The Abyss

by Orson Scott Card

  The humans were opening the missile and removing the death inside. It might be a good sign. But then, it might not. Who could understand these creatures who allowed each others' precious memories to perish when their bodies died, who fought against death with terrible fury, but made weapons that could shatter all their works and lay waste an entire planet?

  Still, the city had been studying. The fleeting contact with Jammer's living brain had given them a great deal of information on how to interpret the memories of the dead they had taken from the Montana. They had figured out how to translate radio broadcasts into sound and television signals into pictures. They had even decoded human languages, after a fashion. Now, though, they were finally able to make sense out of our actions and our words. By seeing how our brains worked, what we remembered, how it felt to be human, words that had been empty code-patterns to them suddenly took on meaning. Decades-old broadcasts that had lain dormant in the city's spires of memory were now being examined in a frenzy of activity. The builders had shut down almost all activity except the effort to comprehend what these strange creatures meant by the incomprehensible things they did.

  Long before they understood our languages, they had developed a label for us, a way to think of us, in their own wordless communications. They thought of all nonbuilders, whatever their species, as forgetters - the equivalent of our concept of animal, creatures that move as if with purpose but are not capable of real thought. Until the Montana, we had belonged in that category in their minds. Now, though, they knew we were rememberers like them, though our memories were cut tragically short by one of the morbid accidents of biology. So to distinguish us from themselves and from the forgetters, they thought of us as those-who-kill-each-other-on-purpose.

  In the meantime, the city gathered more and more heat out of the waters of the Caribbean till it warmed the sea directly under Hurricane Frederick, as well as the water in front of the storm. The radiating warmth heated the air above it, steadily lowering the air pressure inside the hurricane. Eventually it would surpass all previous records. Frederick was a controlled storm; with the builders herding it toward Deepcore, it was going to be the worst hurricane in history.

  There was no malice in this. The builders were going to probe Deepcore in an effort to gather information about these air-breathers. Though Deepcore was at the lower limits of survival for human beings, it was near the upper limits for builders who were not safely locked within a porter's body. They were genetically reshaping several porters into a probe that could survive in the breathing mixture that filled Deepcore. But in order to take it up to the dangerously thin seawater at two thousand feet, the builders themselves would be exposed. Vulnerable. Therefore they had to be sure that Deepcore was alone. Hurricane Frederick would sweep the sea above them and keep it clear until they had learned from Deepcore's crew all that could be learned.

  On the outer edges of the storm, Russian warships and gunboats probed the U.S. Navy's formations. They played with each other like children. Tag. Chicken. Frighten the other guy. See how resolute he is. See what he's capable of doing.

  What the U.S. missile cruiser Appleton was not capable of doing was avoiding a collision with a much smaller Soviet destroyer. They never saw each other until the last moment, but each certainly knew, from radar and intercepted radio communications, that the other was nearby. Even when the destroyer came in view, the captain of the Appleton tried to steer away, and thought he had succeeded. But the Appleton heeled over in a monstrous wave; another wave, coming at a different angle in the chaotic sea, tossed the destroyer in its path.

  The Appleton was crippled, but the Soviet ship was mortally hurt. She was taking on water rapidly, and burning savagely above the waterline, in spite of the heavy rain. It took only a few minutes for the destroyer to founder and sink.

  Even before the crew of the Appleton had finished assessing its own damage, they were radioing for help in rescuing survivors of the Soviet ship. But there were only a few men plucked out of the violent sea, and all of them were rescued in the first few minutes by American sailors in rafts, or by climbing up swaying rope ladders dropped down the sides of American ships.

  In calmer times this would have been an enormously dangerous incident, more so than the shooting down of the Korean Airlines jet, since this involved military forces on both sides. But this collision happened while both sides were already viewing each other with fear and suspicion.

  The Russians were trying to figure out why their new sub-tracking satellite had blown up less than an hour after it became operational; if the Americans did it, how did they know what it was, and how did they kill it without the Russians detecting a launch? Now the Americans, claiming a submarine had been sunk, were gathering a fleet off the southwest coast of Cuba. The link between a "lost" submarine and a lost sub-tracking satellite could not be pure coincidence, could it? Were the Americans searching for an excuse to invade Cuba and test the Russians' will now, before they could launch another sub-tracker and neutralize the American strategic force?

  There were just as many questions on the American side. Why did the new Soviet satellite explode? Was it linked with the loss, only a few minutes later, of the Montana? Why were the Russians moving such a large fleet into the area of the lost sub? What was the strange, incredibly fast submersible craft that had been reported by the SEALS working to secure the wreck of the Montana? Were the Russians trying to provoke the U.S. into actions that would give them an excuse to launch a first strike?

  In this climate the collision did not look like an accident to anyone but the captains of the Appleton and the Soviet destroyer. The destroyer's captain was dead. Captain Sweeney of the Appleton reported accurately to the Navy, but the Navy doubted his assessment of Soviet intentions, and the Russians flat out called him a liar. The official Soviet statement denounced the collision as an unprovoked attack. Soviet negotiators walked out of the START talks. The Soviet Army raised the level of readiness of their troops in Europe.

  U.S. satellites took photos showing that every Russian warship that could move was steaming out of port; there seemed to be unusual activity at ICBM launch sites as well. The President had no choice but to reciprocate, sending all American bombers into the air and all American ships out to sea. In short, U.S. readiness was now raised to DefCon 3.

  Neither side could understand the actions of the other. It did not occur to them that a third party might be involved. Instead they were forced to interpret all events as if the ones they did not cause themselves were caused by the other side. In the mind of every man and woman in either government who was involved at all, there came a question that had not been asked since 1963:

  Is this it? Is this finally it?

  While they waited for the SEALS to get back with Flatbed, there was nothing for the crew of Deepcore to do but wait and watch with increasing horror the television news reports being piped down the umbilical from the Explorer.

  "Bud, this is big time," said Lindsey.

  It was on every channel. The TV newspeople were doing man-on-the-street interviews. Nobody seemed to know how to take the news. Hadn't things seemed like they were getting better these past few years? Everybody expected this back in the bomb-shelter fifties - even in the sixties and seventies. But ever since Gorbachev came to power and presented a new Soviet face to the world, everybody had felt safer, had given a sigh of relief and started counting on things going on the same way forever. How could they snatch it away now?

  Some people sounded outraged, betrayed; others laughed - it's a joke, right? Still others nodded wisely - we knew it all along. Others were angry - if they sank our sub, then they deserved to lose a ship of their own. And some almost wept with fear. What can we do? What can anyone do?

  Out in space, builders were intercepting and recording the same broadcasts - and the military transmissions as well. One after another they rode their gliders down to the sea, reporting to every city of builders that those-who-kill-each-other-on-purpose seemed to b
e getting ready to act out their name on a massive scale.

  Finally, Flatbed came back. Immediately Bud gathered the crew into the moonpool. The broadcasts had sobered them - their rage at Coffey was long since swallowed up in their fear for the world above them. Besides, there was no time for recriminations - they could chew Coffey's ass later, topside, back home, if there was any home to go back to by then. In the meantime, even if everything went perfectly from now on, they'd still have three weeks with these guys decompressing. Bud knew he had to keep things cool.

  So when Flatbed rose up out of the water, three SEALs standing on its back like statues from a dark undersea pantheon, Bud and the crew meant to be nothing but efficient and helpful. Lindsey stood there looking on like the face of a vengeful god, but even she recognized that there was nothing to be gained by recrimination.

  As soon as Flatbed was on the surface, they sprang to life. Bud gave the command. "Let's get their gear off and clear the sub. We've got to get out of here." The sooner they got the SEALS off Flatbed, the sooner they could get out to the umbilical connector at the top of Deepcore and cast off from the Explorer.

  The SEALS, for their part, offered neither apology nor explanation. Their mission had been accomplished; they had every reason, now, to cooperate with the crew in theirs.

  Except in one area. Hippy started to untie a conical object wrapped in one of the SEALS gear bags. Coffey saw him as he emerged from Deepcore's hatch. "Don't touch that," he said sharply. "Back away."

  "Excusez-moi," said Hippy. He raised his hands as if to say, I'm not touching anything. But he didn't take his eyes off the bag. Coffey couldn't have done a better job of telling him there was something very important in that bag if he had put up a sign. And right now, with the world upstairs in chaos, Hippy knew that whatever was in that bag, it was not going to be good for anybody, least of all for him. Hippy wasn't a believer in the maxim that curiosity kills the cat. What I don't know will almost certainly kill me, thought Hippy. Nothing in his life had given him the slightest reason to believe otherwise.

  Coffey and the other SEALs unlashed the gear bag and hefted it carefully, gingerly; even though it was obviously quite heavy, it must also be fragile. One Night was already at Flatbed's controls, ready to go, waiting for them to get off. Bud urged them on. "Coffey, we're a little pressed for time." It was the closest he would let himself come to reaming Coffey out for risking all their lives and the lives of all the people on the Explorer.

  Finally the SEALS were clear. Bud leaned down over Flatbed's hatch, where One Night was checking out the controls, making sure everything was working right. "This ain't no drill, slick," he said. "Make me proud."

  He meant it - and she took it - as encouragement. Nobody had ever had a faster time than One Night at attaching and unhooking the umbilical during training. "Piece o' cake, baby."

  Bud dropped and sealed the hatch, then stepped away as Flatbed slowly sank into the moonpool. Intellectually, Bud was aware that One Night was descending at the fastest possible rate. That didn't stop him from muttering under his breath to hurry up, goddammit, hurry up.

  One Night hurried. But moving through water was always slow, and at this depth there was a limit to how fast anything could go. Except whatever it was that Lindsey said she saw. No, saw. Lindsey might be the queen bitch of the universe, but she didn't go making stuff up. Nor had One Night ever known her to exaggerate. So maybe there was something that could go fast through two thousand feet of water. One Night only wished it was her.

  She went all the way under Deepcore and around the outside, and finally reached the umbilical connection at the top of the A-frame. It was a big structure, sturdy-looking as a railroad bridge; the umbilical looked kind of little and weak by comparison - but One Night knew that the umbilical was as tough as they could make it. The umbilical still had some slack, but it was moving, swaying. There were no currents at this depth - the movement was carried down from the surface, where the waves must be real bad by now. Hold on just a minute longer, boys of the Benthic Explorer. One Night is here to ease your pain.

  She got into position and hovered, then deployed the big hydraulic arm. It unfolded from Flatbed like a huge steel spider leg; One Night opened its gripper like a claw. She felt the strength of the thing like her own fingers, her own arm. I am God when I've got this thing, I am the finger of the Lord.

  Only the umbilical wouldn't hold still long enough to get a firm grip on it. "Goddammit." She tried again. "Son of a bitch." The arm wasn't designed to catch a moving target.

  The swaying that was giving One Night such a hard time was a symptom of much more serious problems topside. The crane that suspended the umbilical over the launch well was so massive that it looked too big for the ship; if the Explorer's center of gravity had not been so deep in the water, the crane would have made the ship top-heavy and unmanageable. It had to be that large to deal with the weight and drag of the umbilical, which weighed about sixty pounds per linear foot. Even so, it was not designed to withstand infinite stress - nothing is - and it certainly wasn't supposed to have to deal with more than slight sideways and vertical movement. Much of the stress was supposed to be borne elsewhere.

  For instance, the dynamic positioning system was supposed to keep the Explorer in place horizontally. Like positioning rockets on spacecraft, the side-mounted thrusters gouted jets of water to keep the ship from drifting in any direction. Because there are no landmarks at sea, the computers controlling the positioning system marked the ship's position by constantly checking with satellites. The Explorer could normally hold its position within a few feet over a given spot on the ocean bottom.

  As for vertical movement, caused by the up-and-down of waves, that was taken care of by the heave compensator, a huge rack of pulleys, cables, hydraulic pistons, and sliding counterweights hanging from the crane directly over the launch well. It served to keep just the right amount of slack in the umbilical, despite the vertical motion of the sea.

  So the crane was not supposed to have to handle much in the way of horizontal and vertical movement. It was simply supposed to bear weight. Unfortunately, as Hurricane Frederick approached, the waves got too big. The vertical movement was too large, too rapid for the motion compensators, and the Explorer's violent shifts across the surface were more than the thrusters could handle. It wasn't any flaw in the system's design. The system was designed for the Explorer to cut loose and get the hell out hours before the seas got this bad.

  The only reason the umbilical connection had held out this long was because Lindsey had designed everything to withstand far more pressure than the project specifications. But now the stress was so far out of line that something had to give.

  The first thing to fail was a pair of tunnel thrusters. Its motors overloaded from the strain of trying to fight sixty-foot waves and eighty-knot winds with gusts of double that force.

  Up on the bridge, Bendix watched with fatalistic calm as the worst storm he'd ever seen tortured the sweetest ship he'd ever sailed. A sudden violent lurch threw him against the control panel; others all over the control room stumbled and, if they didn't have a tight enough hold, fell.

  Bendix knew at once what was happening. The motion compensators weren't coping. "We've got a problem." The only question was which thruster was going to fail first. "We're losing number two thruster. Bearing's going."

  It was already showing up in the ship's position. Everyone could feel the sideways movement. A warning klaxon went off - part of the alert system. Everybody was already alert. There was simply nothing they could do. "It's not holding," Bendix shouted over the noise of the horn. "We're sliding out of position!"

  As the ship slewed, the umbilical was pulled taut and drawn off its vertical position. It was pulled against the side of the launch well, tight as a bowstring against the nock of the arrow. As it screeched along the edge, tearing loose ladders and floats, Bendix expected at any moment to see it tear through right at that contact point. It was tougher than he ex
pected. Too bad - if something had to go, that was the least dangerous spot to have it happen.

  Down below, One Night finally had a firm grip on the umbilical's decoupling mechanism. It was going to happen, just another couple of minutes at the most and she'd get it free.

  Then the umbilical went taut with such force that it jerked the whole mechanism, the whole A-frame. It dislodged Flatbed's arm and threw One Night forward, then back. For a moment she lost control. Then she grabbed the controls and jinked Flatbed out of the way as the umbilical moved toward her, dragging the A-frame with it. One Night pivoted. There was no way to get in and disconnect the umbilical now. The whole rig was moving.

  Inside Deepcore, Lindsey was standing in the corridor, sipping at a cup of hot tea, when the whole rig boomed like a gong and lurched sideways. The tea splashed all over her. Bud was already tearing through a doorway, pounding past her, heading for the control room. Hippy's voice came over the intercom, telling them all what they already knew. "Bud to control! Emergency! Bud to control!"

  As Bud clawed his way up the ladder to level two, the rig boomed again, as if the whole thing were a musical instrument - which it was, with one long, tight string and Deepcore at the bottom of it serving as a resonance chamber. A great big washtub bass. Only the rig wasn't going to sit still and play music. The rig didn't stop lurching, bouncing.

  It was almost impossible to keep his footing as Bud struggled through the corridors. He kept getting tossed against the walls, the floor. Worst damn earthquake he'd ever been in. He had a dozen new bruises that hurt like stab wounds when he finally got to the control room. His pain didn't matter - dying would feel a hell of a lot worse. He ran in, past Hippy, and grabbed the mike.

  "Topside, topside! Pay out some slack, we're getting dragged!" Bud knew that things must be terrible up top, for the motion compensators to give way like this. They could have disconnected any time in the last two hours and this wouldn't be happening. Any damn time, but now it was too late.