Life and Death in the Abyss
by Daniel Crépault
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
“You said it yourself: we have our own network, separate from the data feeds the topsiders use. That means someone stealing our data would have to bring it back to the surface on a drive. Think of all the ways that could go wrong. Chances were always extremely high that these intruders would get caught. Whoever hired them would have known that. The smarter plan would be to use the virus to cripple a critical system like life support or the power plant. Losing this facility would be a huge setback for Poseidon. If you’re a Fujimatsu or Redstone executive who doesn’t mind killing people, that plan could seem like a win-win.”
“What are we going to do about that?”
“It’s a race against time. The programmers are disconnecting as many computer terminals from the network as possible. They’ve already isolated some critical systems like life support. Hopefully that will be enough.”
Hopefully, Jonas thought.
The ventilators kicked on with a metallic clang, startling Jonas and sending a faint smell of ozone and machine oil through their quarters. He recovered himself and crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. “Wait a minute. You’re saying Fujimatsu or Redstone might be willing to kill, but what about Poseidon? They are summarily executing people because they might be spies or saboteurs or whatever. No trial or due process or anything.”
Margareta cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, her voice quivered. “That’s only been their unofficial policy since the virus. But yes, that’s right.”
His eyes met hers and narrowed. “And you went along with this?”
“No, I didn’t! I told Sunderland and Einarsson I thought it was wrong the first time I heard about it. When he gave me all their stupid reasons why it was necessary, I told them it was morally disgusting. I reminded him that we’ll face an even bigger problem if this ever comes to light.”
“What did he say?”
“Let’s just say they didn’t like that answer. They threatened to fire me,” Margareta said, face flushed red. “Not in so many words, of course. But Einarsson told me to keep my mouth shut and said that if I didn’t follow the policy, they would find someone else who would. So, it was pretty clear what he meant.”
“And what did you say?”
“I called his bluff. I reminded him that I was their best-qualified subsea engineer. They need me more than ever, especially since Hayes and Yamamoto were killed in that sub accident.” She crossed her arms and looked down at the deck. “I had the leverage to make them stop,” she said. “I had evidence the jettison logs were falsified, and I even had camera footage of one of the tube evacuations, thanks to a friend in the communications array.”
Jonas sucked in a quick breath and stared at his wife, realizing he’d underestimated her. “So, what happened?”
She looked up at him, blue eyes fixed on his, full of fire again. “You pulled your little hero stunt and got yourself arrested.”
Jonas stared at her, taken off guard. “You knew about that?”
“Einarsson told me.” She turned back to the porthole. Jonas’s eyes followed hers. He saw a burst of neon green as a bristle worm flashed in the darkness outside. After a few moments of silence, she turned to face him again. “You attacked a security officer, Jonas.” Her face showed genuine concern.
“I didn’t attack anyone.”
“What were you thinking? And please don’t tell me it was an accident.”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. I saw the topsiders, and they just looked so helpless. And then I saw this security officer rushing toward me with an excited look, as if he thought it was Christmas morning because he’d get to use his baton on someone. It sickened me.” Jonas glanced out the porthole again. “I didn’t come here to be a part of that. I came here to get away from it.”
“I don’t want to be a part of it either!” she said, burying her face in her hands. “But now, thanks to you, I have no choice.”
“What does that mean? What does this have to do with you and the topsiders?” A knot was forming in the pit of Jonas’s stomach.
“My friend in communications disappeared, and then Einarsson came and demanded that I give him all the evidence I’d been collecting to blackmail Poseidon. He spelled it out for me. ’Play ball, and your husband doesn’t go for a swim.’ He literally said it like that, Jonas. So, I gave him everything.” Margareta gave an exasperated sigh. “I chose you.”
* * *
Their conversation lasted long into the night as they turned over their current predicament — Einarsson’s threats, Margareta’s failed blackmail attempt, their complicity in the topsiders’ murders, and the station’s potential peril from an unknown computer virus — without finding any way of fixing things. Each unrealistic and increasingly desperate plan they devised and rejected grew their fear of remaining in the station and increased their certainty that, if they stayed, they were as good as dead.
That dreadful fear filled them with visions of what their deaths might be, whether garrotted by corporate thugs, crushed by imploding bulkheads, or succumbing to the sleepy grip of hypothermia. The idea of escape hung in the air between them like a bad smell for hours before Jonas finally voiced it aloud. That was the turning point from which things became clearer, as if verbalizing what both already knew freed them to act.
Jonas opened the cupboard and cleared the shelf with a sweep of his arm, knocking meal replacement packets, a first aid kit, and plastic canisters of distilled water into a canvas bag. Margareta was in the bedroom, opening drawers, sorting through documents and old photographs, deciding what to take with them. Only the most essential items that would aid their escape could be brought.
They paused at the hatch and embraced. Jonas took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart. “Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” said Margareta, looking determined.
They exited their quarters and headed toward the long gangway that led down to the docking bay. Once Jonas and Margareta had reconciled themselves to abandoning the station, the details of their escape had been hastily devised. But they had to hurry.
The small residential enclave around them was beginning to show signs of life as neighbours and colleagues awoke to another day in Challenger Deep. If they timed their arrival to the docking bay right, they’d be able to make their escape just before the shift change.
Poseidon’s already overextended security measures were mostly outward-facing, intent on keeping out dangerous — possibly smallpox-infested — topsiders. There were few countermeasures against escape since no one in their right mind would leave the relative safety of Challenger Deep to return to the surface.
Their steps led past the Security Offices where Jonas had been released the night before and through the Central Annex. Jonas looked over toward the Research and Development Complex. His thoughts turned to the unassigned programmer cubicle and the garbage receptacle where he’d discarded the quantum drive bearing the virus that even now might be corrupting critical systems and dooming the whole station.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favourite couple.” The gruff voice coming from behind them grated on their already frazzled nerves, and Jonas and Margareta both flinched. They turned to see Einarsson, flanked by two security staff, his face glowing green in the reflected light of the wall panel.
“Commander,” Margareta said, clearing her throat.
Einarsson placed his fists on his hips and beamed at them, filled with the self-satisfaction that his position of near-absolute authority gave him. “Where are you rushing off to so early?”
“The infirmary, sir,” Margareta said.
“Oh dear, I hope no one is sick.”
“Female troubles, sir,” Margareta said. “I won’t bore you with the details.”
Einarsson made a face. “No. Please don’t.” He looked at Jonas, focusing on the bulging canvas bag he held down at this side. Einarsson extended a finger towards it. “What’s that?”
“Garbage,” Jonas said.
“Pardon me?”
Jonas cleared his throat. “Garbage.”
“Why are you taking it to the infirmary?”
“I forgot to put it in the compactor when we walked through the Annex,” Jonas said. His face had turned bright red, but he forced himself to meet Einarsson’s gaze. “I’ve been a bit absent-minded since yesterday.”
Einarsson, reminded of his dominating performance during the interrogation, smiled again. “Yes, well, I hope that you took what I said to heart.”
“We did, sir. Thank you for giving us another chance,” Jonas said.
“See that you don’t waste it, Kazlauskas. I’ll see you for the security briefing at 0900, Maggie.”
“I’ll be there. Thank you, sir,” Margareta said.
Einarsson turned and headed back toward the Annex, followed closely by the two lumbering security staff. Jonas exhaled, saw stars, and had to brace himself against a bulkhead, realizing only then that he’d been holding his breath.
Margareta pulled at his arm. “Come on! We’ve got to go!”
Jonas followed as she led him through the watertight doors that led to the docking bay. Security staff were posted on either side of the doors, scanning the IDs of anyone going in or out. Jonas’s history of factotum work details meant his presence there shouldn’t raise any suspicions. Margareta’s clearance as a subsea engineer would give them access to both the docking bay and a submersible to escape in.
The closer of the two guards, a bald man wearing round spectacles, scanned their IDs without ever taking his eyes off his screen and then waved them through. They emerged into the docking area, where submersibles were suspended by winches and cables or sat in narrow berths.
“Over here,” Margareta said, pointing toward the far end of the bay.
They walked past a technician sitting at a console, playing a holographic game of chess. Jonas, who prided himself on hard work and abhorred sloth, stared at the man, incredulous. Neither the eggplants nor any of the staff had given them a second look since they’d arrived. God, what is this place coming to? he thought. No wonder the topsiders made it so far. This place is falling apart.
Margareta stopped next to a berth that held a small submersible roughly the size of a phone booth with two large robotic arms extending from it, giving it the appearance of a pseudoscorpion. Jonas’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? A maintenance skiff?”
“Oh, shut up, Jonas. You have a better idea?”
Jonas looked at the craft, roughly the size of a phone booth, and exhaled slowly. The list of things that could go wrong was long and varied. Maintenance skiffs were small craft used to perform repairs and scheduled maintenance to the outside of the biosphere. The robotic arms were dextrous enough for underwater welding, and their thrusters made them highly manoeuvrable. But they were not meant for travelling long distances. Since they were built to withstand the intense pressures of the deep ocean, they could theoretically reach the surface safely. But a skiff would be useless for surface navigation. And then there was the size problem: they were small and designed for single occupancy.
“I thought we were going to take a mining sub. Can we even fit in this thing?” he said, pointing to the small craft before them.
“It will be tight, but much more discreet. You take one of those mining subs without authorization and someone’s console is going to light up like a Christmas tree. We wouldn’t get far before someone came after us.” Margareta bent over the berth’s control screen and started typing commands.
Jonas peered at the small vessel, beginning to understand her logic. “So, no one will miss a maintenance skiff?”
“Oh, they definitely will, but it will take longer.” Margareta walked around the outside of the skiff, disconnecting the mooring and recharging cables. She pointed over to the technician they’d passed, still playing chess. “His console is going to alert him as soon as we ascend beyond comm range.”
“OK, then what?”
“We run like hell,” Margareta said, pressing a command on the console that opened the skiff’s cockpit with a hydraulic whine. “Get in!”
* * *
“Depth?” Jonas asked.
“7,000 meters and rising. Stable assent,” Margareta said. “Stop asking, please. You’re worse than a child. I need to concentrate on what I’m doing. We’ll get there when we get there.”
Sweat ran down Jonas’s face, tickling his nose. His arms were pinioned to his sides, squished as he was behind Margareta, who sat at the pilot controls. They continued in silence — Margareta focusing on the depth gauge and hypervigilant for any alerts from the small instrument panel, Jonas listening to the creaking of bulkheads and trying not to think of the black abyss on the other side.
An unarticulated fear of the future hung heavy in the air, like dense fog. Surviving the ascent was only the first challenge. The surface of the Pacific Ocean was a dangerous place, known for storms and piracy. Nearby islands, if populated, could be teeming with infection.
Their only chance of survival was to contact one of Poseidon’s two mining rivals, the Redstone Group or Fujimatsu Industries. Once on the surface, Margareta could use the skiff’s comms to access the datafeeds and contact local company representatives, offering the only resource they could trade: proprietary information about Poseidon’s technology. Here, too, the risks were many. The corporate executives at Fujimatsu or Redstone might think their offer was a hoax, see the information offered as worthless, or arrive to rescue them too late. To make matters worse, there was a fifty-fifty chance that the corporation that answered first might be the same one behind the virus attack on the Challenger Deep station. And they might see the helpless couple, both of them witnesses to their crime, as liabilities.
But Margareta and Jonas were out of options. With that peculiar calm and practiced tenacity seasoned submariners possess, they forced themselves to carry on, swallowing their fear of a savage death that loomed over their shoulders. Margareta checked and rechecked the skiff’s systems, completing each task with practiced precision. For the station’s inhabitants, such mundane routines were performances that provided the illusion of control and order and helped stave off the nervous breakdowns or panic that could otherwise spread like wildfire.
Jonas’s mind wandered back to that evening long ago, heading home through Bokšto Skveras Park when he’d seen mob justice meted out. He remembered the man’s huddled form on the ground, how he tried to protect himself from the blows. But, most of all, he remembered his desperate cries. Then, as it had so often before, that old, familiar guilt made its presence known, demanding his attention like a spectre in the darkness. He could picture it, dark and menacing, gaining strength from the new burden he bore for his part in the topsiders’ deaths, the virus, and the looming fate of the station. Jonas was tired of running from it. Whatever came next, Margareta and he would face it together without hiding in the depths.
Copyright © 2025 by Daniel Crépault
