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doesn't want to hear.
    You've been solved , it says. You're mechanical. Chemicals and electricity. Everything you are, every dream, every action, it all comes down to a change of voltage somewhere, or a — what did she say — a tricyclic with four side chains—
    "It's wrong," Clarke murmurs. Or they'd be able to fix us, when we broke down—
    "Sorry?" Ballard says.
    "It's saying we're just these — soft computers. With faces."
    Ballard shuts off the terminal.
    "That's right," she says. "And some of us may even be losing those."
    The jibe registers, but it doesn't hurt. Clarke straightens and moves towards the ladder.
    "Where you going? You going outside again?" Ballard asks.
    "The shift isn't over. I thought I'd clean out the duct on number two."
    "It's a bit late to start on that, Lenie. The shift will be over before we're even half done." Ballard's eyes dart away again. This time Clarke follows the glance to the full-length mirror on the far wall.
    She sees nothing of particular interest there.
    "I'll work late." Clarke grabs the railing, swings her foot onto the top rung.
    "Lenie," Ballard says, and Clarke swears she hears a tremor in that voice. She looks back, but the other woman is moving to Comm. "Well, I'm afraid I can't go with you," she's saying. "I'm in the middle of debugging one of the telemetry routines."
    "That's fine," Clarke says. She feels the tension starting to rise. Beebe is shrinking again. She starts down the ladder.
    "Are you sure you're okay going out alone? Maybe you should wait until tomorrow."
    "No. I'm okay."
    "Well, remember to keep your receiver open. I don't want you getting lost on me again—"
    Clarke is in the wetroom. She climbs into the airlock and runs through the ritual. It no longer feels like drowning. It feels like being born again.
    * * *
    She awakens into darkness, and the sound of weeping.
    She lies there for a few minutes, confused and uncertain. The sobs come from all sides, soft but omnipresent in Beebe's resonant shell. She hears nothing else except her own heartbeat.
    She's afraid. She's not sure why. She wishes the sounds would go away.
    Clarke rolls off her bunk and fumbles at the hatch. It opens into a semi-darkened corridor; meager light escapes from the lounge at one end. The sounds come from the other direction, from deepening darkness. She follows them through an infestation of pipes and conduits.
    Ballard's quarters. The hatch is open. An emerald readout sparkles in the darkness, bestowing no detail upon the hunched figure on the pallet.
    "Ballard," Clarke says softly. She doesn't want to go in.
    The shadow moves, seems to look up at her. "Why won't you show it?" it says, its voice pleading.
    Clarke frowns in the darkness. "Show what?"
    "You know what! How — afraid you are!"
    "Afraid?"
    "Of being here, of being stuck at the bottom of this horrible dark ocean—"
    "I don't understand," Clarke whispers. Claustrophobia begins to stir in her, restless again.
    Ballard snorts, but the derision seems forced. "Oh, you understand all right. You think this is some sort of competition, you think if you can just keep it all inside you'll win somehow — but it isn't like that at all, Lenie, it isn't helping to keep it hidden like this, we've got to be able to trust each other down here or we're lost—"
    She shifts slightly on the bunk. Clarke's eyes, enhanced by the caps, can pick out some details now; rough edges embroider Ballard's silhouette, the folds and creases of normal clothing, unbuttoned to the waist. She thinks of a cadaver, half-dissected, rising on the table to mourn its own mutilation.
    "I don't know what you mean," Clarke says.
    "I've tried to be friendly," Ballard says. "I've tried to get along with you, but you're so cold , you won't even admit — I mean, you couldn't like it down here, nobody could, why can't you just admit—"
    "But I don't, I — I hate it in here. It's like Beebe's going to — to clench around me. And all I can do is wait for it to