The Diving Bundle: Six Diving Universe Novellas (8 page)

And then there’s more silence…thirty-five seconds of it, followed by a loud and emphatic “Fuck!”

I can’t tell if that’s an angry “fuck,” a scared “fuck” or an awed “fuck.” I can’t tell much about it at all.

Now I’m literally chewing on my thumbnail, something I haven’t done in years, and I’m watching the digital, which has crept past thirty-one minutes.

“Move your arm,” Jypé says, and I know then that wasn’t a good fuck at all.

Something happened.

Something bad.

“Just a little to the left,” Jypé says again, his voice oddly calm. I’m wondering why Junior isn’t answering him, hoping that the only reason is he’s in a section where the communications relay isn’t reaching the skip.

Because I can think of a thousand other reasons, none of them good, that Junior’s communication equipment isn’t working.

“We’re five minutes past departure,” Jypé says, and in that, I’m hearing the beginning of panic.

More silence.

I’m actually holding my breath. I look out a portal, see nothing except the wreck, looking like it always does. The handheld has been showing the same grainy image for a while now.

37:24

If they’re not careful, they’ll run out of air. Or worse.

I try to remember how much extra they took. I didn’t really watch them suit up this time. I’ve seen their ritual so many times that I’m not sure what I think I saw is what I actually saw. I’m not sure what they have with them, and what they don’t.

“Great,” Jypé says, and I finally recognize his tone. It’s controlled parental panic. Sound calm so that the kid doesn’t know the situation is bad. “Keep going.”

I’m holding my breath, even though I don’t have to. I’m holding my breath and looking back and forth between the portal and the handheld image. All I see is the damn wreck and that same grainy image.

“We got it,” Jypé says. “Now careful. Careful—son of a bitch! Move, move, move—ah, hell.”

I stare at the wreck, even though I can’t see inside it. My own breath sounds as ragged as it did inside the wreck. I glance at the digital:

44:11

They’ll never get out in time. They’ll never make it, and I can’t go in for them. I’m not even sure where they are.

“C’mon.” Jypé is whispering now. “C’mon son, just one more, c’mon, help me, c’mon.”

The “help me” wasn’t a request to a hearing person. It was a comment. And I suddenly know.

Junior’s trapped. He’s unconscious. His suit might even be ripped. It’s over for Junior.

Jypé has to know it on some deep level.

Only he also has to know it on the surface, in order to get out.

I reach for my own communicator before I realize there’s no talking to them inside the wreck. We’d already established that the skip doesn’t have the power to send, for reasons I don’t entirely understand. We’ve tried boosting power through the skip’s diagnostic, and even with the
Business’s
diagnostic, and we don’t get anything.

I judged we didn’t need it, because what can someone inside the skip do besides encourage?

“C’mon, son.” Jypé grunts. I don’t like that sound.

The silence that follows lasts thirty seconds, but it seems like forever. I move away from the portal, stare at the digital, and watch the numbers change. They seem to change in slow-motion:

45:24 to

…25 to

…2…6…

to

…2… … … 7…

until I can’t even see them change any more.

Another grunt, and then a sob, half-muffled, and another, followed by—

“Is there any way to send for help? Boss?”

I snap to when I hear my name. It’s Jypé and I can’t answer him.

I can’t answer him, dammit.

I can call for help, and I do. Squishy tells me that the best thing I can do is get the survivor—her word, not mine, even though I know it’s obvious too—back to the
Business
as quickly as possible.

“No sense passing midway, is there?” she asks, and I suppose she’s right.

But I’m cursing her—after I get off the line—for not being here, for failing us, even though there’s not much she can do, even if she’s here, in the skip. We don’t have a lot of equipment, medical equipment, back at the
Business
, and we have even less here, not that it mattered, because most of the things that happen are survivable if you make it back to the skip.

Still, I suit up. I promise myself I’m not going to the wreck, I’m not going help with Junior, but I can get Jypé along the guideline if he needs me too.

“Boss. Call for help. We need Squishy and some divers and oh, shit, I don’t know.”

His voice sounds too breathy. I glance at the digital.

56:24

Where has the time gone? I thought he was moving quicker than that. I thought I was too.

But it takes me a while to suit up, and I talked to Squishy, and everything is fucked up.

What’ll they say when we get back? The mission’s already filled with superstitions and fears of weird technology that none of us really understand.

And only me and Jypé are obsessed with this thing.

Me and Jypé.

Probably just me now.

“I left him some oxygen. I dunno if it’s enough…”

So breathy. Has Jypé left all his extra? What’s happening to Junior? If he’s unconscious, he won’t use as much, and if his suit is fucked, then he won’t need any.

“Coming through the hatch…”

I see Jypé, a tiny shape on top of the wreck. And he’s moving slowly, much too slowly for a man trying to save his own life.

My rules are clear: let him make his own way back.

But I’ve never been able to watch someone else die.

I send to the
Business
: “Jypé’s out. I’m heading down the line.”

I don’t use the word help on purpose, but anyone listening knows what I’m doing. They’ll probably never listen to me again, but what the hell.

I don’t want to lose two on my watch.

***

When I reach him six minutes later, he’s pulling himself along the guideline, hand over hand, so slowly that he barely seems human. A red light flashes at the base of his helmet—the out of oxygen light, dammit. He did use all of his extra for his son.

I grab one small container, hook it to the side of his suit, press the “on” only halfway, knowing too much is as bad as too little.

His look isn’t grateful: it’s startled. He’s so far gone, he hasn’t even realized that I’m here.

I brought a grappler as well, a technology I always said was more dangerous than helpful, and here’s the first test of my theory. I wrap Jypé against me, tell him to relax, I got him, and we’ll be just fine.

He doesn’t. Even though I pry him from the line, his hands still move, one over the other, trying to pull himself forward.

Instead, I yank us toward the skip, moving as fast as I’ve ever moved. I’m burning oxygen at three times my usual rate according to my suit and I don’t really care. I want him inside, I want him safe, I want him
alive
, goddammit.

I pull open the door to the skip. I unhook him in the airlock, and he falls to the floor like an empty suit. I make sure the back door is sealed, open the main door, and drag Jypé inside.

His skin is a grayish blue. Capillaries have burst in his eyes. I wonder what else has burst, what else has gone wrong.

There’s blood around his mouth.

I yank off the helmet, his suit protesting my every move.

“I gotta tell you,” he says. “I gotta tell you.”

I nod. I’m doing triage, just like I’ve been taught, just like I’ve done half a dozen times before.

“Set up something,” he says. “Record.”

So I do, mostly to shut him up. I don’t want him wasting more energy. I’m wasting enough for both of us, trying to save him, and cursing Squishy for not getting here, cursing everyone for leaving me on the skip, alone, with a man who can’t live, and somehow has to.

“He’s in the cockpit,” Jypé says.

I nod. He’s talking about Junior, but I really don’t want to hear it. Junior is the least of my worries.

“Wedged under some cabinet. Looks like—battlefield in there.”

That catches me. Battlefield how? Because there are bodies? Or because it’s a mess?

I don’t ask. I want him to wait, to save his strength, to
survive
.

“You gotta get him out. He’s only got an hour’s worth, maybe less. Get him out.”

Wedged beneath something, stuck against a wall, trapped in the belly of the wreck. Yeah, like I’ll get him out. Like it’s worth it.

All those sharp edges.

If his suit’s not punctured now, it would be by the time I’m done getting the stuff off him. Things have to be piled pretty high to get them stuck in zero-G.

I’ll wager the
Business
that Junior’s not stuck, not in the literal, gravitational sense. His suit’s hung up on an edge. He’s losing—he’s lost—environment and oxygen, and he’s probably been dead longer than his father’s been on the skip.

“Get him out.” Jypé’s voice is so hoarse it sounds like a whisper.

I look at his face. More blood.

“I’ll get him,” I say.

Jypé smiles. Or tries to. And then he closes his eyes, and I fight the urge to slam my fist against his chest. He’s dead and I know it, but some small part of me won’t believe it until Squishy declares him.

“I’ll get him,” I say again, and this time, it’s not a lie.

***

Squishy declared him the moment she arrived on the skip. Not that it was hard. He’d already sunken in on himself, and the blood—it wasn’t something I wanted to think about.

She flew us back. Turtle was in the other skip, and she never came in, just flew back on her own.

I stayed on the floor, expecting Jypé to rise up and curse me for not going back to the wreck, for not trying, even though we all knew—even though he probably had known—that Junior was dead.

When we got back to the
Business
, Squishy took his body to her little medical suite. She’s going to make sure he died from suit failure or lack of oxygen or something that keeps the regulators away from us.

Who knows what the hell he actually died of. Panic? Fear? Stupidity?—or maybe that’s what I’m doomed for. Hell, I let a man dive with his son, even though I’d ordered all of my teams to abandon a downed man.

Who can abandon his own kid anyway?

And who listens to me?

Not even me.

My quarters seem too small, the
Business
seems too big, and I don’t want to go anywhere because everyone’ll look at me, with an I-told-you-so followed by a let’s-hang-it-up.

And I don’t really blame them. Death’s the hardest part. It’s what we flirt with in deep-dives.

We claim that flirting is partly love.

I close my eyes and lean back on my bunk but all I see are digital readouts. Seconds moving so slowly they seem like days. The spaces between time. If only we can capture that—the space between moments.

If only.

I shake my head, wondering how I can pretend I have no regrets.

***

When I come out of my quarters, Turtle and Karl are already watching the vids from Jypé’s suit. They’re sitting in the lounge, their faces serious.

As I step inside, Turtle says, “They found the heart.”

It takes me a minute to understand her, then I remember what Jypé said. They were in the cockpit, the heart, the place we might find the stealth tech.

He was stuck there. Like the probe?

I shudder in spite of myself.

“Is the event on the vid?” I ask.

“Haven’t got that far.” Turtle shuts off the screens. “Squishy’s gone.”

“Gone?” I shake my head just a little. Words aren’t processing well. I’m having a reaction. I recognize it: I’ve had it before when I’ve lost crew.

“She took the second skip, and left. We didn’t even notice until I went to find her.” Turtle sighs. “She’s gone.”

“Jypé too?” I ask.

She nods.

I close my eyes. The mission ends, then. Squishy’ll go to the authorities and report us. She’s gonna tell them about the wreck and the accident and Junior’s death. She’s gonna show them Jypé, whom I haven’t reported yet because I didn’t want anyone to find our position, and the authorities’ll come here—whatever authorities have jurisdiction over this area—and confiscate the wreck.

At best, we’ll get a slap, and I’ll have a citation on my record.

At worst, I’ll—maybe we’ll—face charges for some form of reckless homicide.