deep. Too deep.

‘Dominik!’

‘I’m here,’ he said and was surprised at how dull his voice was. There was a sound. Not loud, but constant: a soft, mechanical whirring. The engines.

‘We’ve overridden the controls, Dominik. Dominik, can you hear me?’

‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

‘Dominik, listen to me. Concentrate. Put on your evac suit.’

‘Evac suit?’ Korn suddenly felt alert. A voice from five kilometres and a universe away woke something in him. ‘What the hell use is an evac suit? I’m down nearly five thousand metres.’

‘We’ve got the readings on your power levels. Something’s damaged the cells. We can get you up, we think. Maybe all the way, maybe not.’

Korn looked at the depth gauge again. For a second that seemed to last for ever it stayed static. Then, unbearably slowly, it started to indicate ascent.

‘Do you hear me, Dominik?’

‘I hear you.’ Now fully alert, and suffering. The unbearable pain of hope. ‘I’ll do it. I’m doing it.’ Korn fumbled furiously at the restraint belt. He struggled in the coffin confines of the cabin to pull the suit from its housing behind the command chair; wrestled himself into it. Neoprene and rubber cuff seals strangle-tight, the bright orange evac suit loose-tented around him. A second confinement.

‘You’re going to have to hurry, Dominik…’ Wiegand’s voice over the comms was tight and even. Forced. Artificial calm wrapped around panic. ‘Listen, Dominik, when the power fails, we’re going to void all the ballast. It’ll