A New Covenant

Two land spoke security guards in gray and navy awaited me just inside the loading door. Their communits were strapped to their chests, police style you dex logos on their shoulders. One of them brandished a squid gun. The others scrolled the menu items on his communit's hollow display. He didn't even look up. Sigh, nove pan sure ambassador credentials. Do I need to ask you about firearms? Or did they do that? On the other end, I just have knives,

a bunch of knives. An ambassador with knives. She's a company murk Jack's according to her name tag. I ignored her look of contempt and nodded at the blunt nosed weapon in her hands, or more specifically, at the tape masked sensor mounted on top of it. Nice squid gun. Yeah, well, welcome to the bottom. Squid guns are everywhere, and I wasn't surprised to see one on Atlas. They fire specially

designed lumps of meta gel. When it hits, it wraps around you like a foe armed bolo, glues you right to the floor, the wall, or whatever hapless jerk showed up at the wrong protest scale the gel with the side of the gun and it melts off. It's the most popular compliance weapon on the market and non lethal, provided you don't fire it at someone's face. That's where the cranium recognition scanner comes in. Tape up the CRS and you're either a psycho or someone who wants the reputation.

I wasn't entirely sure which category she fell into yet, but I suspected the ladder. I've seen what happens when a squid hits someone in the face, usually with enough force to blacken both eyes, maybe break the nose. It wraps itself around the head, even pours into the mouth. That's when the clawing starts. The basilisk took the sting out of the memory for me, but it still gave me pause. Director Hoffman says he can meet with you now or at that work, your choice. I think he

also has some time tomorrow. I'm kind of on a schedule. Let's do it now this way, ambassador. As they led me out of the sub bay, we ventured down the first of many compact hallways through hatches that would auto seal in the event of a breach. They'd dissembled the station out of preconstructed modules like a space station, to ubes and wires trailed through the hallway, pinned neatly to the ceiling. They occasionally sneaked away into maintenance conduits, but

mostly remained open and serviceable. It felt more like a trek through the bowels of some giant parasite ridden beheemoth than a human habitat. There were no viewing portholes, of course, With some three hundred atmospheres of pressure outside, the hull windows were an extravagance, so was space itself. The earliest deep sea explorers squeezed into beach ball sized steel capsules for a reason more leg room would have required thicker structure.

Engineering has come a long way since the nineteen thirties, but industrial design, like evolution itself, is a miser. Keep it small, keep it cheap. The guards led me through cramped hallways, passed doorways to chambers and offices no bigger than bathrooms. Dolls, mobility aids would make life difficult. Here. We passed other uniformed U DEX employees, probably landsfolk. They walked almost hand in hand, conversed as closely as lovers

in a park. Personal space was probably the first concept to die down here, so I was surprised when we emerged into a much larger module. As it opened up around us, the ceiling seemed vaulted, like the roof of some unfinished deep sea basilica. But I quickly realized the space consisted of several large convergent spherical chambers. Stalls and merch stands filled the space, all of it packed so tightly that members of the crowd frequently squeezed past and

around each other like insects in a neon hive. They bought coffee from an automated food They stood in line to update their communits with the latest virus free dose of news and celebrity schadenfreude. They gobbled clam rolls from foil pouches and conversed in tight clusters around shared hollow displays. It was all the usual surface world crap, only stuffed into a tighter package, less air circulation. Amid the mingled aromas of beer, ramen and sweat, we moved through the swarm.

I had to dial down my reflexes the first time someone squeezed past me, but I'm a professional. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted two recombined women in dark wetsuits. They were both bald except for tattoos of octopods and squid arms, dolphins, and spills of phytoplate. I noted the lines of neck frills above the high collars of their suits, the slight ridges that protruded from their skulls. The one on the left blink dat me

with her secondary transparent eyelids. We passed by one of those franchise joints where you wear VR goggles in a massage chair and a cramped bar called the barrel ee. I was gazing at its weird neon fish sign when a bottle of pists exploded on the steel wall behind us. Hi free jack ass crap Jack's didn't waste any time. He fired up the squid. As the piste thrower shoved his way through the crowd, she missed. Of course. The projectile crashed through the side of a sausage stand and

wrapped itself around a pair of hanging skillets. But I marked the guy. I gave into the urge, you know, first impressions. I left over the nearest kneeling bystander, then used the counter as a springboard. My landing brought down two other bystanders in the process, but I kept the guy in my sights. Another wet suited worker dodged me, and I followed the piss thrower into a narrow kebab

shack thick with the aroma of grilled shrimp. I planted a knee to the square of the assailant's back and sent him sprawling, knocking three more customers into the flimsy prefab walls. At the joint. The piss thrower scrambled to his feet. He was recombined, but more to the point, he was clearly wasted. He eyed me drunkenly and reached into his wool lined jacket. I wouldn't, but he did. He drew a diver's knife. I don't think he'd thought

any further than that. I can tell when someone's comfortable leveling a blade at another human being, and this guy didn't have it. He acted out of fear, casting about for his next move. I didn't give him the chance. I hit him with a basic jiu jitsun defense, a downward foe arm strike to his knife arm. Then I locked the limb, twisted it and spun him down. I cranked his wrists near the breaking point and pinned the side of his head to the gritted steel floor with

my knee. Who were you aiming? Poor? He craned his neck to avoid looking at me, opened his mouth to speak, and that's when Jack's answered the question for me. The squid hit the piste thrower square in the belly, knocking the wind out of him and gluing him to the spot. I released the hold and grabbed the dive knife up off the floor. It's the tank for you, pal. You're lucky she got you before I did. I scanned the bystanders. Five of them crammed in behind us. Two of them

flinched and looked away. Some sort of need another one down. Don't look at them before. You might want to cover that thing up. I checked my cap and realized it had slipped up during the scuffle. I pulled it back down into place. I don't want to antagonize the locals. Return to the golden age of seaside family vacations in Utah. Enjoy breathtaking sandy beaches, Sip a delightful and culturally appropriate

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safer world. What would Vale have made of that little encounter. It probably wasn't her idea of shared culture, but it certainly filled in some of the blanks for me. Maybe a recombined person was better off here than your average coastal region, but they still had to put up with the same sort of crap. Jack scanned and melted the squid, then left her partner to cuff the guy. The bystanders didn't quite disperse. I imagine it took more than a minor scuffle to clear out a public area in this place.

But landsfolk and recombined alike averted their eyes from us. As we exited the kebab shack. They whispered no doubt about the woman with the elder signed tattoos. Jack's led on, not saying another word on the matter. We took a twisting side tunnel out of the bazaar and weaved our way through the bowels of Atlas once more squeezing past recombined divers suited for deep grid work landsfolk workers tending to internal matters. After all, we can't collapse our lungs

and equalize pressure with the deep. Here we're the weirdos. We arrived at a sealed door labeled Atrium Hoffens and there, probably doing yoga or something. Oh and let me have Dave's knife. You know his name, Yeah, everyone knows Dave. She hit a switch and the circular door rolled off into the side of the wall, opening up on yet another of Atlas's surprises. I stepped inside onto a cobblestone path that snaked through a large circular garden. The domed

ceiling overhead glowed with soft, pleasing light. The ferns and bushes glistened with beaded moisture. Moss grew thick on ornamental stones, and water trickled through a rocky stream. The occasional tree reached for artificial sky, but most of the vegetation stopped at waist height. It was clearly another large sphere, half filled with soil and transformed into a terrarium space. It was empty save the iron statue at its center. Jesus

of Nazareth. A pane of water moved beneath the statue's feet and cascaded over the edges of the pedestal to create the effect. I heard a voice from the ground behind it. Yeah, I thought that was in twenty minutes. I'm in the middle of shavasana right now, ken Hoffman. He sat up and peeked over a hedge. I walked closer and saw the matt underneath him, a thermis in yoga block by his side. His face flashed a look of disappointment before shifting into the smiley, glad hand expression

I expected. He rose to his feet, A tall man dressed in starched white pants and a matching kurta. He extended his hand. Ah Sin ken Hoffman, director of Operations here on Atlas. You caught me finishing up a little yoga. Great way to maintain a little right brain dominance. Plus, you gotta keep moving down here the place we'll get to you. Yeah, it's also cramp. Yeah, I know what it looks like. The boss seals himself up in a spacious garden while everyone else works. But no, this is

a public space. Most of the time. Five occupant macs to maintain the chill. I just book it for a couple of hours most mornings. I can I get your water coffee. Someone just splashed piss on me, so I'm good. He stared off into space for a second, clearly listening to an inner ear feed from his communit. Then he met my eyes again. Oh I see, Well, you know people are gonna throw bottles of piss from time to time. You know that with your background, at least it was piss.

Am I right? It seems Old Dave had an issue with your head of security, interim head of security, And yes, I'm well aware of the personnel issues involved, but really it's it's hardly indicative of the general vibe around here. The flare ups are always going to happen. You hope that they happen at least in manageably small doses. But let's have a seat and discuss what you're really here for. He led me to a pair of opposing benches by

the Christ's statue and took one for himself. He pulled out a communit, activated a holographic display and scrolled through several files, as if he really had to check you were here about Peter Booklan, son of you dex Euro's Frederick Bookland. We filed a full report on that weeks ago. I don't think they were happy with that report. Well, obviously if they sent one of you down here, I didn't think they had any Epathis agents to spare. The

Bookland name carries a lot of weight that it does. Plus, Peter is a bit of a firebrand. You've heard his talks deep seabiotics, hydrothermal energy could shake a lot of things up around here. Did you meet him? No, Look, it's all on the report. He arrived here in March on a v I P sub with the rest of the v I P s. We logged him, he disembarked, maybe he had a drinks all the sites, and then

we have him boarding again an hour later. The manifest says he never reboarded v I P subsurd intentionally discreet. They don't have video footage, but we do. He swiped his fingers through the air and swiveled the holographic display around to show me alone. Jumpsuited guy with sandy blonde hair, scanned his communit and vanished through a docking porthole. Charismatic guy, right future, Look, we're not happy about it either I maintain a careful balance. The last thing I want is

increased drama on Atlas. I'm already wrestling with a possible Mariners guild strike, tech problems and sporadic vent activity. I don't dispute the subs data, but if he's down here, we know you keep tabs on everyone, all personnel. The Tritons and Narret's too, well, that's a different matter. They have embassy status and I have ambassador credentials. When can I meet with them? I figured that's why they sent you. You really think that Triton stole the guy away, kidnapped

him to hold one over you, Dex. The Triton's already have the upper hand if you hadn't noticed. They didn't want Bukelyn. They just wanted his genes, the same as the rest of the v I P passengers. It was all a part of the larger Triton genetics program. Their end of the deal with you, Dex. The deep opened up unreachable oil reserves, placated the environmentalists with vague hopes of deep thermal but in return, we agreed to the

gene sharing program. We needed workers who could thrive in the deep, so we let the Triton's augment those workers, infusing them with the genetic changes they need, but they required something from our genes as well. They continually requested certain attributes, even particular individuals and bloodlines, often relatives of key you Dex brass, and they were not content with a tissue swab. There art required in person summons to the deep. Thus, the specially designed subs for their v

I P passengers, each outfitted with every earthly luxury. Whatever it took to ensure these fortunate sons and daughters of the Second Oil Age fulfilled their end of the blood bargain. Or perhaps you think it was suicide, it wouldn't be without precedence. You're still left searching for a body. There are a lot of ways to lose a body. Subs aren't the only way in and out. Who speaks for the Triton's down here, Asia marsh one of the encapsulated

old school interspecies communicator. She's perfectly sasonable, really, but I almost never meet with her directly. You know why, because she's always accompanied Mary. It's two of them. They venture out among the general populations sometimes, which keeps me up at night. Believe me, if you meet with Marsh and she will insist upon in person meeting for something like this, she's going to have them in tow. They will try to influence you. They're going to put all that precious

a path is conditioning to the test. And if you start flashing a bunch of elder signed tattoos around you, don't think I can withstand. I don't know what you can do, but it takes a lot of work to keep things running around here. A lot of finesse, like taped CRS units. Is that finesse? Yeah, actually it is. You want to balanced cocktail, You've got to mix the bitter with the sweet, and that's what I like here.

Balance caution, inhale exhale. Obviously, I'll arrange the meeting if you insist on it, but you've got to promise me you'll keep things level headed. I've already asked Marsh about Booklands whereabouts and she flat out told me they don't know. Again, it's all in the report. Who's lying you or her? I think we're done here. I transferred your lodging details to your calm via secure connection. Get some sleep, get cleaned up, talk to some locals, and if you still

want your meeting with Asia Marsh. I can arrange it for tomorrow, but I'll sleep a lot easier if you give me that promise. No, seriously, I need to hear you say it. I promise good. He smiled, But I saw the worry in his eyes. It made sense. He didn't want to rock the boat or unbalanced his cocktail, whatever the metaphor. But it was too late. They'd sent me and I was going to get answers. The Christ's statue is a nice touch. Oh yeah, well he walked

on water. Some of the recombined the Christians. Anyway, They say he walked under the water. Did you know that they depict the spear wound as a gill slit. I finally noticed the inscription on the base of the statue, the words blurred by tendrils of cascading water, A New Covenant. The second oil age was produced by Robert Lamb, Alex Williams, Lauren Vogelbaumb and Josh Stay. This episode featured on Joe Masters Is snov Pan, Robin Bloodworth is Kim Hoffman, Andy

Reese as Jack's and Jonathan Strickland as Salty Squid. Supporting voice work by Jed Drummond, Nicholas Takoski, Gina Rikiki, Eden Brown and Bim Bolan intro, outro and supporting music created by the Weirding Module. Learn more at Module dot band camp dot com. From our podcasts, from my Heart Radio, visit the IRN radio app, Apple Podcasts, or whinever we listen to your favorite