Nothing Is Ever Simple (Corin Hayes Book 2)

by G R Matthews

  My helmet twisted and lifted off in an action that I’d done so many times that it required no conscious thought. The smell of city air hit my nose and brought with it a sense of safety. A dirty, sweaty, machine oiled and industrial safety, but that hadn’t changed since I was born. Every city had a slightly different odour. Hard to quantify, to describe, but I could detect the difference. This wasn’t my home. I didn’t belong here, the right smell was missing. The one that reminded me, every second, of Tyler. A strange experience, to be homesick for a place I was sick of, and that reinforced my misery.

  A famous philosopher once said, or he may have said it many times, I wasn’t there, I don’t know, ‘knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom’. The man was clearly an idiot. Once you start to know yourself all you gain is guilt, shame, depression and an inability to make excuses for yourself.

  Another fellow, I’ve no idea why it’s always men who say these things though I’ve got a good idea that women say things that contain a lot more sense, said, ‘ignorance is bliss’. Some folks are totally full of bliss.

  The last of the water drained away and the lights inside the airlock turned to green. It was safe to exit. With a flick of the controls the hoses disconnected and retracted back into their housing. Using a thick, gloved finger I pressed the release on the inside of the door and it slid obediently open.

  “Corin,” Rehja smiled, “all done?”

  “The repair is complete.”

  “No problems?”

  “None at all. I had all the right tools with me. You’ll need to check your end, to make sure the connection is secure,” I said, knowing that I was referring to both the actual repair and the additional task.

  Rehja went silent and I saw the flickers of his Ineyes working. Kade stood by, watching his boss expectantly. With nothing else to occupy my time, I started to climb out of the suit. Gloves first, pulling my fingers out of the way and twisting them off. They went into the upside-down helmet. The upper suit was next and only a little more complicated. The seals had to be disconnected, one by one, and the emergency locks deactivated. Every suit was different and the order of those seals was as close to a password as you’d get in something so physical.

  “Excellent work, Corin. It all seems to be working perfectly.” Rehja practically beamed at me, the too white teeth like a headlight on a sub.

  “I’m so happy,” I replied. “This mean I can go home now.”

  “Of course, it does.” He stepped up and moved to clap me on the shoulder. He raised his now damp hand to his face and there was a puzzled look upon it, as if he hadn’t been sure I would still be wet or what to do with his wet hand.

  “Great, you think you can help me get this off?” I pointed at the upper suit piece. Sure, I could have gone down on all fours and let the weight of it drag it over my head, shrugging myself out of it as it did so. It wasn’t a stance I wanted to show these two, hands down, arse in the air. They might get the wrong idea.

  “Kade, help our friend with his suit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The big man waddled over to me and I raised my hands, preparing for him to pull it over my head.

  “Thanks,” I said to him.

  He grinned and punched my lights out.

  Chapter 21

  The good thing about being unconscious is that you can’t feel fear. You can’t feel anything because, really, you’re not even aware you’re unconscious. It’s a bit like being asleep, but without an alarm clock.

  The bad thing about being unconscious is that people can do whatever they want with you. They can shave all your hair off or just one eyebrow. They can paint your face red and post the photos up round the town. You can’t do a damn thing about it because, well, you’re unconscious.

  But the worse thing about being unconscious is waking up to find water lapping around your face. There is something about cold water that wakes a man faster than a gunshot. Snapped awake, I lay in the water for a moment, gazing up at the shiny metal and lights in the ceiling.

  I knew my hair was wet because when I raised my hand to the throbbing pain in my skull it got wet too. Perhaps I’d fallen asleep in the bath. It’s happened before, after a few drinks. It must have been a while ago for the water to get this cold. And why was I still wearing my Fish-Suit? I twisted my hand and arm, gazing through misty, unfocused eyes at the outer skin. Never done that before. Gone to sleep in the bath, in my Fish-Suit. Strange days.

  “Fuck.” The whine of the pumps finally registered. That and the water rising further up my face.

  I sat up and my head complained. It wanted to lie back down, close my eyes and just forget the whole pain in the skull, water rising thing. Water rose halfway up my recumbent legs and was steadily climbing higher. A red light flashed in slow rhythm on the panel. Below it some words and symbols I couldn’t focus on. It didn’t matter what they said, the airlock was filling with water and I was going to drown.

  From seated to standing was a struggle. I had one hand on the wall and the other holding my head on my shoulders. This was a bad headache, a nine certainly. If I died, it might be the first, and last, ten on my personal scale. Using the wall as a crutch, I sloshed through the rising sea water and jabbed at the panel with my other hand, willing to risk my head falling off if I could stop the airlock cycle.

  True to form, the cycle was locked and the safety overridden. There was nothing I could do to stop the water flooding in. I was going to die. To drown in some parody of my job. In an airlock, half-suited up and sucking down cold liquid. Except this time the liquid would be freezing sea water that contained absolutely no oxygen that was of any use to me. Unless that is, I pondered, I suddenly develop gills.

  There were rumours of mermen. Had been for centuries. To be fair, the rumours of mermaids, creatures with the body of a beautiful woman, always naked, and the tail of a fish where her legs should be. Never understood it. There were people who found these mythical creatures desirable, erotic even. Neither the mermen nor maids had the necessary bits to consummate any erotic fantasies. The only use I could see to the beasts was, perhaps, a little pleasant conversation before you soaked their lower half in a good beer batter. With some fries and a tartare sauce, might be quite tasty.

  “Fuck.” I’m drowning and my mind won’t stop following stupid thoughts down blind alleys. Panic. Shock. Pain. Focus.

  Fish-Suit.

  Oxyquid.

  Hoses?

  Could I suck down the Oxyquid, neat from the hoses and keep myself alive whilst I recycled the airlock? Possible. An idea. Might work.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Water at my knees.

  Valves on the hoses prevent the stuff spraying out until it is connected to a suit or tank. Cut off the valve? Maybe.

  With what?

  Nothing on me. Wrist welder?

  Not a bad idea. Might work. Slice off the end of the hoses and swallow the stuff down. It would hurt. No gloves on to control the flame and I’d have to immerse it in water to get the best results.

  Think it through. Water at my thighs.

  How to turn it on? No gloves means no controls and no welder.

  Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. Water at my hips.

  Come on, Corin.

  I grabbed the hose and pulled it from the wall. Just in case. Had to be a way.

  Something bumped into my back. I felt it even through the suit. Keeping hold of the hose I turned round and looked. My helmet and there, floating in the corner was a glove and bobbing happily on the rising water not far away the other one.

  Saved.

  Could I get the gloves on, helmet on and Oxyquid to fill the suit before I ran out of breathable air? Not certain by any measure, but worth a shot. I had no alternatives.

  The water was at my stomach and still rising as I pushed through it to the gloves. I grabbed the first one and upended it, letting the water inside splash out, before dragging it on. The second glove was now a few steps away, taking more time up, and I followed the same proce
dure.

  Now I had picked up some buoyancy from the water that nestled just under my armpits. I was floating, wishing I’d learned to swim on the surface now. Above my head, maybe half a metre of clear air. I paddled to the helmet and pulled it over my head, kicking with my feet to keep the neck seal above the level of the water. The Oxyquid would push out any water in the suit, but it was best not to get them into contact. Not if it could be avoided.

  The helmet seal clicked into place and with a flick of my fingers in the gloves brought the visor online. Hoses now. I’d had to let it go to get the gloves and helmet on. It had retracted back into its housing and that was now somewhere near my feet which were a metre or so off the floor.

  I had a few minutes of breathable air in the suit. We are such efficient machines that even of the air we breathe in, a lot of the oxygen gets exhaled. Each breath drew in more of the remaining air, took some oxygen into your blood, threw out the little that wasn’t used. You could rebreathe the same air a few times. Good news.

  Until you remembered that each breath expelled a lot more carbon dioxide than oxygen. In the city, the carbon dioxide was a mostly safe four hundred parts per million. Each exhaled breath contains about four thousand parts per million. Ten times the amount you drew in. Within seven or eight breaths the air in a Fish-Suit was at dangerous levels. Ten more breaths and you reached toxic levels and ten more to lethal levels.

  Less than thirty breaths of air in a suit.

  Easy. Except I’d already taken three just booting up the suit. Ten percent of my life gone. Rolling over in the water, feet against the ceiling, aiming at the hoses, and pushing off took up another three. Grabbing the hose and pulling it out, by twisting my body once more and putting my feet against the wall took another four or five. And my heart rate was higher than normal. And I was exerting myself. Both of those would increase the carbon dioxide significantly. So what, ten breaths left?

  Calm, I told myself.

  The hose clipped in and I ran through the safety checks by the simple expedient of agreeing to everything without reading. Four breaths later and the green light on my HUD flashed on. The Oxyquid sprayed against my side and began to dribble down my leg. Going the wrong way. I needed to breathe this stuff.

  Six breaths left. My already aching head was likely already masking the pain of an oxygen deprived brain. Keep calm. Keep thinking.

  I took a breath and held it. Before my legs became too heavy and my carbon dioxide filled helmet too buoyant, I flipped myself over, bracing my feet on the ceiling. Now the Oxyquid was pouring into my helmet. Another breath, I needed it. The warm, stale air exploding from lungs and I gulped in another. My lungs burned, contracted, fighting to draw the remaining oxygen from the pitiful amount in that breath.

  The Oxyquid covered my forehead, the bridge of my hose, eyes. It trickled into my nostrils, not enough to breathe down without choking and using up the last of my breaths. Over my top lip and I bit down, struggling to hold on, to not waste the last of my breaths and do some irreparable damage. Oxygen starvation was bad, hell it’s a killer, but just a little fresh oxygen can reverse the effects if they are not too serious. Carbon Dioxide poisoning is a lot more serious, so I held my mouth closed and my nerve. Just.

  Past my bottom lip, taking forever to reach my chin and when the first warm feeling of gloop caressed my neck I opened my mouth and dragged it in. I coughed, choked, sputtered and spluttered as my diaphragm expelled the air and dragged the liquid into the little alveoli sacs. Unnatural, even after the training, experience and years. Yet, such a relief. I could hear the bubbles of my last breath pierce the layer of Oxyquid with a sound that made my pre-teen brain giggle. Growing up is over-rated.

  Ten deep breaths later and I still didn’t feel good, but at least I was alive.

  They’d tried to kill me. That they had failed was important, but the sheer act of attempted murder meant they didn’t want me to get off the station.

  Tragic accident. Suit failed him. Been drinking. That’s what they’d tell Derva and she’d have no choice but to believe them.

  Fuckers.

  Chapter 22

  They wanted me dead. I could understand that. There are days when I wake up desiring the same thing. However, I wasn’t too thrilled with them taking the decision out of my hands. Plus, if I died, Derva would be upset. True, I’m not sure how long she’d be upset for, but even a few minutes was more than I wanted.

  I needed a plan. Not my strong point. Thinking things through took effort and time. A myriad of choices that changed the situation, altered the variables and messed with future plans. All that thinking like your opponent thinks. I’ve played chess and lost every time. Start with the basics, get to safety.

  The HUD told me the suit was full of Oxyquid and charged up. Time to do something. Recycle the airlock and go back into the city? It had its merits. I gave a little kick from the motors to right myself and moved over to the airlock window. The corridor was empty. Rehja and Kade weren’t there. It was impossible to tell if they had stayed around to see me drown, or even to see me wake up, panic, flounder and, in the nick of time, actually climb into my suit and survive.

  Once I was in the city proper, there would be the chance to recover my belongings, such as they were, to find Rehja and to ruin their plans. It may seem strange, but I have an aversion to people trying to kill me. It sparks this almost unconscious desire to do something about it. It also sets fire to my desire to survive.

  The best plan, the one with the most chance of success, was to call Derva and tell her everything. However, even I could acknowledge some problems with that one.

  Firstly, I’d have to tell her everything and then I would get the ‘why didn’t you come to me first’ lecture which would hurt, more than anything because she would be right. Being a man, a stupid, thoughtless, self-centred creature, often meant that asking for help was a last resort and always too late. Ever seen a man stop and ask for directions in a city? No, me neither.

  Second problem, I’d be admitting to doing something to a city system which could easily be construed as an act of terrorism. The penalty for such an act was not, as you might expect, a pleasant one.

  Thirdly, I would somehow have to get the message out through the NOAH communication channels without Rehja or his boss knowing. As there were incredibly strong indications that the lady, Rehja’s boss, was quite high up in the city’s management structure it was a good bet that there was a flag on my name, Derva’s and probably anything that went along the lines of ‘help!’ being included in a message.

  All told, going into the city wasn’t the best idea at the moment. For another thing, I didn’t have anything to wear except a Fish-Suit and my skin tight underwear. I’m sure there were a few ladies who’d welcome the sight of a reasonably fit thirty-something walking through the streets in his underwear. Not the kind of attention I needed right now.

  Into the ocean then. The only place where having a Fish-Suit made sense. If only for a day or two before you died. As I waited for the outer door to fully open I scanned the city plans and maps of the local seascape looking for a place that might offer a little sanctuary, at least for a few hours while I decided what to do.

  The habitation boxes were many and spread out from the original dome in a haphazard pattern as if they’d fallen off some great surface ship in ages past, sinking to the ocean floor and been left where they came to rest. Getting into one of those wouldn’t be too difficult. They all had airlocks, more than one, and they all had apartments containing clothes, food, water and access to the systems. On the downside, they had cameras on most of the main corridors, some of the boxes leaked, and some were, no doubt, controlled by gangs of thugs, criminals and other assorted businessmen who were keen to protect their own ecological niche within the sewage of human existence.

  Breaking into an apartment would likely set off an alarm, calling the security forces down upon my head. Or worse, it would bring the wrath of the gangs, and their varied footwear,
down upon my unprotected skull.

  Other options?

  There were labs on the sea floor. Industrial size constructions where the dangerous science took place. Every single one would be guarded and patrolled. Industrial espionage was rife amongst the companies. A few of my former colleagues, from my military days, had moved into security, counter-espionage or just straight espionage. Some of them were dead, some on prison barges and some had vanished. I still got the military magazine sent to me once a month. The obituaries made for depressing reading.

  The power plants were a possibility. Many of them operated without any human interference at all, which meant there wouldn’t be drinkable water, any food or clothing available. Those that did employ real people were guarded and protected.

  Farms? I could use a great deal of the power in the suit to carry me out to the areas of the sea floor where they farmed fish, shrimp and prawn, and harvested seaweed. Amongst the farmers, I might find a place to stay. An isolationist bunch, by and large, they kept to themselves, farmed the sea and charged extortionate prices for their produce. They were also famous for not allowing strangers on their land, in their homes or anywhere near them. You were born into a farming family or you were sponsored into one, by marriage or a business dealing. What you didn’t do was just turn up on the off-chance they needed some help with the harvest. A spear-gun to the gut, if you were lucky, was the usual response.

  Shipyards were a definite no go. Guarded, patrolled, sensor nets and automatic weapon systems all designed to strongly hint that leaving the area by the shortest route possible was a good idea and well done for cottoning on so quickly.

  The factories were a possibility. Every city had factories. Some brand spanking new, gleaming in the darkness, humming with power and producing the latest in totally pointless widgets that the discerning and fashion conscious person just couldn’t be seen without. Other factories, the workhorses of the city, churned out the repair parts that were always in need. Not for them the flashy products, the constant change of specs and blueprints. No. The steady production of vital components that allowed everyone, most people, in the city to sleep sound in their beds at night was their reason for existing.