"The shower is this way." Esag turned and started walking, clearly expecting her to follow. "Submarine showers are not what you are used to. You get wet, turn off the water, soap up, then rinse quickly. Total water time is ninety seconds. We have limited fresh water reserves."
"It's fine." Anything would be better than standing there in a sodden wetsuit that chafed in places she didn't want to think about. "I just want to get clean and dry."
He led her through a narrow corridor, having to turn sideways at one point to squeeze past some equipment. The shower room was barely larger than a closet, with two stalls separated by a thin partition. She could hear water running in one of them.
Someone had beaten her there, which wasn't a big surprise since she'd been the last in the airlock.
"There are only two showers for the entire submarine," Esag said apologetically. "Everyone will need to be quick. There's soap and shampoo in dispensers on the wall, and towels on the rack outside."
"Got it."
He shifted awkwardly, clearly unsure whether to leave or stay. "I'll wait outside."
She almost told him not to bother, but the truth was that she had no idea how to navigate this metal maze. She'd need someone to show her where to go next. "Thanks."
The shower stall was coffin-sized, barely enough room to raise her arms, but there was a narrow shelf across from it for her towel and dry clothing.
She peeled off the wetsuit with difficulty, the neoprene clinging to her skin, and tried not to think about how many people had worn it before her. Or maybe it had been worn just by one diver? The clan was supposed to be wealthy, so chances were that they had bought each Guardian his or her own wetsuit. Next went the clothes she'd worn underneath the suit, including her underwear, and she wondered if the crewman had also donated a pair of his undies, and if he had, whether she was going to wear them.
Whatever. She could go without.
The water, when she turned it on, was lukewarm at best, not much warmer than the ocean water she'd just swum through, but it was fresh, or as fresh as it got in a submarine.
Ninety seconds. That's all she was supposed to use.
She wet herself quickly, turned off the water, and reached for the soap, but her hand found the shampoo dispenser first, and temptation won. Her hair reeked of seawater and fear-sweat, and the thought of going even another hour with that smell clinging to her was unbearable.
She squeezed out a small amount and worked it through her hair as fast as she could. The shampoo was clearly the cheapest industrial grade available, and the lather was pathetic, but it was something. Guilt gnawed at her as she worked. Others were waiting. They all needed showers. She was being selfish, frivolously wasting precious water and time.
The water in the other stall shut off, and she heard movement. Whoever was in there was getting out. Beulah, she thought, recognizing the toes visible below the curtain of her stall.
Should she say something? Acknowledge they were both here, both processing their new and strange reality?
She had no energy for conversation or the emotional labor of connecting with another person. She just wanted to be clean, to be dry, and to be horizontal on something that wasn't moving.
She turned the water back on, rinsing as quickly as she could. The soap and shampoo swirled away, taking the worst of the salt with them. Not enough time to feel truly clean, but she felt better.
The clothes Esag had given her were too big, but not terribly so. The crewman who had donated them wasn't a large guy. She rolled the pants at the ankles and made a knot in the t-shirt that otherwise hung to her mid-thigh. Both items were dry and soft and smelled like industrial detergent instead of the ocean. She'd take it.
The crewman hadn't supplied underwear, but even if he had, she wouldn't have worn it.
Tula gathered her wet things, unsure what to do with them. She could return the wetsuit, but she needed the clothing she'd wornunderneath. She had nothing else to wear except what was on her body right now.
When she emerged from the shower room, Esag was gone, and Tony stood in his place, without his wetsuit, and with his wet clothing clasped in his hand.
The only thing he had left on his body was a pair of boxer shorts.
Modesty had never been his thing.
"Tula." He pulled her into his arms before she could react, crushing her against his chest. "Thank God. I didn't see you get in. I was so worried."
"I'm fine." She let him hold her because pushing him away would require energy she didn't have, and because, despite knowing she needed to end this, and despite the emotional distance she'd already created, his familiar warmth was comforting. "If you are waiting for the shower, you should get in. Others are waiting."
"Right." He pulled back and studied her face. "You look exhausted."
"I am exhausted."
"After I shower, we can?—"
