The welded steel plating of the docking bay tube extended ten meters or so beyond the dock office and marked the end of the docking bay, where it was set into the sea mount. Just beyond the dock office the tube angled upwards, and Percy had to walk up a steep ramp. Then the tube narrowed to five or six meters and passed through a thick bulkhead with a large watertight door that could be closed by massive hydraulics. Most unpressurized underwater docks had some kind of system like this. Small leaks on the docks could be repaired while pumps moved the water out. But if something major happened — say, a docked submarine ripping away, leaving a giant hole in the dock — this door could be closed, divers could go in and make repairs, and they could then blow the water out of the dock with a high pressure air system. Of course, that would not save anyone trapped on the other side of the door when it closed, or keep any open cargo holds in docked subs from flooding. These underwater docks were in fact incredibly dangerous, and the stories of failures — more numerous than anyone would care to admit — were the stuff of submariners’ nightmares. The repressed fear of a dock failure was an odd sense for a seagoing person like Percy, since traditionally ports were associated with safety for ships.

A little farther up the ramp from the watertight bulkhead, the steel plating ended where it was riveted and sealed into the raw rock of the seamount. The space widened here. This whole part of the depot was hollowed out of the underground stone and the walls were left as raw, cut rock. In places, the lines of drill holes could still be seen, where explosives had been placed to more quickly open spaces for the chamber during its construction. This was all pretty unusual and expensive. Most depots with an underwater dock kept the underground construction to a minimum and moved as much of the operation to the surface as was practical. Percy guessed there must be the discreet funding of some Authority behind this place.

The upward slope became less dramatic, just a slight ramp. But the ramp was maintained for an obvious reason: few underground spaces were totally dry and this one was not an exception. The ramp slowly drained a fetid and oily moisture down the middle of the open space of the upper parts of the depot. And the water carried along with it the accumulated grime of a working floor of industrial and commercial projects: metal shavings, coffee grounds, oils and solvents, random bits of floating garbage, and, of course, urine. It was all collected at the bottom of the ramp in a sluiceway covered by a choked and rusting grating that was supposed to keep any of this stuff from running farther down to the docking bay.

The wet grit ground under the hard soles of Percy’s boots as she made her way up the length of the merchant exchange floor, stepping around the places where oil or garbage had pooled on the uneven rock.

The main hall was lit by bright bars of harsh light overhead, which illuminated the middle of the space fairly well. The center of the entire length of the hall was being used for the activities that required the most space: stacks of wooden crates containing cargo that was being actively exchanged, repairs on large metal machines that were in some places slung from the ceiling by heavy chain, and the parked heavy equipment used to move all this tonnage up and down the space.

The lighting did not do much to illuminate the deeper sides of the space. Back in those corners were shadows created by smaller stacks of crates, punctuated by the occasional table set up by a trader and lit by a lamp. In some places there were alcoves carved back into the rock for a more formal shop space.

There was a loud wash of sound: the snap of arc welders liquefying bits of metal, traders negotiating the value of crates and where they would be moved from or to, and the clinking of chains as they strained on wheels to lift masses of weighty metal objects. There was also the inevitable unintelligible shout of panic as some heavy object unexpectedly moved in a way it was not supposed to. Her nostrils were assaulted by the smells of sweat, tobacco smoke, oil, and sharp ozone.

About a third of the way up the hall, her eye was caught by one of the bigger shops cut back into the wall. It was better lit than most, and the proprietor had taken the trouble to pry open a number of the crates stacked in the shop and arrange some of the more attractive goods to tempt potential customers.

Percy turned into the shop. It sold hardware. A wide array of tools and parts lay in a semi-organized fashion among the hay and batting used as packing material in the crates. Some of the packing material had inevitably escaped the crates and was crushed into the grime on the floor.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Larger items were displayed towards the front of the store, probably because they were harder to steal. The crates at the front of the shop were left open at the top, and looking down into them she could see large motors, piping, valves, and other bigger elements that went into making a submarine work.

Toward the back of the shop, the crates tended to be laid on their side and opened. Many of the crates had dozens of hooks nailed into them and smaller tools and parts for sale hung from the hooks.

The shopkeeper somehow managed to show little interest in the few customers poking around in the crates, and yet never stopped watching them.

Percy had a perennial list of hardware she needed for the Prospect. It was one of those lists that only ever seemed to grow, and rarely got things crossed off it. She almost immediately found a box with a range of sizes of screw-tightened clamps that were being sold as a single unit. Clamps were not currently on her hardware list, so she regrettably would not get to cross anything off. On the other hand, she would already have the clamps aboard the Prospect when they needed them, rather than going onto the “to” list and waiting to be purchased on at the next stop.

Percy picked up the box of clamps and moved to browse some of the larger parts. In one open crate there was a beautiful pump motor, in factory-new condition, a rarity these days when most machines — even excellent ones — had been rebuilt a dozen times over. It was the kind of motor used in dozens of places and applications on the Prospect. It was another item that was not actually on her list of needed parts, but potentially so useful that she could not imagine not buying it. In this condition, however, it would not be cheap.

She leaned over the crate and ran her fingers under the cover to check for hidden grit and make sure it was actually factory-new, and not just well-cleaned old junk. As she did so, an old crone who had been looking at a box of steel piping near her leaned in her direction to admire the pump motor too. “That’s a fine-looking piece of machine,” the lady said, her voice croaking so softly it took Percy a second to interpret what she had said.

“I have a boat where I could use ten more of these,” Percy replied.

“Pretty expensive element for buying multiples of.” The lady was frail and small. In this depot full of huge people, she was certainly the tiniest Percy had seen, or would even expect to see. She had big rubbery ears and a heavily lined face with a tiny nose that wiggled when she talked. She was dressed in a wool cloak that was worn thin but clearly made of what was originally a high-quality material. Over it, she wore a fraying shawl with an intricate Fair Isle pattern. She looked like a person who would never be quite warm enough in this hole-in-the-rock depot.

“The cost is the reason I’ll be lucky to get a single one of these,” said Percy.

“Hrmmm….what if I told you I could set you up with a little cash?”

Percy looked at the tiny stick-figure-in-a-sack skeptically. “Like a loan?” she asked. Loan sharks certainly came in all shapes and sizes.

“No, no. I don’t go in for usury. That’s for the real criminals. I’m offering a job. But one that would pay exceptionally well.”

“Well, that’s certainly a fucking unlikely coincidence that you happen to offer me work when I was just about to go inquiring about a job.”

“That is, of course, no coincidence, Captain Percy. I was looking for you.”

“Then you must be Miss Mai? But how did you know who I was?”

“I received a note that you had arrived. I came out to the hall to try to locate you. There is an element of urgency to the job I have for you.”

Percy remembered the dock boss had said she would send word ahead to Miss Mai. “Thanks for the transparency. I don’t like the suggestion of a benign universe that coincidences like that would suggest.”

“Ah, yes. It’s easier to believe the plot and the happenings are motivated by someone’s will, eh? That it isn’t all just random chaos, and the coin-toss sometimes comes up in your favor?”

“Oh, I believe in the chaos,” said Percy, “I just don’t believe it comes up in my fucking favor.”

Miss Mai grinned a gapped-toothed smile. “I think I can work with such a person. Can I encourage you to join me in my office to discuss the details of the offer I have for you? It’s…not really fit for public spaces.”

“Miss Mai, nothing would please me more than to learn about this fucking opportunity.” Percy put down the box of clamps and noticed that the shopkeeper watched her do so.