Divergent

Having reached the bottom of a section of what is dubbed the Western Trench, which is far from where this relatively modern scar torn in the Earth’s crust reaches its deepest point, the six engineers have split off into three pairs.

On their way down UUSPG or United Undersea Power Generation advised that there is more than one issue with the major lines which connect New Europe to the Allied States of America.

Without these connections the ASA will struggle to power their cities, which could in turn lead to yet another disaster for humanity this time in the form of mass panic. Especially, as New Europe is less a home and more a platform upon which gigantic power stations have been erected as it is one of the places for the generation of power via wind and waves.

Much of the continent as it had been before the five hundred years of disaster having been lost beneath the sea hundreds of years ago. It’s why today only skeleton crews are left in New Europe, who perform maintenance and diagnostics in the two months before they are rotated out and replaced by the next crew.  Such short stints means they’re cycling in and out is far more frequent than the engineers based out of UUSPG’s submerged facility Agamemnon, where Henon, O’Shea and the other deep sea engineers reside.

“Damn, that’s a real mess.” Henon exclaims now that he has eyes on what he and O’Shea are here to fix.

If the other two pairs have eyes and passed comment on what they’re faced with he wouldn’t know. You see, with personnel split UUSPG allocates each team a separate channel. It means no longer is O’Shea the principal contact for command central of Agamemnon which strangely enough is based on the ASA mainland and not the thousand plus miles out to sea submerged station itself. Why, is anyone’s guess. A few times the dirty blonde haired Henon has made efforts to discern but never has he reached a conclusion he thinks correct. It might be because he generally only undertakes such contemplations during the transit runs from Agamemnon to wherever they are headed to perform a fix. But he isn’t about to spend other parts of his precious time on such matters. He’d term that as wasteful, in the extreme.

“Yeah, kinda looks like something’s been chewing on the catch locks.” Is all O’Shea offers in reply as he and Henon draw closer to the disconnected ends of the power cable.

Yes, usually cables like this one should be buried under the ocean floor but that simply wasn’t possible at the time these were installed. And while that might have been some seventy years ago that doesn’t mean anyone has been in a hurry to remedy the issue. But because of that deep sea engineers like Henon and O’Shea are needed to perform regular fixes for issues which arise. Yet, decoupling of cables remains a rare occurrence. More often than not their fixes are patching up of sections of cable which slung across the seabed like some giant serpent end up gnawed upon by various sea life, or damaged from rot caused by the salt concentration, which down here is three times the concentration found at sea level. It’s quite an achievement considering that salt content in Earth’s oceans, at sea level, is more than twice what it was only three hundred years ago.

So, if drinking sea water was out of the question as a means to combat droughts in the twenty fourth century it’s even further out of the realms of possibility now. Because of that the already costly process of desalinisation, which never dropped, became so uneconomical that it’s ended up being condemned to the pages of history as a short, relatively speaking, failed attempt to exploit a limitless natural resource to save thousands of souls who had been dying of thirst in the sun baked regions of central Africa. In turn these same vast swathes of the continent have since been abandoned for less extreme and more temperate climes.

“Think that’s what did it?”

“I don’t know Hen but rather not find out, you?” As ever O’Shea is to the point, issuing a rhetorical question, the presence of which should be obvious to any and all but perhaps the densest of souls. And down in the trench is not a place for dense souls. Something the UUSPG found early on and saw them dubbed the worst employer in the world seeing as survival rate for a single year of employment was eleven percent. To their credit, following that they undertook proper testing and training for all potential deep sea engineers. In turn the survival rate for three years of employment borders eighty seven percent, as an average.

Some, as you might imagine, balk at the remaining thirteen percent but nowadays it tends to suggest how little people understand about the oceans and less about any potential failings of the UUSPG themselves. After all, operating in any sort of water is dangerous and potentially fatal, but operating in deep water at the bottom of oceans, well that’s infinitely more complicated. So the fact that the UUSPG have got the odds of survival as high as they have is a real boon to their name, even if it is largely due to the Likwid suit developed and built by AzTech.

AzTech, a manufacturing corporation of middling size which several decades ago saw itself wholly bought and subsumed into UUSPG. Not that its founder Aziz Temberson likely minded. Guy walked away with a nine hundred billion payout and has stayed out of the public eye ever since. Conspiracy theorists have since moved in to suggest UUSPG offed the guy but no one listens to them. They’re the same nuts who claim aliens caused all these disasters and the near extinction of humanity. No, that was all mankind. No extraterrestrial played a hand in it.

“Wish these suits were easier to manoeuvre.” The dirty blonde haired man moans fighting against his Likwid suits jets as he makes efforts to close the remaining distance between him and the severed power cable connectors.

His grumble is exactly what O’Shea is himself thinking, because he too wishes the jets, which operate much like a jet ski does, were not so cumbersome and lacking in accuracy.

Yet, he suspects the saddest part is that it likely wouldn’t take much to fix. Alas, UUSPG spend money only where they wish and the slight, in their minds, inconvenience of less than perfect manoeuvring is not something which likely ranks high on the totem pole of potential spending possibilities.

For the most part the only improvements made to Likwid are updates to the seals as well as to the duration the oxygen filters can last before needing replenishment.

To be honest the ex-con isn’t sure what the rating is for Likwid now. Last he heard it was seven point three hours, though has never had the misfortune to need to be down in the depths for a fix anywhere near as long as that. It’s the one thing he hopes he never does have to test the validity of, because while this might be his job that doesn’t mean he’s able to swim to save his life. Yeah that’s right, O’Shea can’t swim. And is well aware that it’s odd for a man who can’t swim, and hadn’t seen any large body of water until he took this job, to do what he does for a living but when armed with a Likwid it’s not like you need to. After all, you are pushed through the water a bit like an astronaut might be through space.

Ah space, that particular yearning is one which has long since been abandoned, save for launching satellites to replace those teetering on the edge of their operational lifespans. Again, the fault lies entirely on the turmoil which faced humanity, and put pay to the interest, which isn’t surprising when you find out that mankind wasn’t close to leaving Earth for the stars and so had to deal with what lay in front of them. Only positive is that mankind is now much more aware of its oceans that it has ever had been previously.

“Aren’t there old geothermal turbines around here somewhere?”

Without a word O’Shea is provided an update on his HUD which shows the location of the old deep sea geothermal power generation facility which had been installed when the Western Trench was but a new feature relentlessly burping thermals from beneath the planets crust. Right after the HUD shifts to show his location in contrast to it.

“Being shown its two klicks out, but not something we need concern ourselves with. That facility is long dead.”

“I know O’Shea, but encase we need parts we could always…”

“We’re to steer clear of the area. It’s had a cordon round it since before we were born. Only thing we’ll find there is death, understood?” The tall man with short cropped black hair and shining blue eyes orders without a care as to how his tone might be taken.

“Sure O, sure.” Immediately it becomes obvious that his words have rubbed Henon the wrong way. For the wide man never refers to him as O, always O’Shea. It means he’s struck a nerve. He shrugs for this is neither the time nor the place for a dust up verbal or otherwise. They can always do that on ‘land’ when they’re back on Agamemnon. Though by that time O’Shea doubts Henon will be in the mood. It’s no secret the wide man isn’t big on violence, of any kind.

“Central speaking; update required.” Is the flat toneless demand which fills O’Shea’s head. He rolls his eyes wondering how UUSPG command central always manages to want updates at the worst possible moment. It’s like they plan for it. Often he’s wondered if it’s something they’re trained on because it seems whatever operator is on duty it’s what transpires.

Regardless of his personal take on the matter he must offer a reply.

“Eighteen metres out, clear visual, connectors disengaged, looks to be minimal damage.”

“Reconnect immediately, then confirm; power levels are dipping and we don’t need a bad quota.” Comes the immediate retort from what can only be taken as someone who sounds as though they got out of the wrong side of bed.

The ex-con might not like the testy order but what else can he do but confirm it? Whoever this woman is happens to be thousands of miles away. Not like he can wander over to her and demand she repeats herself face-to-face with the same attitude problem.

If that were possible he suspects they wouldn’t want to. Few, when they meet O’Shea, want to be quite so rude face-to-face. In part it’s due to his size but also his face. He’s far from what you’d call pretty. Years of fighting as a youth put pay to any good looks he might have inherited through genes. A crooked flattened nose, damaged ear, scars across his neck and the underside of his jaw partially hidden by tattoos until he suffered too many wounds to have hopes of concealing them inform he’s not a man to be trifled with. Then there’s his expression. It would best be labelled severe, eyes staring, and because they’re blue people get the feeling they pierce right through them.

He never would have thought but it’s been useful since becoming a free man. It didn’t go down quite so well in prison however. Until he’d won favour with the guards and beaten a few of the inmates who’d tried to pick on the big guy they thought would be easy prey. They soon learned different and for it O’Shea had spent a couple months in solitary. All of that was at the start of his sentence and whatever got added, he was convinced at the time he’d never taste freedom again, was deducted due to his capable fixing hands. He thinks by the time his sentence was done the guards wished they’d not offered such a bargain but instead found reasons to extend his time further, but they hadn’t, mercifully.

“Copy.” Is all the big guy mutters into the mic in his helmet, pleased there isn’t a camera pointed at his face to relay his expression back to those in central.

If that happened they would see him sucking on his teeth silently as if some morsel of food were stuck between them. There’s not. O’Shea hasn’t eaten in hours.

“They seem more demanding than usual, wonder what’s got their panties in a twist. I know power is a touchy subject but it’s not like this sort of thing isn’t regular.” Comes the, couldn’t give a flying fuck if they’re listening while I say this, statement from Henon.

O’Shea is sure that if he could see the wide man’s face it would be affixed with a grin at least as wide as its owner is. And while the ex-con is a generally blunt guy, Henon is simply one who has no fear of repercussions. Mainly because he won’t be met with any as he isn’t a man with a criminal record.

 Sentence complete or not O’Shea’s past is something he has to keep in the forefront of his mind as one wrong move could see him forced into military service. No, not returned to prison, but yes it is highly unfair seeing as he did his time. That’s because the system decided a return to prison life must be too easy and so military service was added as a deterrent in its place. Plus, with a lack of cells and general prison space it’s more useful to put repeat offenders unable to adjust to civilian life into the one place that might give them purpose. Still, O’Shea can think of nothing worse than serving, having no say whatsoever in any part of your life and being made to fight in conflicts you know or care nothing about.

More than anything that sounds like a legal gang, not a life he wishes to return to. That is why he minds his p’s and q’s where he needs to.

Returning to the moment and grabbing hold of a locking arm on the nearest cable connector with one hand, O’Shea pulls himself close only to then latch himself so there is seldom risk of being hauled away by any undersea currents which can be found deep in any ocean.

Henon does much the same on the opposite side of the connector and then asks, “Any idea why this one is over here and not close to the other end?”

“Nope.” Is the succinct reply offered without hesitation or consideration.

“Not in a talkative mood are we O’Shea?” Comes the query from his evidently humoured partner, who you can hear the smile from even though has face is hidden behind that mirrored ‘visor’ which isn’t a visor at all.

In reality the faceplate section of the Likwid is, like the rest of the suit, composed of metal. The reasoning behind it is quite simple; to retain structural integrity and limit points of failure by removing seams and joints. So you might be wondering; then how is it that either of these men, or anyone else who might don these suits, can see. The answer to that is that there is a mesh of tiny pinhead sized cameras are embedded into the metal which transmit a unified image to the interior allowing the wearer a full view as if they weren’t wearing anything over their heads at all. It’s quite remarkable and incredibly useful.

“Can we cut the chat and get this done? I’m getting an earful…” The ex-con doesn’t need to say anything more than that. Enough of his fellow engineers know his past and as a result are aware of the axe which looms high above his head ready to be released, condemning him.

“Yeah, sure, apologies.” The wide man manages quite out of character for a deep sea engineer. After all, these are not men known for taking others considerations into account. It’s why it tends to be a lonely existence to which only those unwilling to build a family are drawn. And if once they did have a family they don’t anymore. Abandoned, lost, you name it these engineers have faced it. Occasionally it’s a path taken out of choice. More often than not it hasn’t been and is the result of a failed marriage exploding like a dying star.

As you may suspect, O’Shea remains the outsider as an ex-con. Not that he’s treated any differently from any of the others in this occupation, for they are all unwanted and discarded souls left to fend for themselves in a world which, while better than centuries past perhaps, remains a slog with seldom much to celebrate or inspire laughter.

With the chat between the pair over, they both go about an analysis of the potential damage suffered by the connector they are tethered too. Thankfully, both conclude and exclaim that damage appears superficial only. It’s a relief because enacting a repair, however simple, is not an envious task miles underwater regardless of if you’re wrapped in a liquid metal suit specifically built for such use with its vacuum seals or not.

“Think we can drag it?” The wider of the pair asks not confident they can because of the connectors size being almost half his own.

“Don’t think we’ve got much choice.” Is the, not at all, confidence inspiring reply from O’Shea who just to see grabs the latch he’s tethered to with both hands to test its weight.

The strain he feels is considerable, but sees him lift a third of its diameter maybe three millimetres off the sea bed only for him to be met with a swift need to set it back down for fear he might injure himself otherwise.

“And your consensus is?”

“It’s gonna suck more than anything we’ve ever done, but we can manage it.”

Head dropping, O’Shea confirms what Henon feared and why he feels inclined to murmur, “Yeah, I thought you might say that. Shall we…” Before the dirty blonde haired man gets chance to finish his statement an update is blared over the comms systems of all six deep sea engineers’ suits. Such a thing is almost unheard of, though when it comes they understand entirely why it was necessary.

“Incoming deep sea swell, rated considerable. You need to hurry gentlemen, those cables need reattaching before…” The broadcast ends abruptly and is replaced by only static with the occasional garbled sound which could be nothing or could be someone talking to them. It’s impossible to know. Which is why, though they cannot see each other’s faces O’Shea and Henon stare at where the other’s eyes are, deeply concern.

“Central, come in, do you read?”

There is no reply, not that either of them expected there to be. It’s why in a flash both men switch to the separated frequencies of the additional two pairs of engineers down here with them.

“Barrett, Yacob; can you hear us?”

“Loud and semi-clear O; you guys lose central too?” Barrett’s voice is distorted; the signal far weaker than it should be.

Something tells O’Shea it isn’t the result of a malfunction but interference, likely whatever killed their link to UUSPG command central, which means it has to be local to them.

“Yeah we did; sounds like this swell is gonna be a doozy. How things coming along for you guys?”

“Connectors have been thrown wide. We’re halfway there but… I don’t know if we’ve got the time to get this thing recon’d, you?”

At that moment Yacob chimes in, “Same here for us too.”

“Our’s isn’t that bad. We can get it done. Set your timers to five. If we’re not done by then we abort.”

“Central will kill us if we abort.”

“If this swell is as bad as they’re making it sound and we stick around, there might not be anyone for them to kill.”

You can always count on O’Shea to think literally, sometimes to a fault and this is certainly one of those times as he has said exactly what they had all been thinking and yet unwilling to vocalise. Too late, it’s been said now and the ex-con feels no remorse for his actions. Sometimes you need to do some plain speaking and not beat around the bush. Yet, why has he chosen five minutes? He can’t say. It simply feels like a short, but not excessively so, duration. It might be they haven’t got that before the swell hits. He has to hope they have a little more, and that they can get the cables reconnected. If not, well he’s going to be in deep shit. After all, it’s him who’s issued these orders, and that means he could very soon be entering the service if this goes awry.

He puts the thoughts, fears and considerations out of his head, and is about to order they get back to it when Henon questions, “No one going to ask how the cables ended up like this?”

“Questions can come later. Right now we need to do.” With that the ex-con ends the connections between the three teams. Thankfully he has an override giving him the capacity for such a thing. Not because he’s leader, he isn’t, but because… To be honest he doesn’t know why he has the facility but currently is pleased that he does. And so with only a connection to Henon he orders, “You ready?”

“No O I’m not.” Again using O instead of O’Shea, clearly the wide man is pissed at the ex-con. They really don’t have the time for whatever this might be, which is why the taller man with blue eyes interjects, “Well tough shit, grab your end and give me a fucking hand reconnecting this bastard. Once the latches are in place you can knock me the fuck out for all I care.”

His voice is loud, hard, angry; though he feels determined. He wouldn’t go so far as to say calm, but maybe he should as he hauls, with effort, his side of the connector off the sea floor. His hope is that in doing so he’ll spur Henon to do much the same. Shockingly, it works. The shorter, wider man grumbles but he too lifts his side of the connector. Then without a word they begin to shuffle awkwardly in the direction of the other identical connector which is lying roughly where it’s supposed to be.

The pair make it maybe forty percent of the way before the communication system of their Likwid’s open a fresh connection. Startled and unaware anyone else had the capacity O’Shea flinches, and then hears Yacob scream, “The swell it’s here! It’s massive. He need to…” The communication ends. Yacob never speaks again.

“Shit!” The ex-con spits while making best efforts to continuing with the process of reconnecting the cable he and Henon have in their hands, as heavy as it might be. His arms screaming as they demand he stops and allows them to rest. It’s not something he was inclined to do before and feels even less willing to accept now that the swell is essentially upon them. Still, he manages to ask, “Barrett, do you read?”

There is no reply. The ex-con fears the worst and looks to Henon. As if reading the O’Shea’s mind the wider man admits, “We get this connected, then we get out.”

Never, prior to this, has O’Shea ever heard that tone of voice from his ‘partner,’ though he offers no refusal for what has been uttered is what he too is thinking.

Relief hits him because the last thing the ex-con wanted to do was issue an order. He doesn’t think he could have.

Suddenly, he realises they are at the connector. They drop the massive metal lump with its latch locks to the seafloor. There is deadened rumble. However, it does not abate like they know it should. Both men’s brows furrow.

Even with their suits lamps they can see almost nothing beyond what is immediately in front of them. That is until Henon turns and activates a different setting for no other reason than because he swears he can feel something. He soon learns what he felt as he sets wide eyes on the swell, and massive doesn’t do it justice. Instinctively, he goes to turn while O’Shea is finishing the application of one of the three latches, but manages to say nothing before he is yanked away, his tether torn as if it were fashioned from paper and not a special alloy formed using titanium and several other elements which until this moment had been believed to be near-unbreakable.

Having caught the sudden flash as Henon was ripped from close to him, O’Shea looks up to see the wide man, arms flailing, being hauled away. Then the swell crashes onto the ex-con. Somehow he manages to grab and keep hold of the one latched connectors until the swell, disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared, vanishes some minutes later, leaving his arms aching and sore.

“Henon, Barrett, Yacob? Anyone? Can anyone hear me?” The ex-con fires into the inky abyss of the Western Trench. He gets no reply and for reasons he cannot give finishes securing the latches just in time for a new, second, larger swell to appear and tear him free. He blacks out, convinced he’s about to die down here in the depths of the ocean.