Starfish

Not his fault. Not Brander's, not Fischer's. Not dad's. Not mine.

Nobody's fucking fault.

The airlock flushes beside her.

Angel

The seabed is glowing. Cracks in the rock flicker comforting shades of orange, like hot coals, and he knows that's thermal; the scalding rivulets feel warm even through his 'skin, his thermister leaps around every time the current twitches. But there are places here where the rocks shine green, and others where they shine blue. He doesn't know whether to thank biology or geochemistry. All he knows is that it's beautiful. It's a city from high up, at night. It's a vid of the northern lights he saw once, only sharper and brighter. It's a brush fire in emeralds.

In a way he's almost grateful to Brander. If it weren't for Brander he'd never have come upon this place. He'd be sitting in Beebe with the rest of them, hooked into the library or hiding in his cubby, safe and dry.

But Beebe's no refuge with Brander inside. Beebe's a gauntlet. So today Fischer just stayed away when his shift ended, crawled off across the ocean floor, exploring. Now, somewhere far from the Throat, he discovers real sanctuary.

Don't fall asleep, Shadow says. If you miss your shift again it'll just give him an excuse.

So what? He won't find me out here.

You can't stay outside forever. You've got to eat sometime.

I know, I know. Be quiet.

He's the only person to have ever seen this place. How long has it been here? How many millions of years has this little oasis been glowing peacefully in the night, a pocket universe all to itself?

Lenie would like it out here, Shadow says.

Yeah.

A rattail cruises into view about half a meter up, its underside a jigsaw of reflected color. It thrashes once, suddenly; violent shivers run the length of its body. The water around it shimmers with heat distortion. The fish spins lopsidedly, tail-down, in the wake of the little eruption. Its body turns white in seconds, begins to fray at the edges.

Four hundred eight degrees Centigrade: that's maximum recorded temperature for hot seeps on the Juan de Fuca rift. Fischer thinks back for the temperature rating on diveskin copolymer.

One fifty.

He sculls up into the water column a bit, just in case. As soon as he clears bottom clutter he feels the faint, regular tapping of Beebe's sonar against his insides.

That's odd. This far out, he shouldn't be able to feel the signal, not unless they'd really cranked it up. And they wouldn't do that unless —

He checks the time.

Oh no. Not again.

By the time he makes it back to the Throat they're halfway through stripping number four. They open a space on the line for him. Lenie doesn't want to hear his apologies. She doesn't want to talk to him at all. That hurts, but Fischer can't really blame her. Maybe he can make it up to her soon. Maybe he can take her sightseeing.

It's not Brander's shift, thank God. He's back at Beebe. But Fischer's getting hungry again.

* * *

Maybe he's in his cubby. Maybe I can just eat and go to bed. Maybe —

He's sitting right there, all alone in the lounge, glaring up from his meal as soon as Fischer climbs into the room.

Don't get him mad.

Too late. He's always mad.

"I — thought we should clear some things up," he tries.

"Fuck off."

Fischer reaches the galley table, pulls out a chair.

"Don't bother," Brander says.

"Look, this place is small enough as it is. We've got to at least try to get along, you know? I mean, that's assault. It's illegal."

"So arrest me."

"Maybe you're not really mad at me at all," Fischer stops for a moment, surprised. Maybe that's it. "Maybe you've mixed me up with someone —»

Brander stands up.

Fischer pushes on: "Maybe someone else did something to you, once, and —»

Brander comes around the table, very deliberately.

"I haven't got you mixed up with anybody. I know exactly what you are."

"No, you don't, we never even saw each other until a couple of weeks ago!" Of course that's it. It's not me at all, it's someone else! "Whatever happened to you —»

"Is none of your fucking business, and if you say one more word I'll fucking kill you."

Let's just go, Shadow pleads. Let's leave, this is only making things worse.

But Fisher stands his ground. Suddenly everything seems so clear. "It wasn't me," he says quietly. "What happened — I'm sorry. But it wasn't me, you know it wasn't."

For a moment he thinks he might actually be getting through. Brander's face untwists a little, the knots of flesh and eyebrow unkinking just a bit around those featureless white eyes, and Fischer can almost see that face wearing something other than rage.