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tiny bunk. Their eyes dart restlessly beneath closed lids. Nakata's dreamer stands guard beside them, its
tendrils pasted to their bodies.
Clarke lets the hatch hiss shut again.
It was a stupid idea, anyhow. What would she know?
She wonders how long they've been together, though. She never even saw that coming.
* * *
"Your boyfriend isn't here," Lubin calls in. "We were supposed to top up the coolant on number seven."
Clarke calls up the topographic display. "How long ago?"
"Oh four hundred."
"Okay." Acton's half an hour late. That's unusual; he's been going out of his way to be punctual these
days, a grudging concession to Clarke in the name of group relations. "I can't find him on sonar," she
reports. "Unless he's hugging the bottom. Hang on."
She leans out of the comm cubby. "Hey. Anybody see Karl?"
"He left a while ago," Brander calls from the wet room. "Maintenance on seven, I think."
Clarke punches back into Lubin's channel. "He's not here. Brander says he left already. I'll keep looking."
"Okay. At least his deadman switch hasn't gone off." Clarke can't tell whether Lubin thinks that's good or
bad.
Movement at the corner of her eye. She looks up; Nakata's standing in the hatchway.
"Have you found him?" she asks.
Clarke shakes her head.
"He was in Medical, just before he left," Nakata says. "He was open. He said he was making some
adjustments "
Oh God.
"He said they improved performance outside, but he didn't explain. He said he would show me later.
Maybe something went wrong."
External camera display, ventral view. The image flickers for a moment, then clears; on the screen, a
scalloped circle of light lies across a flat muddy plain, transected by the knife-edge shadows of anchor
cables. Near the edge of that circle is a black human figure, face down, its hands held to either side of its
head.
She wakes up the close acoustics. "Karl! Karl, can you hear me?"
He reacts. His head twists around, faces up into the floods; his eyecaps reflect featureless white glare into
the camera. He's shaking.
"His vocoder," Nakata says. There's sound coming from the speaker, soft, repetitive, mechanical. "It's
stuttering "
Clarke's already in the wet room. She knows what Acton's vocoder is saying. She knows, because the
same word is repeating over and over in her own head.
No. No. No. No. No.
* * *
No obvious motor impairment. He's able to make it back inside on his own; stiffens, in fact, when Clarke
tries to help him. He strips his gear and follows her into Medical without a word.
Nakata, diplomatically, closes the hatch behind them
Now he sits on the examination table, stonefaced. Clarke knows the routine; get his 'skin off, his eyecaps
out. Check autonomic pupil response and reflex arcs. Stab him, draw off the usual samples: blood gases,
acetylcholine, GABA, lactic acid.
She sits down beside him. She doesn't want his eyecaps out. She doesn't want to see behind them.
"Your inhibitors," she says at last. "How far down are they?"
"Twenty percent."
"Well." She tries for a light touch. "At least we know your limit now. Just nudge them back up to normal."
Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head.
"Why not?"
"Too late. I went over some sort of threshold. I don't think -- it doesn't feel reversible."
"I see." She puts one tentative hand on his arm. He doesn't react. "How do you feel?"
"Blind. Deaf."
"You're not, though."
"You asked how I felt," he says, still expressionless.
"Here." She takes the NMR helmet down from its hook. Acton lets her strap it across his skull. "If there's
anything wrong, this should "
"There's something wrong, Len."
"Well." The helmet writes its impressions across the diagnostic display. Clarke's got the same medical
expertise they all have, stuffed into her mind by machines that hijacked her dreams. Still, the raw data
mean nothing to her. It's almost a minute before the display prints out an executive summary.
"Your synaptic calcium's way down." She's careful not to show her relief. "Makes sense, I guess. Your
neurons fire too often, eventually they run out of something."
He looks at the screen, saying nothing.
"Karl, it's okay." She leans toward his ear, one hand on his shoulder. "It'll fix itself. Just put your inhibitors
back up to normal; demand goes down, supply keeps up. No harm done."
He shakes his head again. "Won't work."
"Karl, look at the readout. You're going to be fine."
"Please don't touch me," he says, not moving at all.
Critical Mass
She catches a glimpse of fist before it hits her eye. She staggers back against the bulkhead, feels some
protruding rivet or valve catch the back of her head. The world drowns in explosions of afterlight.
He's lost control, she thinks dully. I win. Her knees collapse under her; she slides down the wall, sits
with a heavy thud on the deck. She considers it a matter of some pride that she's kept utterly silent
through all this.
I wonder what I did to set him off. She can't remember. Acton's fist seems to have knocked the past
few minutes out of her head. Doesn't matter anyway. Same old dance.
But this time there seems to be someone on her side. She can hear shouts, sounds of a scuffle. She hears
the sick jarring thud of flesh against bone against metal, and for once, none of it seems to be hers.
"You cocksucker! I'll rip your fucking balls off!"
Brander's voice. Brander is sticking up for her. He always was the gallant one. Clarke smiles, tastes salt.
Of course, he never quite forgave Acton for that tiff over the gulper, either...
Her vision is starting to clear, in one eye at least. There's a leg right in front of her, another to one side.
She looks up; the legs meet at Caraco's crotch. Acton and Brander are in her cubby too; Clarke's
amazed that they can all fit.
Acton, his mouth bloody, is under siege. Brander's hand is at his throat. Acton has the wrist of that hand
caught in a grip of his own; while Clarke watches, his other arm lashes out and glances off Brander's jaw.
"Stop it," she mumbles.
Caraco hits Acton's temple twice in rapid succession. Acton's head snaps sideways, snarls, but he
doesn't release his grip on Brander.
"I said stop it!"
This time they hear her. The struggle slows, pauses; fists remain poised, no holds break, but they're all
looking at her now.
Even Acton. Clarke looks up into his eyes, looks behind them. She can see nothing staring back but
Acton himself. You were there before, she remembers. I'm almost sure of it. Count on you to get
Acton into a losing fight and then bugger off...
She braces herself against the bulkhead and pushes slowly erect. Caraco moves aside, helps her up.
"I'm flattered by all the attention, folks," Clarke says, "and I want to thank you for stopping by, but I think
we can handle this on our own from here on in."
Caraco puts a protective hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to put up with this shit." Her eyes,
somehow venomous through the shielding, are still locked on Acton. "None of us do."
One corner of Acton's mouth pulls back in a small, bloody sneer.
Clarke endures Caraco's touch without flinching. "I know that. And thanks for stepping in. But please,
just leave us alone for a while."
Brander doesn't loosen his grip on Acton's throat. "I don't think that a very good " [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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tiny bunk. Their eyes dart restlessly beneath closed lids. Nakata's dreamer stands guard beside them, its
tendrils pasted to their bodies.
Clarke lets the hatch hiss shut again.
It was a stupid idea, anyhow. What would she know?
She wonders how long they've been together, though. She never even saw that coming.
* * *
"Your boyfriend isn't here," Lubin calls in. "We were supposed to top up the coolant on number seven."
Clarke calls up the topographic display. "How long ago?"
"Oh four hundred."
"Okay." Acton's half an hour late. That's unusual; he's been going out of his way to be punctual these
days, a grudging concession to Clarke in the name of group relations. "I can't find him on sonar," she
reports. "Unless he's hugging the bottom. Hang on."
She leans out of the comm cubby. "Hey. Anybody see Karl?"
"He left a while ago," Brander calls from the wet room. "Maintenance on seven, I think."
Clarke punches back into Lubin's channel. "He's not here. Brander says he left already. I'll keep looking."
"Okay. At least his deadman switch hasn't gone off." Clarke can't tell whether Lubin thinks that's good or
bad.
Movement at the corner of her eye. She looks up; Nakata's standing in the hatchway.
"Have you found him?" she asks.
Clarke shakes her head.
"He was in Medical, just before he left," Nakata says. "He was open. He said he was making some
adjustments "
Oh God.
"He said they improved performance outside, but he didn't explain. He said he would show me later.
Maybe something went wrong."
External camera display, ventral view. The image flickers for a moment, then clears; on the screen, a
scalloped circle of light lies across a flat muddy plain, transected by the knife-edge shadows of anchor
cables. Near the edge of that circle is a black human figure, face down, its hands held to either side of its
head.
She wakes up the close acoustics. "Karl! Karl, can you hear me?"
He reacts. His head twists around, faces up into the floods; his eyecaps reflect featureless white glare into
the camera. He's shaking.
"His vocoder," Nakata says. There's sound coming from the speaker, soft, repetitive, mechanical. "It's
stuttering "
Clarke's already in the wet room. She knows what Acton's vocoder is saying. She knows, because the
same word is repeating over and over in her own head.
No. No. No. No. No.
* * *
No obvious motor impairment. He's able to make it back inside on his own; stiffens, in fact, when Clarke
tries to help him. He strips his gear and follows her into Medical without a word.
Nakata, diplomatically, closes the hatch behind them
Now he sits on the examination table, stonefaced. Clarke knows the routine; get his 'skin off, his eyecaps
out. Check autonomic pupil response and reflex arcs. Stab him, draw off the usual samples: blood gases,
acetylcholine, GABA, lactic acid.
She sits down beside him. She doesn't want his eyecaps out. She doesn't want to see behind them.
"Your inhibitors," she says at last. "How far down are they?"
"Twenty percent."
"Well." She tries for a light touch. "At least we know your limit now. Just nudge them back up to normal."
Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head.
"Why not?"
"Too late. I went over some sort of threshold. I don't think -- it doesn't feel reversible."
"I see." She puts one tentative hand on his arm. He doesn't react. "How do you feel?"
"Blind. Deaf."
"You're not, though."
"You asked how I felt," he says, still expressionless.
"Here." She takes the NMR helmet down from its hook. Acton lets her strap it across his skull. "If there's
anything wrong, this should "
"There's something wrong, Len."
"Well." The helmet writes its impressions across the diagnostic display. Clarke's got the same medical
expertise they all have, stuffed into her mind by machines that hijacked her dreams. Still, the raw data
mean nothing to her. It's almost a minute before the display prints out an executive summary.
"Your synaptic calcium's way down." She's careful not to show her relief. "Makes sense, I guess. Your
neurons fire too often, eventually they run out of something."
He looks at the screen, saying nothing.
"Karl, it's okay." She leans toward his ear, one hand on his shoulder. "It'll fix itself. Just put your inhibitors
back up to normal; demand goes down, supply keeps up. No harm done."
He shakes his head again. "Won't work."
"Karl, look at the readout. You're going to be fine."
"Please don't touch me," he says, not moving at all.
Critical Mass
She catches a glimpse of fist before it hits her eye. She staggers back against the bulkhead, feels some
protruding rivet or valve catch the back of her head. The world drowns in explosions of afterlight.
He's lost control, she thinks dully. I win. Her knees collapse under her; she slides down the wall, sits
with a heavy thud on the deck. She considers it a matter of some pride that she's kept utterly silent
through all this.
I wonder what I did to set him off. She can't remember. Acton's fist seems to have knocked the past
few minutes out of her head. Doesn't matter anyway. Same old dance.
But this time there seems to be someone on her side. She can hear shouts, sounds of a scuffle. She hears
the sick jarring thud of flesh against bone against metal, and for once, none of it seems to be hers.
"You cocksucker! I'll rip your fucking balls off!"
Brander's voice. Brander is sticking up for her. He always was the gallant one. Clarke smiles, tastes salt.
Of course, he never quite forgave Acton for that tiff over the gulper, either...
Her vision is starting to clear, in one eye at least. There's a leg right in front of her, another to one side.
She looks up; the legs meet at Caraco's crotch. Acton and Brander are in her cubby too; Clarke's
amazed that they can all fit.
Acton, his mouth bloody, is under siege. Brander's hand is at his throat. Acton has the wrist of that hand
caught in a grip of his own; while Clarke watches, his other arm lashes out and glances off Brander's jaw.
"Stop it," she mumbles.
Caraco hits Acton's temple twice in rapid succession. Acton's head snaps sideways, snarls, but he
doesn't release his grip on Brander.
"I said stop it!"
This time they hear her. The struggle slows, pauses; fists remain poised, no holds break, but they're all
looking at her now.
Even Acton. Clarke looks up into his eyes, looks behind them. She can see nothing staring back but
Acton himself. You were there before, she remembers. I'm almost sure of it. Count on you to get
Acton into a losing fight and then bugger off...
She braces herself against the bulkhead and pushes slowly erect. Caraco moves aside, helps her up.
"I'm flattered by all the attention, folks," Clarke says, "and I want to thank you for stopping by, but I think
we can handle this on our own from here on in."
Caraco puts a protective hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to put up with this shit." Her eyes,
somehow venomous through the shielding, are still locked on Acton. "None of us do."
One corner of Acton's mouth pulls back in a small, bloody sneer.
Clarke endures Caraco's touch without flinching. "I know that. And thanks for stepping in. But please,
just leave us alone for a while."
Brander doesn't loosen his grip on Acton's throat. "I don't think that a very good " [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]