Undersea

by Geoffrey Morrison

  They leaned against the walls of the elevator, and fell out when the doors opened at B1, one level below the floor of the Basket. Some light from the picosun far above trickled through clear panels and open grates placed in the ceiling of the corridor.

  Featureless metallic corridors continued ahead and behind, branching off into countless side corridors as far as the eye could see. Light fixtures tucked in with various pipes along the walls played tricks on Thom's blurred eyes, seeming to get closer and closer together as they disappeared into the distance. The crew staggered down the hall, slipping on the moist floor, and entered a hatch with a hand-painted sign above that read “The Landing.” Inside, the lighting was better, the floor drier, and the dozen or so patrons smiled knowingly as the boys made their entrance. The bartender placed four drinks on the bar.

  “No puking inside this time, OK?” he said jovially.

  “No promises!” Thom said as a salute, downing the drink in one gulp. An older man at the bar looked over with a scowl.

  “Don’t you boys have to be in school?”

  “School?” Olly said after downing his drink. “How old do we look to you? Even Yully finished school four years ago.”

  “Then this is the best thing you can think of to spend your money on?”

  “Umm, yeah!” Olly said, raising his empty glass to the bartender. Thom smiled, but didn’t seem as enthused. The old man noticed, and nodded stoically at him.

  At night, as it were, the ship slept. The picosuns automatically dimmed, their color cooling to mimic the blue cast of moonlight. There was some life, though. Cleaning crews made their rounds. Floors were buffed, lightbulbs changed—all the daily, or in this case nightly, activities to keep entropy at bay and the aging ship in fully working order. As every school kid knew, there were 16,950 windows facing the Basket alone. Those that weren’t personal cabins (most of the higher ones) were washed from the deck with powerful jets of seawater and cleaner.

  Take, for example, the section of the ship that was once called the Ocean Voyager III. Its starboard side, all 12 levels from waterline to weather deck, from stern to roughly the bow, now occupied one of the center positions in the port side wall of the Basket, bordered on the bow by the similarly sized SeaWinds and on the stern by the smaller Sea Spirit II. Underneath the Voyager III rested a Contentent-class tanker whose name no one remembered, and above were four personal yachts that had changed names too many times to count. Where one ship ended and another began was difficult to determine, as so many welds, patches, paints, and repairs had been done over the years that it all blended into one hodgepodge of a wall. And that was just the middle of one wall. The Voyager III, being one of the larger former ships, could fit end to end four times along the wall of the Basket where it now lay, and nearly two times port to starboard.

  The interiors were mostly intact, though families and/or shop owners had taken down non-structural walls over the years to create larger spaces. Carpets had mainly given way to the bare deckplates.

  On the far side of these ships was a maze of corridors, trams, and elevators designed to keep people and goods moving from the Garden or docks to storage areas or shops. The widest of these, known simply as Port Street and S Street depending on what side of the ship one was on, were the longest open areas on the ship, running unimpeded from just shy of the bow to just ahead of the engine bays. Only late at night were these thoroughfares not busy with tram, cart, dolly, and person traffic.

  On the other side of the Streets was a ring of even more ships, still mostly intact from their former lives. These more or less matched up in terms of size to their inward counterparts, but while the inward former-vessels were predominantly housing, the outer ships held storage, manufacturing, and all the machinery needed to keep nearly 200,000 people breathing, eating, drinking, and not living in their own filth.

  If you knew where to look, or were on one of the maintenance teams assigned to the area, you could get through one of these ships, and exit the other side. This was one of the few places where you could see the sophisticated superstructure of the Universalis. Mostly you’d just find ballast tanks, watertight bulkheads, and the triple-redundant cells between the ultra-hard carbon-composite exterior hull and the still-watertight hulls of the outer ring of ships. But in a few places, for access and maintenance purposes, you could see the extensive latticework that held the hull to the hulls and the ships to the ship that made the buoyant city possible and a home for so many, so far beneath the surface.

  The lights were off in Thom’s cabin, but enough leaked through the porthole past his dirty towel curtain to let him know that it was barely dawn. His mouth tasted like his body felt. Rolling over and standing up in one motion, he paused with a knee on the bed, one foot on the floor, and his hands bracing the opposite wall of his cabin. Eyes closed, he took a breath, then entered the head. Not much larger than the toilet that occupied its center, he was able to do his morning business, brush his teeth, and shower all at the same time. None were done well.

  Thom removed the towel from the porthole, dried himself off, and dressed slowly in his gray-blue uniform. There were orange-red patches on the left elbow and right knee. The brown bottom-most button on the shirt didn’t match the other clear ones.

  The Garden was by far the largest space on the ship, though it was hard to tell by looking at it. More than double the size of the Basket (itself half again as large as the Yard), the Garden was exactly what its name implied. Row upon row, tier upon tier, hanging garden from hanging garden, every cubic inch of the Garden was maximized to take advantage of the three picosuns that lit the space. A semi-permanent haze imparted a softness to everything. The plants that could thrive in just water were housed in clear containers so they could be placed over something else. Mirrors were used to give light to plants tucked away underneath overhangs. Fruit vines covered every wire and support. It was bright, hot, humid, and had more co-mingling smells than any nose could deal with.

  The only pedestrian walkway ran the length of the Garden in the shape of an “I.” Recessed as to take up as little growing space as possible, it was covered by an open grate intertwined with vines. Along here, dozens of shops and restaurants offered produce from farms in the Garden, or from any of the small personal gardens maintained throughout the ship. There were also stalls selling the fish that Thom’s employers (or one of their competitors) had caught earlier that morning. The hectic floor was in constant gridded shadow from the grate and the vines.

  Four gigantic locks, one each at the corners of the “I,” were designed to keep the Garden’s weather in and the ship’s weather out. This time of morning, they were temporarily kept open, as the traffic was so continuous that the door wouldn’t have time to open and close anyway.

  The tram ride from his cabin took its usual ten minutes, and Thom stood in the lock looking out over the part of the garden he could see, and promptly sneezed like he normally did. Then it was down the ramp, out of the bright light, for the five-minute walk to breakfast.

  The restaurant’s patio was empty, an eddy of calmness in the constant stream of pedestrians. He seated himself with his back to the wall of the restaurant, looking out at the people passing by. It wasn’t long before an older, overweight man brought out a plate of smoked fish and fruit, placed it in front of Thom, and slumped into the chair beside him. He looked to be a little more than twice Thom’s age. He watched the flow of the crowd with sunken and puffy eyes and flushed jowls. Thom’s own brown eyes were puffy, though not from age.

  “I think I’m gonna try to get out of the fishing corps,” Thom said, breaking the silence they both seemed to enjoy while he ate.

  “Yeah?” the older man said non-committal. His voice sounded like he needed to cough.

  “This guy at the bar last night...” Thom said, taking a bite out of a green piece of fruit. At this comment, the older man turned to look at Thom. “I don’t know. It’s not like he said anything, but he did, you know?”

  “No.
”

  “I suppose not.”

  “It’s a good job. You’re outside.”

  “I know. Look, I know it’s not like there's a lot of jobs, but maybe something that’s just a little different. I’m not trying to be Captain or anything.”

  Eerre snorted a laugh and said, “I get it. How about this. I've got a buddy that’s the number two over at Logistics. We served together. His wife cheated on him with me. They divorced. So he owes me. With your piloting skill, I’m sure he could find you something.”

  “Thanks, Eerre. That would be great.”

  “He’ll probably have you driving sewage scows or shuttling rich kids around or something.”

  “That’s not the same thing?” Thom said with a smile. Eerre tipped his head back and let out a bellowing laugh, the chair creaking under the strain.

  They said nothing else for several minutes, silently watching the market patrons.

  “I like being able to run stuff by you,” Thom said quietly into his plate. Eerre’s face visibly softened, and he turned away from Thom as he struggled with what to say.

  “I’m glad you do. Or, you’re welcome. Or, whatever.” The two avoided eye contact at all cost, and focused instead on the fast moving crowd. “Roo wanted me to invite you over for dinner this weekend. Nothing major. She’s just got some fine cut of something and wants to make a big meal.”

  “Just tell me when, Eerre. I’d love to,” Thom said with a smile, glad the awkwardness had passed. Glad he had spoken his feelings. He wasn’t sure why it was hard to do with one of his oldest friends, but it just was. Eerre nodded then stood up, using the table and the back of the chair for support. The older man made his way past Thom, and patted him on the shoulder, the last pat lasting longer than the rest. Then he disappeared inside. Thom finished, yelled a goodbye into the seemingly vacant restaurant, and started off for the 20-minute trip down into the bowels of the ship and the docks.

  IV

  “But you have to. Don’t you see how important this is?” Ralla pleaded. She had pulled her light blond curls back in a bun, thinking it would make her look more serious. Seated in the small office of the editor of the Uni Daily, she was now convinced it hadn’t worked. The newsroom outside the office, really just a cluster of a dozen or so desks with terminals, was busy with people. Inside, there was silence. The editor, a middle-aged man with dark brown hair and a soft demeanor looked down at the papers strewn across his desk.

  “What I see is a bunch of maintenance reports.”

  “Which all show...”

  “...which all show repairs and maintenance. What do you want from me?”

  “The ship is falling apart, don’t you see it?” Ralla said just below a yell. “Here. Here, look at this one,” she said, grabbing a sheet off the pile and waving it in his face. “We almost had a hull breach!”

  The editor’s eyes darted out to the newsroom, scanning for signs that people had heard her. Satisfied no one did, he looked back at her, his calm face taking a darker turn. He reached out and lowered the paper in front of him without giving it a glance.

  “Look. I know who you are, which means you already went to the Council with this, and they ignored you. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. All you’ve shown me is a bunch of reports...”

  “That show...”

  “That show nothing. What is it you expect me to do? Run a story implying the ship is going to sink and we’re all going to die? I don’t think so. What good would come of it?”

  “But it would force the Council to act,” she protested, but she had already lost her nerve.

  “I’m sorry about your father, I really am. Maybe if this was his fight...”

  “This is his fight.”

  “So you say. This is an old ship; problems are bound to come up. All you’re trying to get me to do is incite panic. No.”

  “But these reports are being repressed. No one below the Council would be able to tie all this together,” she sat back down in her seat, visibly deflated. “They’re hiding it. Don’t you see that?”

  “Miss Gattley, in tonight’s edition, we interview the oldest person on board. She’s 143, and doing really well. She still does her own shopping, and finishes every meal with a beer. It’s a feel-good story; people will love it. She remembers being on land. Remembers the Waves. Remembers both wars. In her years, she’s seen every possible catastrophe. She’s seen this ship go through far worse than scattered maintenance reports from techs no doubt trying to justify their jobs. I believe that you believe this is all part of some larger eminent disaster, but I’m sure the Council has a reason for ignoring you, and that’s good enough for me.” He slid the scattered papers together and handed them across the desk to Ralla. She looked on the verge of tears. “I met your father once, at an event a few years ago. He was a great man. He did a lot of good for this ship,” the editor said. Ralla nodded.

  “Is.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You said... never mind. Thank you for your time.” Ralla turned and left quickly.

  Eight days later, Ralla was in the back of a small transport, about to leave Universalis. There were six seats, three facing three, in the back of the sub, with the pilot at the front. The usual survival gear was stowed, rather sloppily she noticed, above and below the seats. Everything was clean, but worn. The clammy air didn’t help. She hesitated to touch anything.

  The sub was released from its loading crane, and it accelerated out of the dock. Turning to look out the tiny porthole between the seats, she briefly saw the starboard hull of the Uni before her own sub turned and all she saw was sea.

  “Is this your first time going down to a dome?” she asked the pilot. He turned and looked at her. Ralla was surprised to see he didn’t look much older than she, handsome, though rather unkempt. He was unshaven, and his black hair was either too long or too short, she couldn’t decide. He cracked a great smile, and Ralla was shocked that this made her heart do a little jump. OK, she thought, that smile makes up for a lot. She hoped she wasn’t blushing.

  “Actually, yes. You?”

  “Oh no, I’ve been to a bunch,” she replied. A lie, a flat out lie, she thought. Why did I do that? He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Well, then you’ll have to tell me how this one stacks up. My name’s Thom. I guess I’ll be your pilot for the day.”

  “Thank you, Thom. I’m Ralla.”

  “Well Miss Ralla, if there’s anything I can get you, let me know. I have a full stock of the finest alcohols and treats.”

  “Really?”

  “No, sorry. Stale rations?”

  “Sounds lovely. And I’m not a Miss.”

  “Missus?”

  “Oh, no, no. Ralla. Just call me Ralla.”

  “Ralla it is, then.” This time she knew she was blushing.

  Dome M3324 was a mining facility, nestled into a narrow canyon, home to roughly 3,000. The standard duty rotation was three months in the dome and three months back on the Uni. Generally, the workers were single, not because the work was especially dangerous, but because it was tough on families. A 50/50 split between men and women was the goal, though it usually ended up being more like 60/40. This occasionally led to problems, but not often.

  Before long, Ralla noticed a yellow glow coming from the front of the sub, and tried to sit up in her seat so she could see above the raised console. Thom dipped the bow as he cleared the edge of the canyon, and the brightly glowing dome came into view as the walls of the canyon rose to envelop them.

  “Better?” he asked,

  “Thank you.” She realized this probably wasn’t what someone who had been to “a bunch” of domes would do, but it was too late now. They skimmed the surface, passing ghostly abandoned structures and massive equipment left to decay after the dome was built. Thom brought the transport around the front of the reinforced transparent hemisphere, slowing their approach as they neared the giant lock at its base. It made the sub seem minuscule by comparison. They moved along a path
lit by lights in the sea floor towards a smaller open lock built into the larger door.

  The sub settled with a clang onto the metal floor off to one side of the cavernous lock. The water drained quickly, and no sooner had the pumps cycled off than a well dressed, gray-haired gentleman with a boxy build stepped through a door set into the wall. He stood just inside; his posture implied some sort of military background.

  Thom powered down the sub, and keyed the toggle to drop the back stairway. Ralla gathered up her things, and disembarked. The still-dripping hull gave her a bit of a shower, and she tried not to appear flustered as she approached the gray-haired man.

  “Proctor Wenne?”

  “Yes, Miss Gattley. Welcome to Thirty-three Twenty-four.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wenne,” she replied. His gaze drifted over her shoulder, and she turned to see Thom exit the sub. He nodded at them.

  “Will there be anything else you need from me, Ra... Miss Gattley?” Thom’s voice echoed in the open space.

  “No, thank you, Thom. I believe we’re scheduled to leave at 19:30. Will you meet me back here then?”

  “Will do,” he replied. Proctor Wenne led Ralla through the door he had come in, through a small foyer with two technicians sitting lazily in front of the lock console, and into into the dome beyond. Thom waited for them to get out of earshot, and then looked over to the techs.

  “Where does the help get drunk around here?”

  All three left immediately.

  Ralla tried to hide her shock at the size of the space. It probably wasn’t much bigger than the Basket, all told, but it seemed larger. The geodesic dome itself was clear to the sea beyond, giving it the appearance of night despite being late morning. The top portion of the lattice shell was embedded with lights, enough to make the interior of the dome as bright as daylight. The floor was packed with square buildings. Near the edges these were no more than a single story, shops from what Ralla could see, but as they approached the center the buildings got taller and taller in scale with the dome—blocks on top of blocks on top of blocks. The center building stood like a 15-story monolith surrounded by buildings that seemed to step down away from it. The top was less than a story from the apex of the dome. Each wall of each building, save the central tower, was painted a different color: reds, yellows, greens, and even some purple and magenta mixed in with the mostly white. Wenne followed Ralla’s gaze.