World of Water (23 page)

It wasn’t just the subs that were being devoured either. The bodies of the Ice King worshippers were getting nibbled and slowly pulled apart. One of them even became the rope in a gruesome three-way tug of war between a trio of shark-like monstrosities. They yanked it this way and that until an arm tore loose, and then the remainder of the corpse was sundered it two at the waistline.

At some distance from this grisly banquet, Ethel and her allies were gathered in the shadow of the two manta subs, which hovered dumbly above them, providing shelter with their giant, gently wafting wings. Ethel had dressed the wound on her shoulder using a sponge and strips of something that looked like seagrass.

The pilots of the seahorse sub had perished along with their craft. One of the anglerfish sub’s pilots had been killed too. The other had survived, sustaining a broken arm during the hammering assault by the swordfish sub.

With the addition of Ethel’s cousin, that meant four bodies now waited to be given Tritonian last rites.

It wasn’t a funeral service as such, but it had a ceremonial aspect to it and was conducted with all due solemnity. The bodies were lined up in a row and each was assigned some personal belonging of their own, a single item which was attached to them by a tether of braided kelp. In the case of Ethel’s cousin it was his knife. For another of the bodies it was a bivalve shell with a drawing of a relative etched into its nacreous interior. Treasured possessions for the dead to take with them to their watery graves.

The mourners, led by Ethel, announced each body one after another by name, celebrating their respective characters. Her cousin, it transpired, had been brave and steadfast with a wicked humorous streak.

Then, their faces shining a solemn greyish blue, the Tritonians drew knives and slid the blades through the corpses’ ribcages deep into their chests, with practised precision. Blood came out but also a stream of bubbles, and Dev realised that the bodies’ swim bladders, which occupied pretty much the same space inside them as a human’s lungs, had been pierced. The bubbles were the gas inside the sacs escaping.

The bodies began to sink. The mourners watched them descend with dashes of turquoise farewell cutting through the grieving blue on their cheeks and foreheads.

Afterwards, Ethel swam over to Dev.

We’re coming with you, all of us
, she said.
The others have agreed to be a part of your mission.

Thank them for me.

Where are you intending to go?

Further south, most likely. That’s where the focus of the insurgent activity is.

We’ll follow.

Where’s the kid?

In my manta sub. Still unconscious, securely tied up. He’s going nowhere.

What do you plan on doing with him?

I ought to return him to his drift cluster, wherever that may be. Send him home. Let his people deal with him as they see fit. It would be the fair and conscientious thing to do. But I’m not feeling very fair or conscientious towards him right now. Besides, the detour will cost us time, and you’d probably prefer not to have any more delays.

For what it’s worth, I think we should hang on to him anyway,
Dev said.
If he knows anything more about the Ice King and the Ice King’s worshippers, anything at all, it’ll be useful. We can pump him for information when he comes round.

Ethel signalled agreement.
I hope we don’t have to use force to get him to talk. Then again, in some ways I hope we do.

34

B
ACK ABOARD THE
Reckless Abandon
once more, Dev found Handler up on the flybridge, seemingly staring into the distance. It was the trance-like gaze of someone in the middle of a commplant conversation.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked.

Handler blinked and held up a finger. After several seconds, he said, “Captain Maddox. I’ve just been letting him know where we are.”

“Geographically or figuratively?”

“Both.”

“I’d have thought that was Sigursdottir’s job, not yours.”

Handler looked furtive. “Maddox asked me to send him updates,” he confessed finally.

“About me,” said Dev.

“Yes. Not that he doesn’t trust you, I hasten to add, but he’s given you a squad of Marines...”

“And he wants to know, from a third-party source, that I’m taking good care of them. I haven’t broken the toys he lent me to play with. Understandable, I suppose.”

“I should have said something. I would have, if Maddox hadn’t told me to keep it strictly between him and me. I feel like I’ve betrayed you.”

Dev shrugged. “It’s all right. Maddox seems like a hard man to say no to.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Why don’t you bring me in on the conversation? I might as well have a word with the grumpy old bastard myself.”

“You won’t tell him you know? He’ll go mad if he finds out I’ve given the game away.”

“Promise.”

“Okay then.”

Dev felt a tiny cerebral
pop
, like an airlock opening, as his commplant was patched in to Handler’s.

Captain Maddox. Hope you don’t mind me horning in. I assume you called Handler because you’ve been having trouble getting hold of me.

Yes. He says you’ve been underwater a lot. Incommunicado.

I have.

And I hear there’ve been some shenanigans.

If by shenanigans you mean progress, then yes.

A pitched battle of some sort? Tritonian versus Tritonian?

The upshot of which is that I’ve recruited allies from among the indigenes. They can provide insider intel and they’re well motivated to support us both tactically and logistically.

Fair enough. Always good to have some locals in your pocket. Hearts and minds. Even so, I’d watch my back if I were you. Can’t trust sea monkeys, any of them. Slippery buggers in every sense.

Noted, but what we have here is a “my enemy’s enemy” scenario. These are Tritonians who want the insurgency reined in every bit as much as we do.

If you say so. Handler also tells me you’re having a spot of bother with your host form. Sustainability issues. Specifics?

You don’t really want to know the specifics. They’re pretty grim, trust me. Bleeding. Pain. Lost teeth. I’m half expecting a leg to fall off at any moment.

He’s keeping you going, though?

Handler butted in eagerly.

Regular shots of stabilising nucleotides, Captain Maddox. I think they’re helping.

Not making it worse, at least. They’re the maintenance this old banger needs to keep it on the road. Actually, captain, you’ve been on-planet a while, haven’t you?

Maddox transmitted a heartfelt sigh.

Too long, it feels like sometimes.

I’d like to run something past you, if that’s okay. You too, Handler. This Ice King business...

Ah yes. That. Superstitious bullshit, of course. The terrorists’ little fantasy. Their god. Like Polis Plus and their Singularity. Ugh. Carte blanche for evil.

It’s fair to say there’s a level of conviction among these fanatics that’s easily the equal of the Plussers’. It might even be greater.

So?

Well, I’ve just heard a reference to “the ice at the heart of the world”. It’s where the Ice King is supposed to be sleeping.

Again, so?

So, just spitballing here, but what if there’s a place? An actual location that’s, I don’t know, sacred to the Ice King’s worshippers. Somewhere they go to pay their respects and say prayers and do whatever else they do to earn his favour. Some sort of church or temple that’s perhaps also a refuge.

Somewhere that matches the description “the ice at the heart of the world”?

That’s what I’m thinking. How about one of the ice caps? Somewhere in the polar regions, at least?

Handler chipped in.

Triton does have ice masses at the poles, but they’re not huge and they’re subject to seasonal variations. In summer they shrink from around 20,000 square kilometres to a quarter that size.

It’s summer now.

Midsummer, almost, and on top of that the planet’s in an interglacial period, a geological epoch between ice ages. The ice caps are pretty much as small and thin as they could ever be, just a fragile crust on the sea’s surface, a scattering of broken-up floes. It’s highly unlikely anyone has sited a temple there.

Granted, but you never know. It’s occurred to me, you see, that the insurgents might have a home base they operate out of.

Captain Maddox responded to that idea with enthusiasm.

I like the sound of this. Somewhere we can hit them, you’re saying. Where their leaders and main players congregate. The head of the monster. Cut it off and the insurgency’s dead.

Handler came back in.

Not really the
heart
of the world, is it, though? An ice cap. That’s more the top of the world. Or the bottom.

Maybe I misinterpreted the remark. Maybe something got lost in translation.

Or maybe it’s literally the heart of the world. The core.

Go on, Handle With Care. Sounds like you’ve had a eureka moment.

Triton used to be an ice giant, remember? And there’s ice at the very centre of it still. I’m talking a solid ball of permafrost several thousand kilometres in diameter, the nub of ice that was left after the planet greenhoused. A significant amount of that is methane clathrate, a form of frozen water with methane trapped in its crystalline structure.

The same methane the settlers extract and use for boat fuel.

And the same methane whose release contributed significantly to Triton’s atmospheric warming all those millions of years ago.

Which gave us this charming world of water we’re all enjoying being on so much. Any chance that ice ball might be where the insurgents go to hole up?

A couple of dozen kilometres down? Where the pressures are so immense they’d crush you flat in an instant? I very much doubt it.

Fair point.

No, what I’m getting at is, is this the truth behind the God Beneath the Sea myth?

The whole thing’s a metaphor?

Yes. The Ice King
is
the creator, but only in the sense that he’s the methane gas that made Triton what it is now. The Tritonians have anthropomorphised a global geological event into a divinity. He’s the embodiment of the warming process that resulted in the environment they now inhabit. He’s a racial-memory narrative of how the world as they know it came to be.

And he’s still ‘sleeping’, as it were, in the ice core. He’s the latent methane. I get it.

If we look at the Ice King symbol in that light, it takes on a new meaning.

Those bits at the bottom aren’t lightning forks. They’re arrows. They show the direction the methane took, permeating upward into the atmosphere.

Seems reasonable to assume.

Well, so much for the myth. After all that, it’s nothing but hot air.

Maddox laughed, with a touch of ruefulness.

Oh, well. No convenient terrorist base for us to take out.

Shame. I really thought I was on to something.

Your best bet, Harmer, if you want my advice, is simply to stay on course. Keep going south and do whatever you can in the Triangle Towns region. Word of warning, though.

Bad news? I can never have enough of that.

Weather satellites are indicating a severe low-pressure system building in the Tropics of Lei Gong, with a high-pressure system coalescing around it. That’s a recipe for a typhoon. You’ll want to keep an eye on that.

You’re right, I will.

Also, do you know about the syzygy conjunction?

When Triton and its moons line up in a row? Please don’t tell me that’s happening as well.

Due tomorrow.

Shit. Really?

Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.

Will there be a storm?

Uncertain. Syzygy storms can’t be predicted. You can’t be sure if one’s going to crop up, let alone where. Too many variables. But there’s always a chance, especially down there in Lei Gong.

The way things have gone so far, I wouldn’t bet against it. Fuck my fucking luck.

Triton’s not been a bed of roses for you, has it, Harmer?