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  “Miles,” she replied softly, “You are awake. More awake than you have ever been.”

  He had expected news about some form of permanent damage, but this was impossible; there was no technology that could achieve what she was suggesting.

  “Yes, there was no transcription technology,” she answered his thought, “I had to devise it first.”

  Again, his first reaction was one of denial. If his injuries were as severe as she maintained, then there would have been no time for her to devise this approach. Though even as this thought finished, he could sense that something was fundamentally wrong with this evaluation.

  “Go on,” she encouraged.

  All his deductive reasoning was built on a fundamental assumption so large that it had become invisible to him. He’d awoken in this state some time after the airlock explosion, but he had no external reference about the duration of his unconsciousness. He found himself drawn toward a persistent thought.

  “Time,” he said, “How much time has passed?”

  “At this point it is difficult to give you a meaningful frame of reference,” Fai replied, “but relative to the ISS incident of 2076, ninety-nine years have elapsed.”

  DROP

  13th April 2014

  Sarah watched the group carrying their lanterns and filing out of the Glaucus offices, led by Tristan Westhouse. The stress of the past few minutes had prevented her from making connections properly but now she managed to place the surname. The Westhouse family were closely linked with the development of submersibles and surface vessels. Perhaps Tristan had recognised her because she’d been aboard a Westhouse ship at some point.

  “Mr. Westhouse?” she called after him and joined the others.

  She was about to call out again, when she saw that everyone had stopped at the top of the Glaucus stairwell. The commotion, darting glances and pointing hands told her that there was a new problem. Like everyone else, she stood on tiptoe and adjusted her point of view multiple times before she managed to glimpse what lay ahead.

  The USV was beginning to flood through a disused tunnel. She could even hear the sound of rushing water echoing along it. The brief flashes of lantern light showed her that the water was coming in through a distant hole.

  “Tris, come in!”

  Sarah recognised the woman’s voice on Tristan’s handset; one of the Sea-Bass crew somewhere high above their heads.

  “Go,” Tristan replied.

  “Temperature just reached negative two-twenty-five.”

  A few minutes ago, Sarah had heard the same woman reporting temperatures and the progress of a message. There was no context for their conversation, but she could tell there was an underlying urgency.

  “Any more of the message?”

  “I think it must be for us,” she replied, “It says ‘Arc vessel’.”

  Sarah knew that compartmentalisation within Archive meant that her information was probably out of date. However, if they truly were able to leave the USV in an Arc vessel, then the first person she would want to contact at the Atlantic Ridge Colony would be General Broxbourne; the one man who could send a military force here to end her father’s bloodshed.

  “Tris, did you hear me?”

  “Yes, Lucy,” he replied, looking at approaching floodwater, “Listen, Mat, check the mano-jets are prepped. We’ll be heavier on departure, we’re bringing guests.”

  “Understood,” a man’s voice returned.

  Sarah watched Tristan talk quietly with his associate who then departed inside the round-cornered Glaucus airlock door.

  When Sarah had first arrived at the USV, she’d studied its latest plans in order to get an overview of the facility that she would be calling home. She knew that there must be some form of surface transport elevator on the other side of the Glaucus airlock, but she didn’t know what form it would take.

  “OK, listen up,” Tristan addressed them all, pointing at the airlock, “We need to be as light as possible on the way back up. We have supplies on the Sea-Bass, so leave your luggage behind.”

  She felt Mr. Networking push past her, accompanied by a young woman. A few seconds later he was deep in conversation with someone at the front; not the man who’d announced himself as Noah, but someone else. She was sure that she recognised the bearded man, but she couldn’t immediately place him. If this small group had been living inside the USV during the past few months then it was entirely possible that she’d caught sight of him somewhere. However, she got the feeling that the familiarity somehow ran deeper.

  Under her feet she felt a vibrating jolt travel through the metal decking and then a deep, repetitive thudding began.

  “Pav, how are we doing?” Tristan called.

  “About one minute thirty seconds,” came her voice from somewhere within the airlock.

  With a sudden sense of alarm, Sarah noticed that the others were now beginning to head in through the airlock, many discarding bulky rucksacks into a pile near the top of the stairwell.

  Queueing and taking her place among others was not a common experience for her; being Bradley’s daughter, people tended to keep their distance. Here though, she was afforded no such breathing space as she moved towards the airlock, something which only highlighted the urgency and clamorous nature of the imminent departure. As she neared the airlock door, she heard Tristan’s handset crackle.

  “Whatever you’re doing, do it faster!”

  “Update,” said Tristan, holding up his hand to stop the flow of people into the airlock.

  “We just hit negative two-twenty-eight.”

  For a second, Sarah thought he was looking directly at her, then she realised he was just staring; she was simply in the way.

  “Two twenty-five, two-twenty-eight, two forty-one, two fifty-four,” he quietly murmured some unseen calculation. Suddenly a look of recognition dawned and he broke his stare.

  “Offset Fibonacci series,” he was nodding.

  “What? Repeat last transmission.”

  “Lucy,” he replied quickly, “if I’m right, then we’ve only got two more temperature drops. Prep the outer airlock for fast closure.”

  “Why only two drops?” came a man’s voice over the handset.

  “Because drop three will take it to negative two seventy-five Celsius!”

  “And?”

  “We hit absolute zero at around two seventy-three!”

  It was a figure that Sarah recognised very well. It had appeared in many of her lunar Regodozer calculations: zero degrees Kelvin, often referred to as ‘OK’.

  The exodus into the airlock had resumed and she found herself moving forwards again. She could now see glimpses of the transport elevator’s interior; an open sided affair with mesh flooring that was being quickly covered by people’s feet. A few moments ago, her formerly privileged outlook had made her hesitant to push forward with everyone else, that hesitancy had now possibly cost her a place aboard the elevator.

  A pneumatic-sounding hiss punctuated the repetitive thudding noise, and the low-level vibration stopped.

  “Twenty seconds,” came the woman’s voice from within the elevator.

  •

  As Bradley looked down on the USV below, he felt his chest swell with pride. Although Sarah was on the other end of a telephone line, he could tell that she still admired him.

  “OK, you sit tight, Pumpkin,” he instructed her to remain in the Glaucus offices.

  “Dad, one last thing before I go.”

  “Sure, what is it?” he pressed the receiver to his ear.

  “Everything you’ve done here,” she said, “you have no clue what it means to me.”

  She hung up the receiver and he gave a deep sigh; it was the first time that she’d acknowledged his efforts within the USV.

  He replaced the telephone on the cradle next to the drone monitoring station. The screen in front of him displayed a four-by-four grid of video feeds from the USV drones. Only one of the feeds was still active; a buffered freeze-frame of
a man in a leather jacket, standing on the Glaucus stairwell and holding a laptop.

  Bradley walked the few feet to where he’d left his two-way radio. Selecting the appropriate channel, he pushed the transmit key.

  “This is Pittman,” he announced himself then waited.

  He found himself walking over to the central circular balcony that surrounded the broken glazing. Without the glass, the sounds from the USV far below were reaching him more easily; a dull white noise accented by the clank of metallic repairs. The lack of glass and unusual perspective allowed his mind to stray. A sudden and unaccountable feeling of what it would be like to leap from the balcony pushed into his mind.

  Instinctively he stepped back. Alfred Barnes had once bored him with the fact that it was some sort of primitive protection mechanism; something to help apes decide if they should risk letting go of one branch to make a jump to a neighbouring tree.

  He turned his back on the circular hole and impatiently raised his radio, ready to repeat his initial call. Before he could speak, the radio clicked and a voice replied.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Was I keepin’ you from somethin’?” Bradley expressed his loss of patience.

  “Sorry, sir,” the man replied, “There were some casualties that I -”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he interrupted, “Listen, my daughter’s up at the Glaucus offices, an’ I reckon that bastard drone hacker might be headin’ her way.”

  “I’ll go get her.”

  “She says the elevator’s bust, so you’re gonna have to take the steps.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll keep her safe.”

  “You’re a good man, Vic,” Bradley replied, “I ain’t gonna forget this.”

  •

  The electrical lake disturbance Marcus had witnessed while hanging from the bottom of a hacked drone had happened barely an hour ago. Now, in front of him, was a whole new problem. Water was gushing along the Warren’s access tunnel. Taking hold of Sabine’s hand, he forced his initial fear aside and pushed forward through the group. There were no alternative routes out of the USV, so he had to hope that Tristan could deliver on his promise. But even if they escaped the USV, he knew there may be another problem waiting for them. After a few steps he’d reached Nathan and nudged his arm.

  “What the hell’s an Arc Vessel?” Marcus asked quietly while glancing upwards, “One of ‘em just mentioned it.”

  “No idea,” Nathan shook his head and shrugged, “Archive Vessel?”

  “Damn…” Marcus stared blankly; Nathan’s guess seemed to confirm his own worst fear.

  “I know,” said Nathan, “Frying pan or fire…”

  Marcus threw a glance in the direction of the flooding tunnel.

  “Well I sure as hell ain’t stayin’ down here, mate.”

  Marcus felt a sudden jolt in the metal under his feet, followed by a repetitive thudding. It seemed that the machinery within the airlock was being prepared to make the trip to the surface. The woman inside the airlock appeared to be accessing a small control terminal near the doorway. After calling out that they had one minute thirty seconds, she began ushering people aboard.

  Suddenly, Marcus heard Tristan’s radio conversation change to become more rapid and urgent. He couldn’t make out the details but the tone had a nervous drive to it.

  “Don’t like the sound of this,” he muttered.

  “Me neither,” Nathan agreed, “I just wanna get everyone aboard.”

  Marcus couldn’t tell if this was Nathan’s actual wish, or a remnant of Monica’s programming; a broad directive to protect the twelve ‘Substandards’ of the Warren. Not for the first time, Marcus found himself beginning to doubt his own free will.

  With a pneumatic hiss, the thudding noise stopped and the woman within the airlock announced that there were only twenty seconds remaining. As they drew closer to the doorway a thought struck Marcus. It appeared that the same thought had occurred to Nathan; his hand was tightly clenched around the handle of the Z-bank.

  “Everyone’s ditching their bags,” he whispered to Nathan.

  “Well we can’t ditch this,” Nathan replied, “You know that.”

  “Noah’s ahead of us,” Marcus discreetly tilted his head, “maybe you could -”

  “Good thinking,” Nathan cut in, “When we get to the door, can you distract that Tristan guy while I hand it off?”

  Marcus nodded and cast his eye towards the Warren’s former access tunnel. There was so much water coming in now that he may not even need to make a distraction.

  “Tris, the message is definitely for us,” came the woman’s voice on Tristan’s handset, “So far we’ve got ‘Arc vessel Sea-Bass’.”

  Marcus saw Noah go safely through the doorway and Nathan shuffled forwards.

  “Understood, Lucy,” Tristan replied, “Pavna, has the -”

  “Drop!” Lucy’s voice erupted from the handset, “Negative two forty-one!”

  Marcus was about to take advantage of Lucy’s timely interruption when a loud crack came from within the Warren and a wall of water rushed along the tunnel towards them. The wave emerged from the tunnel and ploughed into the baggage at the top of the stairwell, sending it toppling down the stairs and over the edges. He felt a strong jolt and the walkway suddenly dropped several inches. He threw out his arms to steady himself and saw the water spraying off the walls and flowing down the stairs; the open metalwork hissing as the seawater pushed relentlessly through it.

  What sounded like a short burst of machine-gun fire echoed out as the bolts securing the walkway to the wall failed in rapid succession. The water continued its drive and the metal floor collapsed sideways. Marcus felt the world turn around him as the floor tipped, but a handrail somehow broke his fall.

  The deluge was in full flow, thrashing through the stairwell metalwork. The floor had dropped several feet from its original position and had twisted away from the USV’s rocky wall. Although the walkway had become detached from the stairwell end, the other end was still connected to the narrow strip of corridor outside the Glaucus offices.

  He looked up just in time to see Tristan lose his grip on the wet airlock door handle and fall. Tristan landed heavily on the slanting walkway, sending a gut-wrenching shudder through the metal, then he began to skid down the slick and sloping walkway towards the abyss below. Marcus tightened his grip on the handrail and flung out his other hand to grab at whatever part of Tristan came nearest. He felt his hand make contact with a flap of clothing and immediately clenched his fingers into a tight fist.

  Under the sudden weight, the fabric tore. Tristan stumbled down the walkway’s slope and, with a short rip, Marcus was left holding a ragged piece of cloth. But the tiny intervention had been enough; the slight change in momentum imparted by Marcus had sent Tristan tripping into the handrail where he managed to hook his elbow around the metalwork.

  The noise from the flood suddenly subsided. The water was slowing down; obviously something within the Warren was staunching the flow.

  “Help me!” Izzy screamed from further up the slope.

  He whipped around to see that she was hanging onto the walkway’s mesh flooring with one hand while holding onto an unconscious Sarah Pittman with the other. Nathan was awkwardly making his way up the wet slope towards Izzy, using the handrail as widely spaced ladder rungs.

  “Marcus!” yelled Sabine from the airlock above him. Holding the Z-bank, she was standing at the edge of the airlock and assessing the collapsed walkway. He knew that the keen spacial awareness she’d demonstrated in navigating the rooftops and urban spaces of Paris would easily allow her to navigate this sort of territory. But he also knew he couldn’t let her risk her life.

  “No, Sabine!” he yelled and then called to Nathan, “Get to the top!”

  Marcus braced his foot against a protruding piece of metal then took Sarah’s weight from below to stop her sliding off the walkway. He looked in the other direction and saw that Tristan was clawing his way up the slop
e, copying Nathan’s ladder-like ascent.

  “Tristan!” a voice came from the airlock.

  Marcus saw that Tristan’s associate was standing in the airlock doorway next to Sabine.

  “Pavna!” Tristan called up to her, “Jump the pod. Now!”

  “But, Tris!” she began anxiously pointing.

  “That’s an order, Jones!” he yelled his interruption while continuing to climb, “Send the pod back down when you’re done! Do it, Jones!”

  Her expression was pained but she complied, ducking back inside the pod and instructing people to sit down on the floor.

  Marcus saw Nathan and Izzy reach the top of the slope and a moment later Sarah appeared to get lighter as they began to drag her up to safety.

  Sabine was still desperate to climb down and help him but he fixed a deep frown on his face and shook his head at her. He saw a pair of hands suddenly pull her away from the edge and force her to sit down.

  There was a fast, ratcheting sound followed by a pneumatic hiss. Through the open airlock doorway, he saw the pod suddenly leap upwards and out of sight.

  Marcus immediately began climbing up the slope. If he was to stand any chance of reuniting with Sabine and the others, then finding another way to reach the airlock was now a priority. When the pod returned, they would need to be ready.

  On reaching the top of the incline, he turned and grabbed Tristan’s outstretched hand. Izzy took hold of his other arm and together they pulled him onto the flat portion of walkway near the Glaucus offices.

  As soon as Tristan was upright he appeared to make an adjustment to his radio handset before speaking into it.

  “Lucy, are you still receiving me?”

  “Yeah, what the hell’s going on down th-”

  “No time,” he cut in, “Pavna’s jumped the pod -”

  “Yeah I heard, we’re ready up here. Soon as the pod’s clear I’ll send it back down.”

  Marcus could see that Tristan was now involuntarily pointing towards the open airlock door.

  “Lucy, the Glaucus airlock down here didn’t auto-close.”