by Greg Bear
We left the boxes of dessicated scions on the beach, atop some low flat lava boulders to avoid the waves. Beyond the beach cliffs, gentle rolling hills—ancient fumaroles, eroded by wind and rain—stretched half a kilometer to the razor-ridged, steep slopes of Mount Jiddermeyer. Lava boulders, scoria, and crumbled, eroded flows of twisted lava covered the hills. The ground was cool, however, and no vapors emerged from the cracks or from the inland mountains.
Salap surveyed the mountains, sucking on his cheeks thoughtfully. With a small tongue-cluck, as if in moral disapproval, he turned to Randall and Shatro. “When Shulago and Baker were here, they could smell sulfur for dozens of miles out to sea. It's very quiet now, and no smell.”
“We'll spend a half-hour looking over this sector,” Randall said. “Chief objects of our search will be petrids.” He showed us a reproduction of a sketch by Baker of hand-sized flat scions clinging to lava, leaving trails of white behind. Serving the place of lichens, petrids or rock-grinders of various sizes and shapes were found in all known ecoi. “We'll also be looking for scion fumets.”
Droppings—generally flat, smooth disks, were rarely visible in active ecoi because of collection and clean-up. If this ecos was declining, we might find more droppings—or none at all. “Watch your step. Shulago calls this very treacherous territory—lots of old lava tubes and sinkholes.”
We spread out over the hills in the hot sun. I clutched a fiber hat and a bag for small specimens.
I fell twice before adapting to the terrain, skinning my knuckles and knees. The best place to look for fixed scions, I thought, would be inland a few hundred meters. I visualized them soaking up sun between the boulders. Think energy. An ecos manages energy the way any organism does. Sunlight, air, water, minerals ... Scions specifically adapted to taking advantage of certain niches for energy and raw materials.
Treading black sand paths through a maze of fragmented lava, I peered into shadows beneath overhangs, scuffing at the sand with my boots, scraping several centimeters deep with a small shovel. Nothing. When the half-hour had passed, we regrouped on the beach. Salap shaded his eyes against the sun and turned down his lips at our empty bags.
“So, the ecos is hiding, or...” He shrugged, refusing to speculate out loud. “We will find Shulago's trail, not far from here if it's still marked. There is a small sheltered valley at the base of Mount Jiddermeyer. It is a hike, but I believe we can find it and be back before the captain gets upset.” He gave us all an enigmatic look, partly conspiratorial, partly rueful. I detected a hint of rivalry here—Salap wanted to explore the island on his own terms.
As we walked down the beach and searched for the trailhead, Shatro picked up a piece of leathery scrap and passed it around for examination. Dark brown, dried to the consistency of xyla, it still held a few threads in punched holes.
“Part of a shoe,” Randall offered.
“Not a scion,” Shatro said.
“Disappointing,” Salap said, shaking his head sadly. “What has happened here?”
We did not find any trail markings, but a sandy path between the boulders showed promise, The path climbed the side of the mountain and veered around an andesitic outcrop.
“This is Shulago's trail, but the arborids are gone,” Salap said, pointing to empty circles of stones and conical depressions in the ground on either side. “When the arborids were here, they pushed boulders away and took root ... They have crawled away, or died.”
We followed the path for a hundred meters, around the outcrop, and then through a tumble of large boulders, some stacked in arches over the trail. The sun warmed my arms and made my scalp sweat within the hat. I felt sad and sleepy.
After four kilometers, a few purple and dark blue stalks showed over a close rise. “At last,” Randall said. “Something alive.”
Beyond the rise stood a copse of small, squat, palmlike arborids. Spiky leaves spread over round boles in a furry cap. Translucent brown roots formed nets over the ground between the arborids, and along the roots crawled shiny orange vermids—wormlike creatures, each about four centimeters long.
We paused by the edge of this pitifully small and confined silva. Randall, Shatro, and Salap examined the scions quickly, making notes on Salap's slate. I recognized none of them from the illustrations and photos of either the Jiddermeyer or Baker-Shulago expeditions.
“Big differences,” Salap said. “Fluxing and reissue of new scions. The island is no longer hospitable.”
“Competition?” Shatro asked brightly. “War ... a sexing?”
Salap looked to the skies and shook his head. “There was only one ecos on Martha's Island, and we're a thousand miles from Elizabeth's Land, fifteen hundred miles from Hsia. Scions from pelagic ecoi stick close to the islands and continental shelves; except for unfortunates who stray ... And both Shulago and Baker and Jiddermeyer said the ecos on Martha's Island dominated its zone, even out to a hundred miles from land. It was well fortified. How could there be a sexing, much less a takeover?”
Shatro was still hopeful his idea might be proven possible, if not correct. “We saw racers from Petain—or perhaps from Hsia or Efhraia's Land. Why are they out here, unless a zone senses opportunity?”
“What opportunity?” Salap asked, his temper rising. “It is empty, Ser Shatro! A zone has subsided here. It is in decline.”
“Old age,” I suggested, partly to break Salap's fix on the unfortunate Shatro. Salap rolled his eyes heavenward again but said nothing, walking ahead between the arborids, to the bottom of the small valley.
The air was cooler and moister in the shade of the arborids. It smelled of nothing in particular. I touched the trunks and leaves as we passed, but no stomata opened; there seemed to be only these two kinds of scions, unknown arborids and vermids.
“We haven't been sampled,” Randall said as we approached the lowest part of the valley, half a kilometer from the rise.
“That I don't miss,” Shatro said.
“Still, it's significant,” Randall said. “The ecos may no longer be curious. Unique in my experience.”
“We've only been here a few minutes,” Shatro said, glancing around. “Maybe they're waiting for the right moment.”
The trail broadened into a sandy flat. At the center of the flat, a hip-high wall of lava boulders surrounded a clear, sparkling pool. A spring bubbled to one side, and the waters rippled over a bed of black sand, sparkling in the bright sun. From the walled spring to the copse, a path was marked by smaller lumps of reddish lava.
“Not scions,” Randall said. “Someone's living here.”
We took the marked path back into the copse. Fifty paces from the spring, a dark gray, weather-beaten house rose on short stilts, surrounded by pink and gray arborids. The roof was made of some sort of gray leathery skin, as were the walls; the rest of the square, ungraceful structure was made of strips and beams of pinkish xyla.
At the sound of our voices, a woman stepped out onto the narrow porch, dressed in sacklike brown robes, face pale, her long black hair prominently streaked with gray. I guessed her to be about seventy years old. She stood with hands on the rail, staring at us for a moment with pale blue eyes. Her skin was dark, her limbs skinny, and she worked her mouth as if searching for words under her tongue.
“I am Liasine Trey Nimzhian,” she said in a squeak. She cleared her throat and repeated her name. “I live here. What do you want?”
“Are you alone?” Randall asked.
“Not to alarm you, Ser Nimzhian,” Salap said, touching Randall on the shoulder. “I am honored to meet you. I did not know you were still here.” He turned and whispered in Randall's ear.
The woman looked at us one by one, eyes wide. “My husband died five years ago. I've been alone since. Human voices and faces quite stun me.”
Salap introduced us formally, and then explained, “Sers Liasine Trey Nimzhian and Yeshova Nakh Rassik were feared dead. They were researchers with Baker and Shulago.”
“We did not choose to
stay,” Nimzhian said. She held out her hands. “Do you have a ship? Of course, you must. I would dearly love to see a ship, to ... dine with the captain?”
“It would be our privilege,” Salap said, bowing his head.
That evening, most of the crew sat down to the best that Frey the cook could offer on board the Vigilant. I sat at the table next to the captain's, with Randall, the first mate, and the junior researchers, including Shatro. Nimzhian sat with the captain and Salap and Talya Ry Diem and Shirla, the female A.B.s at table to make her feel at home. Indeed, the women spent much time fussing over her as they might over a revered elder. Liasine Nimzhian seemed to fall into a trance even before the dinner began.
“So long...” she cooed as she sat at the head table in the mess. “This seems wonderfully elegant to me. It's been years since I ate human food ... Bread! And so much news! I do not believe all I have missed.”
“Your story must be extraordinary,” the captain said.
She drew herself up proudly. “I have lived on our island for twelve years now. The first years were good, but after my Yeshova died ... mostly work.” She leaned toward the captain. “You're following in the path of Baker and Shulago. You are going to circumnavigate.”
“That we are,” the captain said.
“That explains Ser Salap and his wonderful interest in Martha's Island. Who else would go this far out of the way, to visit such a lonely place? Well, for you all, then, I have a story to tell. It is about secrets, and the death of the only living thing I have come to know and to love, besides my husband.
“Tomorrow, I will show you where it all happened, and tonight and tomorrow, perhaps I can explain why.”
After the meal, we returned to the quarterdeck, to sit under the double oxbow and listen to Ser Nimzhian's story.
“When I joined the Baker and Shulago expedition, I was an agro—a farming specialist. I had learned how to care for terrestrial crops, without disturbing the ecos and bringing on a defensive response ... Something rarely seen now, I suspect, but common enough then. My sponsor was Yeshova, the man who would become my husband. Yeshova.” She lingered on the name in silence for a moment, smiling softly. “He thought I could teach Baker and Shulago a thing or two about specialization in ecos populations.
“We put to sea with two ships, the Hanno and the Himilco. They were smaller than this one, and less well prepared. Baker and Shulago may be heroes and martyrs to many now. I've only just learned they never returned ... That only Chuki made it back in the smaller ship.” She paused and drew several deep breaths, as if to calm herself. With one hand to her neck, absently stroking the brown and wrinkled skin there, she gathered her thoughts. “Not so long ago, it seems. My life has taken on a certain sameness the past few years.
“You know of our journey from Athenai to the northern continent, where no ecos grows, and from there to Hsia. We sailed along the western coast of Hsia, then south to the Cook Straits, and found a passage ... discovering six more zones on the Cook Islands, small, simple ecoi really, compared to Elizabeth's Land and Hsia.
“We captured specimens, dissected them, and wherever we went, the ecoi were curious. I was personally sampled thirty-three times.” She lifted her arms to show us tiny pockmarks, some as large as thumbprints. She also pointed out pocks on her neck and lifted her robe to show several on her ankles and legs. “We followed the eastern coast of Efhraia's land to the southernmost point, which we named Cape Manu, after our navigator. We rounded Cape Manu and returned to the Darwin Sea, rather than face icebound winter seas to the east.”
She looked up at her audience, face drawn with memories. “It was a difficult journey. We lost seven to accidents ... My brother among them. We could not fight the Westers south of the Shaft Island group. We could not cross in that direction ... We were running out of food. We put into the Shaft Islands. Shulago did not want to return to Jakarta, though it was only six hundred miles away at the time ... There were small farm towns in the Shaft Islands. We visited them. We were lucky to get enough supplies to go on.”
“All the islanders died during the famine of 26,” Salap said.
Nimzhian looked vague, as if this bit of history did not have any real meaning for her. Then she mustered what she thought would be a polite response. “I'm sorry. They were nice people, very eager to hear our stories. They thought Baker and Shulago were heroes. They thought we were all heroes. But we were just tired and hungry.”
Nimzhian seemed reluctant to continue.
“You sailed north ... so Chuki's journals say,” the captain prodded.
Nimzhian rubbed her hands together as if to warm them. “Baker and Shulago had an argument,” she said. “They always seemed like angry monkeys in too small a cage. Yet they always insisted on living aboard the same boat. They wanted to keep watch on each other.
“Baker wanted to head west, around Cape Magellan, but Shulago insisted it was the wrong season, that the westerlies would kill us. He may have been right. Eventually, we sailed north, to make the passage west between Tasman and Elizabeth's Land. My husband was arguing with Baker continuously by then. We found Martha's Island by accident ... Yeshova thought we could profitably spend years studying there. Well, we got our wish.”
She stopped again, jaw muscles tensing, and looked around the circle of faces, alternately smiling and shaking her head. “Baker was a very disagreeable man,” she said. “He must have felt Yeshova was too much of a disturbing influence. He arranged for us to go ashore together. The ships sailed while we were ashore. I don't know what he told them...”
“The journals were lost,” Salap said. “Chuki mentions nothing.”
“Well, Chuki sailed before the Hanno abandoned us. We were very afraid at first. We knew about the three members of Jiddermeyer's crew, lost here over a decade before. We never found them.” She rubbed her eyes with the fingers of one hand, then blinked in the light of the electric lanterns. “In a way, Baker did us a favor. We've had a good life here. Martha provides. We never starved, though we were hungry often enough, and sick a few times from eating the wrong things. We came to love her. She never bored us. Sometimes, Yeshova wondered if our work would ever be discovered ... We wondered why no one returned to Martha's Island. But we weren't unhappy.”
“There haven't been any expeditions since,” the captain said. “The island isn't on any of the shipping routes—and there isn't much shipping across the Darwin now, anyway. Unless it's Brionists.”
Nimzhian did not recognize the name. “Baker and my husband confirmed that the theories of the original surveyors and Jiddermeyer were correct. The only feasible explanation for Lamarckia's biological nature was inheritance from acquired traits ... And yet, inheritance was the wrong word. Jiddermeyer had speculated about the designers and observers, who took the specimens gathered by samplers and thieves and studied them. We have been adding more and more detail to that theory.
“We've seen an ecos die,” Nimzhian said. “We've seen its preparations for death. The island disrobed. It revealed its skeleton to us, in a way...”
“And was there a seed-mother, a queen?” the captain asked, tapping his fingers on his chin.
“I'll show you in the morning,” Nimzhian said craftily. She smiled and rocked back and forth on her chair, enjoying the hold she had on us. “I expect you'll want to explore before you move on.”
“You're welcome to travel with us,” the captain said.
She shook her head firmly. “Thank you, but no. I'll return to my island in the morning. Much work remains. I do hope you'll take our results with you, and carry them to Athenai or Jakarta.”
“We would be honored,” the captain said.
Nimzhian let the dark memories pass and was full of cheer now, basking in human company.
Three boats put out the next morning under a low ceiling of thick, knobby gray clouds. Puffs of cool wind and spatters of light rain greeted us as we put ashore where the longboat had landed the day before. With Ser Nimzhian taking the lead
, walking along the black sand shore with a practiced leggy waddle, our party of thirty—the captain, Salap and the assistant researchers, myself, and eight of the crew who had chosen lots, hiked over the Shulago trail. The party formed a long line up the slope to the valley. Some of the crew sang songs at first, but the desolation, and windy silence, and the gray cast of the day, soon subdued them.
The researchers counted the circles of stones in the old silva and made an estimate of the extent of the silva and the past number of arborids. Nimzhian explained that the silva had declined from the shoreline inward, with scions disappearing night by night, their remains absorbed by ecos cleaners. Rock scrubbers had died after arborids, and then all the smaller forms, month by month ... and year after year. Inland, the larger scions had died first as well, and then the smaller. “The arborids and phytids gave nutrition to all,” Nimzhian said. “We believe they died because of the decline of microscopic scions.”
The decline's cause was unknown. At first, husband and wife had speculated that human-borne microbes were infecting the scions, but found no evidence supporting that hypothesis.
“We always blame ourselves,” Nimzhian said, approaching the rise with the last stand of arborids visible beyond. “We seem to be guilty about everything, even just being human. But soon we realized humans were trivial.”
She could walk and talk easily without losing her breath. We struggled to keep up with her.
“Martha tolerated us, even let us take a few of its phytids and arborids and other scions for food and materials. When Martha was alive, every spring season we would hike inland, into the mountains, to study the blazing red efflorescence, the shedding and bursting of new growth among the phlox trees and divericata, the huge and rare hemohamatids and the coastal halimids. Martha sampled us for five years after we first arrived as if we were new ... three-legged scions the size of mice springing out of the lower alsophileids, nipping our arms, late in the summer, with the penultimate warming of the Jiddermeyer current. That was unusual in itself ... We never discovered why Martha needed to sample us so often, and so regularly.”
