The Stream
Posted By Paul Kotik on 11 September 2006
At six minutes, dropping out of the flow would be… undesirable. A jarring splashdown into an oxygen-starved human shell, a whole entire situation within a tightening world of difficulty. There would be no question of getting back into the Stream at that point, none. From there on it would be like getting dragged along a rocky creek bottom rather than gliding through the water above it.
But inside the Stream all is flow. The darkening has yielded to a pale blue, a pastel, and there is no more hint of chill. This section of the Stream can go on forever, she knows, it can take you anywhere, forever and ever, if it weren't for that tapping and the distant muffled words - but the pale blue is not inside the Stream at all. No, it's the side of the pool- her eyes are open! Her hands - she has hands again - are before her, gripping the edge of the pool. Her feet touch the bottom, directly below her hips and-
Breathe....breathe...keep breathing . . . the Voice. It's so tinny now, so nearby, not like the cosmic vox in the Stream. Her body is taking sharp, deep breaths as it's trained to do, quite on its own. And the world is on fire! Everything is unbearably brilliant yellow-white, mottled. It's time. Her left hand economically removes her mask. She turns to her spotter, meets her concerned gaze and frames it in the loop of her right hand's OK signal.
"Nicely done!" says the Voice."Six thirteen. How was it ?"
Now breathing calmly, she's lain back against the water and is gazing up a patch of perfectly clear blue sky. The balls of her bare feet make the most delicate contact with the concrete bottom.
"Okay", she says. "It was fine."
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