A Darkling Sea (27 page)

Longpincer’s apprentices haul on the rope to keep the floating shelter in the right position as the Builders lower it. Broadtail goes over to inspect it before they tie off. Work is better than remembering his lost property.

As he runs his eating-tendrils along the rope, making sure there is no slackness, Broadtail wonders if Builder 1 and the other strangers have any feelings as deep and unbreakable as the bond between an adult and his home. Certainly the strangers move about with little sign of grief for their lost shelter. Do they have homes in whatever faraway place they come from? Perhaps they do—in which case all their shelters in the ocean are like a traveler’s quarters.

Broadtail intends to ask Builder 1 about this, although he is not certain the stranger knows enough words to understand the question.

TIZHOS waited alone in the cold ocean more than a kilometer from the station. She had only her helmet spotlight to keep the darkness at bay. She tapped the control in her hand and the big portable hydrophone unit began blaring its message into the water.

The humans had more sensitive hearing than any Sholen, and even they had been unable to duplicate the spoken language of the Ilmatarans. Tizhos hadn’t even bothered. Instead she had concentrated on creating a Sholen-to-Ilmataran lexicon based on the native beings’ written number code, using the Sholen-to-English dictionary and the captured notes.

The method was horribly inelegant and cumbersome, and it required literate Ilmatarans to understand it. Tizhos had no way to know if all the inhabitants of the region even used the same number code to write with. If they didn’t, she might be broadcasting gibberish, or horrible insults.

And if they weren’t literate at all, she was simply advertising her position to any hostile native or predator within hearing range. With the hydrophone cranked up to maximum volume that meant nearly five kilometers.

Tizhos had her all-purpose tool in her lower left hand, set to knife mode, but she didn’t think it would do her much good if something like an
Aenocampus
or a band of Ilmatarans with spears decided to attack her.

STRONGPINCER hears a sound. It’s a rhythmic tapping or clicking. He can’t quite figure out what is making it. It doesn’t quite sound like someone hitting something, or clicking pincers. He moves clear of the rocks where he is resting with his little band and listens.

Numbers. It’s sounding out numbers. That means an adult, probably a towndweller. The noise is a long way off, which means it’s very loud. Why is someone making numbers so loudly?

He remembers raiding the schoolmaster’s place, and listening to the old teacher telling the young ones about making words by tying knots in strings.

“Smallbody!” he calls. “Come up here!”

Smallbody scrambles up to the top of the rock.

“What does that noise say?”

Smallbody is silent, straining to hear. “It says ’Adults ocean approach food adults multiple food.’ ”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure.”

“ ‘Multiple food,’ you say? That sounds fine with me. Wake

TIZHOS was about to give up and go back to the station when her sonar unit started clicking. She called up the visual display and saw a group of large creatures approaching swiftly. They were drawn up in a crescent formation, and held the alignment as they came. Ilmatarans.

Her suit stank of fear, and the hand gripping her all-purpose tool ached from tension. But she resisted the urge to flee. Instead she touched the control unit and turned down the volume on the hydrophone. No sense in deafening her guests.

THIS is utterly strange, Strongpincer thinks. No adults within hearing, or if there are, they are hiding. Just a large animal and some made objects sitting on the sea bottom making noise.

Strongpincer halts his band when they’re about three bodylengths from the thing. The repeating message stops, there is a brief silence, then a different pattern of clicks.

Smallbody translates. “ ‘Me and multiple adults are a group.’ ”

“I remember you going to a school,” Strongpincer says to Smallbody. “Do you know what that thing is?”

“No. I don’t even remember anyone telling me about anything like that. But it’s making numbers.”

Strongpincer doesn’t like being puzzled. “Kill it, save the meat, take the stuff.” He starts forward, choosing where he will stab it.

The numbers are replaced by a horrible noise, like the schoolmaster’s noisemaker but even louder. It is like being bashed in the head with a huge stone. Strongpincer clutches the sea bottom with his legs and flattens himself into the silt, not daring to move.

The noise stops. When Strongpincer can hear again, he pings. The others are all hunkered down as well. The thing is still standing before them. It touches some of its objects and the number clicking begins again.

“Smallbody,” Strongpincer pings. “What is it saying?”

“ ‘Adults fold pincers.’ ”

“Tell it we agree. Then ask it what it wants.”

A long exchange of clicks and pings between Smallbody and the thing. Finally Smallbody says, “It’s hard to understand it, but I think it wants to hire us.”

“Hire us?”

“Yes, it says it has tools and rope and things for us if we do what it asks.”

“What does it want us to do?”

After some clicking, Smallbody answers, “It wants us to go to villages and talk to other adults.”

Strongpincer feels himself grow calmer. “We can do that. Now let’s talk about the price.”

TIZHOS led the Ilmatarans back to the station. It was not her idea. She was getting tired and cold, and her suit stank despite the pheromone filters. When she finally packed up her things to go, the Ilmatarans tagged along. At Hitode they camped around the nuclear power unit’s heat exchanger, snatching up some of the small swimmers that lived in the warm outflow, and scraping microorganisms off the rocks nearby.

She pulled off her suit and dried off, then went to talk with Irona. She would have preferred to eat and rest first, but she knew he would come and bother her if she didn’t report in.

“As you requested, I avoided speaking of any scientific matters. They do not know where we come from. Interestingly, these Ilmatarans did not display much curiosity about that, either. They seemed more interested in getting as much food and as many tools as they could in exchange for helping.”

Irona gave an approving gesture, but added, “Try to keep the number of tools small. Give them food or consumables. Leave as little trace of our presence as possible.”

Tizhos tried to keep from taking an irritated posture. “I have identified some problems with doing that. They do not seem to enjoy what our foodmaker produces. Giving them food would require someone to catch native organisms.”

“What about all these things the humans have stockpiled? They have hundreds of native creatures in jars or frozen.”

“You would let the Ilmatarans
eat
those samples?”

“I doubt we can afford the propellant to take them all back to Shalina. We will incinerate as much as possible.”

For once Tizhos is glad that she reeks of Ilmataran seawater, because it’s all she can do to keep from flooding the room with hostile scents. She even feels a slight urge to bite Irona. But she controls her feelings and says only, “The humans treated those samples with preservatives. I do not believe the Ilmatarans can eat them anymore.”

“Ah, well. You really cannot think of anything consumable we can give the natives?”

“No. But I doubt giving them tools would cause any problems. We can restrict our gifts to things like ropes, bags, knives, and nets. The Ilmatarans have all those things already; only the materials would differ, and since they have no way to make things of metal or polymers, the objects would not affect their society. In a few years, when the ropes and nets wear out and the knives corrode, no trace of us will remain.”

“I suppose so. Very well—I approve.”

“I do have one other thing to request. Could you arrange for some of the Guardians to give a demonstration of their weapons for the Ilmatarans?”

“Why?”

“I want these Ilmatarans to understand that we can harm them. I do not trust them. They appear to be a small, heavily armed band, traveling far from civilization and in no hurry to get anywhere. I suspect some community may have exiled them for some crime.”

“Some kind of breakaway group?”

“Or social predators. Possibly both— they may follow a consensus based on using force against nonmembers.”

“Ah, yes. A common feature of primitive societies,” said Irona.

“Indeed,” said Tizhos without a hint of sarcasm. “So a demonstration of our weapons would make it much easier to prevent conflict.”

“I approve. Now go and get some food and rest, Tizhos. You look exhausted.”

STRONGPINCER and Shellcrusher approach the town cautiously. Strongpincer doesn’t remember ever robbing anyone around here, but news does travel and townies are always suspicious. This is the third town he remembers visiting on this journey. The two of them are working their way along the edge of the shallows, cutting across the rifts. Strongpincer figures news would travel easily along the rift trade routes.

A youngster on patrol at the edge of town stops them. “What is your business in Bubbling Vent?”

“Trade,” says Strongpincer. “We have goods from Deep Fissure and the waters beyond the Shallow Basin.”

The youngster pings them, loud enough to hear what they’ve been eating. “All right. You may pass into the town. Private lands are marked with stones. Town law applies in common areas. Only town militia may carry spears longer than their bodies. Interfering with drag nets means you must replace the lost catch and repair any damage.”

“We promise to follow your laws.”

The town is small, but it sits on a trade route so is likely to get lots of news. Strongpincer leads Shellcrusher to the market, an open space downcurrent of the main vent. There are only a few other vendors: another traveling trader with a string of immature towfins, one of the locals selling stingers, and a schoolmaster with some apprentices for sale. Strongpincer finds a clear spot near the stinger-seller and lays out his wares.

The odd flavor of his items diffusing through the water draws some business. First some idle apprentices and tenant workers come to feel what he’s got. Then the landowners drift over.

“You’re selling string?” asks one, feeling a reel of the strangers’ cable with his feeding tendrils.

“It’s as thin as string, but stronger than any rope.”

“Nonsense,” says the landowner.

“Break it, then,” says Strongpincer. “You can have as much as you can break off the reel.”

The landowner’s a burly fellow with heavy pincers worn blunt by digging. He wraps a couple of loops of the cord around each pincer and pulls. He pulls harder. He pulls until his joints grind and the thick shell of his pincers begins to creak under the strain.

“That is tough!”

“It’s flexible, too. You can knit it into nets which can hold anything.”

“How much?” the burly fellow asks.

“Ten beads for a pincer’s length.” It’s a ridiculous price. Normally cord is priced by the cable-length, not the pincer-length. But nobody objects. Burly asks for five lengths.

“How do you cut it?” asks an apprentice.

Strongpincer is glad the youth asked. “With this!” he whips out another alien tool—an kind of artificial pincer made of something harder than stone but as light as shell. He grips the handles in his pincers and snips off a length of cord.

They do great business, selling cord, some of the cutting tools, and some incredibly strong awls. Shellcrusher begins to complain of hunger, so Strongpincer sends her with some beads to buy food. She comes back with cakes of roe and a couple of bunches of worms. Strongpincer lets her eat first, then leaves her in charge of the stall while he crawls aside to enjoy his own food.

A local approaches. From her grooved pincers Strongpincer guesses she’s the town rope-twister. She sits beside Strongpincer and listens to him eating for a while.

“That’s amazing cord you’ve got,” she says.

“Stronger than anything.”

“I remember examining it after buying a reel. It feels like a single fiber, not a twisted cord. And it doesn’t taste like anything I recognize. Where does it come from?”

“Very far away,” says Strongpincer.

“That’s right—don’t tell anyone. You’ve got a nice thing going and don’t want to spoil it. I understand completely.”

Strongpincer decides it’s time. “It’s difficult, selling my stuff town to town. I don’t know what’s in demand and there are bandits in the cold water. I don’t know when I’m getting cheated or when I’m asking too much. I worry about townsfolk robbing me.”

“A merchant’s life is full of uncertainty,” she agrees.

“I remember hearing about strange creatures,” he says. “Things nobody remembers anything about. Do you recall hearing anything like that?”

“Strange creatures? Are you interested in things of that sort? Because Spinylegs is the fellow you should talk with, then.”

“Why?”

“He likes to learn about things. I believe he knows about every kind of creature in the sea. And anything he can’t recall touching himself is in one of his reels of writing. I expect he’s got more cord than I do, but all tied in knots.”

Strongpincer is puzzled. “Why? Is he a schoolmaster?”

“No, he just likes to know things. And he’s a landowner so he can afford to waste beads on it.”

A fool, Strongpincer decides. But possibly a useful one. If this landowner likes to waste his wealth learning things, maybe he knows what Strongpincer is trying to discover. “Where does he live?”

“He has the Great Stone property—but he’s not there now. Nobody but apprentices running the place.”

“Well where is he, then?”

“He’s on a journey A friend of his called Longpincer has a big property downcurrent from here about a thousand cables. Spinylegs visits him to talk about animals and plants and old things.”

“Downcurrent along the rift?”

“Yes. If you plan to go there, be sure to mention I’m sending you.”