Mike and Tony sat in stunned silence for a moment on the bridge.
“I can’t believe it,” said Mike.
“I know. This is fucked up. When the skipper gets back, maybe he’ll fill us in.” Tony shook his head in disbelief and snapped himself back into action. “Okay, we’ve got orders. I know the bridge ain’t your station, but help me out as I give you instructions. We’re gonna have the MC run UV sterilizers on all the gas pumps and run diagnostics again on everything . . .”
Tony and Mike worked well together, with Mike following commands effectively. The MC’s calm female voice began reporting back to the requested information.
“Outside temperature, seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit. Inside temperature, sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Suggest increasing internal pressure to thirty feet. Stress indicators in yellow zone . . .”
“What the fuck does that mean?” asked Mike to Tony.
“I don’t understand your question . . .” began the female voice.
“I wasn’t talking to you! Shut up!” he snapped.
“The MC is getting warnings about the hull. We’re next to the smoker and the temperature differential between the port top deck and the starboard keel is probably seventy degrees. It puts a lot of extra stress on the metal—hell, we’re probably not even spherical anymore.”
“That’s comforting,” said Mike.
“The MC wants to increase internal pressure again, but I don’t know, without asking the skipper . . .”
“Well, can’t you just turn it down later if we need to?”
Tony nodded. “Yeah, I don’t see why not—better safe than sorry. We spring a leak in this baby at twenty thousand feet, and we’re done.” Tony pressed the button to activate VAL, the MC’s latest nickname, as a female version of HAL. “Increase internal pressure to thirty-three feet.” He looked at Mike. “I hope I didn’t just fuck this up.”
“How?”
“Thirty-three feet is gonna have an effect after a couple of days. We can’t stay at that pressure for weeks at a time.”
“We were just at twenty something?” asked Mike.
“Yeah, and there’s a difference. You can stay at twenty feet of pressure for a year. Increase to one bar and you’re limited to hours—maybe a couple of days with extended decompression, but you can’t just stay at thirty-three feet forever without getting narced.”
“Great. That’s great. The ocean’s trying to crush us, the computer is trying to boil our blood, and some fuckin’ virus is trying to eat us . . .”
“Maybe it would have been safer going to Mars. Okay, run the following commands . . .”
Tony and Mike continued working through the protocols over the next forty minutes, happy to be busy and distracted from the plight of their friend in sickbay. They were interrupted by Theresa, who walked in fighting back tears.
Mike turned in his console chair and said hello.
“I stopped by the sickbay. The commander’s in there with Ted and Jess. They wouldn’t let me in. I think Ian’s dying . . .” Her voice trailed off as she took a seat.
Mike got up and walked over, placing his hand on her shoulder. He gave it a little squeeze. “Yeah, we know. This whole mission’s screwed up. We’ve been waiting for the skipper to come back up. So far not a word.”
“How is it even possible? He was fine yesterday!” Tears ran freely down her cheeks.
“There’s a lot we don’t understand. It’s why we’re down here, I guess. Damn—my ear’s just popped.”
“Mine too. How come?” asked Theresa.
“We had to increase internal pressure again. Safety precaution,” said Mike quietly.
The skipper’s voice came over every speaker on the ship on an all-call. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my sad duty to inform you that Ian MacMullen has passed away. For the safety of the remaining crew, we will give him last honors in traditional United States Navy fashion. If you wish to pay your last respects, be in the lab in fifteen minutes. Captain out.”
The three of them sat in silence, feeling empty inside. It was unfathomable that one of their own could be dead so quickly from something that was supposed to be harmless. Tony stood up and cleared his throat. He looked at Mike and Theresa, and they both stood up. The three of them headed downstairs in silence.