A Darkling Sea (21 page)

“Not at all. Let us all go at once if you wish.”

“There is no need to rush off unrested and unfed,” says Longpincer. “Let us listen to the rest of Broadtail’s findings— reserving our comments and questions for another time—and let him show us the site after sleep and a meal.”

Broadtail awakens and for a moment is unsure of where he is. Then the flavor of the water reminds him: Longpincer’s house. Someone is standing nearby.

“Broadtail,” says Longpincer. “Come outside with me. We must speak privately.”

Broadtail follows his host out of the house via a small passage, not the grand entrance- chamber he remembers using. Once outside they swim to one of Longpincer’s boundarystones. Neither speaks until they stop.

“Broadtail, your account of the strange creatures worries me.”

“In what way?”

“I have two worries. The first is for you. Are you absolutely certain these creatures are as you describe? They really exist? Intelligent beings capable of speech and the use of tools? You are sure this is not a mistake or a hoax?”

“I am sure. It cannot be a hoax. There are the artifacts, and the creatures themselves—you remember dissecting one. It requires a hoaxer much wealthier than yourself, with experts in all the sciences. The Bitterwater Company cannot create such a hoax. Is there a greater company of scholars with more resources?”

“Perhaps the Long Rift confederation of scholarly companies.”

“And can you think of a reason for them to travel thousands of cables just to trick one landless adult?”

“I cannot,” Longpincer admits. “Well, if you are certain of what you remember finding, then I have no more fear for you. But that leads to my second worry. If—as you maintain—these things are real, and come from someplace beyond the world, why are they here?
What do they want
?”

“I do not know,” admitted Broadtail. “I propose that we ask them.”

“I recall thinking about this before coming to you,” says Longpincer. “Do you remember them fishing, or quarrying? They are at the Sharers ruins. Is the vent active again? Do they claim the land for themselves?”

“The city vent does not flow,” says Broadtail. “And I do not know if the strangers even need ventwater. You recall the great heat of the specimen at the dissection? Their house gives off warm water. I believe they somehow generate their own heat.”

“Well, they must want
something,
” says Longpincer. “Otherwise why come here?”

“I do not know. I cannot remember discussing it.” Broadtail feels slightly embarrassed for not thinking of it.

“I suggest you do so at your next meeting with them. Bitterwater is the nearest vent to the Sharers ruins. If these creatures claim territory, I must know of it.”

“I understand.” Broadtail does sympathize with Longpincer’s concern. Even villages fear invasion, and Longpincer’s property is smaller than most villages. He is vulnerable.

“There is one other thing to discuss,” says Longpincer. “I am reluctant even to speak of it, but—what is your attitude toward these beings?”

“I am curious about them, of course.”

“Are you their friend?”

“Longpincer, I remember you taking me in and supporting my studies despite my being landless and outlaw. I am your guest and your ally. I do not imagine that changing.”

“I am glad. Your announcement is so strange it makes me wonder about, well, everything.”

“I remember thinking the same way.”

“I suppose we should rest now, before we eat and travel.” Longpincer leads the way back into the house.

THE company dines in Longpincer’s house before setting out. The food, as always, is delicious and abundant. Bags of roe, a rockscraper with the shell removed, and stimulating venomous threads from cold water. Broadtail explains a few more things as they all eat.

“I recall saying the creatures speak. Actually it would be more accurate to say they tap. They know a few dozen words from the dictionary, and can tap out the numbers for them. But they do not seem to understand actual speech. One of them can make out a little, but not reliably.”

“They tap to each other?”

“No, not that I remember hearing. Rather they communicate among themselves with simple howls and grunts, which I believe represent words to them, much the way numbers do in the dictionary.”

Sharpfrill is skeptical. “But to organize words by numbers in order to tie reels—or tap shells—one must have the words in the first place! How can creatures incapable of speech understand that it even exists?”

“I cannot explain it. I only report my own experiences. Come hear for yourself.” But Broadtail wonders: is he tricking himself? Are the creatures no more than imitative animals, repeating his movements and shell-taps? Their narrative could be nothing more than Broadtail’s own brain finding patterns in random noise.

He recalls reading of such things, like Blunthead 40 Hotvent’s famous attempt to decipher ancient carvings by including cracks and growths to produce the desired meaning. Now Blunthead is remembered only for his foolishness rather than his genuine accomplishments.

For just a moment Broadtail is tempted to call it all off; find some excuse to cancel the trip and salvage his reputation. But that passes. He is
sure
the creatures are intelligent, and if he is wrong, who better than the Bitterwater Company to test his conclusions?

“I am aware of how fantastic my statements are,” he tells the group. “Therefore I beg all of you to be as rigorous as you can in testing what I say and examining all the evidence I present. I prefer to be proved wrong than to live in error.”

There are murmurs of approval from the others. Broadtail decides that it is better to be thought an honest fool than a liar or a crazy adult.

ROB was in his hammock catching up on sleep when his computer started beeping urgently. The hydrophone was picking up a large group of moving sound sources approaching the Coquille.

“A l icia?”

“Down here,” she said from the little worktable. Always trying to fit in a little work, even though she was wearing down to a stick figure. “I see it, too. It doesn’t look like Sholen. Do you think it is our Ilmataran friend?”

“I hope so. Looks like he’s brought along at least a dozen others. This could be trouble. I’ll suit up and—”

“And what? Let me sit in here and listen to everything by drone? Don’t be absurd.”

The two of them suited up. The slimy, clammy feel of the thick neoprene made Rob shudder. It had been—how long?— since the suits had been properly cleaned, or even completely dry. It was like putting on a secondhand condom.

They emerged from beneath the shelter to find eleven Ilmatarans scuttling about the camp, poking the anechoic coating on the Coquille, tasting the outflow from the portable generator, feeling Alicia’s catch nets and chattering among themselves in a concert of creaks, clicks, and crackling sounds.

An individual approached them. It looked like the one they’d spoken with before, but Rob wasn’t sure. He stood still as it came close enough to touch him, then clicked out 38. That was the identifier the other had used. Rob looked through the little lexicon Dickie had put together and tapped once—“Ilmataran,” or at least that’s what he thought he was saying.

The alien turned and spoke to its companions. A couple of them came clattering forward and began running their feelers and feeding tendrils over Rob and Alicia’s suits. They chattered among themselves a bit, then the first one addressed Rob again: “49-91-16,” which worked out to “Ilmataran extend-pincers touch (human?).”

“I think it is asking if they can touch us,” said Alicia.

“It’s a little late to ask permission. Do you have any problem with letting them run their feelers over you?”

“Only if it will not make you jealous.”

“Okay, I guess.” Rob tapped one of his hanging tools with his screwdriver. A moment later all the Ilmatarans surged forward. Rob stepped back nervously, wondering if maybe he’d agreed to get dissected or something worse this time.

About half of the group began touching him all over, chattering together all the time. They felt the material of his suit, probed the neck joint where the helmet attached, and gently moved his arms and legs to see how the joints worked. One became interested in his backpack, and Rob could feel it gently tugging on his air hoses and feeling the bubbles emerging from the hydrogen vent. Alicia had her own little circle of admirers.

“I think we should ask them what to call body parts,” said Alicia. “It would be wonderful to learn what they know about their own physiology.”

So for an hour Alicia and Rob sat within a clump of Ilmatarans, touching body parts and recording the tap- codes for each. They spent a couple of hours with the Ilmatarans before the natives began nodding off. It was kind of comical. Rob would be demonstrating his fingers or the sampling tongs to one of them, and suddenly the Ilmataran would go silent and curl up into an armored ball for about half an hour.

The first one who’d found them hung on the longest, but when he finally needed a nap, Rob and Alicia were alone for a while.

“Maybe we should go inside,” he suggested.

“Not yet. I don’t know how long they will sleep like this. I should hate to waste time getting undressed and suited up again.”

“So, what do you think? Are we communicating?”

“A little bit. I think Graves is right—their eidophones are imitations of sonar echoes. Unfortunately, what they consider important elements of an echo are not what our sonar devices use for imaging. The computer can
recognize
some of their words but not interpret them.”

“So for now we’re stuck with tapping.”

“Yes. The first one—the one with the wide flukes—he is a good teacher.”

“You can tell them apart?”

“You cannot?”

“Not really. There’s the one with all the crap growing on him, and the really big one. The rest all kind of blur together.”

“The one with the encrustations also seems to be a high- status individual. I don’t know if you noticed, but the others initiate conversations with him almost twice as often as they do with each other.”

“How the
hell
did you have time to notice that?”

“I dug up some chimp-behavior software and modified it to track interactions. I think I can create a social model with some more observations.”

“Jesus. You never stop collecting data, do you?”

“What else is there to do? I cannot make love to you every hour of the day, and eventually we must surrender and let the Sholen take us away. This may be the only chance ever for anyone to study the Ilmatarans directly.”

The two of them were quiet for a time, watching the sleeping Ilmatarans.

“You really think we’re going to have to give up?”

“Robert, we have ninety- two food bars left. Unless you wish to starve to death, that means we cannot stay longer than six weeks.”

“I’m pretty sure I can get the food machine running again.”

“That will provide calories, but we will need protein and vitamins. The APOS units will not work forever, either. We will eventually run out of argon. And we forgot to bring extra pressure drugs, so once our little medical pack is empty we will have to worry about neuropathy. And—”

“Okay! I know, I know. If you know we’re going to have to give up, why are we out here?”

“I already told you. We can gather data. For six weeks.”

WHEN Broadtail wakes again most of the others are already busy. Three of the company are over with the creatures, showing off tools and examining some of their items. Longpincer and two others are gathered a little apart, conversing quietly. When Longpincer hears Broadtail moving about he calls him over.

“Speak with us, Broadtail!”

“Gladly! What are you discussing?”

“These creatures of yours.”

“Do you think they are truly intelligent, now that you can

“Even if they are not, they are certainly strange enough to be an important discovery. I congratulate you.”

The praise stimulates Broadtail like a bag of stingers.

“There is a question we are all ignoring,” says Sharpfrill. “There is a flaw in your account of these creatures. If they truly come from beyond the ice, how do they pass through the ice into the ocean?”

“You doubt their story?” asks Broadtail.

“I merely suggest that we do not assume everything they say is correct. Even if there is no deliberate deception, they may not understand us perfectly, or may claim knowledge they do not really have,” says Sharpfrill.

“That is possible,” admits Broadtail.

AFTER two days of interacting with the Ilmatarans, the four of them ate food bars and made plans inside the Coquille.

“Six weeks,” said Rob. “Maybe as much as ten. Then the food runs out and we have to give up.”

“Impossible!” said Dickie. “We’re making breakthroughs every day with the Ilmatarans. We simply
cannot
let the Sholen pack us off back to Earth now.”

“Well, if the alternative is starving to death, what choice do we have?”

“Fight them. Drive the Sholen off Ilmatar.”

Rob was too boggled to say anything.

“Tactical plans,” said Josef. “How do you propose to retake Hitode?”

“I’ve got it all figured. We trick them. You take the submarine around to the north and make a very noisy approach, maybe even signaling by hydrophone. The Sholen send out a party to investigate. Then the three of us approach from the south, and as soon as they’re outside the station, we slip in through the moon pool.”

“That’s it?” Rob asked. “What if there are guards inside?”

“What if there are? I think I’ve demonstrated that a human can kill a Sholen in a fight.”

“You got lucky.”

“Luck is an illusion. I was willing to use deadly force when Gishora wasn’t.”

“And what about when they killed Isabel?”

“They had the advantage of numbers, and we all were handcuffed and unarmed. I don’t think the Sholen will stand up as well against enemies who are ready and able to fight back. Remember, it’s been ages since they’ve had a war among themselves. They don’t know how to do it anymore.”

“That’s not enough,” said Rob. “We don’t have any weapons but our knives. Unless they—”

“Pistol,” said Josef. He got up and went for his equipment case. Inside it, locked in a scratched, dented box with a flaking Russian Navy insignia on the cover, was an odd-looking doublebarreled pistol, like a black plastic derringer.

“Four-point-five-millimeter caseless four-shot
Spetsnaz
underwater pistol,” said Josef. “Each barrel holds two rounds, ignition is electrical. No reloading on this planet.”

“Why do you have a gun?” asked Alicia. Rob was too busy admiring the mechanism.

“Usual reasons,” Josef said with a shrug.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone about this before?” Dickie demanded.

“Told Dr. Sen when I arrived. He said keep hidden.”

“And you listened to him?” asked Graves.

“Sen is mission commander.”

“You could have used it! When the Sholen first arrived—”

“Four shots. Six Sholen. Also did not want to draw first blood.”

“This changes everything,” said Dickie. “That thing evens the odds.” Graves was as excited about the gun as Rob was, that much anyone could see.

“Dickie,” said Rob, “I’m not trying to start a fight here, but—I think you’re starting to enjoy this too much.”

Graves just laughed. “And you’re not?”

“Of course not! I’m—”

“You’re getting the chance to play the hero, Freeman. No more fetching and carrying for the scientists, no more scrubbing the mildew, and you’ve got a woman in your sleeping bag every night.” Rob started to interrupt but Dickie drowned him out. “Look at your damned coverall!” He thumped Rob’s chest. “The UNICA symbol’s as close to the
Star Trek
logo as they could get without paying a royalty! We’re all here because of all those old space adventure stories. But it wasn’t like that, was it? Just a lot of hard work and rules and bad food. Now, though— now you’re having a real outer-space adventure and you’re enjoying it just as much as I am.”

“It is not the adventure he means, Dickie, it is the killing,” said Alicia. “You are proud of stabbing Gishora.”

“Absolutely. He was a sanctimonious shit and I’m not a bit sorry he’s dead. We’re in a war now—you can’t go apologizing every time you win a fight.”

“Correct,” said Josef. “But only fools and madmen fight for thrills.”

“This has nothing to do with thrills. I’m talking about maybe winning this instead of just sitting here waiting for them to find us.”

“Okay,” said Rob, trying to drag things back on topic. “We’ll hit them again. But I want to make sure we have a goal—a
realistic
goal—and a plan. Something more concrete than just ’go shoot a couple of Sholen.’ That’s just murder for the sake of murder. No way are we doing that.”

“Do something to degrade their ability to fight,” said Josef.

“Exactly!” said Dickie. “I’ve been doing a bit of reading— T. E. Lawrence on guerrilla warfare. His Arabs used to strike at the Turkish railways and telegraph lines. Infrastructure attacks, we’d call it.”

“But we cannot attack Hitode itself,” said Alicia. “All of us depend on it to stay alive.”

“If we just creep about sabotaging hydrophones it won’t accomplish much,” said Dickie.

“They have guns,” said Josef. “Microtorp launchers for underwater. Also some kind of pistol.”

“All right, then,” said Dickie, “turn it around. They can’t go blowing things up inside Hitode, either. So that’s the logical place for us to attack.”

“You want to get inside?”

“That’s right. Storm the moon pool and get in. Maybe grab their suits, or sabotage them. That would be a pretty serious blow right there. No way to search for us if they can’t leave Hitode.”

Rob thought it was a terrible idea, but he didn’t have anything better to suggest. He did ask, “Can we do it? There are only three of us.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Dickie. “What about the Ilmatarans?”

“What about them?”

“Would they be willing to help us?”

“Richard, you cannot involve them in our quarrel,” said Alicia.

“No, think about it! Native allies! There’s heaps of examples from history—French and British recruiting Indian tribes in America, T. E. Lawrence and the Arabs—”

“Will you cut it out about freaking Lawrence of Arabia? This isn’t Syria in 1915!” asked Rob angrily.

“Why shouldn’t we involve them?” Graves demanded. “You’ve already gone ahead and made contact. We’ve tossed out all the rules. High time, too.”

“We have not tossed out all the rules,” said Alicia. “We chose to stop obeying the contact restrictions, but that does not mean we can go completely wild.”

“The Sholen think so,” said Graves.

“Do they?” asked Rob. “Dickie, they could be unleashing a dozen different kinds of shit on us if they really thought we were out of control. Remember what happened to Lawrence’s Arab buddies a century or so later, when they started getting all jihad on everyone.”

“That was different,” said Graves, but he sounded uncertain.

“So is this whole situation, which is why trying to be Lawrence of fucking Arabia in an ocean full of aliens is completely stupid. We aren’t going to involve the Ilmatarans, period.”

“We aren’t?” asked Graves. “How can you stop me, Freeman? I’ve got all the language data, and I actually know something about alien communication. I don’t need your permission.”

Rob fumed silently for a moment, then brightened. “Okay, Mr. Language Genius, let’s hear it. Explain what you want to do in Ilmataran number code. You don’t have to tap it out, just give me the numbers.”

“Let me see,” muttered Graves, looking at his own handheld. “One three nine thirty-five.”

“ ‘Ilmataran swimming place not-moving’ is how my computer translates it. I wouldn’t know what that meant if you said it in English.”

“I think immobility includes the concept of death.”

“It is still nonsense,” said Alicia. “In both senses of the word. Would you follow an alien into battle if they were speaking words without meaning?”

Graves was silent for a moment. “All right,” he said at last. “You’ve made your point, both of you. Bugger. We’ll have to do this alone.”

TWENTY- EIGHT hours later, Rob and Dickie Graves swam toward Hitode Station from the south, pushing off from rock to rock in order to avoid making recognizable swimming noises. They kept a secure laser link open, and were using bags to capture the hydrogen bubbles from their APOS packs.

Somewhere far to the north, Josef and Alicia were creeping closer to the station in the sub, getting ready to make a lot of noise before running for the ruins. If everything went according to plan, the Sholen would go haring off in pursuit of the sub and give Rob and Dickie the chance to sneak into Hitode. Rob had synched up timers for everyone, and his was now counting down to the big moment.

From where he and Dickie were hunkered down in the silt, Hitode was visible only as a vague glow beyond a rocky rise ahead. This side had always been a blind spot (or maybe a deaf spot) for the hydrophones, so unless the Sholen had planted more microphones Rob and Dickie could get to the top of the rise before anyone picked up the sound of them swimming.

The counter reached zero. Nothing happened—the little microphones on their sonar units weren’t sensitive enough to pick up submarine engine noises more than a kilometer away. Hitode’s hydrophone net was.

Allow the Sholen a couple of minutes to notice the sound, five minutes to suit up, and another ten minutes to get clear of the station. Then we move, thought Rob. He looked over at Dickie, who had Josef’s underwater pistol clipped to his belt. Rob hoped they could manage the whole little coup by bluff, because Dickie seemed way too eager to pull that trigger.

TIZHOS heard the sound of hurrying Sholen and followed the noise to the dive room, where four Guardians stood still as their suits assembled themselves around their bodies. Irona was already there, holding a large metal box in his middle arms.

Tizhos to Irona.

“The microphones outside detected the Terran submarine,” said Irona. “We prepare to pursue it.”

“The submarine? You know it for certain? Do the sound patterns match?”

“Perfectly. Now please stay out of the way, Tizhos, while the Guardians prepare.”

Tizhos took out her own computer and connected to the station network. After a bit of fiddling she was able to listen to the sound pickups from outside. There was the submarine’s signature, no question about it. What was it doing? She watched the projection of the sound source’s movements and felt puzzled. She pushed her way back to Irona, who was pulling on his own life- support device. “Irona, tell me what purpose the humans attempt to achieve.”

“I assume you mean with the submarine. I have no idea.

They appear to move back and forth just at the edge of detection. Now I must—”

“Irona, I believe the humans attempt to fool us.” He opened his helmet again. “Explain.”

“Nothing else can account for the motions of the submarine.

It looks like someone trying to attract our attention. Note also that the sound comes from just the extreme range of the hydrophones. The humans built those hydrophones; presumably they know very well how far they can hear. This seems like a trick to me.”

With visible reluctance, Irona agreed. “Tell me your idea of the purpose of this activity.”

“I can think of two possibilities. Either they wish to test how well we can make use of the hydrophones, by seeing how we react to this; or they wish to lure the Guardians away from the station. Either way I suggest remaining here as the best course of action. Deny them information and refuse to take the bait they offer.”

Irona considered, then gave off a burst of dominance pheromones. “No, Tizhos. I have a better plan.” He turned to the Guardians, now all suited up. “The humans may plan a trick.

All of you go out, and swim beneath the station supports to the north. Four of you remain hidden under the station; the other two swim noisily to the north no more than two hundred meters. Now: come take your weapons.”

Irona opened the metal box. Inside it Tizhos could see eight stubby, wide-mouthed guns. “Tell me what you have there,” she said.

“A weapon from the last war,” said Irona. “I requested three dozen made from old plans before we left Shalina. Once soldiers fought underwater using weapons like this. They contain four small autonomous vehicles, each of which carries an explosive charge. Direct hits, or even near misses, can kill.”

Each of the Guardians took a weapon from the box. They sat on the edge of the dive pool and checked out the weapons with obvious familiarity. The very fact that they seemed to know so much about them made Tizhos even more nervous. How long had Irona been preparing for a conflict?

“Irona, I question the wisdom of this. A human has died because of us. Handing out weapons only makes things worse.”

“You are mistaken. The humans resist because they still believe in the possibility of defeating us. Once they see we have them outmatched, they must give in. Now: we cannot wait any longer. Go!” he ordered.

The Guardians rolled into the pool one after another and sank out of sight.

“Here,” said Irona, handing Tizhos one of the weapons.

“Put on your suit and come outside. I may need your help.”

ROB and Dickie moved along the sea bottom toward Hitode, no longer swimming but crawling. So far, so good. There had been a bunch of chaotic echoes around the dive pool, then the sound of several swimmers moving off to the north. Now it was quiet around the station.