“Aren't you?”
“Armed and set,” said the officer.
“What do you mean?” Paul signed. “Is this about children?”
The officer turned the key to the off position and then removed the key. “It's okay now.”
“Yes,” Ingrid signed.
“Probably now isn't the best time to talk about it.”
“All right.” The officer straightened from his concentration on the box. “You can leave it to me now. It would probably be best if you left and joined the others at lunch.” He seemed aware now of Ingrid's signing and the deafness it implied.
“Good,” said Paul. “We'll do that.”
“We'll have to talk about it soon—or never,” Ingrid signed. “The biological clock is ticking.”
“These Christian fundamentalists,” said the officer. “Every day, they're getting more fanatical.”
“Agreed,” Paul signed, nodding simultaneously to the officer and to Ingrid. “Let's talk about it after lunch.”
“It's good you spotted this,” said the officer. “You've probably saved a lot of lives.” He threw a glance upward. “In a boat, you wouldn't scarcely have felt it, but down here, phew.”
“Fine,” Ingrid signed.
The officer pointed at the ASL monitor. “We should have just turned this thing around so your wife could see it. You wouldn't have had to translate our conversation.”
Paul smiled.
* * * *
Paul climbed the sea-ladder and flopped into the houseboat. Quickly he stripped off his mask and regulator, and then turned to help Ingrid aboard.
“Instead of going back to the conference,” Paul signed, “Why don't we sail the other way? We can eat on board. I think we need to talk.” He took a deep breath; it felt great inhaling the sweet, fresh air and feeling the warmth of the sun.
He held her while they both gazed at the nearly unblemished sea; except for a security launch and the frigate, the other boats lay in the distance, well on their way to shore.
“I know you want children,” Ingrid signed.
Paul nodded.
“Then let's see if we can settle this today,” Ingrid signed. “After lunch, let's confront this—underwater—and naked.”
“Yes, good.” They often dived bare, either when feeling naughty or when they needed to have a very honest conversation. And Paul knew Ingrid wanted this particular discussion to be held underwater so she didn't feel at a psychological disadvantage because, on land, her deafness was a disability.
“Thank you.” She disentangled herself and, before heading into the cabin, signed, “I'll prepare lunch.”
* * * *
While sunbathing on their boat some hour or so later, Paul observed the steeple through binoculars. It stood about midway between their boat and land. The frigate had drawn close and Paul saw what looked like a robot submersible hoisted from its deck and lowered into the sea.
“Bomb disposal robot, probably,” said Paul, relying on Ingrid's lip-reading since his hands were occupied with the field glasses. “They certainly came prepared.”
An hour after that, Ingrid pointed out a swell spreading out over the usually glass-smooth surface.
“I guess they towed the bomb away and detonated it,” Paul signed.
Ingrid shook her head. “The poor fish.”
In the distance some seconds later, Paul saw lifeless fish float to the surface.
Several hours later they saw the frigate retreat, leaving the sun-bleached white steeple looking stark and incongruous against the featureless blue surrounding it. More by tacit agreement than premeditation, Paul piloted the houseboat back to the spire. By the time they reached it, their dive computers indicated that most of their previous dive's nitrogen had diffused out of their bloodstreams; it was safe for them to dive again.
“I think we should have our chat now,” signed Ingrid.
“Yes.”
“Let's go back to the cathedral.”
Paul smiled. “I thought you were a nonbeliever.”
“I still am.”
They geared up, sat on the railing and backflipped into the water. Down they swam to the cathedral, approaching it from the front from where it looked like the bastions of some timeless underwater archdiocese. There, with no undersea current, they let themselves glide, using their flippers only to counteract their slight negative buoyancy, rising slightly on the inhale and sinking again as they breathed out. They swam side by side, but with a separation sufficient to see each other sign.
They danced around the issue of genetically engineered children for a while, she for it and he against. Then Ingrid signed, “Sometimes I wonder if we should even bring a child into the world now. With people squeezed ever more together as the waters rise.”
“It might not go on.” Paul gave a thumbs-up. “At ONR, we're looking at mega-projects like leveling mountains to make dikes and levees. Or it might even be feasible to use thermonuclear undersea explosions to raise up new mountains and give more volume for the oceans. We might lower the water level again.”
“Wouldn't that be hard on the fish?”
Paul smiled under his mask. “It's us or them.”
“Maybe it should be them.”
They drifted under the arc of a flying buttress and Paul felt surrounded by sanctity. “It will be us. Mankind has dominion over the soulless animals.”
Ingrid shook her head slowly. She had no need to sign her feelings. She sped forward, passing the archway where the north transept had stood.
As Paul swam to catch up, he happened to look through the arch to the stone altar far below. Now it was afternoon and the sun no longer shone through the rose window. The altar stood in murky darkness. A motion caught his eye and he struggled to see it. As his eyes adapted and the scene registered, he swallowed a gasp. Wondering if he were hallucinating, a victim of nitrogen narcosis, he checked his wrist dive-computer. Everything was fine. There was no way he could be narked out. But down at the pulpit, a dolphin looked out on a congregation of eight or ten other dolphins who lay calmly on the pews.
Catching sight of Ingrid who had swum back to him, he pointed.
Ingrid signed astonishment and shook her head. “They actually seem to be appreciating the art in the place.”
“Appreciating art, hell! They're praying, worshiping.”
“Soulless dolphins,” she signed with exaggerated motions indicating she was mocking him. “No,” she gesticulated. “That's ridiculous.”
Paul stared at the dolphin at the pulpit. And it seemed the creature stared back. Paul, his eyes locked with the dolphin's for a moment, shivered. The animal looked highly intelligent, even sentient. But ... But Ingrid's right. They are just soulless animals.
The dolphin moved and Paul sensed that the creature was communicating with its body, a kind of signing. The pod of dolphins, moving as one, swam toward the arch, toward him.
Paul and Ingrid began swimming furiously to get out of the way as the creatures streaked toward them. The dolphins ignored them, sped through the arch, zoomed by them, and disappeared in the distance.
“What do you think that was about?” Ingrid signed.
Before Paul could answer, he heard a mechanical-sounding voice coming from one of the underwater speakers. It said, “Explosion imminent. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight.”
By “twenty-seven,” Paul comprehended.
“Run,” he signed, conscious it was not exactly the appropriate sign.
“Why?”
“Another bomb.” Paul pointed up and the two of them raced for the surface, speeding through the bubbles of their breathing. He knew they should pause for a couple of minutes of decompression when they were fifteen feet from the surface, but there was no way—a possible case of decompression sickness was a lot better than being knocked unconscious by the shock wave. He started to calculate the likelihood of the bends but immediately gave up. It was pointless. There was no action he could take based on the results. He wonde
red why a bomb would announce itself. There's no understanding the mind of a Guardian—assuming that they're even sentient.
Paul got nowhere near the fifteen-foot mark. A great flash reflected through the water and an instant later, he heard the muffled sound of an explosion. A shock wave vortex pounded him, spinning him around, wrenching away his mouthpiece and stunning him. As he began to black out, he looked frantically and without success for Ingrid. Then he felt embarrassed, thinking what people would say when they found their bodies, naked.
Paul inhaled, and breathed in air. He felt a firmness around him as if he were wedged into a crevasse with rubber walls. Opening his eyes, he saw the walls were dolphins; two of the creatures, side by side, had him cradled between their sleek bodies. His memory returned. Ingrid! Looking off to the side, he saw his wife swimming beside one of his dolphins. Apparently, she had recovered before he had.
“Are you okay?” she signed awkwardly, her hands being needed both for signing and swimming.
“What?” Paul rubbed his forehead, then shook his head to clear it. “I think so.” He sat up and the dolphins parted, depositing him into the water. Seeing that he was in the shadow of their boat, he paddled toward the sea-ladder. He climbed, pausing midway while the dizziness passed. Then, on board, he extended a hand to Ingrid.
“Those dolphins saved our lives,” Ingrid signed when she again had free use of her hands.
Paul looked over the railing at the cetaceans, catching the eye of one of them; it seemed to be the pod leader. “Thank you,” said Paul, feeling silly and self-conscious. Then, feeling even more ridiculous, he signed his thanks.
The pod leader's movements, its body language, made it seem it understood. The dolphin, its intelligent-looking eyes shining like a cat's, nodded his head, then turned and dived. The other dolphins followed.
* * * *
“What happened down there?” Ingrid signed. She and Paul flopped down onto deck chairs.
Paul looked out at the sea littered a second time with dead fish. “A second bomb. A backup with a timer.”
“No,” Ingrid signed. “I mean, just now.”
“The dolphins?” He shrugged. “I don't know. Some reflex behavior, I guess.”
“I do so love you—” She made one of the signs she'd created meaning “Paul,” the one implying endearment. “—but you can be so dense. Those dolphins showed intelligence—and compassion, maybe even sentience.”
Paul was about to give a doctrinal response, but didn't. He was a scientist. He needed to think.
Ingrid seemed to understand. She clasped her hands, a signal that she'd not interrupt his thoughts with ASL. After a couple of minutes though, she leaned forward, touched his arm, and pointed. “Look. The cathedral's spire is gone.” She signed sadness. “I'll miss that cathedral.”
“Well, if we have a girl,” Paul signed, smiling, “we can name her Cathy in memory of it.”
“Very amusing.”
“I'm serious, sort of. I really do want children, though.” He looked off to the sea. “I've been thinking and I've had something of an...” Not knowing the ASL for it, he spelled out “epiphany.”
Ingrid looked at him, expectantly.
“Those dolphins,” he signed. “With their obvious intelligence and the reverence they displayed down in the cathedral...”
“Yes?”
“This is very hard for me to say.” Paul bit his lower lip, pounded the arm of his chair with a fist, and then signed, “But ... But I find it impossible to believe they don't have souls.”
“Cathedrals are designed to be impressive,” Ingrid signed. “Impressive to dolphins as well, I imagine.”
Paul knew Ingrid was trying to give him an honorable way out, but he wasn't going to take it. “I think there's more to it than that.” He struggled within himself. “Those dolphins ... Who but God is entitled to say what creatures he made in his image?”
Ingrid looked at him, quizzically. “Who indeed?”
“Our future is in the sea.” Paul knew he was at the fringe of incoherence. “And dolphins are mammals, creatures of both the air and water.”
“So you want to make the world safe for dolphins.”
“Hear me out.”
“Fine. Go ahead.”
“A soul could only be given by God.”
“Agreed,” Ingrid signed, “that is, if there is a god—and there is such a thing as a soul.”
Paul smiled wistfully. “Who knows, but at some point I may have to rethink those beliefs as well. But not yet!”
“What are you trying to say?” Ingrid signed with small movements—her indication of empathy.
“These super-dolphins are a product of genetic engineering.” Paul paused for a moment, rethinking his analysis before signing it. “And I believe they have souls. So genetic engineering must, at least tacitly, be acceptable to God.”
She nodded.
“And this,” he went on, “has bearing on our children.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“I've changed my mind. I agree with you. It will be fine if we engineer our kids for beauty and intelligence. And now that the genetics is understood, even with cats’ eyes if you'd like.” He looked at her, lovingly. “And your eyes are truly beautiful.”
She hugged him, then backed up to sign. “It's funny. I was looking for a good time to tell you I just want children. It's not that important that they be engineered. We can have them the natural way if you prefer it.”
“No. I won't be an anachronism in the world. I'm okay with genetic engineering now.” He smiled. “I think I'll draw the line though, against engineering our child to have big feet, webbed toes, and gills—at least not our first child.”
Copyright (c) 2007 Carl Frederick
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Novelette: CONVERSATIONS WITH MY KNEES
by RON GOULART
What do you mean, you don't believe the title means what it says?
The side effects of my knee replacement procedure were not what I'd expected. They included the termination of my marriage to a once nationally popular folksinger, a fling with a redheaded young woman I'd initially thought was just a night nurse, the intrusion into my life of spies and secret agents of several nations, and my conversion, at the age of sixty-one, into what I can only describe as some sort of superhero.
My knees started talking to me the second day I was back home in my Marin County home after my stay at the Slesinger Foundation Clinic over in San Rafael. I was sitting in our beam-ceilinged living room, looking down toward San Francisco Bay far below. As usual, there were quite a few bright sailboats wandering around down there. My wife had propped two fat paisley pillows behind my back and draped a Navajo rug over the lower part of me before driving to a rehearsal studio in Sausalito.
You've probably heard of her. Mavis Scattergood. Until about seven years ago she and two fellows were the Scattergood Singers, very successful singers of liberal folk tunes who came damn close to winning a Grammy. Mavis had recently rounded up two new fellows and was hoping to revive the Scattergood Singers. Only snag was Edmond Scully, the new banjo player, who felt the group should be called Edmond, Fred and Mavis. My name, by the way, is Frank Whitney, and I'm a retired advertising agency art director.
“Don't worry about falling down while you're home alone, dear,” said a motherly voice.
Though I had the impression the voice was coming from the vicinity of my left knee, I glanced around the big sunlit room. There was nobody to be seen.
“Imagine your wife abandoning you, and you only two days out of surgery.”
Leaning forward on our tangerine-colored sofa, I tugged off the red, gold, and yellow blanket so I could scrutinize my knees.
“What you really ought to be worrying about, pal,” said my right knee through my wrinkled denim slacks, “is what your dumpy missus is really doing in Sausalito with Edmond and Fred. Especially Edmond, who's a real stud but, truth to
tell, a lousy banjo picker.”
The motherly voice of my other knee said, “Now don't get poor Frank all riled up. A wayward wife isn't the major problem he has to—”
“Pardon me,” I put in, reaching toward the blond coffee table for my cell phone. “I'd best call the Slesinger to report these hallucinations.”
“Relax, dimbulb,” advised my right knee. “You ain't goofy. What they implanted, unbeknownst to you, chum, are some very state-of-the-art artificial knees. Or rather not they but Dr. Wallace Dowling.”
“Dowling?” I frowned, putting the phone down. “He's not my physician.”
“Were you awake during the operation, pal?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Dowling took over after you shuffled off to dreamland.”
“Dr. Dowling is a very nice man,” said my left knee. “We're starting to get very worried about—”
“Button your yap, sister. We'll get to that in—”
“Wait now,” I said, frowning. “They mentioned Dowling on Wake Up, Marin this morning, didn't they?” It hadn't taken me long to get used to my unusual knees. Here I was having a conversation with them already.
“That they did, kiddo. The doc vanished last night, did a bunk, vamoosed.”
“Come now, the poor man was obviously abducted.”
I cleared my throat. “It's too bad about Dr. Dowling,” I admitted. “However, I'm much more interested in why my replacement knees can talk. There sure as hell wasn't anything about that in the brochure they—”
“All in good time,” my motherly knee told me. “First, young man, let us tell you about the favor we want you to do for us.”
“He ain't a young man,” corrected my other knee. “Sixty-one puts him in the old fart category. All you got to do is take a gander at his puss to realize—”
“How can you look at me?” I wanted to know. “Knees don't have the power of vision.”
“We're using your eyes, dopey. When you looked in the bathroom mirror this morning, we took a gander,” explained my knee. “Got a look at your missus, too. Jeez, is she going to seed. Only forty-nine, too. She's going to be a real blimp by the time she's your age.”
Analog SFF, January-February 2008 Page 23
