by Ally Blue
So then, why didn’t Mandala see? Mandala who was, if anything, the least emotionally swayed, most relentlessly objective person on their team? It didn’t make any sense.
They came upon the lab door suddenly, as if they’d been standing in front of it for a while and it had waited until now to reveal itself. Ignoring the bizarre thought, Armin keyed in the code and marched inside. Mandala and Neil remained in the hall, though Armin could tell neither was pleased.
Too bad. Now more than ever, Armin wanted them on the outside. Not only to protect them from whatever might be in there, but to call for help in case he couldn’t.
All the lights were on. He peered from one workstation to another. The place looked empty. “Ashlyn? Where are you?”
“In the back, beside the emergency eye wash station.”
She sounded calm, but her voice was weak. And if she was at the eye wash station, not moving . . .
Armin ran for the rear of the lab, his chest tight with a blossoming dread. He came around the corner and skidded to a stop, gaping like a fish.
The things on the metal tray beside the sink hit his vision in bright flashes. A roll of medical tape. A blue sterile wrap, purple with blood. A gory scalpel. An empty gauze bandage package, the paper ripped down the middle. Two objects that at first glance looked like large white marbles with the stubs of strings attached, smeared with blood. Until he noticed the brown irises, and realized he was looking at human eyes.
He stared at Ashlyn’s back where she leaned over the sink—at her thin fingers grasping the sides of the bowl, at the white gauze tied around her head, at the way she trembled all over—and felt sick. “Oh my God, Ashlyn. What have you done?”
Armin made Neil and Mandala stay outside the lab while he called a medical isolation team to the lab on a stat basis. He put on isolation gear while he waited, in the event that BathyTech 3 was, in fact, dealing with a breakout and he’d just been exposed. If he hadn’t already been exposed before now.
The creative corners of his mind—the part of him that had created something new and strange from the staid, respectable field of marine geology—had already connected the dots. The picture they formed frightened him to his core.
“That’s not necessary,” Ashlyn said as Armin zipped into the suit. “The isolation gear, I mean.”
He didn’t ask how she knew what he was doing. Everything about this situation was wrong. Why shouldn’t Ashlyn be able to see through her blood-stained bandage in spite of her lack of eyes?
“I hope you’re right. But you know I have to err on the side of caution.” Armin approached the chair where he’d made her sit and laid a gloved hand on her arm. “The medics will be here shortly. They’ll give you medication for the pain and take you to the medical bay for treatment.”
She breathed a barely audible sound that told Armin how hard she was holding back the agony of what she’d done to herself. “That’ll be good. Thank you.”
“Of course.” Armin studied the tight pain lines around her mouth and the tension in her shoulders, and felt helpless. “Why did you do it?”
“I had to. It was the only way.” She laughed, a low, wobbly sound. “I realize how insane that sounds. But the weeds get in through the eyes. So they had to go.”
A strange, icy tightness clutched at Armin’s lungs. “Weeds?”
“They’re not weeds in the usual sense, but . . .” She made a so-so gesture with one pale hand. The blood drying around her nails looked black. “It’s close enough, I suppose. They creep in through your eyes and grow inside you. Like weeds taking over a lawn.” She lifted her mutilated face toward the ceiling, as if she were staring with some mystical inner sight through the kilometers of cold, black ocean to the sky above. “I couldn’t let that happen. A sacrifice had to be made, and I made it.”
The vice around Armin’s lungs squeezed tighter. “What do you mean?” He sounded breathless. Weak. Afraid.
But Doctor, breathed a rough voice in his mind, don’t you want to know? So very much to knoooooow, Doctor . . .
Ashlyn’s head tilted, almost as if she’d heard the voice too. She reached out and grasped his wrist in both hands. Her fingers were cold and shaking. “Armin, listen to me. You remember you told me about the Varredura Longa? About the eyes?”
The eyes. Human eyes in the lab sink, in cups, rolling on the floor. Corpses staring at him with blank, empty, accusing sockets . . .
Ashlyn’s self-mutilation had brought back vivid memories of the Varredura Longa. Armin and his team had speculated about the why of that crew’s actions, but had never come up with satisfactory answers. “You believe they took out their own eyes for the same reason?” It was a terrible thought.
“Yes.” Her fingers dug harder into his flesh. “Think about it. Why else would someone do that? They knew something was trying to get to them. Take them over. So they tried to stop it by closing the door. Taking their own eyes. Only they were too late.”
It made a horrible, twisted sort of sense. Dread knotted cold and tight in his gut. He laid his free hand over Ashlyn’s tense fingers. “What makes you believe that’s what they did? Or that you had to do the same? My God, Ashlyn, you cut out your own eyes!”
She went perfectly still. The twin blood-blossoms on her gauze seemed to stare into his brain. “Only a few people in Antarctica actually handled the object they found, but they all saw it. Do you understand? Everyone saw it. The damned thing infected them through their eyes.”
It was a crazy idea, with absolutely no precedent in the natural world. On the other hand, the object currently locked in the lab’s vault had no precedent either.
What if she was right?
He swallowed the acid rising in his throat and breathed deep, in and out, in and out. Of course Ashlyn wasn’t right. It was ridiculous. No infectious organism spread the way she was talking about, and she knew it. If anything, they were dealing with a previously unknown contagion that caused psychosis. That was bad enough. No need to borrow trouble by buying into Ashlyn’s paranoid fantasy.
Beyond the workstations, he heard the lab door whoosh open. “Medics,” a voice called. “Where are you?”
“Beside the eye wash station,” he called back. “Are you wearing isolation gear?”
“Yes.” The medics rounded the corner—in full protective dress, to Armin’s relief—while Ashlyn was still laughing at Armin’s question. The female medic gaped at Ashlyn. “What the . . .?”
“She doesn’t think isolation is necessary.” Armin stared hard at one medic, then the other. Trying to convey with a silent look that she might not be entirely lucid. “She believes the contagion enters through the eyes.”
He watched the light dawn on both medics’ faces. The male medic shook his head. “All right, then. I’m Tomás and this is Misha. We’re here to take you to the med bay, Ms., um . . .”
“Dr. Ashlyn Timms.” Ashlyn’s lips twisted into the wry, condescending smile with which Armin had become extremely familiar since they’d started working together. She stood, clinging to the back of the chair with one hand. “If one of you could help me to the stretcher, I’d appreciate it. I’m feeling a bit shaky.”
“Here, Ashlyn. I’ve got you.” Armin took her elbow, put an arm around her waist, and walked her the few steps to where the medics waited. Fine tremors ran through her body, the only outward sign of the pain she must feel. He helped her onto the floating gurney. “I’m going along with you, all right? I’ll be right here.”
Her smile blossomed into something more genuine. “Thank you, Armin. You know, you should really do the same, before it’s too late. You and anyone else who’s still unaffected. It’s already spreading fast. This place’ll end up just like the Varredura Longa if we’re not careful.”
Blood on the lab floor. Intestines strung like grisly holiday decorations around the mess hall. Someone’s tongue bobbing by a wire in the moon pool. Lights dim, equipment smashed, so many dead, so many more missing . . .
Armin s
hook off the memories, his throat too tight to answer. He squeezed her hand, then backed out of the way so the medics could cover her with an isolation tent and take her away.
He braced himself for the questions Neil and Mandala would no doubt have. Hopefully, he could tell them what little he knew on the way to the medical bay, then find Mo and take him away for a private chat. He had the sinking feeling now was the time to tell Mo all the things he’d been trying not to say for the past several days. It was a conversation he did not look forward to, but it had to be done.
Squaring his shoulders, he followed the stretcher out the door.
Mo was about to leave the med bay in search of Armin when the call came in about Dr. Timms.
“She cut out both her eyes with a scalpel.” Misha’s voice was grim over the com. “Said she had no choice because the weeds spread through the eyes.”
Dr. Palto rubbed a hand over his face. “Good Lord. She’s isolated, I hope?”
“Yes. Dr. Savage-Hall requested isolation when he called us.” Misha paused for a beat. “He wants—”
Armin cut in. “Dr. Palto, I believe we have a serious situation here. Ashlyn needs to be isolated, and everyone else with the exception of essential medical personnel needs to be confined to quarters immediately, and for the foreseeable future. Is that possible?”
Mo let out a soft, humorless laugh. At least Armin could be counted on to see the potential threat in the situation.
Palto curled forward, like the weight of what was happening was too much to handle. “I wish I could disagree with you, Doctor, but I can’t. I’ll have the isolation room ready when you get here.”
“Good.” Armin spoke to someone on the other end, then came back to the com. “I think you should probably call upside as well, and tell them what’s going on down here. Tell them that Hannah is most likely patient zero.”
“Agreed, Doctor. See you shortly.” Palto leaned back in his chair and ran both hands over his close-cropped hair. He looked grim and older than his years, his dark complexion ashen. “When I was hired for this job, I told Youssouf three iso rooms were excessive. My research might have required one. In the unlikely event that anyone here developed an illness requiring isolation, we would’ve only needed a room long enough for the Peregrine to send a team down to take them upside for treatment. But now it looks as though we may wish we had more before the day’s over.”
It was a scary thought. “What sort of contagion causes people to . . .” Mo gestured toward Ryal, pacing his small room like a panther scenting blood and unable to get to the source. “To be like this? Or like Hannah. I’ve never heard of any disease that does that.”
“Some infections can certainly cause psychotic behavior. However, few that I know of are likely to be present in a bathyspheric environment. Of the ones that might be—such as some sexually transmitted diseases—none would spread so quickly, and all would show other symptoms prior to psychosis.”
“In other words, you don’t know that it is anything contagious.”
“No, I don’t. I have no idea what, exactly, we’re dealing with. But, at the moment, we have four people in the space of two days who have exhibited symptoms similar enough to make me want to take precautions. One of those people is dead and the other mutilated, both at their own hands.” Palto tapped his fingers on the machine that dispensed meds. “Right now, we have to assume the worst—that we have an outbreak of a highly contagious, unknown disease on this pod. Until we have solid proof otherwise, we will continue to act as though that is the case. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Rees.”
Mo nodded and wandered away while Palto called the medical team on the Peregrine. He leaned his elbows on the desk, thinking hard. Something was happening on BT3. Something bad. If scientific method and medical treatment could stop it? Hell, he was all for that.
If only the quiet little corner of his mind would stop whispering to him that nothing could stop the forces that had been set in motion here.
The med bay door slid open. Tomás and Misha trotted in, leading a hover stretcher covered with an iso tent. Through the transparent plastic Mo saw Dr. Timms, her hands folded over her belly as if she were sleeping and a bloody bandage wrapped around her eyes.
Or, well, where her eyes had been until she’d cut them out.
Jesus.
“Bring her into Iso Two.” Dr. Palto led the way, pulling on his protective gear as he went. “Misha, if you could assist me with the exam and surgery I’d appreciate it.”
She nodded. “Sure thing. I’ll get the trauma kit.”
She veered away, leaving Tomás and Dr. Palto to guide the stretcher into the isolation room. In the cubicle next door, Ryal stopped his pacing long enough to watch with a detached sort of curiosity until the stretcher was out of sight. He flashed Mo a grin that chilled him deep down.
The bay door opened again, making Mo jump. Armin walked in, his shoulders slumped, weariness stamped into the part of his face Mo could see above the isolation mask. Mo forgot all about the disturbing changes in Ryal.
“Armin.” He crossed the room in a few strides and stopped before he could act on the urge to hug the man, iso suit and all. “Are you all right?”
For a moment, Armin didn’t say anything. He looked burdened, as if he personally carried BathyTech 3’s fate on his back. Mo took his hand and squeezed. Fuck the gloves. It didn’t matter. Armin obviously needed someone to let him know they cared about him right now, and Mo did.
“No.” Armin curled his fingers around Mo’s. “I’m not all right. One of my oldest friends committed suicide today. One of the most brilliant scientists of this century just cut out her own eyes because she believed weeds were going to get in through them and infect her mind. And I brought both of those people down here.”
Mo ached for this man he barely knew but already considered a friend. Possibly more. “It’s not your fault. You have to know that.”
Armin let out a brittle laugh. “Isn’t it?” He looked at Mo, and the anguish in his eyes was heartbreaking. “Mo. We need to talk. There’s a great deal I need to tell you. Things that I probably should have told you before, but I didn’t because I thought they had nothing to do with our work here. But now I’m very afraid they might.”
Okay, that didn’t sound good at all. Mo studied what he could see of Armin’s face, trying to read him. “Can we go somewhere to talk, before we get confined to quarters?”
Armin glanced toward the iso room where Dr. Palto and Misha were bent over Dr. Timms. “I can’t expose anyone else. And, in fact, you shouldn’t either. Not until we know more about what we’re dealing with.”
Mo strode around behind the desk, grabbed a filter mask and a pair of gloves, and pulled them on. “How about now? Can we leave now? How about we go to your quarters?”
The way the skin around Armin’s eyes crinkled told Mo he was smiling behind his mask. “Well. I suppose it’s good enough. The last isolation room ought to be saved in case another symptomatic case turns up, anyway.”
Armin crossed to the other end of the desk and spoke to the nurse. Telling him where they were going, no doubt. After he’d talked to the nurse, Armin headed straight for the exit without a word. Mo followed.
Thankfully, they only passed a couple of people on the way to Armin’s quarters. Mo ignored the strange looks they got because of the iso gear. He’d deal with that if it meant finding out what was making Armin look so damn scared.
Armin stopped outside his room and glanced around like he expected to find bad guys lurking in the shadows. Mo frowned into the unnatural dimness. What the fuck was wrong with the lights?
As soon as Mo thought it, the entire hallway went pitch-black. The lights came back on before he’d properly registered the darkness. He gaped at the perfectly ordinary soft white glow.
Armin turned to him, forehead furrowed, as the door opened. “Mo? What’s the matter?”
Meaning Armin hadn’t noticed the temporary blackout. Mo licked his lips. “Um. Have y
ou noticed that the lights have been kind of dim?” He peered overhead. “Well. Not now. But they were for a while.”
“Oh.” Armin grasped the edge of the door so hard his fingers trembled. “I’ve noticed, yes. But I don’t know . . .” He trailed off, staring at nothing.
“Don’t know what?”
Armin sighed. “Come in. I’ll tell you what I can.” Turning his back on Mo, he went inside.
Mo trailed behind, stomach churning. Whatever Armin had to say, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it.
Armin stopped just inside his room, heart in his throat. Everything had changed. The light pulsed a low, ominous amber. Strange shapes skulked in the shadows, reaching for him and Mo with tenebrous fingers.
He turned and grasped Mo’s hands. “Mo. I know this is a strange question, but humor me. What do you see?”
Mo’s eyes searched his for a moment, then that keen gaze lifted and moved beyond Armin to the room behind him. “I see your room. You’re . . . uh . . . kind of a slob.”
Armin laughed. It sounded halfway hysterical, so he stopped. “What about the light, Mo? Is the light normal? The shadows?”
Mo’s brows pulled together in obvious concern, but he didn’t hesitate to answer. “Looks fine to me, yeah. Why?”
Don’t worry, Doctor. It’s only the thing living in your brain.
He closed his eyes. Only for a second. A count of one-one-thousand. But when he opened them again, the room was exactly as he’d left it that morning—the light a gentle ivory, the sinister shadows banished.
So that was it, then. He was hallucinating. Which meant what? That he was infected? That Mo was as well? He wished he knew.
Mo’s fingers in his hair brought him hurtling back to Earth. He stepped closer, close enough to press his body against Mo’s, slipped his arms around Mo’s waist, and clung to him. “I’m glad you’re here. You have no idea.”
