The Black

by Paul E. Cooley

  The carpet beneath It had ceased to exist. It had burned down to the steel which was something It couldn’t absorb, couldn’t process. The human shaped liquid had no eyes. It needed some way to see. The creature’s neural net activated.

  It focused, borrowed mass from Its upper torso, and three tentacles sprouted from its waist. Below the din of the air conditioner, the thing gurgled as it created shapes and manufactured organs as dark as a black hole.

  The short tentacles waved in the air as It forced more liquid into them. Its upper body shrank, rendering It into a three-legged tear drop shape. Its humanoid face crumpled as It redistributed more mass. Sensor pods sprouted from the tentacles with a plop.

  It saw the world through greys and reds. The tentacles moved to one side. Solid. They moved to the other. More solid. But the enemy was just beyond. The bare glow emanating from the portholes made It nervous. It reacted by rolling over on the floor. Carpet smoked and then dissolved beneath It.

  The thing tried to process the concrete and add the substance to Its mass, but again failed. It examined the room. A bright sliver of light shone through the bottom of the door frame. It couldn’t get out that way. The thing thought for a moment before Its arms retracted into Itself and became another pair of legs. Its constituent parts reacted as one and It slowly stood.

  It moved in undulating waves, the liquid rippling with each step. It approached a wall between the two light sources. It dragged one of the tentacles across it. Paint hissed, sheetrock melted, and then It hit steel.

  Instead of turning to the other wall, the tentacles popped out the other side. It walked toward the opposite wall and experimented. Same result.

  It examined the room again and finally found something. Air flowed through a rectangular vent high on the wall. A way out. Some kind of exit. Something.

  Two of Its legs disappeared, as did the tentacles. The thing reformed itself into a standing tower of liquid. Without eyes, It couldn’t see anything, but It “felt” the air rushing through the vent. It found the metal grate and slowly poured itself into the A/C vent.

  #

  The drill string was well below 25k. The crew was working hard and fast. Vraebel was pleased with their progress. He’d fought the urge to call Gomez on the horn and tell him to slow down. They had time, after all. No reason to rush it. And yet, he wanted this done. So did they.

  He’d heard the chatter in the galley. Rig-folk were superstitious. When you were in a profession that frequently ended up costing you fingers, toes, or your fucking life, paying attention to your instincts became second nature.

  And everyone’s instincts were screaming after the wave. He wasn’t sure how it had gotten to the rumor mill, but Sigler’s analysis of the oil samples was public knowledge now. He thought for sure it was Harobin’s fault since he couldn’t believe Calhoun’s crew would spread that nonsense. Didn’t matter.

  Compounding that? He knew Belmont had told his dive crew about AUV 2. And even if he hadn’t, they’d no doubt seen the machine on their way to inspect the substructure. That was the kind of thing they were paid to notice. Inspectors inspected, even when they weren’t on the clock.

  He sipped his coffee and stared at the monitors. Next to a diagram of the drill string was a depth meter and a time estimate of completion. Spudding would happen in a little more than an hour. After that? They’d send down the drill bit. And then the morning crew could get some chow while the night watch started drilling.

  Vraebel rubbed his eyes. Rig chiefs didn’t get a lot of sleep and he was no exception. PPE may have mandated a 12 hour day, but he often couldn’t even get the paperwork done during that time. Then there was the crew to worry about. Sleep was a luxury he could ill afford on an exploration rig. Once he was in command of a production rig, though, life would be much, much better.

  The monitor flashed and Vraebel frowned. The white phone rang. He picked it up. “Ops.”

  “Martin?” Gomez’s tinny voice said. The roar of machinery behind him made the words difficult to make out. “We have a problem. Or maybe not.”

  Vraebel shivered. “What kind of problem?”

  “I think we struck the bottom.”

  The chief blinked and looked at the monitor. The depth chart said 27k. “That’s not possible. The survey said it would be over 29k before we hit the floor.”

  “I know,” Gomez said. “But the instruments say we’re sitting on top of rock.”

  He thought for a moment. “Steve? I need to call the drilling office. Stand by.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He typed a few keys on a keypad and waited. With the sounds of the deck machinery in the background, the phone buzzed in his ears.

  “Harobin,” a voice answered.

  “Andy? Gomez says we’ve hit bottom.”

  There was a pause. “Yeah, I was going to call you about that. I think he’s right.”

  Vraebel hissed through his teeth. “What should we do here?”

  Harobin let out a huff of air and then chuckled. “I think we drill, Martin.”

  The chief smiled. “Steve? You hear that?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll get spudded and I’ll let you know when we’re ready.”

  “Good deal, Steve. Tear ‘em up. Harobin? Stay on the line.” There was a click and the sound of the rig deck disappeared. “Andy? What the hell is going on? The survey off again?”

  Harobin laughed. “You that surprised?” Andy’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “If the AUVs took the first survey and it was wrong, did you really expect the second to be any different?”

  Vraebel shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Not really. We’ve got the best technology…” The sentence died in his mouth. “Okay, yeah you’re right. Something’s obviously goofed with their sensor design.”

  “Well, it’s either that or the ocean floor is alive.”

  “Alive?” Vraebel asked.

  Harobin tittered. “Yeah. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Martin said. “Okay, if Steve’s going to start spudding, I’ll need you to get Calhoun in the office. Sigler too. I assume Standlee is down there?”

  “No. They’ve all gone off.”

  “Figures,” Vraebel said. “Okay, I’ll track them down. You make sure you keep in touch with Gomez. You see anything that looks wrong, I need you to speak up, okay?”

  “Okay, Martin. But we’re fine, man. This is going to be the mother lode.”

  “Right. Talk to you soon.” Vraebel hung up the phone. He wanted Harobin to be right.

  Alive was the word the geologist had used. And then the man had laughed as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Vraebel tried to shrug off the image of a giant creature that used the ocean floor like a blanket. He took another sip of coffee suddenly wishing there was plenty of Jameson whiskey in it.

  #

  Morning had come and gone. She’d skipped breakfast. She’d avoided the drilling office. She was in the last place in the world she wanted to be: the lab.

  All night long, she’d dreamed of oil that moved against gravity, that breathed in oxygen and expelled bubbles of CO2. When she’d finally awakened, the sun was barely visible through a clothing of dark clouds. The bed sheets were moist with sweat and looked as though an alligator had been rolling in them.

  She’d pulled off her t-shirt and shorts and threw them to the floor as she stared out the porthole. The rig’s thrusters were relatively quiet and for once she could hear the ocean’s gravelly whisper. As she stared, the whisper became her father’s voice.

  What are you afraid of darlin’?

  “I don’t know, Paw,” she said to the ocean.

  Ain’t nothing to be afraid of, girl, except fear. Got yourself all wound up to the point you can’t see the forest for the trees. Get out of your head, Shawna.

  “I can’t, Paw. Something’s wrong.”

  She heard her father’s dusty, coal-choked chuckle. Something’s always wrong, girl. You solve problems. Go solve �
��em. Ain’t gonna fix nothing by sitting here curled up in a ball.

  She’d opened her mouth to respond to the ghostly voice, and then stopped. It wasn’t a spirit talking to her. It was just her subconscious untangling the knots and telling her to get her ass in gear.

  Without hesitation, she’d jumped in the shower and dressed as quickly as she could. After that, she’d headed to the lab, wet hair gathered beneath a PPE ball cap. Heavy blue coveralls, her thick lab shirt, work boots…she might as well have been headed for the rig deck.

  Instead, she’d entered the lab, closed the hatch, and stood near the wall. The darkness was impenetrable. The lab had no portholes or windows to any adjoining rooms. It had been built to keep in any accidents; the bulkheads were thick and fire proof.

  Standing alone in the darkened room, her heart hammered in her chest. The hum of the rig’s thrusters was the only sound she could hear. Shawna closed her eyes and fumbled for the light switch. The sun was suddenly in the room with her.

  The bright fluorescents bathed the lab in blue-white light. She slowly opened her eyes and allowed them to adjust. It was a lab. The gravity stand’s stainless steel frame gleamed. The centrifuge sat on its table, innocuous and innocent. Racks of test tubes, beakers, and other equipment were all set in place. It was as clean as she and Calhoun had left it. Nothing had changed.

  She walked to the far wall and donned the heavy lab coat and apron. The apron draped down her body until it met her knees. It was heavy, but heavy was good. Beads of sweat gathered across her forehead and she wiped at them before putting on the black gloves. As her fingers slid inside, the soft neoprene felt familiar. Her heart-rate slowed.

  The outer glove shells were made to withstand corrosive chemicals and extreme heat. The only way something was getting through them was if it was radioactive. Finally, she removed her ball cap and replaced it with a shielded helmet. If Calhoun knew what she was planning on doing, he’d no doubt stop her, or at least scream in frustration. But she had to do it. She had to be able to sleep again.

  She approached the sample closet. Her heart started pounding again and she waited until it slowed. She popped open the door, took a deep breath, and then peered inside.

  The test tube and soiled beaker sat in the dim light. Steeling herself, she reached in and dragged out the beaker. She closed the closet and walked to the stainless-steel lab table. The glassware clinked as she placed it on the shining metal surface.

  She stepped back from it. The amber liquid was still. Shawna chewed her lip and thought for a moment. A bubble rose from the bottom of the beaker and popped when it reached the surface. Shawna blinked. Another bubble rose and did the same.

  Think, she said to herself. What is it doing?

  “Why are you bubbling?” she asked the room. The beaker of oil didn’t answer.

  Think, darlin’, her father’s voice said in her mind. What have you tested for?

  She pursed her lip. UV. Humidity. Sediment. Chemical res— She stopped and turned. Several decanters sat in racks against the wall. Shawna made her way to the chemicals. She made sure to turn around frequently to watch the beaker.

  It took nearly an hour, but she prepared test tubes with samples of the oil and then tried each of the reagents to get a reaction from the liquid. Each attempt resulted in failure. Except for the last one.

  Because she was certain the test would fail, she’d placed a single drop of oil in the last Pyrex cylinder. As she reached for another reagent to pour into the tube, she heard a pop. Her eyes snapped back to the tube.

  The oil wasn’t bubbling. It was practically leaping for the light. She pushed her rolling chair from the table. Before putting the drop into the tube, she’d focused the halogen lamp on the glass. The oil was bathed in bright, white light.

  The oil popped again and slid up the sides of the tube. Shawna rubbed her gloves together just to make sure she was wearing them. Her hands went down her lab apron and then touched the safety glass of her hat.

  Tendrils of the amber liquid tried to reach the top, but couldn’t do it. She watched as the oil turned into a dark brown stain on the glass. It crackled, spit a small tendril of smoke, and then stopped moving.

  Shawna let out a deep breath and realized she’d been holding it for quite some time. She stared at the beaker. It bubbled again. All the other test tubes, the ones where she’d poured at least a 1/4 oz. of liquid, were bubbling too.

  She slowly walked to the lab table, but leaned far enough back to keep from being over the test tubes or the beaker. When the halogen lamp was in reach, she manipulated the goose neck and pointed it at the nearest test tube with liquid.

  The top quarter of the amber liquid frothed and popped. She moved the lamp head closer, making sure she concentrated the light on the bottom of the Pyrex. The oil leaped for the top of the tube and made its way down the sides. She jumped back from the table as lines of amber skated across the table and down one of the table legs.

  “Fuck!” she yelled and backed up all the way to the far wall. She could see the thin lines of oil sitting beneath the shade of the lab table. The streams drew together and formed a tiny puddle. It didn’t bubble. It didn’t move.

  Breathing in harsh gasps, she held a hand to her heart. It was thumping loud enough to blot out everything. Slowly, carefully, she reached down for her phone. She had to sweep aside the heavy apron and lab coat. Her gloved fingers touched its metal surface and plucked it from the pocket. Eyes still focused on the liquid, she unlocked the phone with practiced, nimble fingers. She found the round button at the bottom of the phone and held it down.

  The phone beeped twice. “Send message,” she said in a raspy voice.

  “To whom do I send the message?” it responded.

  “Thomas Calhoun.” The liquid didn’t react to her voice.

  “Speak your message.”

  “Thomas,” she said, “The oil is alive. I’m trapped in the lab with it. Please help me.”

  She paused and the phone beeped again. “Send message?” it asked.

  “Yes.”

  The phone beeped again. “Message sent. Would you like to—“ She cut the phone off by locking it. There was little to do but wait it out. The liquid was between her and the hatch. She didn’t know what the stuff would do if it touched her. She didn’t want to either.

  #

  The usual hum of the computers blanketed the drilling office. Harobin typed at his keyboard and Catfish was doing the same. Harobin was looking for geological anomalies. Catfish was searching for solvents that affected metal. And Calhoun? He was goddamned confused.

  Catfish had called him down to the rig deck to show him the stressed and brittle metal. When he’d seen the damage to the AUV as well as the deck, he’d just shaken his head.

  “That’s not possible,” he’d told his long-haired partner. “Just not possible.”

  Catfish tugged the side of his beard. “Don’t you think I fucking know that, Thomas?”

  Calhoun took the screwdriver from Catfish and approached the scored propeller housing. He gently brushed the metal with the tool. A flake of silver peeled off. “How much pressure did you use to crack the scoop?”

  “Not much,” Catfish said. “Not much at all.”

  Nodding, Calhoun did the same to the propeller. The metal didn’t react at all. He increased the pressure, but the steel resisted as it should have. “Okay,” he said aloud. “Obviously the propeller wasn’t touched.”

  Catfish blinked. “No?”

  “No.” Calhoun scraped the screwdriver across the bottom of the propeller housing. It crumbled into flakes of metal. “Holy shit,” he said. He flipped the screw driver around, gripped the hard plastic end, and scraped the top of the housing where he’d started. The metal resisted. He increased the pressure, but it remained intact. “Fuck. Me.”

  “What?” Catfish asked. He’d left his post by the instruments and peered over the larger man’s shoulder.

  Calhoun shook his head. “It’s like
the chemical makeup of the metal has changed. Touching it with non-metallic objects doesn’t seem to have any effect. But touch it with actual metal, and its hardness is just…well, gone.”

  “So you’ve seen this before?”

  Calhoun had turned and stared at Catfish’s face with gleaming, excited eyes. “No. I haven’t. Whatever touched this,” he said pointing back to the AUV, “changed the chemical composition of the metal. Rearranged the molecules. Whatever new formation they’ve taken, they lose cohesion when touched by other metal molecules.”

  Catfish had cleared his throat. “That’s impossible, isn’t it?”

  “Not impossible,” Calhoun had said. “Just damned unlikely. I’m not even sure what would do that. And without a good microscope, it’s going to be impossible for me to figure out what happened here.”

  They’d left the rig deck and headed back to the drilling office. As soon as they reached it, Harobin had grinned at both of them. “We’ve hit the bottom. They’re going to spud.”

  The engineer had frowned. “They shouldn’t hit the bottom for another hour or two,” he said. “What’s the depth?”

  “27k,” Harobin had replied. He rubbed at his nose and flicked a green booger against the wall. “A bit short.”

  “A bit short?” Catfish had crossed his arms. “Try impossibly short. The surveys—“

  “Are obviously wrong,” Harobin had said. “I’m guessing the sensors need to be recalibrated because something is way off.”

  “No shit,” Catfish had said. He’d flopped down in his chair, unlocked his workstation, and glared at his screen. He hadn’t said another word.

  Rather than argue with Harobin, Calhoun had sat at Shawna’s workstation and started running searches. He had tried everything he could think of to describe the behavior he’d seen, but no articles matched it. He had half a mind to contact a metallurgist. Heat, cold, electromagnetism, all of those factors changed the way metal behaved. Heat spread the molecules apart. Cold forced them closer together. Electrical fields could reorganize the structure and make the metal brittle.