The Deep by Nick Cutter

forced jocularity off of her, too: her smile was screwed on too tight.
    She turned to Felz. “I take it you’ve filled Dr. Nelson in on the magical goo in deep freeze?”
    Dr. Felz stood up straight. “Yes, we’ve covered just about everything.”
    “Fine. We gotta get this show on the road.” Alice’s expression darkened. “Have you spoken to him about what’s surfaced?”
    Felz said, “No. I thought . . .”
    “That’s okay. It’s not an easy matter. Let’s hop to it.”
    A four-seat golf cart waited on the deck. Al sat up front, Felz and Luke behind.
    “A hell of a thing, isn’t it?” Al said to Luke as they careened through the floating minicity. Each building was painted a reflective black; the sun knifed off every angle, painfully bright. Luke caught sight of the sea through a gap between the buildings—the horizon shimmered, the sky a searing blue against the plate-glass water. Everything looked new and modern, but so many of the structures seemed to be half built or unused. It reminded Luke of those model communities on the outskirts of Las Vegas, built in anticipation of a boom that never came. The Hesperus had that same ghost town feel—it was a place built for great things that had not quite come to pass.
    Al craned her head around to see if Luke was taking it all in—Luke diverted his gaze. He’d been focused on the scar that went all the way around the back of Al’s neck, a pink band that petered out at her right earlobe. It looked as though someone had tried to slit her neck, starting at the back. If she noticed him looking, she was tactful enough not to mention it.
    “Who paid for all this?” Luke said.
    “Everyone who earns a paycheck,” Al said. “You, me, the butcher, the baker. Not just American greenbacks, either: Japanese yen, British pounds, Chinese yuan, German deutsche marks.”
    “That would be euros,” said Felz, fussily. “They replaced the deutsche mark in 2002.”
    “Thank you, Dr. Felz, for your scrupulous attention in regards to matters of international currency.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    “Anyway,” Alice went on, “what you see here is the whole world, holding hands. We got a lot of support from private enterprise, too. CEOs, CFOs, magnates, philanthropists. Everyone’s smashing their piggy banks. Everybody’s lost something to this by now, y’know? And what’s money worth if there’s no future to spend it in?”
    “Why is it all Americans, then? I mean, down on the Trieste ? Dr. Felz said the researchers are all from the U.S.”
    “I guess because America always rides point,” Al said.
    They stopped beside a compact submarine. Fifteen feet long with a porthole window at one end. It lay in a massive canvas hammock. It looked like a huge lozenge—a vitamin pill for Neptune.
    “ Challenger 5,” Al told Luke. “It’s being prepped for your descent.”
    Luke said, “You’ve got to be kidding me. I have no idea how to operate this.”
    “Yeah, that would take some serious training. Thankfully, you’ll be in the company of a skilled pilot.” Al thumped her chest. “Like I said, tight squeeze.”
    She leaned over the seat, jammed her face close to Luke’s own.
    “Breathe on me.”
    “What?”
    “I said, breathe on me. Come on, don’t be shy.”
    Luke did as she asked, too startled to refuse. Al sniffed.
    “Okay, good. Nothing worse than being cooped up for hours with a guy with bad breath.”
    Luke exhaled, chuckling now. “I’ve got Tic Tacs in my bag.”
    She winked. “Even better.”
    If I have to journey eight miles beneath the water’s surface, Luke thought, this Alice Sykes seems as fine a companion as any.
    “Dr. Westlake came up in Challenger 4,” Al said. “It’s still under quarantine.”
    Luke said, “Dr. Westlake?”
    “Dr. Felz hasn’t mentioned him yet?” Al darted a glance at Felz, a darkness settling into her eyes. “He was the third member of the team. Dr. Cooper Westlake. He was a—remind me what was his