Asimov's SF, April-May 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He used to carry only two extra breathers. Now he has four, and they're larger than the ones he used to have. Apparently the Dignity Vessel experience has had a greater impact on him than he's willing to admit.

  Instead of a slew of weapons in the loops along his belt, he carries a few tools and his knife. The knife has a long curved blade and has saved his life more than once.

  I find myself staring at it throughout the short journey, wondering what he would use it on inside that Room.

  Mikk has also suited up. He'll go as far as the Room's door and wait there—not the best assignment, especially for a young diver. But if Mikk doesn't know patience by now, he'll never learn it. And he swears he understands how long he might have to monitor that door.

  Roderick anchors the skip to the remaining wall so that he won't have to use thrust in the small space. He and I will wait on board and will monitor everything through the suit cameras that Karl and Mikk will wear. They'll also have audio in their headpieces.

  The dive will follow a strict schedule. Because Karl doesn't have a lot of distance to traverse between the skip and the Room's door, we decided on a two-hour dive—longer than I would have liked, and shorter than he wanted.

  It'll only take him five minutes to get inside and, theoretically, five minutes to get back. The rest of the time, he should be observing and mapping.

  Provided his equipment works inside. To our knowledge, no one has filmed the interior of the Room, and we don't know if that's because they haven't thought of it or if they didn't succeed when they tried.

  Just before he puts on his headpiece, he attaches the device to his belt. Since we don't know much about how the device works, we don't want it inside his suit. We want to give him as much protection as possible.

  Then he slips on his headpiece. It's as cautious as the rest of his suit—seven layers of protection, each with a different function including double night vision, and computerized monitors layered throughout the external cover. He hands me the handheld, which will report everything the cameras on the sides of his headpiece “see.”

  We are the least confident in the handheld. The shield device might disrupt the signals the cameras send back. We tested as best we could near the Business and didn't have any trouble, but we're not sure if that was an accurate test.

  Like so much with wreck diving, this part of the dive gets tested only in the field.

  I'm nervous. Karl is not. Roderick hasn't said anything, and Mikk acts as if this is a normal dive. While he's curious about the Room, it's an intellectual curiosity. He knows he won't be able to dive it this trip, so it's not the center of his attention.

  In some ways, he's along for the ride, even more than I am.

  We don't tether to the Room—that would be dangerous with the skip powered down—but we do extend a line. Karl is doing this as a courtesy to me. I won't dive without lines. I've seen too many divers get wreck blindness—they turn on their headlamps in a small space, they take a laser to the eyeball, their suit's visor malfunctions—and they can't get back without help.

  The line is the simplest form of help. If they follow it from skip to wreck, then they know how to get back. We don't use lines inside wrecks, although I suggested it for the Room.

  Karl gave that suggestion a lot of thought, and had an alteration. Once he reaches the door, he will attach a tether to one of the loops on his belt. If he loses consciousness in there, we can pull him back.

  Mikk and Karl proceed to the airlock. They wave as they step inside.

  They wait the required two minutes as their suits adjust. Then Mikk presses the hatch and Karl sends the lead out the door.

  It only takes a moment to cleave to the jamb beside the Room's door. We picked that spot because it seemed soft enough to hold the line. Nothing else around the Room's exterior did.

  They're stepping out of the airlock. They'll move at a very slow pace because they're good divers. They'll test the line. They'll make sure each part of their suits is functioning. Then they'll travel slowly to that door, and coordinate before Karl goes in.

  I take those few minutes to walk into the cockpit. Roderick is sitting in what I consider to be my seat—the pilot's chair—and is already monitoring the readouts. In addition to the skip's cameras, some suit monitors send information directly to the skip itself. And both suits send heart-rates and breathing patterns—or will so long as nothing interferes with the signal.

  I plug Karl's handheld into one small screen but only look at it to make sure the information is coming to me. Grainy flat images, mostly of the line, appear before me.

  Then I look up. Roderick still has the portals opaqued.

  “Let's watch this in real time,” I say.

  He doesn't look up from the instrumentation. “I don't like staring at interior station walls when I'm on a skip.”

  “I don't care,” I say. “We have a team out there. We need our eyes as well as our equipment. We need every advantage we can get.”

  I shudder to think he's run dives in the habitats on instruments only, and make a mental note to tell Karl that night. It should be a requirement for each dive that the pilot watches from the cockpit. The pilot won't be able to see inside some of the spaces, but he will be able to see if there's a problem between the lead and the skip itself.

  “Karl says I'm supposed to make the decisions,” Roderick says.

  “Well, I have twenty years of dive experience, and let me tell you, only amateurs let their people out of a ship on instrument only.”

  He winces, then flattens his hand against the control panel. With a hum, all of the windows become visible.

  Usually being in the skip with the windows clear feels as if you're inside a piece of black glass moving through open space. Right now, it seems as if we've crashed into a junkyard. A blown wall opens to space on our left side. Beneath us, the habitat's floor is in shreds. Above us is the sturdy floor of the next level, and to our right is the line, leading to the Room's door.

  Karl's already halfway down the lead. Mikk is hurrying to catch up.

  I look at their breathing and heart rates. They're in the normal range. But it's not like Karl to move that fast.

  I touch the communication panel. “You seeing something?”

  “There's not a lot between the skip and the door, Boss.” There's laughter in Karl's voice, as if he expected me to ask this question. “Relax.”

  I take my hand off the panel. Roderick is glaring at me, but in his expression I can see resignation. He knows that I'm going to run this skip while Karl's gone.

  Roderick also knows he has no recourse. Even when Karl returns, telling on me won't make any difference. Karl won't ban me from these missions. If he does, I'll declare this entire trip a bust and leave. Then I'll return on my own or with a new team and dive it all again.

  Karl reaches the door and tugs on the lead, checking its hold. It seems to be fine. Mikk arrives a moment later. His feet are curled beneath him, but they could just as easily brush against the floor.

  This is the part of Mikk's dive that I would hate—floating there, waiting for Karl to do the actual work. For the first time since Karl changed our plans, I'm happy to be in the skip. At least I can pace here.

  Karl runs a gloved hand along the door's edge. The cameras on his wrist light up and show what we saw on our preliminary dive—that the edges of this door are pockmarked—not from time or debris—but from people trying to break in. The metal is smoother here than anywhere else, as if countless people have run their gloved hands along the edges in the past.

  "It's beautiful, isn't it?” my mother asks me through her suit. She turns her head toward me just a little, and I can see the outlines of her face through her headpiece. Behind her something hums.

  Sweat has formed on my forehead. Goddamn Karl, he's right. I would have gotten lost in my own head, in my own memories, if I had gone in alone on this first trip.

  I shake my head as if I can free it from the past and settle into the
co-pilot's chair.

  Karl pans the door, making sure nothing has changed since the last time we looked at it. Then his gloved hand slips down to the latch.

  My breath catches as the door opens. The lights on his suit flare. He turns toward us, waves again, and then goes inside.

  For a moment, I can see him outlined against the Room's darkness. Then he propels himself deeper and he is no longer visible through the clear windows of the skip.

  The monitors show that his heart rate is slightly elevated. His breathing is rapid, but not enough to cut the dive short. This is the kind of breathing that comes from excitement and eagerness, not from panic or the gids.

  “My God,” he says. “This place is beautiful.”

  "It's even prettier inside,” my mother says. Her voice sounds very far away. The lights blink against her suit, making her seem like she's covered in bright paint—all primary colors.

  “You should see this,” he says.

  The cameras have fuzzed. We're not getting any visuals at all. The audio is faint.

  “I don't like this,” Roderick says as the instruments slowly fail.

  I knew it would happen. Maybe I remembered something—or something in my subconscious recalled how faint my mother's voice had become. But I had known.

  I had warned Karl and he said he was prepared.

  But I'm cold. I'm sitting in the co-pilot's chair with my arms wrapped around my torso, feeling terrified.

  My father said the device worked.

  But what if it fails like the cameras fail?

  Riya says a dozen others went in and came out. She showed me evidence.

  Showed us evidence.

  Karl made this choice.

  “I don't like this at all.” Roderick's hands are flying across the board, trying to bring up the readings. I glance at the handheld screen. The image is still there, faint and reassuring. Just a blur in all the fuzz.

  Karl is moving forward.

  But I know better than to tell Roderick everything will be all right. I glance at Mikk through the clear porthole.

  He's holding the lead and waiting, just like he's supposed to. And good man that he is, he isn't even peering in the door.

  He's following orders to the letter.

  Static, a buzz, and an harmonic. A voice? I can't tell. Roderick is still working the instrument panel and I'm staring through the window at the door beyond.

  All I see is blackness.

  Karl is probably seeing lights. Hearing voices in harmony. Listening to the blend.

  I hope the device protects him.

  My arms tighten. My stomach aches. I feel ill.

  I catch myself about to curse Karl for being right about my reactions. But I'm superstitious. I can't curse him. Not now.

  Not while we're waiting for him to come out of that Room.

  * * * *

  We wait for an hour. Then an hour and a half.

  Then two.

  At two hours ten minutes, Mikk asks, “Should I reel him in?”

  We haven't had any contact. We don't have any readings.

  Karl is the kind of diver who never wastes a second, the kind who is always on time.

  “How much oxygen does he have without the refills?” I ask Roderick.

  “Five, maybe six hours, so long as he's breathing right. He didn't think he needed the larger storage, since the skip was so close.”

  I would have made the same judgment. My suit can handle two weights of oxygen as well. The back-ups are in case the internal supply gets compromised somehow, not as supplements to it.

  “You want to wait another hour?” Roderick asks. No more pretense at being in charge. We both know I'm the one qualified to make the right decisions.

  And oddly, as cold as I am, I'm calm. The emotions I felt at the beginning of the dive are long gone.

  It's the two younger members of the team who are beginning to panic.

  And that's reason enough to bring Karl in.

  “Tug,” I say to Mikk. “See if he responds.”

  Mikk tugs and then grunts as if in surprise. The tether attached to Karl has gone slack.

  Roderick looks at me, terrified. Mikk says, “What do I do?”

  We have to know the severity of this.

  “One more gentle tug,” I say. Maybe Karl has let out the line. Maybe he's closer than we think.

  Mikk tugs again. I can see how little effort he uses, how his movement should just echo through the tether.

  Instead it comes careening back at him, with something attached.

  Something small and U-shaped.

  “Oh, no,” Mikk says.

  And I hear the same words come out of my mouth as I realize what I'm seeing.

  “What is it?” Roderick asks, his voice tight with fear.

  “Karl's belt,” I say. “The tug dislodged Karl's belt.”

  * * * *

  Only, it turns out, my assessment isn't entirely accurate. The tug didn't dislodge Karl's belt.

  Karl did. He unlatched it. There's no way to tell how long ago he did so, either.

  He got disoriented or lost or maybe he was reaching for the tether to pull himself back. Whatever happened, his fingers found the controls holding the belt to his suit and unhooked it.

  Mikk shows us the seal with his own cameras, how it's unhooked in such a way that only the suit-wearer could have done it. It didn't break and it didn't fall off.

  Karl let it go.

  "So pretty,” my mother says, her voice a thread. “So very pretty."

  “Pan it for me,” I say, forcing the memory of my mother aside.

  Mikk does. The knife is in its holder. So are the back-up breathers.

  And the device.

  Mikk grabs it as I realize what I'm seeing. “I'm going after him,” Mikk says, attaching the device to his belt.

  “No,” I say with great force. “You are staying put.”

  “But we need to get him. He can't be that far in. The tether didn't come back from a great distance.”

  “I know,” I say. “But going in disoriented him, and he's got more experience than you. It'll disorient you. I'm going in.”

  “He said you're not supposed to dive.” Roderick has put his hand on my arm.

  I shake it off.

  “I've been in there before,” I say. “I know what to expect. Neither of you do. Mikk is strong enough to get me out if he has to. We'll double-tether me. We'll hook to my belt and my suit. He'll be able to pull us free.”

  “Karl says if you lose one diver, you shouldn't send another after him.” Roderick is speaking softly. He thinks he's not being overheard, but I have the communications panel lit.

  “That's if the other person's dead or dying,” I say. “For all we know, he's wreck blind and lost. You want him to float around in there?”

  “Can he survive without this device thing?” Mikk asks.

  Roderick starts at Mikk's voice, then frowns at me.

  “I did,” I say. “I didn't have a shield. People do survive the Room without protection. The problem is that most folks don't even realize their companions are in trouble for hours. Maybe the Room doesn't kill them. Maybe the Room disorients them. Maybe, if that's what happens and if someone catches it soon enough, the other person gets out.”

  “Two point five hours,” Mikk says, sounding breathless. “That's quick, isn't it?”

  “Do you need to come into the skip?” I ask him as I grab my suit. I strip, not caring that Roderick is watching. I hate wearing the suit over my clothes. “You sound like you're short of air.”

  “I have plenty,” Mikk says.

  “You can recover while I'm getting suited,” I say.

  “His heart rate is elevated, but still in the safe zone,” Roderick says. “But if you want to bring him in, then let's do it now.”

  Abort. Leave Karl. That's what Roderick is saying, in code now that he realizes Mikk—and maybe Karl himself—is listening.

  “Stay there,” I say. “I'm coming to
you.”

  I have to slow down. I need to dress properly, make sure my suit functions. My own heart rate is elevated, and I'm trying not to listen to the low hum that's been haunting the back of my brain since that damn door opened.

  My suit is thinner than Karl's. Body-tight with fewer redundant controls. I used to think he was too cautious. Now I wish I had all the equipment he did.

  I check systems, then put on my head gear. I don't bother with extra cameras, although I don't tell Roderick that. I slide on my gloves, grab five tethers, and sling them along my belt hook like rolled up whips.

  I open the airlock and look directly at Roderick. “Now you're in charge,” I say as I let the door close.

  The two minutes it takes for my suit to adjust seem like five hours. I work on slowing my own breathing, making sure I'm as calm as I can be.

  Then I press open the exterior door.

  My suit immediately gives me the temperature and notes the lack of atmosphere. It warns me about some small floating debris.

  I place my hand on the lead and slide toward Mikk. I can see his face through his headgear.

  He looks terrified.

  Now I wish we hadn't brought one of the strong divers. I would give anything for someone with a lot of experience.

  But I don't have that.

  I have the children.

  And I have to make the most of them.

  * * * *

  Mikk attaches tethers to my belt, my suit and one of my boots. I must look like some kind of puppet. I warn him not to tug for at least an hour, unless I tug first. I take the device, turn it off, then turn it on, and make sure the lights run along the bottom and sides the way they're supposed to.

  They do.

  I attach it to my belt.

  Then I float toward that damn door.

  The opening looks smaller than I remember and somewhat ordinary. In my career, I'd gone through countless doors that led to an inky blackness, a blackness that would eventually resolve itself under the lights of my suit.

  But right now, I have those lights off. I want to see the interior as I remember it. I want to see the light show.

  Only I don't. There are no lights. The persistent hum that I'd been hearing since we arrived has grown.