A glance upward showed the rippling mirror that was the surface. It was growing late and she should be getting back. A pair of cuttlefish were floating just above the reef edge, relaxing in the sun. One was pretending to ignore a wandering Moorish idol, hoping it might swim within grasping range. Suddenly both cephalopods went white. White as paper. White as the keys on a new piano.
Vegas noticed the change immediately, losing his usual russet hue as his body similarly went white. Claire knew that to a giant cuttlefish, white was the color of danger. The two Sepia above were flashing a warning. A moment later they vanished across the top of the reef in a flurry of latitudinal fins. As they did so, Claire felt a brief, slight pressure against her chest. It was the sharp pulse from Vegas’s siphon as he blasted away. She had a last glimpse of him as he disappeared around a corner of the reef. What …?
Out of the right portion of her three-sided mask she saw a pair of swimming figures heading back toward the complex. They had been spear fishing, she saw as she turned toward them. This was permitted: in an area as remote as northern PNG, anything that supplemented a canned diet was welcome. A little fishing had essentially no impact on the healthy reef population. Speared fish trailed from each diver’s respective catch lines. Most were silver and red, colors that nearly always indicated an absence of toxic ciguatera and that the fish in question were safe to eat.
From the end of one line, its eyes fixed, its tentacles limp, trailed a dead Sepia.
Beyond anger she shot toward them, kicking as hard as she could. Espying her approach the nearest diver welcomed her with a friendly wave. He backed off in surprise as she flailed both hands at his face, conveying her anger without making physical contact. Plainly baffled by her reaction, the two men exchanged confused glances. Eventually she ceased gesturing. Reaching down toward one line, she cupped the body of the dead cuttlefish in both hands. The sucker-lined tentacles hung loose in the water like drifting seaweed. Now stilled, the elegant lateral fins moved only with the current. No longer pumped by the animal’s three hearts, a small trickle of green-blue blood continued to leak from the holes where the steel spear had pierced the tough body all the way through. Feeling tears welling up inside her mask, she held the corpse up toward the man who had killed it.
He nodded understandingly and with his right hand, made vigorous chopping motions. Even in the absence of a kitchen, his intent was quite clear.
Whirling, she released the body and headed for the station. At the bottom of the cylindrical access module she turned upwards, kicking until she broke the surface inside. The dive tech who assisted her in removing her gear took one look at the expression on her face and decided not to ask her how her dive had gone.
After drying off and changing into shorts and fleece shirt she strode purposefully to the small pneumatically-powered elevator. The research facility had only five levels and she could have walked up, but at that moment she didn’t want to have to deal with any of her regular acquaintances.
The uppermost level, Space Terrestrial, led to the ramp that connected the station to the nearby island. Space Habitat 2, 3, and 4 demarcated the respective three submerged working and living levels of the research complex.
The lowermost level, Space Marine, was the one through which she had just re-entered the world of air-breathers.
Madison was in his office and turned from the computer attached to the curving wall when she barged in. He maintained his smile even after he caught her expression.
“Hi Claire. Something the matter?”
“I’ll say something’s the matter!” Breathing hard, unable to stay still, she strode back and forth in front of him, trying to catch her breath while assembling her thoughts. “I’ve just come back in.”
“I know,” he said, trying to calm her. “I can tell by the rosy salt water glow on your cheeks.”
She halted directly in front of him. They were nearly the same size: professional divers tend to run small. “This isn’t funny, Carl!” With a nod she indicated the nearest port, beyond which a small school of silvery jacks was just passing. “Somebody just killed one of my Sepia!”
He pursed his lips. “One of ‘your’ Sepia, Claire? I wasn’t aware you had placed a claim on anyone besides your special Vegan.”
“Vegas,” she corrected him angrily. “What if it had been Vegas? What if I hadn’t been out working with him when these two trigger-happy idiots were out prowling with their spears? What then?”
Madison rubbed his nose with the back of his right hand, lifted it to stroke his shaved head, and leaned back in his chair. “You really think you’re going to get another grant, Claire? You’ve got two more weeks … less than two weeks … and unless your grant is renewed for a fourth time, you’re out of here.” He cocked his head slightly to one side and stared at her hard. “You’re as dedicated a researcher as anyone I’ve had at the station, Claire, but insofar as I’ve heard, you’re not making any serious progress. Hell, unless I’ve missed a report, you’re not even making slight progress.” His gaze didn’t waver. “It’s an interesting premise, but it’s a dead end. You need to accept that.”
“It’s a matter of repetition,” she muttered, turning away from him because she was unable to refute his conclusion. “A breakthrough that will have to come by rote. It will come, some day. I’m convinced of it.” Looking back at him she held up both hands, fingers spread wide. “Ten and ten.”
One hand fiddled idly with some papers, making a faux show of rearranging them. “Yes, I’ve read your field work. But be honest with yourself, Claire; you’ve been at this for nearly six months without any kind of verifiable steps forward. Your principal subject, this Vegas, was a mature male when you started working with him, wasn’t he?”
She nodded, chewing her lower lip, knowing where he was going.
“How much longer can you expect him to live?” Madison was being quite earnest now; brutally earnest and completely honest. In other words, he was being a scientist. “Do you really think you can make the first breakthrough in interspecies communication with a subject so different from a human being—so different from a vertebrate—that you have to teach from scratch? One that might live a few months since you initiated work with it?”
“I can’t extend cephalopod life. Maybe someday someone will.” Her eyes snapped back to meet his. “They’re so damn smart, Carl. An octopus can learn to open a jar or climb out of its aquarium to inspect its external surroundings. Imagine, just imagine, if we could somehow tweak their biology so that they lived even ten years! Not to mention what they might accomplish if they were given a human lifespan.”
He shrugged. “A fine thought. A noble thought. But one requiring the kind of biological knowledge and ability to manipulate genetic material that we just don’t have yet.” He indicated the port. “Even if such technology existed, it’s unlikely working with cephalopods would be its first application. As for the two divers you’re so angry at, I think I know who they are. Couple of turtle specialists just arrived from Cairns. I’ll talk to them, explain your work here, and see if they can hold off making any future dinners out of your prospective research materials.”
“Vegas,” she murmured, “is not ‘material.’”
He frowned. “That kind of humanistic objectification makes for bad science, Claire. You know that.”
“It doesn’t matter.” As she shook her head slowly, she wasn’t looking at him now. “Like you said, my time here is up in less than a couple of weeks. I doubt I’ll get another extension.” Her tone was bitter. “You’re right about that much, Carl.” Turning, she headed for the portal, pausing once to glance back. “But until the day my flight leaves for Moresby, I’m going to keep at it.”
He nodded, trying to sound sympathetic. “I wish you luck. Believe me, no one would love to see you succeed at this more than I would.”
She had no such luck, of course. Another week flashed by, marked only by the painful novelty of a severe storm that cost her two of her precious remaining working
days on the reef. Her only consolation as she brooded over the looming inevitability of her departure was that after a week’s absence, Vegas came back. So she had a few final days with him. They were no more fruitful than had been the previous six months.
On the last day she lost it a little bit. Floating before that alien, enigmatic invertebrate gaze she abruptly began wildly waving her arms and contorting her body, signing with her whole being as well as with her hands an extended declaration of frustration. At first the cuttlefish jerked back his tentacles slightly and retreated half a foot. But he did not flee, did not ink. Instead he relaxed and watched, endlessly curious, interminably unresponsive.
Eventually exhausted, she ceased her fruitless gyrations. All done, she knew. All over. Six months of hard work. Six months of sucking air through a regulator and staring interminably, pointlessly at a … well, at least not at a fish.
One last time she made the farewell sign. One final time she methodically, patiently, moved her gloved fingers. Then she turned and kicked back in the direction of the station, leaving the melted crayon-colored slope of the reef behind. She would write the paper, anyway, she told herself. Properly committed, confirmed absence of proof of a hypothesis constituted as valid a PhD. thesis as one that was successful.
Behind her a double line of yellow-striped snappers finned in formation above branching brown staghorn coral. Like a snaggle-toothed Jack-in-the-box, a gasping green moray emerged from its hidey-hole to inspect the world around it while allowing a miniscule cleaner shrimp to peck gently at microscopic parasites.
High above the moray, the aging example of Sepia apama watched the strange smooth-skinned shape shrink in the direction of the coral-free reef from which it always emerged and to which it invariably returned. Four adjoining tentacles on its right side rose and fell in unison.
Glancing back, Claire caught the movement—and froze. Hanging in the water, she could only stare.
The gesture was repeated. Four right-side tentacles rose up, then bent down. The sign for—goodbye.
Camera. Where the hell was her camera? As she fumbled for the compact video unit she debated whether to remain where she was or return to the traditional observation point. She started swimming. Not too fast, she prayed. Not too slow, she hoped.
Pausing at the usual distance, she raised the camera with her right hand. With her left, she lifted all four fingers pressed tightly together, her thumb pressed flat against her palm.
Unblinkingly, Vegas responded. Four right-side tentacles up, then down. Remembering to breathe, she checked the camera she had not had occasion to use in many weeks. In the viewfinder a small red light winked steadily back at her, like the eye of the Devil.
Dead battery.
A good scientist always, always travels with backup. Hurriedly placing the useless unit back into its pouch on her vest, she removed the second camera. A quick check showed it was half powered: more than enough. Turning back to the hovering cuttlefish, she made the goodbye gesture once again. It was not mimicked.
She tried several times more before she noticed that the always fluttering, flowing lateral fins were not moving. The camera lowered. Finning forward, she reached out with her free hand. She had never touched Vegas before; had never tried to make physical contact for fear of frightening him off. It was her experience that cuttlefish did not like to be touched. But there was no objection, no retreat, as she first lightly made contact with the heavy body, then ran her open palm along its ventral side. She pushed, gently. The body started to float away. Already its healthy reddish-orange color was beginning to fade. The eyes, of course, remained open and visible; just not moving. Realization made her swallow hard. She could—she would—continue her research. There was no way she could cease it now. Even though she would have to start all over again with another subject. Next time with a younger one.
Vegas truly had been saying goodbye.
13
Valentin Sharffen and the Code of Doom
The longest story in this collection has the shortest introduction.
* * *
Advances in artificial intelligence have greatly enhanced the gaming experience.
* * *
Mightn’t the reverse also be true?
—I—
The battle was on the verge of becoming a complete rout, until Sharffen appeared.
Streaked with blood, frightened, and exhausted, Lieutenant Polan felt as if he had run into a brick wall. Steadying himself, he looked up to see it was only another soldier. Then he noticed the twin stars on the front of the tall man’s helmet. Explosions and the whoosh of powerful slip-strainers echoing in his ears, he blinked away grime and sweat. This was most unusual. Exceptional, even. Soldiers didn’t see generals on the field, much less those sporting two stars.
Six foot four, trim as an Olympic swimmer, the unexpected arrival scanned the scarred field of battle behind Polan. The senior officer’s face had been hacked and chiseled as if by a sculptor who had been working with only one good eye and a permanent chip on his shoulder. Polan found himself transfixed by deep-set eyes that were the blackest he had ever seen. Black as obsidian, black as a seam of fresh coal, black as deep space itself. Bottomless and impenetrable.
After taking the measure of the chaotic battlefield, they looked down at him.
“Where are your superior officers, Lieutenant …?”
“Polan, sir.” The younger man fought to straighten and salute. “Dead, sir. All of them. Or mortally wounded.”
A Durgeon splinter shell landed close by, sending hundreds of metal shards screaming behind the two men and shredding a pair of small trees. While the Lieutenant ducked instinctively, the general did not so much as flinch. The shrieks and wails of dying men and women sintered the cracks in the cacophony of combat. Polan dropped to the ground as a second shell came whistling in their direction. Above him, the general’s gaze narrowed as he tracked it with his eyes. Something big and nasty went whomp nearby, precipitating a geyser of dirt, macerated wood, and less savory debris. The bone sticking out of a lacerated wrist, a human hand waxed with gore landed on the senior officer’s right shoulder. Reaching up, he brushed it away without so much as looking at it.
“Get up, Polan.” The younger man complied, struggling out of the clinging muck. “You’re Captain Polan now.” With a sweep of the same palm that had indifferently shucked off the dismembered hand, the two-star indicated the field of battle. “I am General Valentin Sharffen and I’m taking command here. Get on your communicator. Organize a defensive line. Bring the disorganized together, but keep falling back as you do so. Have your noncoms stay in touch. We’ll have a retreat, but not a panic. Let the Durgeon continue to advance, make them think they’ve won.”
Polan swallowed. So much death left no time for tact. “I think maybe they have … sir.”
Sharffen growled. “I disagree. Not all the guts in this Corps have been left on the field. Not yet.” His gaze flicked to another soldier who was limping toward them. The woman’s left arm was shredded and had been hurriedly patched with sealskin, but her expression was alert. “You. Who are you?”
The woman glanced at Polan, then back at the General. Her left eye was nearly swollen shut from some unknown impact. “Captain Louise Sanchez, sir.”
“Major Sanchez, I see that your field comm unit is intact. Where’s our armor?”
She nodded past him, in the same direction she and Polan had been running. “Ahead of us, sir.”
Sharffen shook his head once, sharply. “You mean behind us. That’s wrong. Get on your comm. Tell whoever’s left in charge to swing everything that’s still capable of combat toward Marsters Gorge. About four kilometers in there’s a side canyon that turns north. Always foggy in there, and full of active thermal vents. Fog will mask visual and the vents will confuse the enemy’s heat-seekers. If our people take that they can get behind the Durgeon lines. Tell them to move their ennervar-plated butts, and wait for my command to counterattack.” He looked back
at Polan. “Their ground forces will keep pushing us westward. We’ll bleed them until our armor is behind them.” His enunciation was sharp enough to cut granite. “Then we’ll hit them with everything we’ve got.”
Strength Polan believed had left him now began to return. This strange and unannounced senior officer inspired not just hope, but confidence. “I’m on it, sir!” He stumbled away and pulled his communicator, intent on systematizing the organized retreat the general had requested. The newly promoted Major was less hopeful.
“Excuse me, sir, but our heavy armor will never make it through Marsters. That route was surveyed and discarded prior to this battle and rejected as being too narrow for tanks and mobile launchers.”
Sharffen nodded, having anticipated the objection. “Not if our launchers go first. Make sure each one has a field engineer with the crew. If the launchers hug the canyon wall, their integral repression fields will flatten out the old road that runs through the canyon. That will clear enough space for heavy armor to follow. The Durgeon won’t be expecting such a thrust any more than you did. When our armor hits them from behind, our ground forces will have regrouped enough to hit back hard.” Raising one gnarled hand, he clenched it into a fist. “We’ll squeeze them, Major, and they’ll break.”
Incredible, she thought through the pain in what was left of her arm. Who was this officer? Why had she never heard his name before? As unabashed on the battlefield as Polan had been, she asked him as much.
“I was just assigned to this sector, Major. Good thing, too, from what I’ve seen so far. Now get on your comm and tell our armor they’re going the wrong way!”
“Yes sir!” Buoyed by his energy and assurance, she started making the necessary calls.
Catastrophe, Sharffen thought to himself. What a ghastly mess. Well, he’d fix it. If the troops falling back could regroup long enough to slow the Durgeon advance before they were pushed into the river Lissum, they’d surprise the hell out of the invaders. Earth didn’t need any more losses in the field. More than territory was at stake here, he knew. The Terran defenses needed bolstering emotionally as well as physically, and he was just the man to do it.
The Flavors of Other Worlds Page 17
