Starfish

The whole Throat goes dark, suddenly and without fuss. It takes a few seconds to blink away the afterimages; finally, in the extreme distance, Scanlon makes out a very faint gray glow. Beebe.

It dies as he watches. The creature in his arms has grown very still.

"Let him go, Scanlon."

"Clarke?" It might be Clarke. The vocoders don't mask everything, there are subtle differences that Scanlon's just beginning to recognize. "Is that you?" He gets his headlamp on, but no matter where he points it there's nothing to see.

"You'll break his arms," the voice says. Clarke. Got to be.

"I'm not that — " strong — "clumsy," Scanlon says to the abyss.

"You don't have to be. His bones have decalcified." A momentary silence. "He's fragile."

Scanlon loosens his grip a bit. He twists back and forth, trying to catch sight of something. Anything. All that comes into view is his prisoner's shoulder patch.

Fischer.

But he went missing — Scanlon counts back — seven months ago!

"Let him go, cocksucker." A different voice, this time. Brander's.

"Now," it buzzes. "Or I'll fucking kill you."

Brander? Brander actually defending a pedophile? How the hell did that happen?

It doesn't matter now. There are other things to worry about.

"Where are you?" Scanlon calls out. "What are you so afraid of?" He doesn't expect such an obvious goad to work. He's just buying time, trying to delay the inevitable. He can't just let Fischer go; he's out of options the moment that happens.

Something moves, just to the left. Scanlon spins; a flurry of motion out there, maybe a hint of limbs caught in the beam. Too many for one person. Then nothing.

He tried to do it, Scanlon realizes. Brander just tried to kill me, and they held him back.

For now.

"Last chance, Scanlon." Clarke again, close and invisible, as though she's humming in his ear. "We don't have to lay a hand on you, you know? We can just leave you here. You don't let him go in ten seconds and I swear you'll never find your way back. One."

"And even if you did," adds another voice — Scanlon doesn't know who — "we'd be waiting for you there."

"Two."

He checks the helmet dashboard laid out around his chin. The vampires have shut off Beebe's homing beacon.

"Three."

He checks his compass. The readout won't settle. No surprise there; magnetic navigation is a joke on the rift.

"Four."

"Fine," Scanlon tries. "Leave me here. I don't care. I'll —»

"Five."

" — just head for the surface. I can last for days in this suit." Sure. As if they'll just let you float away with their — what is Fischer to them, anyway? Pet? Mascot?

"Six."

Role model?

"Seven."

Oh God. Oh God.

"Eight."

"Please," he whispers.

"Nine."

He opens his arms. Fischer dives away into the dark.

Stops.

Turns back and hangs there in the water, five meters away.

"Fischer?" Scanlon looks around. For all he can tell, they are the only two particles in the universe. "Can you understand me?"

He extends his arm. Fischer starts, like a nervous fish, but doesn't bolt.

Scanlon scans the abyss. "Is this how you want to end up?" he calls out.

Nobody answers.

"You have any idea what seven months of sensory deprivation does to your mind? You think he's even close to being human any more? Are you going to spend the rest of your lives rooting around here in the mud, eating worms? Is that what you want?"

"What we want," something buzzes from the darkness, "is to be left alone."

"That's not going to happen. No matter what you do to me. You can't stay down here forever."

Nobody bothers to disagree. Fischer continues to float before him, his head cocked to one side.

"Listen, C–Lenie. Mike. All of you." The headlight beam sweeps back and forth, empty. "It's just a job. It's not a lifestyle." But Scanlon knows that's a lie. All these people were rifters long before the job existed.

"They'll come for you," he says softly, and he doesn't know whether it's a threat or a warning.

"Maybe we won't be here," the abyss replies at last.

Oh, God. "Look, I don't know what's happening down here, but you can't want to stay here, nobody in their — I mean — Jesus, where are you?"

No answer. Only Fischer.

"This wasn't how it was supposed to go," Scanlon says, pleading.

And then, "I never meant for — I mean I didn't —»

And then only "I'm sorry. I'm sorry…"

And then nothing at all, except the darkness.

* * *

Eventually the lights come back on, and Beebe beeps reassuringly on its designated channel. Gerry Fischer is gone by then; Scanlon isn't sure when he left.

He's not sure the others were ever there. He swims back to Beebe, alone.