> Lenie Clarke lies on her bunk, listening. Overhead, past pipes and wires and eggshell plating, three kilometers of black ocean try to crush her. She feels the

> Lenie Clarke lies on her bunk, listening. Overhead, past pipes and wires and eggshell plating, three kilometers of black ocean try to crush her. She feels the Rift underneath, tearing open the seabed with strength enough to move a continent. She lies there in that fragile refuge and she hears Beebe's armor shifting by microns, hears its seams creak not quite below the threshold of human hearing. God is a sadist on the Juan de Fuca Rift, and His name is Physics. Starts kinda OK but pretentiousness creeps in towards the end. Compare that to the best SF book I know to date, Pandem: > On the twenty-ninth of February, on the strangest of the days marked on the calendar, David Hammer, an employee of a respected city newspaper, was returning home a little later than usual. > It was a humid, almost spring evening. At Charing Cross Station, David boarded a train that was due to drop him off in East Croydon in half an hour. There was no one in the compartment for eight at that hour, except David and a guy of about eighteen, who, having fallen on the seat, immediately closed his eyes and gave himself to the power of music flowing from the flat box of the player into the black clips of headphones. Unfortunately I don't think it was ever translated to English :)