James

James does his duty, always. He is a useful man, and he takes pride in it.

Sometimes James’ duty is a little unusual, but he does it anyway, because that is the kind of man he is. This is that sort of time.

The elevator doors open and James steps forward into the narrow corridor. All of a sudden he is very hot. He keeps walking. And now a wind whips about his clothing and ruffles his hair. Keeps walking. Opens the door.

The room that opens before him is even less well-lit than usual. All the lights are off except the displays on the wall, which pulse in candy pinks and blues, reporting a Sphere’s worth of data. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he sees the bookshelves, and the chair, and the man.

“James. It’s good to see you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Martin sighs. He has never managed to get James to treat him as a friend and not as an officer. In an odd way, for James, it is a way of retaining some slight power down here—insisting that the order of things to which he feels he belongs applies even down here, in the bottom half, where everything is inverted.

“James, I’ve called you here for a simple reason. But let’s be civilized and chat a little before we get down to business, shall we?”

“Whatever you wish, sir.”

Martin laughs, and it’s his usual guileless laugh, as though James had told a joke, a lowbrow and truly funny joke.

“I hope the erratic schedule isn’t bothering you. I wish these kind of things weren’t necessary. No one likes getting their sleep schedule messed with. We may be sparks of transcendent soul but we’ve still got a mammalian nervous system with a good old circadian rhythm built in.”

“I’ve been fine, sir. To be honest, I’ve dealt with a lot worse.”

“Of course you have.” James’ pupils have adapted enough that he can now see the smile on Martin’s face matching the smile in his voice.

“So how have you been, James?”

“Well, sir.”

“And how’s the little girl you brought down here?”

“She’s producing food at a rate sufficient to provide basic nutrition for the Sphere.”

“James. James. I know that.” Martin gestures to some subsection of his innumerable displays. “I mean, how is she feeling? Far from her people, under the sea. Essentially our slave. It can’t be easy.”

“She seems . . . happy enough,” James says tentatively. “I’ve talked to her a few times, and she just babbles about how she feels happy to have a purpose, and how she’s sure it’s what her God . . . her ‘Yah’? . . . would want for her. She’s also not completely isolated. She seems to have made friends with Hermes Cept.”

Martin laughs his laugh again, but louder this time. “Now there’s something I didn’t think was possible.”

“They’re both on the margins of social life, I guess you could say.”

They talk for a few more minutes. It is stilted. James is always guarded around Martin. He does his duty, but that does not include letting on more than he needs to. He doesn’t trust Martin—and really, who would?

“So here’s the thing, James,” Martin finally says. “I need you to turn LUDWIG’s sensor array back on.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“The sensor array. Turn it back on.”

James is taken aback. “But sir, didn’t you tell me those heteropneums in the chasm were the same ones he’d been talking to? He’s just going to start talking to them again, you know.”

“I know, James. But it needs to be done. I can’t explain it now, but things are going to become very different for us, very quickly. New challenges await. We can’t be blind. We need LUDWIG at his full capacity.”

“I understand, sir. I’ll make it happen.”

“Thank you,” Martin says, as he always does, as though it’s a personal favor, done of James’ own free will.