Collapse Depth

He started on the level he was in, third level, taking logs on all the operating machinery. No burners were running, but, oddly, two scrubbers were. This despite the fact that carbon dioxide was at zero, because of the recent ventilation. He finished his round of logs on both machines, noted the high but appropriate temperature of each: both were running perfectly, if needlessly.

He descended the ladder to Machinery 2 Lower Level. In addition to the machinery that concerned him as a watchstander, it was also home to the ship’s modest complement of exercise equipment. But no one was working out — with the tempo they were operating everyone was too tired to exercise. It was too bad, it was nice having the company down there, made the watch go a little faster to watch someone else using the space recreationally, even if he was at work. It depended on the person, of course.

During the first hour of the watch, the navigator had come aft to work out, wearing faded blue USNA gym shorts and a plain white T-shirt stretched across his bony shoulders. Howard caught himself staring at the pink, starburst-shaped scar on the nav’s knee, from when he’d stabbed himself with the dividers in control: that story had rapidly become legend with the crew, further evidence that craziness was tolerated among officers. It was another example of Captain Shields’s willingness to give second chances; rumor had it that the XO wanted to throw the nav off before his knee had scabbed over. The navigator had caught him staring at the scar and Howard quickly averted his eyes and finished his logs. He made note of the nav’s presence in the same section of the logs he would have recorded the smell of smoke, flickering lights, or mysterious rattles that might give away their position to the enemy.

Howard saw gratefully, upon descending to lower level for the second time, that the navigator had already gone. He stood at the bottom of the ladder and took the emptiness in, true solitude being unusual on the boat. He realized he was staring at the deck, zoned out in a way that surprised him: he was actually relatively well-rested. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, then lifted a deck plate to check the level of water in the bilge, one of the entries on his logs.

He put his pen to the paper and tried to write DRY but couldn’t remember how to get the word started. When he remembered, he couldn’t get the tip of his pen to the appropriate box, directly below the DRY he’d written an hour before.

Shit. He stood, shook his head again. Something was wrong, he realized, he was suddenly leaning on the aft bulkhead, trying to get his bearings, his back cold against the steel. It was getting harder for him to think, he started to slide down into a seated position.

Even as he faded out, he realized that something was out of place. It was a knack all experienced watchstanders had, the ability to know that something was out of position before they’d actually isolated what it was, an ability they’d gained by staring out at a normal line up for hundreds of hours. Reactor operators in the engine room were known for it, an uncanny way of looking at their panel of over fifty indicators as one giant picture, sensing immediately that some dial had moved form its normal position, even though it would take another half second to figure out which one. Howard experienced the same thing surveying Machinery Two Lower Level.

Part of him knew he needed to climb the ladder; whatever was wrong seemed worse in lower level. But then he isolated exactly what was wrong: a small valve in the very corner of the space, a valve he’d never seen operated, a valve that was always closed, its purple-handled operator perpendicular to the pipe. The handle, Howard realized through a fog, was sticking straight out, parallel to the pipe, and the valve was wide open. This could be it, he thought with his last conscious breath, lunging toward the valve. I’ll shut it, save the day, save the crew. The fire will be forgotten. He collapsed with his hand outstretched, the clipboard crashing against the deck.

• • •

“Get him yet, chief?”

“No sir,” he said, growling machinery 2 even as he spoke. “Howard’s not answering.”

Jabo’s mind raced, electric, in casualty mode, even though no alarm had yet sounded and no urgent words had yet crossed the 4MC. Something was happening — he knew it wouldn’t be long.