A Darkling Sea (12 page)

STRONGPINCER and his companions move easily along the old rift. Though it is coldwater, a few of the vents give off trickles of lukewarm flow, enough to support some mats and weeds, and a few grazing swimmers. They catch enough to keep going, and when they stop to rest the ruins of settlements provide lots of good places to hide.

Strongpincer is determined no militia will catch him resting. He leaves one adult on guard, even taking a turn himself while Weaklegs and Shellcrusher have their rest.

So it is Strongpincer who hears the sound of a towfin in the distance. It’s moving toward him, and as it approaches he picks up the sound of adults swimming along with it.

Another militia band! His first impulse is to creep away quietly and then swim as fast as he can. But he can only hear a few adults, and they’re being so chatty it’s hard to imagine them as militia. Traders, then? Perhaps.

He pokes the other two awake, then speaks to them softly. “Towfin coming. Three adults. Get your weapons and prepare to rush them.” Strongpincer wishes the other two understood numbers, so he could tap instead of speaking. He remembers wishing that many times.

They take up their spears. Strongpincer listens. The towfin is less than a cable away now. He lets it get closer, holding back Shellcrusher and Weaklegs with a pincer on each one’s flukes. At a quarter of a cable he says “Go!” and prods them, then grabs his own spear and surges out of the ruin.

BROADTAIL’S little expedition cruises along above the seafloor, making the easy passage to the next ruined city. Sharphead is in the lead, listening more for any likely food animals than anything else, as bandits are few in these waters. The towfin follows half a cable behind, with Shortlegs steering it and Broadtail trailing behind on a rope, pinging down to study the bottom.

Broadtail hears some interesting echoes from below—worked stone?—and lets go of the rope in order to drop down and get better echoes. From ahead he hears a loud ping. It sounds like Sharphead, but he can’t make out what the hunter is saying. Then he hears the towfin give a cry of alarm and realizes they are being attacked.

There are three bandits, and Broadtail hopes that maybe if he can get together with Sharphead and Shortlegs the three of them can hold off the enemy. He swims hard toward the towfin, listening.

Three bandits coming from ahead. Silence from Sharphead. Shortlegs and the towfin making an incredible racket as the youngster tries to turn the beast. Broadtail passes above the towfin and stops, waiting for the bandits to come on. He tastes blood in the current and realizes that Sharphead is probably dead.

One large bandit splits off from the other two and swims toward Broadtail. He backs up, trying to stay near the towfin but it is thrashing about so much he doesn’t dare get too close. That may keep the bandits away, too. If he can just hold off this one, he hopes they get discouraged and leave.

The big bandit shows no sign of that, though. She rises toward him like a stabbing spear, her pincers folded, aiming to ram. He turns to present his hard back shell, and then she hits. It almost feels like something cracks, but he can’t stop to check. Her pincers are out now, stabbing for his underside, looking for gaps. He grabs one of her pincers in his own and turns his head toward her. Broadtail gives a loud ping, hoping to deafen or confuse her, and pushes free.

But she’s not going to let him go, and comes for him again. She’s trying to grab his shell from the side. Can she really be trying to crack him? He briefly recalls hearing stories of such feats, and she may be big enough to do it. He flexes his body and again gets free. For a moment he can listen.

The towfin isn’t thrashing any more, it’s swimming slowly away. The other two bandits have Shortlegs. One has her pincers trapped while the other is methodically stabbing her.

Then his opponent is on him again, her pincer tips feeling for the edge of his headshield. He locks his head back to close the gap and whacks her with his flukes. Before she can grab him again he swims hard for the bottom, going away from the towfin. He hopes that the bandits prefer to chase the beast loaded with food and supplies rather than hunt down a lone scholar.

She doesn’t give up. He ducks around a cluster of old stones— automatically noting to himself that they seem to be part of a building, probably an outlying child-farm or fishing-station of the ruined city. He grabs a stone with his legs and freezes, hoping she’ll miss him, but she isn’t fooled and dives, pincers open wide.

He doesn’t wait for her. Broadtail swims as fast as he can, not really caring which direction, as long as it’s away from these killers. The big one follows, and Broadtail is afraid that in a long chase she will catch him. Then he hears a faint call from the other bandits, and his pursuer slows, stops, and finally turns back toward them as they follow the towfin.

Broadtail swims on, trying to put as much distance between himself and them as he can. He imagines they might follow him after looting the towfin. He swims and swims into cold silence.

ROB’S double life was a lot of fun for the first couple of days. During the waking cycles he was mild-mannered Rob Freeman, video tech for a great metropolitan research station. But at night he stalked the mean streets of Hitode Station as the Midnight Avenger, righter of wrongs and foe of alien oppressors.

The four of them had agreed to try at least one prank each per day, and Dickie had brought Angelo Ponti into the conspiracy. It rapidly became apparent to Rob that some of the plotters were much better at suggesting cool pranks than at actually doing them. Simeon in particular was a fount of ideas but claimed to be too busy to execute any.

The four of them who actually did stuff had very different styles. Rob personally leaned toward high-tech pranks: the stain in Tizhos’s bag was his doing, and he followed it up by disconnecting the light switch in the aliens’ room. Josef’s ideas all had an appealingly direct vulgarity, based on body fluids. Angelo, in Rob’s opinion, was the one most likely to get caught. He’d been the one who stole the cushions from the aliens’ room, which meant that he’d gone through half the station carrying them.

But it was Dickie Graves who really worried Rob. The ideas he suggested when the plotters were brainstorming were all very rough; some of them might have been recycled from the old “killing Henri” game. The glue on the chairs scheme was the mildest thing he proposed, and even then Rob had to insist that Graves use a dilute glue instead of the pure stuff, which would have taken the aliens’ skin off.

Dickie’s second prank was equally harsh. He got some of the trypsin used to break up proteins and “accidentally” spilled a whole bottle on Tizhos’s smart environment suit. The suit’s adaptive surface and self-repair mechanisms did their best, but the damage was simply too great. Everything but the backpack and the helmet turned to goo.

To: Everyone From: Station Director

Re: Accidents

It has recently come to my attention that there has been a very extraordinary series of unfortunate safety lapses in the past two days. Several of these incidents have involved our two Sholen visitors, and it would be extremely unfortunate if they should come to harm or even depart with an unfavorable impression of this project. I would like to urge all station personnel to be extremely cautious and take pains to avoid any incidents of this kind in the future.

IRONA sent them a request for a conversation over the secure link. Tizhos could see that Gishora wished to put it off as long as possible, but after two more messages from space, he asked her to set up a connection.

“I wish you would explain to me what the humans have decided to do. You said they offer no violence, but also refuse to cooperate.”

“That accurately describes the situation,” said Gishora. “It sounds like a paradox.”

“Not at all. Tell me how many offspring you have, Irona.”

“None,” Irona replied with a slightly indignant tone. “My

“I have one. When my child Giros does not wish to do something an adult has requested, she does not attack us. She merely disregards us. Sometimes she even makes herself limp if we try to move her bodily. The humans have chosen a similar tactic.”

“Then you need help. Even a human gone limp does not sound like more than two adult Sholen can lift.”

“Rather than going limp they have simply refused to do anything we request. In particular, the elevator capsule remains down here attached to the station. We cannot command it, so we have no way to evacuate them. I do not see how we can use physical force at all.”

“Then it seems the humans have imprisoned you.”

“Not at all. Vikram Sen informs me that Tizhos and I may leave at any time. For now I do not consider us to be in any danger. But we cannot bring down anyone to help us remove the humans.”

“Tell me how many attacks the humans have made against you,” asked Irona.

Gishora’s body stiffened, and in the chamber with him Tizhos could smell a wave of aggression. But he kept his voice neutral. “I know of no attacks, Irona. Tell me why you think they have made any.”

“Your equipment requests. Material damaged by biological agents. Those sound like attacks to me. Add to that their stated refusal to leave. The human behavior seems increasingly hostile. I suggest you and Tizhos depart at once for your own safety, and leave the matter to myself and the Guardians.”

“We have suffered no personal injury—”

“Yet.”

“—and the station director has expressed great regret about these incidents. I believe the majority of the humans mean us no harm.”

“And I do
not
believe that,” said Irona. “Tell me if you have considered the possibility of a deception on their part. They may seem peaceful while actually preparing for violence.”

“Of course I have considered that, Irona. Please do not insult my intelligence. Tell me if you have considered the possibility that Tizhos and I understand human behavior better than any other Sholen. I do not believe we face any danger. Tizhos, tell me if you agree.”

Tizhos didn’t know what to say. She felt loyalty to Gishora, more than she had ever felt to anyone since leaving her parents. But . . . the damaged equipment did worry her, especially the destruction of her suit. Until the replacement arrived she would die if the station suffered any kind of life- support failure. That felt a little too close to a direct attack.

“I—I do not believe the humans intend us direct harm,” she said. “If they did, a station like this presents a great many ways to kill us and make it seem accidental.” She could smell Gishora’s approval, and found it incredibly difficult to go on, but she hunched her upper shoulders and continued. “However, I must point out the risk that the damage to our possessions and our quarters could lead to a real accident. And I do not think that the station director can prevent the other humans from doing what they wish. I believe they have separated into factions, and at least one faction desires open conflict.”

“There! Your own subordinate agrees with me, Gishora. You do face danger.”

Gishora kept himself perfectly controlled, though Tizhos could smell his irritation. “Let us form a consensus, then. I agree that danger does exist here. Let us also agree, however, that any aggressive moves on our part might well provoke the humans.”

“A show of force might intimidate them,” said Irona. “As you yourself have said, the humans respect rational behavior. I suggest we make violence an entirely
irrational
option by showing them we can retaliate.”

“I perceive a flaw in that plan: we cannot retaliate against violence. Therefore we must continue with a policy of peace.”

Irona sounded triumphant. “I have a way to get Guardians to you even if the humans remain in control of the elevator.”

“Tell me why I do not know about this, Irona. As the leader of this mission I should have
complete
knowledge of all our capabilities.”

“I only recently rediscovered the method. Now that we face the real possibility of violent conflict, I have begun searching all our rec ords about warfare. They contain a great many interesting things. I have used the fabricator on board to manufacture capsules capable of matching the pressure at the sea bottom. I can send down the lander with Guardians in the capsules, and simply drop them down the elevator shaft.”

“Gishora, if Irona really can send us a few Guardians, I would feel safer,” said Tizhos. “That would remind the humans of possible consequences, as Irona wishes, without provoking them.”

Gishora surprised her by agreeing without argument. “Very well. Send down some Guardians as a precaution. Now if you will forgive me, Irona, I feel very hungry and would like a meal.”

Tizhos broke the link. Neither spoke for a moment. Then she hung her head very submissively. “I regret disagreeing with you.”

“No, no. You did the correct thing. You stated the truth as it appeared to you. I would prefer truthful dissent to loyal lies. No, I feel sad because Irona may speak the truth.”

“I fear I do not understand.”

“Violence may work. I hate violence, Tizhos, and I hate what the fear of it has done to our people. We cannot control our passions, so to keep from ravaging our world again we must become a civilization of scattered villages, too small to do harm. I thought the humans represented a different way—a civilization of logic and order. But it seems their passions can get out of control just like ours.”

“I know of one encouraging thing,” she said, trying to make herself feel cheerful. “Irona’s project will take quite a bit of time to implement. We can spend that time reviewing all the discoveries made by the humans.”

He still sounded a little sad, but his posture improved. “I agree. We still have so much to learn. Let us make use of our opportunity.”

BROADTAIL is hungrier than he can ever remember being. He is in cold water, far from any active bottom trench or hotspot. His sonar pings reveal nothing but silt on the seafloor. Otherwise the water is almost silent. The ice above is low here, and sometimes he can hear it creak. From time to time he comes upon floating threads soaking nutrients from the water, and devours them greedily. They are thin and bitter and do little to sustain him. His bag of provisions trails empty from his harness. The small growths and bits of weed on his shell are getting thin, starving to death and dropping off. He swims slowly; a hundred or so steady strokes and then drifting until his strength returns.

He has only a vague idea of where he is. There is a big empty basin that separates the Three Domes hotspot from the line of vents that includes Continuous Abundance and Bitterwater. He thinks he is somewhere in that great emptiness, and he thinks that if he follows the current he can reach some settlement. But he doesn’t know how far he must go, and he suspects he is starving to death.

He swims on, his mind drifting as he goes. The hunger and loneliness call up old memories from childhood. He remembers being small and afraid, and trying to flee the adults with their nets and harnesses. He vividly remembers his first full meal, eating and eating the wonderful rich fatvine roots, the adults putting more before him until he actually cannot cram anything more into himself.

The memory of that first meal only reminds him of just how hungry he is. If he can’t find something soon he’s going to start getting sleepy, and if he falls asleep in this cold emptiness, he’ll probably starve to death. He sends out a few pings, hoping to scare up some swimmers or even just some threads, but the only echoes are the sharp irregular sounds of rocks and the endless muffled dullness of silt.

And then he catches another sound. It is faint, a long way off—a tiny tapping noise. Broadtail drifts and listens, getting a fix on how far away it is. Hundreds of cables away, but it’s something. At this distance he can’t tell if it’s civilized adults making something, nomads fighting or cracking open shells, or maybe just a big snapshell calling for a mate. It doesn’t matter to Broadtail; he sets his course toward the sound and calls on his very last reserves of strength for the swim. Either he will eat it or it will eat him.

ROB and Alicia finished their weekly shower together and were getting ready for bed. When you had only limited amounts of hot water, bathing became a tricky part of the relationship. Sure, it was nice to get all warm and clean together, and it was natural to segue directly into getting into bed together—but having sex did raise the problem of spending the next seven days all crusty and uncomfortable, or wasting half a dozen antibacterial wipes just hours after having a bath. So by mutual agreement, they observed a moratorium on sex for at least two days after bathing.

“All the same,” Rob said, “I don’t think I’m ever going to think that the smell of neoprene and urine on your skin is particularly arousing.”

“You Americans worry about smells too much.”

“Try growing up downwind from a paper mill and then tell me that. Anyway—should I stay here tonight or go to my own cabin?”

“Whichever you prefer. But if you do stay here, try to be more quiet when you go sneaking out in the middle of the night.”

There was a pause while Rob looked at Alicia and tried to figure out just how mad at him she was. “Um, sorry. I didn’t want to wake you. I was just—”

She held up a hand. “It would be a very bad idea to lie to me right now, Robert.”

“You know what I’ve been doing?”

“It is not hard to guess. You start slipping out at night and someone is playing tricks on the Sholen.”

“It’s not a big deal, really. Just some harmless pranks.”

“What are you trying to do? Convince them that we are a lot of foolish adolescents?”

“Hey, keep it down. Look, we want them to go away and quit bothering us. Dr. Sen’s the only one who could do that and he won’t. This way at least we can give them an idea of how unhappy we are.”

“It is idiotic!”

“Well, maybe it is, but at least we’re doing something!”

Alicia made a sound of annoyance. “It would be more useful to hit yourself with a hammer. And who is this ’we?’ Are you a king, now?”

“Never mind. Goodnight.” Rob left her cabin feeling angry and embarrassed. Of course playing practical jokes on the aliens was silly. He didn’t need her to point that out, thank you very much. As if she was a 100 percent serious every second of her life. She needed to lighten up. That was her problem: she needed to lighten up. Not get all high and mighty and pass judgment on him for doing a few harmless practical jokes. Euro pe ans had no sense of humor.

He went to the common room to get a snack, then headed for his own cabin. But in Hab One something was going on. Half a dozen people were gathered around the door of the aliens’ cabin, including Gishora and Tizhos. Beyond them the door of the room was blocked by some kind of orange membrane. After a second Rob recognized it as a float balloon. The archaeologists used them to move heavy items. Someone had inflated a really big float balloon inside the Sholens’ room.

Dickie Graves moved up next to Rob and nudged him. When Rob looked at him he winked. Rob grinned. Even Alicia would agree this was a good one. Worthy of Caltech.

Dr. Sen and Sergei were fussing about with some test equipment at the doorway. “Portable spectrometer. They’re afraid it’s filled with hydrogen,” muttered Dickie.

“Is it?” whispered Rob, suddenly alarmed. Not even Dickie would risk filling a balloon with flammable gas in the confined space of the station. Would he?

Dickie shook his head almost imperceptibly, then nodded toward Sen. The station director peered at the spectrometer display, then made a neat ten-centimeter incision in the balloon with a dissecting scalpel. It gave a sigh and began to wrinkle. Sergei started shoving it into the room, forcing out the air. Dr. Sen turned around and addressed the crowd. “I am reasonably certain that the person responsible for this incident is here watching at this moment, so I would like to make it clear that there must be no more practical jokes of this kind. This may seem to be very amusing, but I am becoming concerned that if pranks of this kind continue they will cause a serious accident.”

Did his gaze rest longer on Rob and Dickie than on the others? Rob wasn’t sure.

Sergei got the balloon squashed down to a manageable bundle, and the two Sholen went inside to inspect their quarters. The onlookers began to drift away.

Dickie gestured for Rob to follow, then led the way down to the geo lab.

“Pretty good,” said Rob when the door was shut.

“The best yet, I’d say, and entirely harmless. Poor Sen looked a pompous ass standing there giving us a dire warning about the dangers of inflating balloons.”

“Yeah. Listen, Dickie—do you think this is working? Are we accomplishing anything here?”

“As to that, we’re achieving three very important mission objectives. First, we’re showing the Sholen what we think of them. Second, we’re having great fun doing it. And finally, as a bonus, we’re getting Sen thoroughly annoyed. What more can we ask for?”