The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) (15 page)

‘I’ve already done that,’ said Furlong. ‘There is only one. The clone has been identified already.’

‘Clone?’

‘Clone! Cell line. We don’t know which individual is the clone, but they’d all have identical voiceprints – like fingerprints.’

Drum nodded. ‘Then we don’t know how many of them were on the boat. At least two, since they were talking with each other. What cell line?’

Furlong glanced at the report. ‘L.D. – Larry Dever. Here’s his ident number. From the laryngeal resonance he – or they – have reached puberty.’

‘Did you run a check on the members of the L.D. clone that are unaccounted for now?’

‘Yes. There’s quite a number, what with suicides, accidents, and Suspension failures. Positive identification is often impossible. Here’s the list.’

‘Why, there are thousands of them! Some date back hundreds of years,’ exclaimed Drum.

‘That’s understandable – with VS and TS, you know,’ said Ode. He unfolded the list. ‘And here is the original: old Larry Dever himself, right at the top of the list. Why is he here?’

‘No proof of death,’ explained Furlong. ‘CO checked these out. These real old clones are valuable to the Hive – often used when thickness of skin or resistance to infection are needed. The list would be ten times this long if most hadn’t been pitted and trimmed to assure Hive adjustment. We only need to worry about the unpitted, since the voiceprints show a mature larynx. Pituitaries are needed for puberty.’

‘It’s still a long list. Can we narrow it?’

Furlong shrugged. ‘What difference does it make? They’re as interchangeable as any clone litter-mates.’

‘True,’ said Drum. ‘But they’d differ in skills and experience. By avoiding our sensors and escaping Trilobite, they proved that they were pretty clever – far above the average Tweenwaller.’

‘Of course. One of the L.D. clone would be expected to adjust quicker than some poor senile Citizen trying to escape TS.’

‘Well, they’re no longer our problem,’ said Furlong stuffing the papers into his outbox. ‘The sighting on the beach was pretty clear – dinghy plus skulls. I’ve never seen such a big collection of bones in one place before. The Outside environment must be very hostile.’

‘Very.’ Drum and Ode nodded.

‘When will we be getting our dinghy back?’

‘Salvage has the reports. Whenever they get around to it, I suppose.’

Drum sat stiffly on the edge of his cot, slowly flexing his fingers. ‘Looks like the damp work got to my joints again.’ Age clouded his bad lens further, sapping his courage. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to sit this shift out.’

Ode went through his yoga warm-ups. ‘You’ll miss the flavours and perishable calories too. That’ll weaken you even more.’ After checking each toe for corns, he pulled on his boot and went to his Dispenser. ‘Want to try my rheumatism salicylate drink?’

Drum’s groan was too theatrical to be real. He nodded and stood awkwardly, waiting for his hip joints to loosen. ‘Bring me the green drink and show me my shovel.’

Puberty struck Clam a hard blow, wiping away obedience and loyalty. He forgot the teachings of his mother Opal and the Deep Cult. He forgot his place in Benthic tribal life. Manhood had arrived suddenly, turning this young Tad into a sullen, thick-necked male. Only one thought remained – one drive – his hatred of the Hive.

The sunlit Gardens looked harmless enough to Clam. He rode a gentle surf, staying a quarter of a mile offshore. The dangers were there. Deep Cult lessons had been well learned. Flying devil-ships with bowmen would track him. Hive warriors could swarm out of their holes in the ground. He was there to taunt the Hive, to avenge the death of his father – and to prove his manhood.

He arched his body, staying in the foamy wave crest and riding to the beach. A featureless cliff faced him. No artifacts. He picked up a stone and scrambled up to the vegetation. The variety of sparkling fruits stunned him for a moment. Never had he seen so much food at once – acres – no – miles of ripening crops. The sentry tower clicked as it focused sonic and electromagnetic sensors on him. He flung his stone, cracking a lens and sending a shower of sparks to the ground.

‘Come out!’ he shouted. ‘Let me see what kind of Nature’s mistake you are.’

He walked over to the base of the tower. Its legs were wide apart and sturdy. Heavy cables emerged from the ground and entered one of the legs. He kicked at the junction box. The knobs of sensors looked down on him. He studied the box, testing it for movable parts. A clip moved. The lid opened. He pulled a plug. Abruptly the knobs overhead quieted. He inserted the plug. The knobs lived and blinked with nervous cyber energy.

‘So this is the line that carries your life blood,’ he shouted. ‘Let me take it away as you took my father away.’

He picked up his beach stone and crushed the bright fittings in the sockets. The tower remained quiet. A passing harvesting robot did not even pause in its chores. Clam understood from his teachings that these big field machines did little more than tend crops. He watched it pass, respectful of its great size. ‘Tell them that I am here!’ he shouted. The Agromeck trundled out of sight. The sky remained clear. Clam began to eat, cautiously at first; but as the hours dragged by he became more brazen – picking and singing, gathering heaps of bright, colourful fruits: golds, reds, oranges, and purples. He carried several armloads to the beach and sat down among the fragrant, waxy globes. The choppy, disorganized surf reminded him of his transport problem. To avoid his mother’s wrath he had bypassed Halfway and decompressed in one of the level-two domes out on One-Mile Reef. He would need a net bag to tow his harvest that far. He glanced up the cliff. Gardens would provide weaving fibre.

The passing shadow startled him. The devil-ship circled and landed three stone-throws away. A figure emerged, white and bug-eyed; but the shimmering air above the sunbaked beach rocks obscured details. Clam shook his fist and shouted, but the figure disappeared into the irregular angles of the chalky cliff. The ship’s anterior optics gave it a bug-like appearance. It was smaller than he had expected – probably holding no more than six Hunters. He shook his fist, and it flew away. The beach was quiet – empty.

Clam shrugged and climbed up into the greenery, where he bundled grass and vines into small bales. The Hunter watched through his bowscope. As he pulled back on the string Clam’s image appeared double. Too far. He stalked closer and again pulled the bowstring. The image fused. He set up his twelve-foot wind-drift pole and plugged it into his bow. The 12× eyepiece clicked into place.

Clam stumbled down the cliff with his arms wrapped around a huge stack of itchy weaving materials. He peered over his burden. The distant Hunter was now standing out in the open on the beach. The approaching arrow was invisible in the dancing heat. It knocked him backwards, bouncing on smooth stones. His scalp ached. The sun hurt his eyes. He looked up at the perpendicular shaft. His sternum hurt, but only a little. The arrowhead was embedded in one of the fibreglass bales. He lay still. Now he understood how the Hive had killed his father – and his grandfather before him. Their weapon could reach out from a great distance. It was deadly, and yet a bundle of grass as thick as his chest had stopped it. Footsteps approached, crunching gravel. Clam’s eyes remained closed. He breathed slowly. A breeze rustled the leaves on his bundles.

The feet were close. A pebble rolled against his thigh. His hand found a stone and he leaped. The Hunter stumbled back and fell. The longbow clattered. Clam raised the stone and struck the helmeted head again and again. The goggles dented. One went off-grey.

Clam entered Halfway and proudly set the battered helmet at the feet of Listener.

‘I have entered the Gardens and returned with food. I have slain our enemy.’

Listener looked up through the ceiling at the long shadow of a woven melon raft tied to the buoy. ‘You have done well, Clam. You are a man.’ The acceptance of the youngster’s exploits was ritual. ‘Put stones in the raft until it sinks. Bring it into the domes before the devil-ships see it.’

While Clam hauled ballast, the shaggy old Listener brought out his tools and began to examine the helmet. He tried it on. Voices filled his head. Hive voices. ‘Give your location,’ they said. ‘Press your homing button.’ He took it off, placing it on a shelf reverently. The goggles stared blankly. ‘It still lives,’ he mumbled.

Big Har came upon Opal in a level-two umbrella. She was coughing and holding her side.

‘I came up too fast,’ she said sheepishly. ‘Little Clam left the Deep Cult two days ago. They think he was on his way to the Gardens. I must try to find him.’

Har put a protective arm on her shoulder. ‘You are endangering your other child – our unborn. You must go back to level four until your pain goes away. Can you make it?’

She coughed. ‘Clam? What if Clam needs me?’

‘You’ll be of no help to him this way. Let me help you dive. I will check Halfway. We will find him.’

Her sputum was streaked with pink. The pain in her side doubled her up. ‘You are right, my mate. I will do as you ask.’

Har threw his tow rope over his left shoulder and settled it on his tow-head – a calloused bursa covered with thickened skin. The fluid-filled bursal sac padded the coarse rope fibre. As they dived into the squeeze the pains vanished. She smiled and waved as he returned to level two.

Two young males, members of the Crab family, passed him on their way from Halfway. They towed much fruit.

‘When Clam eats – everyone eats,’ shouted the young euphoric Benthic. Listener’s raft was still overloaded and awash with Garden produce. ‘I could fill this dome to the ceiling.’

Har studied the arrow. He had seen optic records of hunts on entertainment channels, but had no idea of the actual size and weight of the arrowhead. The broad hunting barbs surprised him. ‘A bundle of grass stopped this?’

Clam grinned, happy to tell the story again. ‘Yes. The only marks I have are these scratches on my chest.’ There, over the centre of the sternum was a star-shaped bruise – dead centre!

‘How much grass?’

Clam made a loop with his arms. Har nodded.

‘Was the Hunter an average-sized Citizen?’

Clam didn’t know how Citizens compared with Benthics. He stood up and made a horizontal, palm-down motion at mid-chest height – about four feet.

Har nodded. That was average. ‘How did he look without his helmet?’

‘Small, soft, and white – no chin. Not many bones at all. He broke up when I jumped on him.’

Har stepped over a heap of bean pods and sat beside Listener. The Hunter’s longbow, belt, and kit lay spread out before them. The empty-eyed helmet gazed at them from a shelf. Har picked up the bow and sighted through the scope. Cross-hairs glowed. As he pulled back the string, the depth of focus changed, giving him the weapon’s range. ‘Clever,’ he said, showing the mechanism to Listener. They sorted through the gear, understanding little.

‘I think we should destroy most of these things, if we are not sure how they work,’ said Har. ‘Hive tools can be very small and very, very clever. One of these could lead Hunters right to us.’

Listener nodded. ‘There seems to be little to worry about right now. Listen to the helmet. They don’t even know their man is dead.’

Har tried on the headgear. The voice was monotonous, repetitious – a meck. ‘That is his ship – the devil-craft – calling.’

The dome fell silent as all eyes turned towards the ceiling. Overhead, the sun glinted through two fathoms of clear water. The sky seemed clear.

Listener pulled on the helmet. ‘Perhaps I can tell how far away it is.’

More Benthics arrived and took their portion of Clam’s harvest. Har picked at a belt circuit board. Clam began filling a special net bag with choice items he had saved for Opal.

Listener frowned and handed Har the helmet. ‘I’m picking up something on all bands. It’s odd. I’ve never heard anything quite like it.’

Har listened thoughtfully. ‘Sounds more like music than interference.’ He spun the dials through the different channel bands. There was no change. ‘I think the communicator is just malfunctioning . . .’

‘Then so is the web. I’m getting the same thing over here,’ said Listener with his old bulky earphones. ‘And it is getting louder.’

The murmur of conversation stilled as the fruit-sorting Benthics quieted and lifted their heads from the piles of food.

‘They hear it too . . .’

Har jumped to his feet. ‘I don’t like it at all. QUICK! Everyone leave the dome. Dive for level five. Dive! Dive!’

The dome was empty a second later. A few dislodged melons drifted to the surface.

Trilobite’s long-forgotten prayer was finally answered with a shower of falling stars that filled the electromagnetic spectra with song and the seas with plankton.

The glowing meteor trail lit the night sky.
Rorqual
’s long ear twitched. Booming mushrooms of flame pocked the dark Ocean.
Rorqual
’s consciousness flickered as her sensor thresholds were violated. She sucked hydrogen isotopes – the Big H – from the sea to feed her growing belly fires. Her strength returned. Flexing and squirming, she began to worm her flanks out of the imprisoning silt. Warmth filled her hull. Her deep dish-eyes rose out of the blinding olivine and gazed into the lagoon. The waters had changed. Incoming spectra were fuzzed by nanoplankton.

She pulled away from the island. Roots and vines snapped. Tree trunks split. She re-entered the sea, carrying a hump of vegetation firmly locked into her back by gnarled woody roots. Salty, windblown spray followed the roots through damaged plates and burned her vitals – until layers of electroplating and oxides crusted over the sensitive, exposed circuits.

Joyfully she toiled the straits, raking and pumping. Only faint traces soiled her membranes during the first year, but her chromatographs identified all the amino acids. Protein had returned to the sea. Growth bloomed. During the second season larger creatures were caught on her rakes – soft copepods, heteropods with bizarre, delicate shells, chaetognaths, and dino-flagellates. Earth Society would be pleased with her harvest. Man would be pleased.