by G R Matthews
I flicked the controls inside the glove and moved from white to red light. The HUD contained most of what I needed. A complete false colour map of the sea floor and a marked route in. It had taken the best part of an hour to decide on the route and I wasn’t going to deviate now.
There were two more rings of sound sensors surrounding the mount. One at two hundred and fifty metres out and another at fifty metres. The details Rehja provided suggested they didn’t grow in sensitivity and were merely present for confirmation purposes. I could glide, or walk, through those too.
The larger concern for me was the magnetic sensors that dotted the sea floor creating a net around the sea mount. Anything passing through the area with an ounce of metal on it would register on the sensors and the position would be reported, or an alarm would sound. My suit carried more than an ounce of metal and would likely react with sensors. If, that is, it hadn’t been a military suit. For the incredibly cheap price of being subject to recall to the armed forces at any moment, for any reason, with no chance of arguing, the military graciously let me keep the Fish-Suit. It was especially built for me and I’d rigged it further, just as any good suit user would do, to do the jobs I wanted it to do, in the way I wanted.
In the gap between the sound and magnetic sensors, I re-engaged the motors and suit equipment, taking the chance to breathe more deeply with the assistance of the suit exo-skeleton. It helped to fill your lungs with more oxygen than needed. Old divers, I’d done some reading, from the surface used to pre-breathe oxygen before a long dive, giving them the best start possible. You can never have too much of a good thing and, to me, breathing was a good thing.
The blinking warning light on my HUD indicated the proximity of a magnetic sensor. With a last deep, assisted breath of liquid, I cut in the suit’s stealth system. This is what the thing had been designed to do. Sneak in to places it shouldn’t have been, plant a bomb, and get away, causing maximum damage as it did so. It didn’t come with much in the way of weapons, there was little point. A single puncture, in the right place and large enough, say two or three centimetres, and it would be all over bar the silent screaming, burst lungs, popping eyeballs and agony.
Like the rest of the suit, I could take apart and rebuild the stealth systems in the same way that I could fix a sub’s engine. Bit by bit, connection by connection. The difference was I had a reasonable idea how a sub powered its way through the ocean and less than none about how the stealth systems worked. I hadn’t listened in that lecture, it was enough that they did.
The visor showed the subtle ‘s’ surrounded by an unbroken circle to indicate the system was up and working.
Four-hundred metres to go and all of it under the power of my own legs. No shock or surprise that it was the slowest, most boring, four hundred metre walk I had ever taken. I avoided the sound sensors and kept to the areas of sea vegetation as much as I could. A few fish, flat and with eyes on top of their heads, rose from the silt and swam away in a strange undulating flapping motion.
The pipe, set into a rocky outcrop, came into view. Around three metres high and comprising of a cave entrance surrounded by rock that had the surface appearance of a fluffy carpet. Brushing my hand across a section, the fluff turned out to be a cloudy mix of sand, silt and rotting vegetation that obscured my view of the inlet for a moment.
I could feel the force of water being dragged into the pipe as I moved around to the front. It wasn’t strong, just a constant, ever present tug on the suit. Out of range of the magnetics and the sound sensors, I powered up.
The ocean is anything but silent. With the power off, all the little noises were clear. The groans and cracks of the earth moving, the sound of the current around my suit, the deep thrum of whale song, more felt than heard. There were other noises that passed through the water, but without a full set of suit sensors I couldn’t tell what they were. With the suit on, the very familiar and welcome hum of my suit motors, the subtle whir of the Oxyquid pump amongst others, drowned out the quieter ocean noises.
I flicked my fingers in the control gloves, searching through the menus on the visor and selecting a new map. This one showed the blueprints I had studied for so long earlier. Most important of all, the colours on the HUD picked out the inlet pipe and its course through the dwelling. It also displayed various statistics on the amount of water flowing by at that moment. Some would say it was interesting. I wouldn’t be one of them.
Another set of commands and the wrist-welder flared into life. Cutting through the steel grill that protected the inlet would take a little bit of time, but I had nowhere else to be, not that I could reach anyway. My own visor darkened to shade my eyes from the glare and I pressed the super-heated flame, tiny and incandescently hot, against the metal. A chaotic stream of bubbles rose from the contact.
There were six thick metal bars spread around the rim of the grill and each one needed to be cut through before I could enter the pipe. With luck, I wouldn’t need to cut through the inspection hatch nearly 300 metres up the pipe as that would likely deplete my oxygen reserves and the power of the suit. On repair jobs, there’d be another sub cabled to my suit, providing air and power for this kind of thing. I could do without but the power drain was unwelcome.
An hour later, with the six cut, I lifted, with exoskeleton and natural buoyancy assisted arms, the grill out of place and laid it on the sea floor.
I was in.
Mostly.
Chapter 13
According to my information there were no sensors in the pipe and I let the current carry me through. It wasn’t particularly tall or wide but there was room either side of my suited-up body for the water to pass me by. The white light from my emitters, small LEDs that didn’t use too much power gave enough light to penetrate the darkness.
The ceiling of the pipe bulged upwards, creating room enough for me to reach up and catch hold of the locking wheel on the inside of the inspection hatch. Pipes need cleaning and to do that you need access, hence the hatch.
I could crouch in the pipe, not stand, and by bracing my legs against the curved metal, I twisted the locking wheel. Half of me expected there to be rusted resistance to the attempt, but it wasn’t there. The owner obviously paid a lot of money to keep his home in good order.
I stood, using all the strength in my legs, back and arms to lift the hatch. Somewhere, probably in a small cubby-hole of a caretaker’s office, a warning light would be flashing. Around the rim, a green light flickered, the field that stopped the water back from gushing out of the pipe. This deep, even at the edge of the photic zone, the pressure was high enough to kill.
I lifted myself out of the pipe, dragging my body over the lip and doing my best to lower my heavy, suit-covered, body to the floor beyond. Right up until the point my hips reached the lip of the hatch I was confident. The very moment I leaned forward to grasp one of the rungs to the short ladder, intending to swing a leg over and place it on the rung below, my plans were ruined.
The mass of Oxyquid, normally so balanced in the water, or just damn heavy out of it, was half-way between the two. My head and upper body, pointing downwards, dragged me out of the pipe. Feet and legs, suit full of Oxyquid, was subject to the effects of the current, gravity and buoyancy. Up and over I went.
I landed on my head, remembering at the last second to get my hands out of the way. A suit full of Oxyquid weights a lot. Enough that the meagre muscles of my arms, even augmented by the exo-skeleton could have done nothing to prevent or cushion my fall. Caught under the suit and me, they were more likely to bend in unpleasant directions and snap. Better to let my head take the brunt of the impact. The Oxyquid and rigid dome of the helmet would mitigate a lot of the damage. As long as the helmet and visor didn’t crack, it’d all be fine.
I’ve no idea how much noise I made as I flopped onto the floor and rolled over onto my back. A strange property of sound is that, to human ears, it does not propagate between two mediums very well. The velocity of the sound wave changes a
nd our brains perceive it differently. It’s all science to me.
I dragged in a fresh lungful of liquid and held it, letting the oxygen it contained seep into my blood. A flick of the controls in my gloves turned off the suit lights and I rolled once more, onto my front. It was the only way to stand in one of these things. Pushing my body up with my arms and the power of the exo-skeleton, dragging my knees under my hips and rising. Out of the water, the Fish-Suit was heavy.
The menu, icons and words, flashed past my eyes as I sought the emergency functions. Not in any great panic, but because I needed a specialised part of the Fish-Suit’s design, the temporary bladder. This would contain all of the Oxyquid I could pump out of the suit. When I needed to leave, I could pump it all back in again. Only stations and larger subs had any provision for replenishing the Oxyquid. It just wasn’t used that often, not since the war ended.
The pump started without a hitch and the level of Oxyquid fell past my eyes, nose and mouth. It was an effort, a hacking, grunting, rib-squeezing task to expel all the remaining fluid from my lungs. It splattered in clear globules against the visor. The suit drew in air from the caretaker’s office situated, according to my blueprints, on the very bottom of the private dwelling. Two levels up, my target, the object of Rehja’s desire.
As the visor signalled the procedure complete, I began to strip off the Fish-Suit. It would be difficult to hide, especially with the bladder, looking like an enlarged testicle, sticking out of it. However, training became habit after a while and I did what I could. Shoving the suit behind the pipe, the bulge of the bladder still visible above it, but it was the best I could manage. With luck, I would be in and out before the only occupant, according to my information, found it.
With skin and underwear still slippery with Oxyquid, I crept towards the door. There was a desk, with screen and keyboard resting upon it, and a chair in the small room. Above that, a whiteboard, devoid of any writing. I couldn’t imagine much went wrong in this place. It was old enough for all the teething troubles to have been sorted and young enough for all the bits and pieces to still function.
I put one hand on the handle, ready to pull it down and open the door, the other I placed flat against the frame. With care, I rested my ear against the smooth, plain surface and, trying to quiet my breathing, listened.
The rush of blood in my veins. The thump of my heart. The slow whisper of air filling my lungs. The drip of fluid falling from my clothes to the floor below. Nothing that indicated anyone outside the door.
My military instructors had said there were two ways to get into an enemy fortress; stealth or speed. Either you got in and out without being spotted or you made as much noise as you could, confusing the enemy and overwhelming their numbers. The latter was unlikely. All I had was me and my overwhelming desire for a drink. Stealth was my only option. It felt right.
The door swung on silent hinges and I poked my head through, glancing left and right. All clear. To the left another closed door and a sign that read ‘Power’. To the right, a corridor that bent around a corner, following the outer wall of the structure, a cylinder built into the sea mount. Closing the door behind me and leaving a trail of Oxyquid, I padded down the corridor.
There were more doors set into the wall on my right. At each one I stopped and listened. Each door had a clear label in plain script; Tools, Server, Filtration, Food. The last door was a tempting stop, I was a little peckish. However, there was someone else in residence. Whilst I didn’t want to bump into them, I needed to know where they were so I could avoid them.
I caught myself in a laugh, stifling it by the simple expedience of holding my breath. The image of my younger self playing hide and seek with friends. Making friends is a skill of the young, talking and playing with others without a worry. It is only with we age we learn caution, embarrassment, guilt and shame which interfere with the process. I had more to feel guilt and shame for than most and, to follow my equation through to its logical conclusion, I had few friends. None. Maybe one.
Hide and seek is a strange game. The seekers were inevitably followed by the hiders, but rarely realised it, who were keeping tabs on the ones trying to find them so they knew where not to hide. Hide and Seek could be more complicated than chess.
At the end of corridor was a set of stairs cut into the stone. They were fresh, polished and unworn by feet. At the top, I knew, even without access to the map, was the second level. There I would find bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchen and a few other rooms that were labelled on the plan as ‘misc’. All the information gathered by Rehja suggested that the object he desired was in one of those. Likely, he told me, one or two of these rooms were the owner’s art stores, his museums.
The one thing I did know, though it gave me no comfort, was that this lower level was empty apart from me. Up and ahead was the other resident. Someone who might see me, set off an alarm, identify me or, and this was much worse, catch me.
I had a simple plan. Get in, get the object and get it back to Rehja so that I could go home. And even as I thought it, I knew that it wasn’t going to be that easy. My life never is.
Chapter 14
Fourteen stairs up to the door, a bulkhead, oval in shape with a solid steel surround and the ubiquitous locking wheel. Any door designed to hold back the pressure of the ocean would also block the subtle sounds of movement behind its thick, multiple layers of steel.
The chance of an alarm was foremost in my mind. Other residences, those designed to be secret, the silent cities and their ilk, would be less of a concern. If you want to stay hidden in the ocean, you make sure it has no links to the outside. The owner of this place had no such need for privacy and it was connected by a long cable to the nearest city. The one I’d come from.
On the way in, I could have cut the line. That would have isolated this place, but set off a chain of discovery back in the city. The red light, just one amongst many would start blinking away. The bored tech, the one who’d sat there all day or night, taking messages from ill-educated users whose connections were down only to discover that they had forgotten to plug something in, would notice. Maybe not straight away. It might take an hour or two, but at some point that blinking light would be seen.
When it did, the tech would investigate. Run a few checks, perhaps a diagnostic program or two, trace the fault and eliminate the obvious until it was clear that the cable was severed. Notify the client, find out if there is a known fault or issue. If there isn’t send a Unmanned Submersible Vessel, a USV, to check the cable. Spot the break and send a crewed vessel or Remote Submersible Vessel, an RSV, to fix it. I suspect it happened a lot.
So, the hard-line was intact and the owner oblivious. Right up until the occupant of the house spotted me and hit the emergency alarm. Every dwelling, inside and outside a city, had one. You just hoped you never had to use it. The main benefit of the button was for everyone else, they’d know to seal the bulkheads.
I spun the wheel. It moved without any resistance, and the door opened inwards to the rest of the house. Now was not the time to be too cautious. If the occupant was there he would have seen the door open and be racing to the button or towards me. I hopped the lower sill, ducking a little to make sure I didn’t smash my head on the upper one, and I was in the house.
The corridor was empty and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Ahead, more stairs leading to the upper floor and the dome through which the last rays of the sun would shine. I could hear the sound of a clips show playing.
Closing the bulkhead as quietly as possible to make it look as though no one, certainly not a burglar, had entered the home, I made the decision not to spin the wheel and lock it. A quick exit might be required.
Next to the stairs, a door. There would be a lot of those as I searched the rooms for the object. I knew, from the blueprints, that it was likely to be in one of the two rooms at the end, but it paid to be thorough. A handle, quaint, old-fashioned and beloved of people who had lots of cash. A lot of doors in the cities op
ened with a fingerprint, retina scan or code. Here, handles.
Pushing it down released a catch built into the door itself and it opened. A large bathroom with a shower, a bath big enough for two, a separate stall for the toilet and a sink. All the fittings were golden and the tiles covering the wall were decorated with attractive engravings, pale blue scenes of the world before. People in conical hats, long flowing robes, farming the landscape. They were being watched by others, without hats but carrying umbrellas, I’d seen them on the old clip shows, to shelter their heads. In the background, tiered homes with upswept roofs. All very idyllic and lost to us millennia ago.
The next room was a bedroom and I took a moment to rifle through the drawers and wardrobes. Nothing of import, unless you were in the mood for a bit of alone time and out here, this far from the city, I’d guess you could get a lot of that.
Another bedroom across the hall, though the wardrobes held little of real interest. Judging by the clothes, this room was occupied by a teenage girl. I recognised the signs. A mess of bras, knickers, tights and clothes which ranged in colour from one end of the spectrum to the other. On top of the desk, myriad pots, potions and lotions that an imaginative girl could mix to create any effect she wished. Tyler had owned a similar though, on my wages, much smaller collection.
The master bedroom was next. You could tell because it was larger. In the centre there was a bed that would have comfortably slept everyone from the bar, including Tom and Derva, if she was game. The wardrobes contained a collection of silk robes, embroidered reds and blues. The last robe was the most impressive, a sheer black the glistened like water in the light from the ceiling spots. I lifted it out and held it up. On the back, a curled dragon, large and winged, with diamond shaped eyes stared at me.
Above the bed, a sword. You didn’t see them much these days outside of the military and those were purely ceremonial. This one was straight and as long as my arm. I ached to lift it from the bracket and hold it in my hands. It called to some part of me. The scabbard was plain, polished black and the hilt was pure white with a tassel of white threads hanging down. Something about it made it clear it was well used, but so white was the interwoven cord of the grip that it looked as though no one had ever held it.
