by Greg Bear
Shatro and Shirla still slept. I pulled her close for warmth, and she moaned, but shut her eyes tighter.
“I wish there could be more like him on this world,” Randall said.
“Lenk chose it so,” Salap said, his tone neutral. “The best divaricates. Few like the captain or like us.”
“Pneuma forbid,” Randall said, and he repeated this several times, voice fading, before he fell asleep.
“Olmy,” Salap said. “Are you curious about the storm-beast?”
I did not know whether Olmy might be curious or not. I cared little, myself.
“I see a diagram of its anatomy in my head,” Salap said. “A loose anatomy. It came to me while I napped.”
“Good,” I croaked.
“A central void, like the eye of a storm, filled with bergs of ice. Air and Ocean are brought together, mixed violently, churned to control the energies used to grow the scions within. The caudal portion must be a vast factory of nutrients, nourished within the storm and harvested by the wall of knives. Scions, perhaps those no longer useful—worn out by the action of the inner storm—are sacrificed, transformed into the brown disks, which are whisked away to the upper reaches, and spread out much later over land ... or wherever the storm has forged alliances with other ecoi. I am sure the storm is a separate ecos, all to itself. Master of its circle of the Darwin Sea.”
I thought vaguely that he had been talking a very long time.
“We weren't tasty, I assume,” he concluded, and fell silent.
More meteors. That meant there were comets and other latent debris in the Lamarckian system, as well as the five planets spotted by the original surveyors. No asteroid belts; all swept away by gigantic Pacifica, visible to me now as a brilliant blue point, brightest of all the points in the sky. This level of thinking astounded me. I did not know where it came from.
“Do you know much about Ser Randall?” Salap asked later, interrupting my survey of the stars, which I had done many times already, forgetting the patterns I saw each time.
“No,” I said. “I like him.” It seemed a pleasant thing to say, if meaningless.
“He speaks highly of you. But then, he believes you're special. He believes you're recently arrived from Thistledown.”
This was interesting enough to arouse a few brain cells, and I tried hard to focus on what Salap was saying.
“He heard this from Thomas the disciplinary at Calcutta. Many people in positions of authority have been expecting an appearance such as this ... as this might be, at any rate. Randall told me you're different, that you have a quiet about you not found here. He used a few code words ... Yes, I know them. I used to be one of the Adventists, years ago. In my student days at Jakarta.”
“Adventists,” I croaked.
“Waiting for the Hexamon to open another gate. I imagine if a gate was opened, Lenk would know about it, since he has the remaining clavicle. Keeps it always close to him.”
“There was an old man in Moonrise,” I said. “When I found him, he thought I was from Thistledown.” I laughed, making an unpleasant half-croak, half-bark. “I wish I was,” I said. “Somebody would come rescue me now. A gate would open right over us.” I sketched the phenomenon against the stars with a trembling finger.
“Randall took you on the ship and elevated you, he was so certain.”
“Oh.”
“Few know that we were Adventists. It doesn't lead to many promotions.”
Randall stirred, and Shirla began to push against my chest. Salap, a blurred shadow in the bright starlight, held his finger to his lips. “Dying people say things. Stupid things. Confidences.”
“What's stupid?” Randall asked.
Neither of us answered. Shirla stretched, pushing her foot into the cold water. She jerked it back.
“No ships?” she asked over the slap of the waves.
“No,” I said.
Shatro stopped snoring and sat up abruptly. Wide-eyed, he said, “Did somebody try to push me off?”
“No,” Shirla said. “But I've been asleep.”
“I belong here as much as any of you.”
“No denying it,” Shirla said softly, as if to soothe him.
“I'm still strong,” Shatro said, shaking his head like a tired bull.
Randall leaned over and touched his shoulder, patting him as if he were a child. Shatro gave him a sideling look, eyes hooded, and hung his head between his knees.
Dawn was a long time coming. Shirla and I held each other, and Salap talked now and then of the storm's design, and Shatro kept his silence. Randall sat upright on the planks, twitching his bare toes.
Sometime in the dark, the water all around us whispered, and long, blunt-headed necks or trunks rose from the sea. Curdlike clouds dappled what old cowboys would have called a buttermilk sky, swimming in star-thick black whey. The tall shapes glittered in the broken starlight, and they stood steady, patient, and I could not help but think they were interested in us. I lifted a hand and said, “Take a bite. You'll know who I am.”
But they slipped back into the water, and the whisper in the low waves stopped.
With morning, a feverish clarity gripped me.
14
The sky to the east grew yellow, then copper, and spread its smooth sheet of faded blue westward. A few dying shreds of clouds lurked to the south, none overhead. The steady weather in the wake of the storm-beast was becoming more changeable.
I saw my companions, the planked remains of the Vigilant, the somewhat rougher waves around us, with the sharpness of a fine line drawing, each line vibrating faintly and seeming to zizz in my ears. I knew with absolute certainty that we were not going to die. There was a great drama playing itself out here, and we were in the center of it: the gate opener had placed me in an event of great interest, the humanizing of Lamarckia. Humans would populate the planet to exactly one-half its capacity, and humanoids would fill the other half. The dividing line would be the equator. I chose the northern portion for the humans, to avoid inconvenience. I seemed to hear Shimchisko telling me details. Time smudged itself and some things happened before their proper place in the sequence of second to second, and some happened after.
What came late was Salap's hoarse cry that he saw a ship. Of course he does, I thought. It's inevitable. If we're not going to die, there must be a ship.
“One, two, three,” he said. “Four ships. Two steamships, and two schooners, fore and aft rigged ... Must be from Athenai. They like schooners there.”
I looked with little interest in the direction of his finger. Two stripes of smoke rising high over the cold stale sea, and in tow perhaps, sails slack or furled, two sailing ships. They were quite close—perhaps a mile off. Salap stood. Shatro tugged on his ragged black pants, imploring him to sit down.
“If they have steamships, they're Brionists,” Shatro insisted, hunching his neck.
“They're our only hope, wherever they come from,” Randall said, and stood awkwardly, making the raft sway, to join Salap's arm-waving.
Shirla watched them, mouth open to keep from pressing and splitting her dry lips. We were ghostly things, crusted white with salts, hair standing up thick from our heads.
“They won't see us,” Shatro said miserably.
“They're turning,” Randall said, and grinned down at us like a small boy who sees his father coming home.
“I believe they see us,” Salap agreed.
All inevitable.
It took the ships half an hour to surround us and send out a lifeboat to pick us up. The steamships were a hundred meters in length and about twenty-five meters across the beam, the largest ships I had seen on Lamarckia. Their broad, bulbous white-painted hulls were made of thick planks, but long sweeps of metal formed much of the superstructure. Each ship carried two-barreled guns fore and aft, and a single smokestack put forth an opaque cloud. Within their hulls sounded the great thumps of powerful engines. The ships were blocky and ungraceful, but they looked sturdy.
Men and women in gray and black uniforms stood by the rope railings and near the bows, watching and talking among themselves as a boat was lowered from one of two schooners.
The schooners had dropped the towlines. The wind was picking up, and crews were setting the broad sails on each of their three trees, getting ready to proceed once we were aboard. They were longer than the Vigilant but not as thick across the beam, and they looked fast, like slender greyhounds beside the powerful barrel-chested mastiffs of the steamships.
Shirla kneeled on the planking as the boat approached, her arms crossed over her breasts. Five occupied the boat, four rowers and a plump man in the prow, dressed in white and wearing a small black cap.
The steamships displayed numbers on their white-painted bows, 34 and 15, but no names. The schooners were simply labeled Khoragos and Cow. Cow seemed an odd name for so graceful a ship.
The plump man in the bow of the boat waved to us, smiling cheerfully enough. “What ship, and from what port?” he asked as the boat came within twenty meters.
“From Vigilant out of Calcutta,” Randall said.
“What happened?”
“Sunk in a storm,” Randall explained.
“How long ago?” the man asked, face showing great sympathy.
“A day. Maybe two.”
“Three-treed full-rig?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Randall said.
“We saw her, and we saw the storm. A terrifying thing. We pulled out of its paws just after we lost sight of you.”
“Your ships?” Randall asked, and the boat pulled up beside our raft. “We did not see any schooners.”
“We were way behind. The steamships look ugly, but they're fast, especially when the wind's asleep.”
“Who are you?” Shatro asked.
“We're out of Athenai,” the plump man said, looking uncomfortable. “Bound for Naderville. The steamships are escort. They came from positions off Jakarta, I understand. My name is Charles Ram Keo.” He offered his hand and Randall shook it. Then they helped us aboard. Once on the boat, we saw how flimsy our raft had been. But it was the last we saw of any of the Vigilant, and as the rowers pulled us toward the Khoragos, I felt sad at the sight. Shirla stayed close to me, accepting a cup of water poured from a jug, while a thin woman with a worried face asked about our health, what we had had to eat, and other questions. She was Julia Sand, a physician aboard the Khoragos.
“They wouldn't have sunk us,” Shatro murmured. Salap seemed very solemn, unwilling to speak much. I wondered if he had guessed at something we were missing.
Randall was ebullient. “You're a true gift of the winds,” he told Keo, sipping from his cup as instructed: small swallows.
We were near the larger of the two schooners when Salap leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Khoragos. That means a leader of a chorus. She is Able Lenk's boat.”
He pulled back. Keo and Randall had caught part of his whisper and the plump man looked even more uncomfortable. “You'll have to come with us, of course,” he said. “You know what's happening, I suppose.”
“Is Lenk on board?” Randall asked.
“He is,” Keo said.
“Going to Naderville ... to negotiate with Brion,” Salap ventured.
Keo did not reply.
We were brought aboard in slings and deposited on the deck of the big schooner. The other ships had already pulled away. They were now spread across nearly a mile of water, the two steamships leading the way.
Lenk was going to parlay.
15
The Khoragos was a solemn ship. Of the seventy aboard, her crew was made up of thirty A.B.s, five apprentices (all children of Athenai citizens of rank, we were told), and fifteen craft rates and officers. The remaining twenty were advisors, diplomats, and aides, and there was of course Lenk himself. The Cow carried a crew of forty and fifteen more diplomats.
No restrictions were placed upon us, other than that we were not to bother Able Lenk should we meet him on deck, which was unlikely. He spent most of his hours in the largest cabin, the captain's quarters in the forecastle, in the company of his advisors and diplomats, working day and night, Keo said. From this Randall and Salap surmised the ships were indeed going to Naderville.
Officers and selected guests of rank bunked in the stern. The crew bunked amidships. The berths on Khoragos were all filled. We were provided with new clothes, and Randall, Shatro, Salap and I were given places in a private cabin formerly occupied by three junior A.B.s. Where they went we were not told. Shirla shared a berth with two female A.B.s.
We were being treated with remarkable politeness, and I soon discovered why. Keo, assigned to make sure we were comfortable, informed us that the Good Lenk was greatly upset at news of the loss of Captain Keyser-Bach and the Vigilant. “He believes the captain could have opened our eyes about Lamarckia,” Keo said, standing in our cabin, handing out shirts and pants. Salap surveyed these fresh clothes with some displeasure—they were not black, and not loose—but put them on without complaint. “Able Lenk looked forward to hearing about his discoveries in person.”
“We have lost all of our evidence,” Salap said. “Still, I request an audience with the Good Lenk, on behalf of Captain Keyser-Bach.”
“I'm sure he plans to meet with all of you,” Keo said. “You will dine with the officers and crew this evening. Food will be brought to your cabins this afternoon, should you request it.” He smiled at us rosily, as if he were a steward welcoming us to a luxury cruise. “I'm glad to hear you are little the worse for your ordeal.”
Shatro fingered his red face delicately and winced. “What's going to happen in Naderville?” he asked.
Keo shook his head. “Not my place to say. Eventually, we'll return to Athenai.”
Randall finished buttoning his shirt and stood, stooping to avoid the beams of the low ceiling. “I need to make a report on the loss of a ship to the captain and first officer,” he said.
“Of course. I'll arrange for a formal hearing tomorrow.”
“There's no blame, no reason for an inquest,” Randall said softly. “The storm killed our ship. The captain did the best he could.”
“I'm sure of it,” Keo said, appearing as solemn as was possible for him. “We need to assess the losses for the shipping board in Athenai, of course.”
Randall nodded gloomily.
Keo asked what else we required. Shatro wondered if any lizboo sap was available. “For our burns,” he said, poking at his arm and wincing again. We were all red, our skins in sad shape from sun and exposure to the water.
“I'm sure we have something similar,” Keo said, and closed the door behind him.
“It's all funk,” Shatro said as we heard Keo's footsteps down the corridor outside.
Salap patted the thin mattress and blankets on the upper bunk, peered through the single porthole, lifted a ceramic washbasin.
“Are you going to tell them about the skeletons?” Shatro asked.
“Yes,” Salap said.
Shatro's face suddenly seemed to collapse and he covered it with his hands, not crying, but rubbing fiercely, as if to wipe away the burn and all that had happened in the past few days. “Everything we worked for. My training, education...”
“We're lucky to be alive,” Randall said.
I touched Shatro's arm, pained by what he was doing to himself.
“Leave me alone,” he growled, jerking away.
“Please,” I said. “Don't rub your face like that.”
“What do you care?” he demanded, standing up from the lower bunk and bumping his head on the rail.
“Enough,” Salap said. “Why are you so angry with this man?”
Shatro stood in silence for a moment, hands limp by his sides.
“We're all equal now,” Randall said dryly. “Let's make the best of it.”
“It will be a long time until we are back in Calcutta,” Salap said.
Shatro went to the porthole and looked out at the ocean, his face peac
hy-red in the glare.
“I request to be relieved from my contract,” he said. “I may seek employment in Naderville.” He glanced around at us. “I'm sure they need researchers.”
“They probably do,” Randall agreed. “Though I doubt that Good Lenk will appreciate it.”
Shatro dismissed this with a wave. “He's going to Naderville to surrender,” he said. “Brion isn't coming to him.”
Again, Shatro stated what seemed obvious to all.
In the afternoon, after a lunch of real wheat bread and salted redbriar cheese—a delicious specialty from Tasman's silva—I walked with Shirla around the ship, examining the Khoragos's graceful lines, admiring the craftsmanship of Lenk's personal ship. It was said that Lenk had turned down his advisors when they suggested such an appurtenance, and it had taken them years to convince him to change his mind. He needed to be able to travel in comfort with the people necessary to the growing government, of which he was still spiritual and political head. His presence on the ship gave the Khoragos a special quality that Vigilant had lacked: a sense of grandeur. In design and rig, however, she was simply graceful, and very well-appointed.
In truth, I devoted less attention to the ship's details than I did to Shirla. Between meetings with curious crew, who exchanged greetings and asked about our health, we walked in silence, shoulder to shoulder. There was no longer a Soterio to catch us “flarking” or a Ry Diem to cluck at us in her motherly way, and no real sense of direction or duty; we had been relieved of that.
Nearly being relieved of our lives had sparked something in me I could neither deny nor justify—an immediate need for confirmation. My life was too flimsy not to get on with basics, and Shirla satisfied one very real basic: female companionship.
How far we were to go, I did not give much thought to. The direction seemed obvious. If and when the time was right, I would make love to her.
As we walked, I examined Shirla with different eyes. She was not beautiful, not ugly; face and arms red with exposure, skin shiny with ointment and beginning to flake, hips ample, legs short but well-shaped, trunk long, neck long, head and face round, hair of course ragged, brown eyes small but intense and focused, she seemed ready at any moment to become satirical or critical, but she did not. In her motions and few words she seemed very vulnerable, very open.
