by Ian Young
I turned the sub around and drifted in another direction for a while, hoping the ship was tracking my movement. The sides of the canyon rose steeply to the west, and I reckoned I’d have better luck finding benthos further up the slopes. I kept telling Howie there was nothing at the bottom of the Trench but rocks and thermophiles, but he was obsessed with this damned ball he’d spotted. With a pull of the joystick, I rose in the water and lost some depth.
The sub’s lights splattered the rocks on the slope. Just for a moment I thought I spotted movement, something wriggling against the jagged surface, but it quickly fell out of the pool of light. I tried to angle the floodlight back to where it had last pointed but quickly lost interest. Whatever had been wriggling on the rock was probably well hidden by now. It might never have seen light before. Maybe I’d killed it; my intense light might be like some kind of death ray to these remote creatures.
I switched to the infrared monitor, guessing that any life forms would show up there, their tiny bodies generating just enough heat to help them stand out from the cold. The camera probably didn’t have much range but it might be enough to get a good view of the Trench from this shallower depth. I pushed away from the slope and turned the sub around, screwing my eyes up at the infrared monitor. After a few moments, I spotted something.
An object, not far along the Trench floor, glowed amber on the thermal imaging monitor. Twisting the joystick, I manoeuvred the sub towards the target. As I closed in, switching to the HD monitor, I expected to see a thermal vent gushing from a fissure. What else could it be? It was too big for a life form. But instead of a thermal vent, a small black dome poked above the frozen lava.
I spent several minutes staring at it through both monitors, frozen in my cockpit, not daring to move. Come on, girl, it’s just a rock. I tried to catch a glimpse through the porthole, but there was only one way I was likely to get a better view.
I unhooked the mechanical arm and swung it around until it hovered inches above the shiny black dome. I lowered the pincer, nudging left and right, forwards and backwards, until it appeared to hang above my target. It was impossible to tell how close I’d managed to get. When I lowered the rubber-ended fingers they disappeared behind the dome, perhaps a few inches behind. I nudged the arm towards me and tried again. After a few more attempts I managed to position the arm directly above the target and I lowered the pincer down again, closing the three fingers around the dome. That was the easy bit. It was like trying to grab a toy in one of those arcade games. I raised the arm, but the fingers slid over the glass-like surface of the dome and snapped together as they pulled free. I tried again, and again, but the fingers just wouldn’t grip.
I used the arm to push and pull the dome, forcing it back and forth to loosen the lava’s grip. After ten minutes or so, I’d carved a narrow moat of space around the slippery object and I tried again with the pincer, but still it wouldn’t come free. I was about to give up when I thought about how disappointed Howie would be. For a little more effort I could get ‘us’ back on track – things weren’t exactly working out quite as I hoped on this trip.
Using the steel fingers, I stabbed at the ground, flicking up sediment that had come to rest on the floor since the last volcanic eruption. With more of the dome’s surface exposed, I managed to grip it below its centre line, hoping to stop the fingers sliding off. I pulled the lever and watched the mechanical arm levitate. A nebulous cloud of dirt swirled around the object and obscured my view, but I sensed the dome had finally jerked free of the earth.
When the sediment had settled I dragged the arm round towards the porthole to get a better view. This was Howie’s baseball: obsidian – a rapidly cooled lump of rock, compressed and smoothed into a sphere over millions of years. The geologists would probably have wet dreams about it but it wasn’t of interest to me. Looks like Howie’s going to be disappointed, after all.
Fuck! The damned thing slipped out of the pincer and rolled along the seabed. The instant it came to rest, sediment bloomed from beneath. The cloud continued to form as though the obsidian was trying to bury itself again. Switching to the thermal imaging monitor, I grabbed the spherical rock and instantly the mechanical arm began to vibrate. I jerked my hand away from the lever as though it were electrified, and the rock tumbled back to the floor and rolled a few inches along the bed.
Gradually the floating sediment dispersed, and the obsidian – that ball – once again lay at peace. My fingers trembled as I took hold of the control lever and lowered the arm back towards the ball. This time, there was no vibration. I placed it into the payload bay and jettisoned the steel weights to begin the ascent. I couldn’t get out of there quickly enough – to hell with the drugs.
As with the descent, the sub rotated on its axis as I reached for the surface. Once every revolution, at the same point, a vibration sent a shiver through the cockpit. I too shivered.
* * *
Prague, 8 February
Father Sean Unsworth screws his face up as he steps out on to the snow-covered street. The meagre light that penetrates the dense winter clouds above Prague seems to get a boost from the brilliant white snow that covers everything in sight. Fresh snow has fallen while he’s been at his first meeting. Unsworth digs his hands into his pockets and treads cautiously back to the bus stop.
His first meeting, and his first task. Until recently, Unsworth had been a member of the Představený, anonymous individuals that sit on the multitude of religious councils around the world. As a Catholic, Unsworth served with an ecumenical council in Rome where matters of Christian practice were discussed and decided. But like all members of the Představený, Unsworth’s clandestine role was to monitor developments in his own faith and report back to a different council, a council to which he has unexpectedly been promoted just days ago. The Kolegium analyses reports from the Představený, monitoring and influencing the current thinking of the three main world religions: Christianity, Judaism and Islam.
A trolleybus rattles past and Unsworth considers quickening his pace; he can see the stop ahead. But this isn’t Dublin, where he could wait all afternoon for the next bus. Here in Prague, there’ll be another along within minutes; there’s no point risking his ageing bones on soft snow, not now.
When he arrives at the airport, he would make the call to the Vrazi, who would carry out the task.
The call is always to be made without delay, but not from near the meeting house. This means the call, in Unsworth’s case, can be made from the airport, unless he takes transport to another part of town, but this would be pointless. He has no intention of lingering.
Unsworth was right about Prague’s public transport. Another trolleybus screeches to a standstill just as he arrives at the stop. He steps on board, jostled by a hastily arriving passenger who shuffles down the bus. Standing room only. He finds a spot by the door and, as the bus sets off, looks around just to make sure there isn’t a seat somewhere he can slip into. While he scans the bus’s interior, he spots a face staring at him, a glare that lasts only as long as it takes the man to look away. Unsworth thinks it might be the passenger who arrived hastily at the stop as he boarded. He can’t resist another glance in his direction, and once again he catches the man staring at him, and once again, he looks away as soon as Unsworth matches his glare.
It’s only a few stops to the bus station, within walking distance at any other time of the year. But, besides the snow, one other difficulty would be negotiating the enormous roundabout at the end of Evropská. The light has faded fast, impatiently, no time for twilight, like in other Central European countries. Perhaps the next meeting would in the summer. It’s a vain hope: Unsworth has forty-eight hours to complete his task. He suspects there will be another meeting within the week, just as soon as the threat is eliminated.
Chapter 3
South Pacific, 4 days earlier
I’d turned the flo
odlights off to preserve battery power during the ascent, and for the last hour I’d seen nothing pass across the claustrophobic porthole. Another shiver tickled my fingertips resting on the arm of my chair. It was like a resonance, a vibration of the hull triggered by something oscillating close to the sub’s natural frequency. My father’s car used to do the same at idle, rhythmic purrs set off by the engine’s low revolutions. That made me shiver too. Once, when I was about eight years old, I told him the purring might be a devil or a gremlin. My father turned slowly to me and almost hissed: Don’t let me hear you talk of the Devil again, he’d said. Jeez, Dad.
I puzzled over how my dad could be so spooked by something he couldn’t see, hear or touch – something, then, that didn’t exist. Even as a child I’d never believed in ghosts. That was the only aspect of religion I could agree with: you had to believe that people were either dead or alive. And when dead, they either went to heaven or hell. There was no in-between where they could come back and haunt you. But it was human nature to get spooked about something, sometimes. And finally, it had happened to me.
I looked at the depth gauge: 300 feet. Why wasn’t there any gradual lightening of the ocean’s deep blue? I was close to the surface now; it should be getting lighter. I checked my watch. Hell! 11 p.m. It would be pitch-black out here on the ocean.
I switched on the floodlights. Fish appeared in my view and little bubbles of carbon dioxide rose in the water faster than I was rising. I stretched forward to look up through the porthole and squinted at a feeble white spot shimmering on the surface. I could even see waves washing back and forth across the light, rippling the surface. Slowly, I started to make out the white foam crests collapsing back into the ocean. We were almost there, me and my little sub. And my cargo.
The sub splashed through the ocean surface like a diver gasping for air. The moon shone down on me now, unhindered by the viscous sea. Squinting, I leant forward to get a better view and searched for the Pacific Challenger. The crew would have been tracking my journey across the ocean floor and should be close by.
My radio crackled and Howie’s voice droned through the speaker.
‘Hey, honey, we’re right behind you,’ he said.
I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath. The gyrocompass crept round its dial as the sub bobbed and splashed in the water. In a moment it would reach that point again …
The sub shivered, but this time it was a constant frisson now the gyrocompass seemed stuck. I started to think Howie was right about his damned baseball. I’d become certain of one thing: it wasn’t obsidian. The shiver suddenly stopped. I checked the gyro: it had moved further round, past the point that appeared to hold some significance for my cargo.
I rocked left and right in my seat and guessed the crane had taken hold of the sub, gripping it and hoisting me from the ocean. Soon I would be on deck, running as far from this thing as I could. It was all Howie’s now.
There was a hiss as one of the crew opened the hatch. I scrambled through almost as quickly as the air had escaped. ‘Howie, Howie,’ I said, searching around the deck.
‘Over here, honey, what is it?’ Howie pushed the Chilean crew aside and held his arms out. Despite myself, I fell into them.
‘Christ, Howie, what the hell have you found?’
‘What? Andi, what’s wrong?’
‘That thing, I found it.’
‘The baseball?’ Howie pulled away and looked at me. ‘Have you got it? Did you manage to dig it out?’
‘Yeah, I got it. It’s in the payload bay.’ I broke free from Howie’s grip and wiped my eyes. ‘It’s all yours. I swear the damned thing’s alive.’
I turned to hurry away, leaving Howie to stare at the sub, and ran straight into Mason.
‘Hi, Andi, how was your dive?’ he asked.
‘Like going to hell, which funnily enough is—’
‘You said you brought something back,’ he said, interrupting. ‘Something alive?’
‘Why are you so interested?’
He appeared to be caught off guard. ‘Well, you know’ – a short laugh – ‘wouldn’t want you bringing some monster from the deep on board, would we?’
‘It could keep you company,’ I said.
Mason flinched; it was a completely unjustified quip, but it just felt like he was stalking me. Besides, it was none of his business what I’d found on the seabed. I sidestepped the Englishman and headed back indoors – or whatever they call it on a ship.
I needed a shower. And a drink. No way would I sleep. On the way back to my cabin I stopped in the mess and picked up a half-bottle of vino tinto. The Chilean steward offered me a second glass and when I told him I was drinking alone, he offered to bring his own glass. No thanks. I might have a thing for older men, but not just any old man. Howie was a brilliant man, a leader in his field. It’s easy to love a man like that. Although, right now, Howie was a jerk.
As I drenched myself in the shower, I thought about the ball, Howie’s baseball. Maybe Mason was right to be curious. What if it was contaminated? What if it contained something that infected the entire crew, leaving a ghost ship floating across the South Pacific? Maybe there was a monster hiding inside, agitating the shell like a little chick ready to hatch – an alien chick. Stupid! Get a grip, girl. Aliens didn’t lay eggs on Earth then abandon them to the mercy of humans. Aliens. I was beginning to sound like Howie.
I dried myself off and put on some clean clothes, ridding myself of the ocean. There were two other groups of scientists on the boat: Finch and his geologist buddies from Washington who were studying lava flows, and biologists from England who were hoping to analyse whatever passed for life seven miles below the surface. To provide some preliminary analysis of samples, a makeshift laboratory had been set up in one of the mess rooms, and it was there I expected Howie to head with his baseball. If Mason let him.
What the hell! I’m a scientist, I had to know more. When I arrived in the lab Howie had already switched on the equipment. The room hummed with the sound of electronic machines ready to reveal the secrets of whatever came their way. The noise made me think of the coffin-like innards of the sub and I nearly turned around and walked right out again.
Howie had his back to me, stooping over the table with his arms out wide, leaning on the surface. Opposite Howie was Finch and, at the back of the lab, two of the biologists gathering protective eyewear and gloves.
As I approached the table I realised the humming wasn’t coming from the test equipment but from Howie’s baseball. It lay on the table, visibly vibrating. I could feel it now, through my feet, tickling my soles as my shoes transferred the energy to my skin. I wanted to run, wanted to dive overboard, but also wanted to know what it was. Sometimes, being a scientist was a complication in life.
Howie used his pen to nudge the ball. As it settled in its new position, the vibration stopped.
‘You see that, Dick?’ he said, looking up at Finch. ‘Watch.’ Howie tapped on the ball again, nudging it further across the table, but nothing happened.
‘Poke it again,’ said Finch, egging him on.
Howie poked at the ball a couple of times, rolling it across the table. A short buzz fizzed at my feet and up my legs. I nearly jumped in the air as though the floor had become electrified. Finch looked up and sniggered.
‘Is Howard making the earth move for you, babe?’ he said.
‘And I suspect for you too,’ I said. ‘But that’d be a bit weird, wouldn’t it?’
Howie looked up at the sound of my voice. He had a wide-eyed expression like a kid with a limited edition Star Wars toy. ‘I told you, Andi. Did you see that? Either this thing is some enchanted artefact from the ancient world, or from somewhere further away.’
Howie’s grin didn’t suggest fear; it suggested a dream world of Indiana Jones or Harry Potter, the excitement
of fantasy overcoming the scrutiny of science.
‘Professor, no one here knows what this thing is,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think you should quarantine it until we get back to LA?’
‘Come on, what’s the harm?’ Howie turned around to Finch and shrugged. ‘We’re just taking a look.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s say this thing is some ancient artefact or, worse still, from outer space, though I don’t believe that for a second …’
Howie looked at me like I was a first-year student again, that patronising stare of the indulgent professor listening to the young fresher.
‘… What I’m saying is, what if it’s contaminated? Full of bacteria that we have no defences for.’
‘She’s right.’
I looked beyond Howie to one of the biologists who stood behind Finch. He wasn’t taking any chances; he’d half-hidden his face with protective goggles, and his hands, held up to the side, were clad in large rubber gloves. He looked like an extra from a shoddy Hollywood sci-fi movie.
‘Who knows where this thing’s from?’ he said. ‘And if we open it up, who knows what’s in it?’
