Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,6

laboratory. It's more like the sort found on a submarine: thick enough to hold back water and atmosphere. I hiss at Phoebe and wave her over.

“Something's wrong,” I say as she drifts back to my position. “Look at this seal.”

She touches the heavy hatch door we're standing next to, and it moves sluggishly under her finger. “Hydraulics,” she says.

The hatch can be opened and closed remotely. Remote control means remote viewing, and we both step back from the hatch, suddenly interested in the maze of conduits and cables running along the ceiling. Looking for security cameras, thermal scanners, motion triggers.

Someone could be watching us right now.

“Nigel.” Phoebe leans through the hatch and hisses at Nigel.

He is standing beside a hatch with a security panel, and his hand is poised over the keypad. His expression is both annoyed and startled.

“It's all wrong,” Phoebe whispers.

“Don't touch anything,” I add.

His eyes flicker toward his hand and the keypad.

Too late.

In the wall, there is a sudden hiss of escaping air, and the hydraulics controlling the hatch start to swing it closed. Phoebe grabs at the hatch, slowing its motion as I turn and race back to the previous hatch. The hydraulics are retrofits, exposed machinery welded to the inside of the hatch. From this side, I can break things. I go to work, and dark oil squirts over my hands as I tear apart critical pieces of the hydraulic system.

A mist starts to descend from the ceiling, a pale yellow mist, and it burns where it touches my exposed skin. I inhale reflexively and try to stop myself from filling my lungs with the aerosol. What gets in though feels like I've just inhaled fire. An old memory stirs. Naphtha—oh, how it used to burn the wood decks and hulls of the old triremes. I fight my flight impulse, and throw my weight against the hatch, fighting the sluggish hydraulics.

Nigel is screaming behind me, a sound no one should make, much less hear.

Phoebe slams into the hatch beside me, combining my weight with hers, and we force the hatch back until it is wide enough for her to slip through. She moves like a shadow, and the metal hatch groans as she levers it from the other side. As soon as it is wide enough for me, I go through and then take over for her.

Nigel staggers through. His face is a wreck. The poison has melted his skin down to the bone in several places and his eyes are gone, weeping holes in his face.

The remaining hatch isn't as hermetically sealed as the others, and I hear it crash open as Phoebe clears our path. As I try to help Nigel without actually touching him, I hear shouts from the deck, followed by the faint rattle of Phoebe's silenced pistols. Clearing a path for us.

Nigel can't see, and he bangs his skull against the frame before I can shove his head down enough for him to clear the last portal. My skin crawls at the touch, even though I'm wearing gloves. Tendrils of acrid smoke are spiraling off Nigel's melted skin.

Phoebe is waiting for us by the railing, covering our retreat. There are six bodies on the deck, and the reek of their blood makes my throat constrict. The hoses have been unrolled from the mounted tanks, and they lie on the deck like dead serpents. The nozzle of one is open, and it is spewing a frothing fluid on the deck. My skin crawls at the sight of the pale, bubbling liquid and my eyes water as we skirt the flood that is threatening to cover the deck.

Our rope is still in place. Nigel is coherent enough to know what to do when I shove the rope into his hands. I mean to go first, but he leaps off, nearly in free-fall in his frantic need to get off the boat. I go after him, the water-slick rope twisting in my hands as I slide down the side of the boat. The fabric of my gloves burns away as I squeeze the rope and slow myself down. Nigel hadn't even bothered trying to stop. He is lying in the briny bilge in the bottom of the boat, whimpering and moaning. Phoebe lands lightly, the rope cascading down beside her.

Phoebe shoves us away from the hull of the processing ship as I start the engine of the Zodiac. I don't worry about making a silent retreat; I open the throttle all the way,