Clarke says. Almost. Bleatingfromnav

john9221

acesupagentle
monochrome slope. The depth gauge reads 70m and rising.
How long have I been sleeping?
Clarke asks.
Notlong.
FreshredscarsradiatefromthecornersofLubin'seyes
thevisibleaftermathofanoperationthatslidneuroelectricinlaysintohis
opticnerves.Clarkestillwincesinwardlyatthesight;she'snotsureshe
would'vetrustedthecorpses'ssurgeonseveniftheyare
allonthesame
sidenow.Lubinobviouslythinkstheadditionaldata-gatheringcapacity
wasworththerisk.Ormaybeit'sjustoneofthoseextrashe'salways
wantedbut never been cleared for in his past life.
We're at Sable already?
Clarke says.
Almost.
Bleatingfromnav:hardechouptheslopeattwoo'clock.Lubin
throttlesbackandslewstostarboard.CentrifugalforceswingsClarketo
the side.
Thirtymeters.Theseaoutsidelooksbrightandcold.It'slikestaring
intogreenglass.Phocoena
crawlsuptheslopeatafewsluggishknots
sniffingnorthwesttowardsawireframeassemblyoftubesandstruts
swellingonnav.Clarkeleansforwardpeersthroughshaftsofmurky
light. Nothing.
What's the viz out there?
she wonders.
Lubinintent on his pilotingdoesn't look over. "Eight point seven."
Twentymetersfromthesurface.Thewateraheaddarkenssuddenly
asthoughaneclipsewereinprogress.Aninstantlaterthatdarknessre-
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