by Larry Niven
Chief Engineer Jorge Daytona raised his hand, and at a nod from the Speaker said “Yes, sir, but we’re sure not seeing many signs of it. I see a dam on the mainland, but there’s no city, and I don’t know why they need all that power.”
“I know, and it is a bit disturbing,” Speaker Augustus said. “Jorge, what do you make of that?”
“It’s a puzzlement, Speaker Augustus,” Daytona said. He sniffed. “So is their silence after the initial contact. But if there is any large population on that planet, it’s hiding. Most signs of life are on one island off the mainland. There’s agriculture there, but not enough cultivated land to feed more than a few hundred people. I presume they have other sources of food, possibly the planet evolved something they can eat, but those activities—such as herding—can’t be very large or we’d see them. And that’s it! No other cultivation or husbandry we can see. An orbiting spacecraft, but no industries, no power grid, scattered villages but no roads between them, no industry, and nothing to indicate growing population at all. That’s what I’m seeing, and I don’t think Captain Meadows has seen anything more.”
“But surely they must have awakened more people,” Speaker Augustus said. “Of course, they have power to keep them frozen, but why would they? Trudy, have you any thoughts?”
“None, Your Grace. Of course they didn’t intend to build an industrial civilization quickly, but they’re growing really slowly. From what Captain Meadows has shown me, they can’t have more than two thousand people awake. If that many.”
“Why would they want more?” Narrator Shantel asked.
Trudy looked at her tablet computer for the video record, but it was clear from her voice that she knew her subject by heart. She always did when she addressed the Speaker. “The computer says that the minimum number to assure long-term survival would be seven hundred fertile women and somewhat fewer fertile men, but that risks genetic deterioration. There are a number of theories on how many are required for genetic stability, but the lowest requires more than three thousand fertile females, and over a thousand fertile males.”
“No way there are that many,” Jorge Daytona said.
“But they wouldn’t need them all now,” Marco Shantel said. “They could wake up more each generation. All they have to do is not marry their cousins.”
Trudy flashed a bright smile at Shantel. “Well, yes, Marco. I never thought of that.” She looked thoughtful. “Of course Major Stype says they may not believe in marriage.”
The Speaker turned toward Stype, recently promoted to Major and now a senior officer. “Why would you say that, Gloria?”
“Well, your grace, Geographic was built and financed by rich libertines, and that’s mostly who went aboard, asleep or awake. Why would they believe in marriage?”
Trudy laughed. “No reason, I guess, but most women do, you know.”
“And we can discuss this another time. Captain, an assignment. You will plan your approach to Geographic. Use at least two craft. One will hold you and what crew you believe you will need. If you have reason to believe they will use weapons against you and you wish to employ a decoy under remote control, you may do so. Have ready a different craft able to convey me and five of my staff to join you and greet the inhabitants if we are invited aboard Geographic. In any case you and several armed warriors will be the first to enter. Trudy comes aboard after you are assured all is well, and I will join you only after she approves. Come discuss this plan with me at your convenience. You are authorized to defend yourselves, but only with the absolute certainty that you are under attack. You will not make the first hostile move, nor will you do anything that a rational being would interpret as beginning hostility. Is this understood?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“I sense uncertainty. Trudy, you will accompany the first boarding party. Captain, you will not act without her authorization. This is a direct order.”
“But—yes, Your Grace.”
“Everyone else, continue to observe the planet. Look for camouflage and concealment. Look for roads. Look for suitable places where we might send a landing party to establish a secure base, and see what defenses if any they have.”
“Good,” Narrator Shantel said. “Really good.”
♦ ChaptEr 12 ♦
what about thor?
The sleep capsules were snug, but comfortable for two people who were . . companionable. Joanie, as it turned out, was very friendly indeed.
And now she was happy as well. “Well,” she burbled, “that was the product as advertised.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well . . there’s been speculation, of course. The ladies wondered if that hot body was all show and no action. It’s odd that no one seems to talk about you in . . that way.”
“I’m shy.”
“Not so that I’ve noticed.” She wiggled against him, seeking heat.
And finding it. “Hmmm. What about Thor?”
“He isn’t around.”
“You’re going to tell him?”
“If he asks,” she said. “I doubt he will.”
“Hmmm.”
She shifted her body so that her arm rested heavily across her chest. They were both tired. It had started as angry, competitive sex . . and then morphed into something genuinely joyous and playful. But . . athletic. His tailbone and knees had taken a beating.
He felt himself drifting away, and was happy to let himself do that. It felt as if there was a tightly wound spring inside him, and it had just come unwound enough to feel the pressure. He guessed that Joanie had been smart enough for both of them.
“No. Today we can hope that there is happy company coming.”
Her fingers wandered south. His sharp intake of breath told him he wasn’t as tired as he thought. “What say we celebrate early?”
“Why not?”
♦ ChaptEr 13 ♦
autopsy
The biology shack’s air conditioning labored a bit in summer, but the freezer itself remained in fine working condition. Little Shaka shivered in anticipation of deeper cold to come . . and perhaps something else. “So let’s get it out of the freezer.”
“Right away,” his assistant said. Mitsuko Une was tall, strong and smart, and as fascinated by the workings of living creatures as her father had ever been. They understood each other. They opened the door, and mist rolled out. A cold, dead grendel stared up at them. The pincer-strategy predator Cadzie had brought back from the mainland, examined at last.
They rolled it into the main room, and used an overhead manual winch system to position it on the dissection table. Little Shaka said, “Now . . what we’re looking for is a reason this lovely behaves differently.”
“I’m assuming that it is within natural variance for grendels,” Mitsuko said. “We’ve seen a lot of strange things over the years.”
“Communal behavior?” Little Shaka asked. “Strategic thinking?”
“On the level of lions, perhaps,” she said. “Wolves. Nothing to get excited about.”
They began their scan, the entire procedure being simultaneously beamed up to Geographic.
“All right,” Little Shaka said. “We have a predacious demi-reptile, two point eight meters in length, approximately one hundred seventy kilos in weight.”
“Roughly comparable to a crocodile in size,” his father Big Shaka said from his corner stool. He leaned forward on his cane, eyes bright even if his smallish body was now weak. “Which, fortunately, means little to you. Reptile on Earth, all jaws, very strong. We didn’t bring any.”
“And this is a grendel, and relatively unremarkable. Hooked tail. A female, of course.”
“And fully mature, I would estimate ten years old. Prime of its life.”
“Are we looking for anything else here?” Little Shaka asked.
“No. No. Let’s go on. Hold it . . .” Mitsuko’s voice trailed off. That was her “concentration” tone, and he knew it well.
“What’s that?” he asked.
She hummed. A happy sound as she poked around in the cranial cavity. “Carlos, are you seeing this?”
“I’m seeing it,” Carlos said, “but I’m not sure what I’m looking at.”
“I do.”
“What?”
“Not just a sinus. That’s a home for a fluke.”
“Flukes can nest in ordinary grendel brains. What are you saying?”
“That these grendels are adapted for flukes,” Joan said. “More than that. Open it up.”
Scalpels emerged. Cold grendel flesh was divided at the razor’s edge.
“Whoa,” Little Shaka whispered. A frozen fluke, nestled in a distorted skull case.
“I see what you’re saying. This fluke didn’t enter the grendel in adulthood.”
“Absolutely not,” Big Shaka said, studying the projection screen. “These flukes entered at the samlon stage.”
Mitsuko considered. “That means that either the flukes mature at a different rate—”
“No,” Little Shaka said, cutting her short. “That’s exactly what it means.”
“What are you talking about, Shaka?” Carlos asked.
“That if these flukes grew at the rate our flukes grow, they would kill samlon by expanding faster than the skulls could accommodate. So the implication is that these flukes grow at a rate that is nonlethal for the infant host.”
“The cranial cavity suggests that the grendels are adapted to the flukes, as well,” Carlos said.
“What we’re seeing,” Mitsuko said, “is evidence of coevolution. Synergy. Not a parasite, but a symbiote. This would take thousands of generations of natural selection. It’s old stuff.”
“What are you implying?”
“That what we see here might be the natural state of grendels on this planet. The ones our grandparents dealt with were the aberrations. Basically, retarded grendels.”
Little Shaka was dubious. “You are talking as if the flukes are a part of the grendel life cycle.”
Mitsuko grinned. “This is really, really cool, the first evidence we’ve seen of anything like this on Avalon.” She paused. “Certainly nothing like this on Earth.”
“Evidence of what?” Joanie asked.
“I suspect this is deliberate intervention. Someone or something was breeding smart grendels.”
“Why in the hell would anyone do something as suicidal as that?”
“I have no idea,” Carlos said.
“And who? There’s no one to have done it.”
Carlos became serious. “They’re not here. Maybe the grendels ate them every one.”
“So . . .” Little Shaka mused. “We have actual skeletons of the grendels who overran the camp. And it looks like their skulls are configured such that there is no natural space for a fluke.”
“But flukes still fit?” Carlos asked.
“Yes, but they’ll put pressure on the cranium. It is possible that the trade-off is greater intelligence for a decreased natural life span.”
“Grendels having strokes. Lovely. I like them better already.”
“But there’s another question,” Mitsuko added.
“And what is that?”
“That we’re only looking at adolescents. These are all relatively young grendels.”
“That might make a difference?”
“Frankly, yes. We don’t know enough about their life cycles to rule out that possibility. Look at the skull.”
“What am I looking at?”
Mitsuko cleared her throat, and spoke with her usual clarity. “A grendel’s cranium is actually composed of eighteen separate bones. There are eight cranial bones around the brain and fourteen facial and jaw bones in the human skull. Just one of these bones moves—the mandible.”
“Mmm.” Big Shaka took lead. “In infants and very small human children, the cranial bones are disconnected segments held together by connective tissue strips called sutures. At certain sites, these sutures are especially weak, creating the fontanels, the ‘soft spots’ in an infant’s head. The most prominent of these is a little way up from the forehead.”
As if they’d rehearsed this conversation, Mitsuko’s fingers traced the projected cranial territory as he spoke. “When growing is complete,” Big Shaka continued, “the bones of the skull fuse together along the suture lines. These unions contain small amounts of fibrous connective tissue a lot like arm and leg joints. Although the skull may structurally appear to be one piece when fully developed, but it’s really composed of separate bones.”
He paused, probing. “Many fossil skeletal remains that seem to be cracked skulls, broken skulls . . but really they’re just missing some of their pieces. When the soft connective tissue decomposes, things start falling apart. Stuff falls out, falls apart, gets left behind over thousands and thousands of years. Has anyone seen my thesis on this subject . . ?” He looked around. No one murmured an assent, and he seemed vaguely peeved. “Then again, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“And all of that means?” Mason asked.
“It means that our grendels evolved to fit flukes. But some of them don’t have them.”
“The flukes died?”
“Or never got into the grendel. We don’t know. But it’s a shame we don’t have an adult Avalonian grendel to look at. Something that went through its natural life cycle.”
“Mainland,” Carlos said. “Send out a request. I’ll bet Aaron can get us one.”
“And until then?”
“I need to think. About grendels and cthulhus. I think I need to float.”
♦ ChaptEr 14 ♦
floating
Carlos Martinez stood at the entrance to Mama’s Cave, bracketed by Alicia and Scott, his two eldest children.
This was the gaping hole where once, long ago, he, Cadmann Weyland and others had bearded a grendel in her den. He’d never been here with his children, and their presence was a comfort.
He had made the twenty-minute skeeter trip three times over the decades. This was the first visit in over twenty years.
“This is what you really want?” Scott said.
“It isn’t what I want,” he said. “You don’t know nightmares if you didn’t live that time. But . . it is what I need.”
“Well, then,” Alicia replied. “Let’s do this.”
The path leading to the cave was still rough and uneven. Not many human feet had smoothed it with their passage. Carlos had forgotten how beautiful it was. Their flashlamps splashed against a cavern stalactite-fanged and tongued with frozen lava flows. Every sound echoed back in a chorus, the light both sparkled off volcanic glass and vanished into the shadowy depths.
“Are you getting this?” Alicia asked.
“Yes.”
The water was warm; a natural hot springs effect from deep heat vents below the mountain. It felt thick, like a saturated salt solution. He imagined amniotic fluid might feel this way.
“Are you sure you’re all right? You didn’t have to come. We have floatation tanks, if that’s what you really want. Or go body surfing.”
“Not the same,” Carlos said. “I need this.” He unfolded and examined his plastic map. “It was this way, according to the grid.”
“Lead on, Macduff,” Scott said.
“And cursed be he who first cries ‘Hold! Enough!’”
“Memory’s still working.”
Carlos spat water as he swam. “So is everything else.”
“I’ll check with Twyla about that.”
Carlos spat again, this time in Scott’s direction. “Don’t push it, young man. We’re still voting on how much skin to strip for your little stunt with Cassandra.”
“Fifteen years ago. I read about these things called statutes of limitation . . .”
“Come on, Pop,” Tracy said. “To the left.”
The floor had risen beneath their feet, until they were wading instead of swimming.
Scott examined his reader. “No GPS signal. Of course, but I’ve got the movement ac
celerometers set to track us. The map says underwater passage here. So check your gear.”
“I’m ready,” Carlos said.
They dove. The waters swallowed them, and then calmed as if the invaders had never passed this way at all. Water was like that.
Twenty years since Carlos had been here, and in that time he had passed from being middle aged to . . an old man. Yes, he could say that. Old. Admit it. It was a badge of honor. On Avalon, only the smartest and strongest and luckiest lasted so long. Or was it that the best among them had died? He honestly didn’t know which made more sense.
He felt the weight of time as he swam. Despite the daily exercise, and stringent nutrition and the best medications Camelot could offer, joints creaked. Muscles lacked the oomph he used to take for granted. His breaths, drawn in sips through the rebreather mouthpiece, seemed hot and forced rather than cool and calm, as once they had. Much of a lifetime ago.
They emerged in a cavern whose roof was as high as the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, about twenty meters.
“Are you all right?” Alicia asked, spitting warm water.
“I’m fine,” he replied. “Tired. But this is what I needed.”
She seemed skeptical. “Why are you really here?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure.”
“How are your legs?” Alicia asked.
“Cramping up.”
“If I’m tired, you must be dying.”
That was damned near the truth.
Alicia waved her flash. “I found the passage. Just ahead.”
“Let’s go. I’m ready.”
They entered another chamber, this one filled with pockets and lava flows. Towers, he remembered. And the highest tower was just ahead. On that one, once a long long time ago, had perched a grendel. The queen bitch of the kingdom of Avalon. Carlos’ wife’s killer.
