Distant Shores - Marco Palmieri [169]
Marla finally saw it. “Oh, my God.”
“Precisely. The column should not move, but it has. Not once, but twice,” said Seven, as if she was reporting nothing more amazing than the weather-which, in a weird way, she was. “And the last time was right before the captain’s submersible disappeared.”
After that, they worked the numbers: the submersible’s projected course corrected for the location of the nearest photodynamic cell. No one liked the result. If they were right, the sub was almost one hundred and fifty kilometers off course in a span of ocean as large as the old continental U.S.
“That’s a lot of water,” said Paris. “Assuming they’re still alive, how long before they run out of air?”
“If all hands survived,” said Tuvok, “and if the Falnari are accurate, there should be enough breathable air to last five to eight hours. This is dependent upon several variables, however. If the hull breached, or power has been interrupted, this would cut their time considerably. On the other hand, if they or only a handful of Falnari survived, this would likely double their survival window.”
Paris chose to overlook that little or. “So add in time to modify the Flyer, we’re looking at four hours total since last contact.” Paris didn’t look happy. “Not much of a window.”
“Correct.”
“Then we’d better get started,” said Paris, and then he turned to Torres. “And you’re not going.”
“What?” Torres flared. “What?”
Paris ignored her. “She’s not coming,” he said to Tuvok.
“Yes, I am!” said Torres.
“No. You’re not,” said Paris, still looking at Tuvok. “I’m the pilot and I say who goes. Am I right?”
Tuvok just raised an eyebrow. So did Seven. Marla was so surprised she only blinked. Finally, Torres spluttered, “Pregnancy isn’t a disease!”
“I didn’t say it was,” said Paris. “But you can’t ignore it either. The baby’s half mine. If you and Doc can figure a way to work it so my half gets to stay, great. Otherwise…”
“But I’m the most qualified engineer you’ve got.”
“No,” Paris said again, only this time he locked eyes with Marla. “As it happens, you’re not.”
Now…
She had to keep it together. So, instead of looking at the lights, Marla cast a quick eye over her systems’ board. No surprises there. And then because it made her feel better, she said, “Everything okey-dokey. Not a thing whomperjawed. Girl, you got to be happier than a one-eyed dog in a meat locker.”
That made her smile, and then she could brave another look at those lights. They hovered; no, actually, they swirled the way phosphorescent gases orbit an unseen protostar at the heart of a newly born nebula. They weren’t moving closer, but they weren’t going away. They were… hovering. If they, them, it were alive, she’d have said waiting.
So what got them moving? For a while, she just watched and let her mind wander. Always did that when she worked a problem. See what bubbled up from the murk of her unconscious. After a few moments, she thought: Night dive.
Not Karl, not now. She felt a deadening weight in the middle of her chest as if someone had dumped in a spent warp core. Well, maybe she should’ve expected that. Maybe her subconscious knew she was going to die.
“I don’t accept that,” she said, out loud. To no one, really. Or maybe to the lights, or God. She didn’t know. “I don’t think Karl would want me to either.”
Begging the question, of course. Why had her mind skipped to Karl? And not just or only Karl: Her mind had snagged a very specific memory of a night fifteen years ago-right after her parents had died.
Night dive. A moonless night off Lizard Island, almost three hundred kilometers north of Cairns, Australia. Water the color of tar. She hadn