by Ian Young
I slid the lock across and smiled back. ‘No better?’
‘I’m chucking my guts up here, Andi,’ he said, informality returning now we were alone. ‘There’s no way I can make the dive.’
Howie hauled himself up and staggered over to the table by the porthole. He unfurled a chart and placed a coffee mug over each end, then trailed his finger along a shaded band that curved along the bed of the Pacific to the east of Guam.
‘This is the place.’ He stopped tracing the arc and tapped his finger on a spot that marked the bottom of the world. ‘This is where I saw it. It’s about the size of a baseball, black, shiny. Jeez, Andi, I couldn’t move it.’
‘It doesn’t look so deep on a roll of paper,’ I said.
‘Sure.’ Howie didn’t look up from his chart. ‘It was jammed in solid … showed up on the infrared.’
‘We didn’t train for those depths. What if something goes wrong? I could die down there.’
‘Sure, honey.’ He slipped an arm around my waist. ‘It just isn’t right. It’s hotter than everything else down there.’
‘Shouldn’t we be looking for benthos?’ I said. ‘Not treasure hunting?’
‘Sure, scrape up some flowers if that’s what you want.’
‘So it’s decided then?’ I retreated to the bunk and slumped down on the thin mattress, resting my chin on my palms. Howie turned and grabbed my shoulders.
‘Jeez, Andi, we’ll win a Nobel if this thing turns out to be from, you know …’
‘Oh, Howie, grow up!’ I pushed his hands away and jumped to my feet, pacing the little cabin and clutching the sides of my head. ‘It’s not from outer space.’
‘I know, I know.’ He eased himself on to the bunk with a little groan and reached out to pull me down. I relented and sank heavily beside him. He slipped his arm around my waist.
‘If it turns out to be some old junk from a passing ship, I’ll still have you, honey.’
Howie tried to kiss me but I pulled away under the pretence of him rinsing his mouth out first. All I could think about was how I would risk my life fishing for Howie’s goddamn baseball from outer space.
He stumbled to the basin and rinsed his mouth with Bourbon. ‘We still get paid whatever we drag up from the deep,’ he said. When he returned, licking his teeth, he moved in to kiss me.
‘Brush them,’ I said, pushing his head away. ‘You do remember why we’re here, Howie? New drugs?’
‘Jeez, honey! We sure as hell won’t find new people-friendly bacteria seven miles below the Pacific.’ He edged back on the bunk and leant against the wall, head rolling against the bulkhead, arms outstretched. He was like the cynical fresher who knew it all. ‘Big Pharma needs to get off its bloated butt and make some new drugs instead of pillaging the ecosystem for profit.’
‘You won’t get your Nobel Prize sending students to scuttle along in the sand for you … Professor.’ I stood and made for the cabin door, but Howie reached out and grabbed me.
‘Andi, wait,’ he said, pulling me back. ‘You’re not a student anymore, you’re my research assistant.’
‘I’m a research fellow, Howie, not your assistant.’
‘Sure, honey.’ Howie smiled as though my title was somehow honorary, meaningless to anyone but me. ‘You know I love you.’
I closed my eyes, waiting for the words that would come next, the words I’d heard many times before.
‘I will leave her, Andi, I promise.’
I nodded and pulled away from his grip. As I reached for the door handle, Dyer spoke again.
‘Just as soon as we get back to Santa Monica,’ he said with a boyish smile.
‘Sure.’ I slammed the cabin door closed and made my way back to my own cabin down the narrow gangway.
Mason rounded the corner ahead and squeezed passed me, turning sideways and spreading his arms out as though trying hard not to touch me. He smiled, but before I could smile back, the ship lurched and he slammed a hand into the wall by my head. I looked at his bare arm, inches from my eyes, taut and rigid like a bar on a steel cage.
‘Sorry,’ he said, looking down into my eyes and removing his arm. ‘Are you all right?’
He sounded English, and instantly more menacing. My only experience of Englishmen was in Hollywood movies. They were either the Mr Bean type or the bad guy. This guy didn’t seem like the Mr Bean type.
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
‘Mason … Scott Mason.’ It was like his first name was incidental.
I looked at the hand that had punched the wall, now offered in peace. I took it firmly. ‘Andreia.’
‘Crikey! That’s some grip you’ve got there,’ said Mason, retrieving his hand and making a show of shaking it.
‘I’m Brazilian,’ I said, as though that would explain the strong handshake.
‘Brazilian, eh? Never been to Brazil—’
‘It’s been nice meeting you, Mr Mason, but I’ve …’ I waved my thumb as though hitching a lift.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again.’
I nodded and hurried away, thinking, I hope not. I felt his glare burning into my back like he didn’t think I should be on the ship, like he was assessing me as a security risk.
Back in my cabin I lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. I’d hoped to spend most of this expedition looking at Howie’s ceiling. I hadn’t come along for anything else; I could have analysed any samples he managed to scrape off the ocean floor back at the lab.
A tap on the cabin door made me jump. ‘Who is it?’ I rolled into a sitting position and hit my head on the top bunk. Fuck.
‘It’s Mason, from the corridor.’
‘What do you want?’ Rubbing my head, I crept to the door to make sure it was locked.
‘You’re Professor Dyer’s colleague, aren’t you?’
‘He’s my boss.’ I held my cheek an inch from the door, my hands spread against the cold steel.
‘Right,’ said Mason.
I imagined him frowning with suspicion – or smirking with that British irony we hear so much about on TV.
‘I’ve just passed his cabin and it sounds like he’s in a pretty bad way.’
‘Uh, OK, thanks,’ I said, shrugging at the door. ‘I think he’s fine. Seasickness and a cold, that’s all.’
‘Very good, Andreia, sorry to disturb you.’
I remained at the door for a few moments, but the drone of the ship’s engines was too loud to hear Mason walking away – if he had walked away. Then again, Mason seemed the type of guy that wouldn’t make any sound when he walked. With the door still locked, I returned to the bunk and wondered if Howie really would leave his wife. Perhaps he just needed time. I opened the submersible’s training manual and settled down to refresh my memory. Just in case.
I tossed the manual aside and, blinking hard, looked at my watch: 2.15 p.m. I’d read for three hours. No longer spellbound by the dos and don’ts of submarine driving, I noticed I wasn’t being rocked by the ocean. The sea must have calmed down; perhaps I should go and check on Howie. But as I sat up, a rumble in my belly quickly reordered my priorities and instead I went in search of leftovers from lunchtime.
The mess was deserted. Through the windows I could see men scurrying about the deck, arms waving, mouths jabbering. Life on board the Pacific Challenger had been little else: hours of sitting around doing nothing, then moments of frantic activity. There seemed to be nothing in-between. I made some coffee and grabbed a slice of cold toast that had been left on the grill.
Apart from a river cruise on one of those old steamers a few years ago, I’d never been on a boat. I was still a student at the time, halfway through my thesis on the effects of inorganic compounds on long-chain biopolymers (cool, I know), when How
ie surprised me with a trip to Memphis. I’d once admitted, when pushed, that I quite liked Elvis Presley; a trip to the King’s homeland had been Howie’s response. Looking back, I should have said I liked the Beatles; I might have had a trip to England. Anyway, after traipsing around Graceland all day, we ended up taking a cruise down the Mississippi. It was a bit different to this boat trip.
Just seconds after sitting at a table, and with my first mouthful of toast fresh between my teeth, Howie stumbled past the hatchway.
‘Howie!’ I shouted. A half-chewed morsel of toast looped on to the table. I pinched it between thumb and finger and dropped it on my plate.
Howie’s hand grabbed the steel frame of the doorway and he dragged himself back. ‘Hey, Andi, what you up to?’
‘Looks like there’s activity on deck,’ I said, pointing through a porthole with my coffee mug, then holding it up to Howie. ‘Want some?’
‘You gotta be kidding me.’ He staggered to the table and placed his hands heavily on the surface as though he might have collapsed otherwise.
I thought he was going to heave all over the place so I moved my plate away. ‘Sorry, Howie, no better?’
‘What do you think?’ Howie grumbled his words with heavy sarcasm. ‘Hey, what’s going on out there?’
‘Yeah, Howie, like I said, activity on deck. Looks like they might be getting the sub ready, the sea’s calmed down.’
‘Not in my guts it hasn’t.’
‘Your guts? Don’t you mean your stomach?’
‘Jeez, Andi, you’re so clinical.’
I finished my toast and slurped the dregs of my coffee then stood to leave. ‘You coming?’
The message on Howie’s contorted face was clear, so I wandered outside alone and found the geologists from Washington standing around the sub, chatting. One of the geologists, a man I’d already had a few miserable encounters with, turned and sneered.
‘Nothing here for biologists,’ he said, looking back to smirk at his colleagues.
This was getting tiresome. ‘Get your facts right, Finch,’ I shot back. ‘I’m a pharmacologist.’
Finch pulled his lips into a lopsided grin. ‘Whatever.’
Why did I have to put up with this? I nodded at his groin and gave a sneer of my own. ‘I make the drugs that cure your STDs.’
‘Typical,’ he said. ‘West Coast college girls only come out when the sun shines.’
Although the other geologists had resumed their conversation, I still felt the sting of Finch’s words on my cheeks. I turned to leave but he hadn’t finished.
‘Your boss still in bed, eh?’ Finch looked around again. Unperturbed by the lack of interest from his buddies, he continued his joke. ‘Looks like you’ll have to go and pick your own flowers.’
‘Go and play with your rocks,’ I said, stretching my mouth into a spiteful grin. ‘No one else will.’ What a jerk. I walked away but soon ran into Mason. That’s all I needed.
It was too late to avoid the Englishman, so I managed a smile as we passed. He smiled too, half-turning as though he might say something. I kept walking, my cheeks tingling once more under the kind of gawking I thought I’d left behind when I moved to LA. Then I turned quickly, determined to catch Mason checking me out, but he was ogling the sub instead, chatting animatedly with Finch. I shook my head and went inside. Did no one think I had some scientific purpose on this trip? Perhaps it was a mistake to come – no, it was definitely a mistake to come.
Back in the calm of the mess, I watched through the porthole as Finch climbed inside the sub and closed the hatch. A crane hoisted the yellow contraption aloft and slew it over the side. It hung over the ocean for a few moments, rocking in the breeze like a child’s toy. And then it sunk below the bulwark and out of sight.
Chapter 2
The dive lasted only a few hours. I was on deck when they hauled Finch back up to the surface. He’d used the underwater radio to complain of dizziness after becoming disoriented in the gloom of the ocean. The divemaster grabbed the sub as it settled back on the cradle, and I watched with a sinking feeling as the other geologists helped him out and below deck. It didn’t give me any pleasure to see Finch wimp out like that because it brought my own trip that much closer.
When I did the practice dives back in Apra Harbor, the divemaster told me I didn’t need to wear any special clothing. He said that nothing could protect me from the depths of the ocean other than the sub itself. If its structure failed, I’d be crushed just as neatly as I would by a black hole. Thanks for that.
Wearing just jeans and a T-shirt, I stepped into the submersible and settled into the only seat. The divemaster reminded me which levers and buttons would operate the mechanical arm should I find anything worth collecting (not much chance of that).
My God, if the sub looked small from the outside, it was coffin-like on the inside. Oh God, any god. I looked through the hatch and glared at my boss.
‘Howard Dyer, I hate you.’ I didn’t mean it, but it shocked me how easily the words shot from my mouth at that moment.
Howie held his hand up. ‘Go get ‘em, kid!’
What the hell was that? It was the kind of comment that reminded me Howie was the same age as my father. And what would he say if he could see me now? My father once accused me of becoming a scientist just to prove God didn’t exist. Like that was anyone’s motivation to study science.
The divemaster closed the hatch and a shadow drew across my legs like a curtain. As the hatch clunked into place I was left with the dim glow of the cockpit lamp and what little light could poke through the measly porthole. With unsteady fingers I fumbled with the harness until it clicked around my waist. There were two more straps that passed over my shoulders and I clicked them into place too. Breathing the last of the natural air in the cabin, I switched on the oxygen tanks and waited for the supply to settle.
All I could see through the porthole was blue sky distorted by the density of the glass. In a few seconds it would be gone, replaced by a different blue, thick and oppressive, squeezing the sub as it sunk towards one of the least survivable places on Earth.
I stroked the walls of my little coffin. ‘Don’t let me down,’ I said. ‘I’m not done with this life.’
A jolt shook me and I whipped my hand away from the wall. The sub was being winched into the air and I felt a slight increase in weight, like going up in an elevator. The sub wobbled in the breeze, as it had done earlier, hanging over the side of the ship, thirty feet from the ocean. When the sub splashed down, I wobbled too, instinctively gripping the armrests like I do when a plane hits turbulence. My palms were so wet I thought the sub had sprung a leak. I looked out and saw water slopping against the porthole, just for a second, and then the ocean swallowed us whole.
As the sub descended, fins on the side of the structure forced it to rotate like a bullet from a rifle, keeping me on track for my aiming point. Before the dive, Captain Ortiz had positioned the Pacific Challenger to take account of the strength and direction of ocean currents, like a plane dropping a bomb. I had nothing to do but wait for three hours until I arrived at the bottom of the world.
A shoal of fish swept passed the porthole, swarming together, swelling and contracting as the amorphous mass swam into the distance. After that, I spotted just the odd fish. One poked its nose at the glass before darting away so quickly I thought it had teleported. I wished I could teleport – back to São Paulo.
By the time I’d reached seven hundred feet down, the sun’s rays had given up trying to force their way through the ocean. Life ebbed away, or perhaps I simply couldn’t see through the dark water. The sub had external lights, but I had batteries to think about. It was like being buried alive. Only the sound of air recirculating and the hum of electronics like an old television set stopped me from panicking. But after thirty minutes or so, my e
ars got used to the noise and I soon found myself in silence. Only the occasional creaking of the steel hull would stay with me as I spun towards the Challenger Deep.
After three hours I made it. The sub hovered just a few feet above the ocean floor. I’d watched the depth gauge almost without blinking, cranking down until it read 36,000 feet. The plane from LAX to Santiago de Chile had flown at 36,000 feet. Staring at the depth gauge was like staring at the in-flight map that displayed the distance to your destination. No matter how much you watched, you wouldn’t get there any quicker.
Howie had used the underwater radio to call me a couple of times, but it was like listening to the patchy long-wave stations from America when I was a kid. For some reason I preferred the silence to his voice coming and going, so I asked him not to call again.
At seven miles below the surface of the Pacific Ocean, there was something mystical about being so far from the nearest person. I wondered where else on earth you could deliberately get this far from humanity. The desert, perhaps, or trekking through the Andes, but you’d never really know who was out there. I felt a sense of perspective, like being alone in the universe: the only intelligent life in an unfathomable space.
I pushed the joystick forward to move across the seabed, checking the high-definition camera to map out the alien environment. The sub was also equipped with an infrared camera to help when the gloom got too much for the floodlights. Floodlights at the bottom of the ocean – hilarious.
The divemaster had said the pressure on the hull was around 16,000 pounds per square inch, a thousand times greater than at sea level, so only a tiny porthole could be installed. It was like looking through a cardboard tube; I spent most of my time navigating by the flat screen monitors.
I floated along the floor for an hour, searching for benthos – and Howie’s baseball – but found only rocks. I knew there was some life down here, but I guessed they’d seen me coming. The place was as barren as the moon, probably looked like the moon, too; it’s all the same stuff really. Everything in our solar system is made up of debris from a dead star, just lumps of rock that once floated through space. Over millions of years, these celestial rocks clumped together under gravity to form the Earth and everything else around us. Below me, in the Trench, seismic activity had churned up the crust like a plough in a farmer’s field. Right there, hidden for billions of years, was the debris from the supernova that ended the life of the last sun to light up our little corner of the universe. These were the ancient rocks that I looked at now: alien rocks from another time. Perhaps Howie was right about the ball.
