before. We will be searching for life on a world that is utterly alien to us. We will be seeking intelligent life, if it exists down in that sea. Those are good things to do, no matter how much discomfort we must endure.”
For a moment Grant thought that Zeb would say they’re doing God’s work. But the Moslem scientist stopped short of that.
Sitting at his console in the mission control center, Grant was almost quivering with anticipation. This morning the consoles no longer connected to the simulator in the aquarium. Now, as he looked up at the big wallscreen, Grant saw the interior of the submersible itself.
It was empty, as yet. No, not really empty, Grant told himself. It’s filled with that PFCL gunk instead of air. The crew will be breathing that soup, immersed in it, living in it for days on end, weeks.
“Ready for immersion procedure,” Dr. Wo said from his position at the central console, lapsing unconsciously into the clipped speaking style of the controllers.
The image on the wallscreen changed to show the airlock in the docking module. Krebs and the other crew members stood in a small huddle by the outer hatch. They each wore snug-fitting bodysuits, more for modesty than need, Grant understood. The tights left their legs bare, and he could see the studs of electrodes lining their flesh, like obscene metal leeches attached to their skin.
“We are ready,” Krebs said, peering directly into the monitoring camera. She had an odd way of staring, as if she were focusing only one eye on you.
“Proceed,” said Dr. Wo.
Starting with Muzorawa, the crew entered the airlock one by one. Surveillance cameras watched as the hatch sealed tight and the lock slowly filled with the thick liquid perfluorocarbon, rather than air. It looked to Grant as if each of them were being deliberately drowned. Each one floated upward as the chamber filled, instinctively lifting their heads to suck in their last lungful of air. When the liquid finally filled the airlock, each of them spasmed with inborn reflex, eyes popping wide, mouths gaping and gasping, arms and legs flailing.
Grant had to force himself to sit still, to say nothing, as he watched his friends’ desperate convulsions. This must be what it’s like to watch an execution, he thought, his fists clenched, his own pulse racing hard.
Then, after what seemed like hours of struggle, each member of the crew began to breathe almost normally and opened the inner hatch of the airlock to swim into the sub’s interior. Grant blinked with disbelief when he checked his console clock and saw that Muzorawa’s reflexive struggles had lasted less than thirty seconds. The others did almost as well.
Krebs was the last to enter the airlock. She hardly struggled at all. In fact, Grant thought he saw a smile cross her heavy, gray-skinned face as the liquid closed over her head.
SEPARATION
For most of the day the crew simply accustomed themselves to the submersible. Grant was surprised, as he watched the wallscreen display, at how cramped the interior was. Despite the outer size of the ship, the bridge was no bigger than the simulator in the aquarium had been. The galley was nothing more than a shoulder-tall console built into one of the bulkheads.
Of course, Grant realized. They won’t be eating normally; they’ll get their nutrition intravenously, through the ports in their necks.
Krebs had assigned each of them a privacy berth, where they could sleep and get away from the others for a while. They reminded Grant of the coffin-sized quarters he’d shared with Tavalera aboard
Their voices were different: deeper, slower, as if someone were playing a recording at lower than normal speed.
No one left the control center for more than a few minutes. When noon came, Dr. Wo told Grant to go to the cafeteria and bring back enough sandwiches and drinks for all five of them.
“Big appetite, mate,” Red Devlin wisecracked as Grant loaded his tray.
Grant merely nodded.
“What’s goin’ on, eh? Big doin’s?”
“You might say that,” Grant replied as he hefted the tray.
“You need help with that?” Devlin called after him as Grant made his way past the incoming people and started down the main corridor.
“No thanks,” he yelled over his shoulder, nearly bumping into a technician coming up the corridor.
Feeling like a lackey instead of a scientist, Grant juggled the heavily laden tray all the way back to the control center. This is why they call us scooters, he guessed.
As he slid back into his console chair, munching a sandwich, he saw on the wallscreen that Krebs was starting to organize the crew for linking electronically with the ship’s systems.
Muzorawa had taken up his station at the control panel, with O’Hara and Karlstad flanking him. Pascal was nowhere in sight. Grant thought that Lane looked tense, perhaps worried. It was harder to read Zeb’s expression; he seemed totally focused on the controls.
Four hairless humans, naked except for their skintight bodysuits, electrodes studding their legs. Hair-thin fiberoptic wires led from the implants to sets of plugs in the consoles. The wires seemed to float gently in the liquid-filled chamber.
Krebs hovered behind and slightly above the crew, like a levitating sack of cement, watching everything they did. Wires trailed from her stocky legs to a panel set into the ceiling above her.
“Remember,” she said, her voice oddly booming, “that once we are linked, the manual controls will be used only as a backup.”
The four crew members nodded. Grant found himself folding his hands in his lap, to keep them off the controls on his console. This is for real now, he told himself. This isn’t a simulation anymore.
Dr. Wo said, “Proceed with systems linkup.”
It was eerie. Grant watched as, one by one, the crew members activated their implanted chips. Nothing seemed to happen. There were no sparks, no lights, no changes of expression on any of their faces. Maybe they stiffened a little, when the linkage first came through their nervous systems. He thought he saw a slight tic in Karlstad’s cheek. But nothing more.
He forced himself to look down at his console. All the telltales were green: all systems functioning within their design parameters.
“Begin systems checkout,” Wo said. His voice seemed weak, breathless, as if he were excited.
“Systems checkout,” Krebs repeated.
It went very smoothly; flawlessly, Grant thought, except that Quintero, monitoring the sensor array, reported that coolant on one of the infrared telescopes was low. Karlstad was assigned to check it out after separation.
“It might be a leak,” Krebs warned.
“More likely it merely was not filled properly to begin with,” said Wo.
Karlstad said, “I’ll attend to it. It’s not vital, in any case. The backup is functioning in the green.”
Grant thought that Egon was showing some real professionalism. He hates being on the mission, but as long as he’s in, he’s going to conduct himself like a pro. Good for Egon!
The crew finished its checkouts and retired to their privacy compartments for the night. Dr. Wo stayed at his console in the mission control center but allowed the other four controllers to leave for the night. Grant got up and left the cramped chamber, feeling tired and sweaty.
He argued with his conscience about going down to see Sheena. No, he decided. She’ll still be flared up over the burned-out electrode. Still associating me with pain and betrayal. The image of her rearing up in fury, fangs bared, made Grant’s stomach twist. Better to let her cool off for a while, he convinced himself. I’ll see her tomorrow night—or maybe after the ship’s gone.
The entire next day was spent slowly ratcheting up the pressure inside the sub. Free to inspect the ship’s schematics from his console in the control center, Grant saw that it was built of four separate hulls, nested inside one another, with high-pressure liquid between each of the hulls.
