Expendable

by James Alan Gardner

  I swam upward, filled with the calm that comes when survival demands it. Up toward the light. I could see it better now. I could….

  Bump. My outstretched hand touched glass.

  The whale-shark floated between me and the surface.

  Around the Belly

  Maybe it was dead. No, it had to be a machine; say that it was broken, not dead. But I had shot it three times, it had smashed into the river bottom and the log, then it had suffered the crashing smack of bellyflopping into the water after its jump. All that buffeting must have taken its toll.

  The machine lay still now. I prayed it was too damaged to move. Keeping my hand against the thing’s hull, I began to feel my way around it: under its belly, up to fresh air.

  Clang.

  The sound was soft. I didn’t hear it so much as feel it through my fingertips. Something had shifted inside the glass machine.

  Just broken equipment, I told myself, banging together.

  I didn’t believe it. I gave a good kick, trying to hurry to the surface.

  Whir.

  An engine spun into life. I could feel that through my fingers too.

  Shit.

  I was still palming my way along the hull when the whale-shark started to move. The motion was jerky—damaged. I wanted to press my stunner against the machine’s glass belly and keep pulling the trigger till the gun’s battery was exhausted; but there might be an echoing backwash that left me unconscious in the water. My arm was still numb from that earlier bounce-back. All I could do was hurry, and hope Oar and I got out of the water before the glass monster came to its senses.

  The hull under my hand was starting to curve upward. I was around the bulge. Pushing off, I swam hard toward the light. Beside me, the machine moved forward, its wake pulling me around in a spiral. Ignore it—up was up, and I was almost at the surface.

  For some reason, I thought I’d be all right if I could reach fresh air again.

  My head emerged into the light. Some distance away, Oar still clung to the tree trunk, her body frozen, not looking in my direction. I was about to swim toward her when something grabbed my leg.

  I was dragged under again, fighting and kicking. There was time to see glass tentacles stretching from the whale-shark’s mouth to my ankle. Then I was pulled inside.

  Jonah

  For such a big machine, the interior was cramped—too cramped to bend and loosen the glass grip on my leg. The Bumbler pressed hard into my kidneys, the pain stinging sharp; so I wriggled and squeezed to roll the other way, facing the Bumbler instead of having it at my back. Having a Bumbler jammed against my stomach wasn’t comfortable either, but I could stand it for a while. With less than two minutes of air in the rebreather, I had worse troubles.

  The whale-shark’s mouth began to close. I tried to hold it open, tried to grab its jaw and pull myself free; but the hold on my ankle was as strong as iron, chaining me in place.

  Better to stop fighting. My air would last longer that way.

  Concentrate, I told myself. Slow breaths. Wait.

  I had no idea what I was waiting for; but no one builds a river-shark just for the hell of it—not one with tentacles for grabbing passersby. This machine was designed to capture people…and I hoped it took them alive.

  Yes. Of course it must want me alive. If its purpose was to eliminate intruders, it would have killed me by now. It could have zipped out a knife to slit my throat the second I was immobilized.

  Unless it wanted my skin intact. Unless the machine’s job was to supply the Skin-Faces with fresh Explorer pelts.

  Concentrate! I growled mentally. Slow, slow breaths.

  Somewhere inside the shark, machinery started grinding. It was an unhealthy, damaged sound—the stunner had shattered some part of the glass mechanism. Slowly though, slowly, the water around me gurgled away. The shark was pumping water out, and (I hoped) pumping breathable air in.

  Taking a chance, I raised my head into the clear space and inhaled shallowly through my nose. So far so good. I completely filled my lungs and waited.

  No dizziness, no sudden rush of blackness. The shark wasn’t even doping the air with knockout gas.

  What a wimp-ass planet.

  Pumps Clanking

  The water level dropped till half the interior was filled with air. I expected the water to continue receding; it didn’t.

  Why did that bother me?

  The whale-shark contained no light source, but it swam close enough to the surface that weak daylight filtered through the machine’s glass hull. The dim illumination showed why the water level wasn’t dropping anymore: as fast as the pumps sucked water away, more water seeped through the cracks where the shark had hit the log. It looked like the glass bent slightly inward up near the snout—as if the water pressure outside had enough strength to buckle the hull, now that the inside was half air.

  “Okay,” I said aloud, “I am now officially worried.”

  Minutes passed. The grinding noise in the tail section got worse, punctuated occasionally by soft electric crackling. If that was the sound of the pumps, they wouldn’t last long.

  I held the rebreather in front of my face. The gauge was hard to read in the dimness, but the little tank still held sixty seconds of air. Careful breathing could stretch that out, but not forever.

  Lifting my head into the air space, I filled my lungs as deeply as I could. By the time I finished, there was no doubt possible: the water level was back on the rise.

  Arrival

  In an entertainment bubble broadcast, I’d be saved at the last second—just as the chamber was completely full, just as my rebreather gasped out its last molecule of oxygen. Life doesn’t match that standard: you do not find a job just as you run out of money, a couple’s orgasms seldom arrive simultaneously, and salvation may not sweep to the rescue at the point of peak drama. For me, salvation arrived with some minutes to spare—better than mistiming its cue in the other direction.

  To make a long story short, the whale-shark’s gullet still held a few fingers of air at the end of the machine’s journey.

  My first hint we were close to our goal was a sharp dive: I couldn’t tell if we were going down intentionally or some new breakdown was sinking us at speed. The dim and distant daylight from the river’s surface faded to darkness. After half a minute, I asked myself how deep the river could be. We hadn’t traveled far enough to reach the ocean. Perhaps we had come to a lake whose bottom was lower than the river feeding into it.

  Down and down and down. I was glad the water level had risen now—it helped balance the fearsome pressure pushing on the shark’s broken nose. Even so, the damaged area creaked in protest…and perhaps it was in the nick of time that the machine passed through an airlock into bluish-silver light.

  The shark’s mouth opened, spilling water onto a concrete jetty.

  The tentacled grip on my ankle eased. Stiffly, I pulled myself past the Bumbler (still pressed against my stomach), and crawled out of the shark’s mouth. Thirty seconds later, I was on my feet, the Bumbler strapped to my back, and my stunner in hand.

  Silence.

  No one rushed to attack me. The entry chamber was small and empty, with blank concrete walls. At the far end was a metal door with a red pushbutton beside it.

  Enter freely and of your own will, I thought to myself.

  The Colored Town

  There was no way to go back the way I came. Even if I could start the whale-shark again, I’d drown on the return journey. That left two choices: sit where I was, or move forward. Staying put just avoided the future. Better to head out now, and find cover before anyone came for me.

  I walked straight to the door and pressed the button. With a rusty whine, the hatch opened toward me. I stepped through.

  Glass towers. Glass homes. Glass blockhouses.

  It was larger than Oar’s village, but built on the same model. A black hemispherical dome loomed overhead, no doubt holding back a million tons of water. The buildings on the p
erimeter were low-built, while the ones in the middle reached high into the air, stretching more than halfway to the roof. Like Oar’s home, the place had an abandoned air: quiet and unpeopled.

  But it had color.

  Red plastic streamers lay in the street, like the unswept remains of a Mardi Gras. Purple and orange banners had been fastened above many glass doorways—banners now fuzzed with dust, and corners dangling dog-eared where the glue had lost its stick. The tallest spire in town sported a droopy yellow flag with a smudged black crest in the middle; and other towers had flags of their own, bile green, dark blue, stripes of brown and fuchsia.

  It all looked so sad. Dirt-specked attempts to brighten the place up. Deliberately garish yet futile.

  Wherever I looked was glass, as sterile as distilled water. The scraps of blousy fabric only heightened the austerity of the barren backdrop. How can a meter of cloth enliven a wall twenty storeys high? And from the clashes between adjacent colors, I could tell the decorators had no sense of what they were doing. They had no particular effect in mind—they only wanted to disrupt the sameness of glass on glass.

  I thought of the spearmen I’d seen, wrapping skin on their faces and genitals. Did that come from a similar impulse? Plastering skin on their bodies to break up the sterile sameness?

  But there was no reason to assume this town belonged to the Skin-Faces. For all I knew, the banners around me might be centuries old. The red plastic in the gutters might be that old too. With no rain under the dome and no animals, with air that was likely filtered free of most bacteria, the fallen streamers might last a lifetime. A flat and weary lifetime.

  It might be helpful to see whether this place had its own Tower of Ancestors filled with dormant bodies. If the bodies wore scraps of skin, it would tell me something.

  Cautiously, I walked to the middle of town. Like Oar’s home, this place had an open square, a square featuring four fountains, not two. The colored debris was more abundant here: mostly on the ground, but with scraps of colored plastic thrown over the fountains and festooned clumsily above doorways.

  The heavyhandedness of it all weighed drearily on me. I sat on a glass bench and tried to will myself into seeing the color as sincere celebration, not a vain roaring against the bleakness.

  Silence. The emptiness of a place whose spirit had died.

  Many Happy Returns

  With a swish, a door opened in a building behind me. Four Skin-Faces marched out, two men, two women, all holding spears. They fell into position beside the doorway, men on one side, women on the other—like an honor guard lining up to welcome a VIP.

  “Attention!” one of the men called. Attention: the English word. All four spear-carriers slammed the butts of their weapons on the ground and snapped rigid in perfect Outward Fleet form.

  I didn’t move. If I ran, they might chase me; and where could I hide in a city of glass?

  Two imperious hand-claps sounded sharply from within the building. I couldn’t see who’d clapped—the Skin-Faces blocked my line of sight. Very slowly, I adjusted my grip on the stunner, in case the clapped command was an order to attack.

  It wasn’t. One of the women cleared her throat, hummed a musical tone, then began to sing: Happy Birthday. The others joined in.

  On the third line (“Happy birthday, lord and master”), a figure emerged from the building: a person in tightsuit, its fabric smeared with grass stains, brownish sludge, and clots of rust-red. The suit’s helmet had its visor set to oneway opaque; I couldn’t see whether the face inside was flesh or glass.

  Walking slowly, bowlegged, the tightsuited figure passed between the lines of Skin-Faces and continued across the plaza—straight toward me. I raised the stunner, ready but not aiming it directly at the approaching stranger.

  The figure stopped, then spread its arms wide, showing its hands were empty: an obvious “I’m unarmed” gesture.

  I didn’t lower the stunner. I did, however, say the words. “Greetings. I am a sentient citizen of the League of Peoples, and I beg your Hospitality.”

  A chuckle sounded within the suit—a male chuckle. “Hospitality?” The figure reached up, popped the releases, and took off its helmet. “A lot you know about hospitality, Ramos. You haven’t even wished me happy birthday.”

  “All right,” I said. “Happy birthday, Phylar.”

  Part XIII

  GIVEAWAYS

  The Tip

  Phylar Tobit’s face spread into a grin. One of his front teeth was vividly whiter than its yellowed siblings. I assumed the clean tooth was false.

  “Bet you didn’t expect to see me,” he chortled.

  “Happy birthday was a dead giveaway,” I replied. “So the Fleet finally pulled you from the Academy teaching staff?”

  “Eight years ago,” he nodded. “Something about setting a poor example.” He opened his mouth and loosed a belch; trust Tobit to be able to do that at will. “I think we both know how the council handles embarrassments to the uniform.”

  “And what a delightful coincidence,” I said, “that on a planet the size of Earth, we happen to run into each other. What are the odds?”

  “Damned good,” Tobit replied. “Assuming you got the tip.”

  “The tip?”

  Tobit shrugged. “If you didn’t get it, maybe your partner did. Or whatever turd of Admiralty shit you escorted here. The tip.”

  “What tip?”

  “The tip that you should land on this particular continent. Best chance for survival and escape.”

  I stared at him. “Someone told you that? Before you landed?”

  “Told my partner.” He held up his hand to stop my next question. “No, I don’t know how the tip was delivered—my partner didn’t share confidences…especially not with me. We were assigned to each other for this mission only; she knew the council wanted me Lost, and was pissed as hell to get dragged down with me. Selfish bitch. All she said was someone passed the word: land in this neighborhood if you want to save your ass.”

  Chee or Seele, I thought to myself. The tip had to come from Chee or Seele. They’d already visited Melaquin; and their looped broadcast claimed there were spaceworthy ships in that city to the south. Now that I thought about it, Chee had said he ran a spy network throughout the Technocracy. He might have used it to find out who was due for marooning…and to tip off the Explorers who’d be sent along for the ride. It almost made me think fondly of the old bastard again—even if Chee had sold out to the council, he directed fellow Explorers to the same escape route he’d found.

  Of course, he hadn’t tipped off Yarrun or me—we’d chosen the Landing site ourselves. If we’d picked the wrong continent, would Chee have talked us out of it? Or were his brains so scrambled that he’d forgotten all about Melaquin? YouthBoost meltdown does ugly things to memory; Chee had said so himself. It would have been ironic if we were the one party to land on the wrong continent, because Chee couldn’t remember his own advice.

  Tobit was still talking. “Think about it, Ramos. Once you’ve decided on this continent, where are you going to land? West of the prairies, you’ve got mountains all the way to the coast—ugly terrain for touchdown. So you either pick the plains themselves, or go for a clear space in the lake country up north. Nothing else makes sense.”

  “True enough,” I admitted. And maybe that explained why Jelca and Ullis had put down in the same neighborhood we did. Plains vs. lake country was a fifty-fifty choice; and if you chose the lakes, Explorers would then start looking for a region of bluffs, to get the advantage of a height of land. “Still,” I said, “this continent must have a million square klicks of landable area. I find it remarkable we should just run into each other….”

  “Run into each other?” Tobit laughed. “I don’t know about you, Ramos, but I got ambushed by a fucking glass shark. There’s dozens of those things patrolling the river; they’ve got the whole watershed covered, hundreds of klicks upstream and down. Anyone crossing the water stands a good chance of getting captu
red—you think you’re the first Explorer I’ve seen in eight years? You’re number thirteen, sweetheart, and piss off if you’re superstitious.”

  I stared at him. “You mean there are twelve other Explorers in this town?”

  He made an exasperated sound. “Not now, Ramos. One look at me, and they took off like gassed rabbits. Shows what loyal friends I made at the Academy.”

  “So there’s a way out of this town?”

  Tobit grimaced. “You just set a record, Ramos. Shortest effort at small-talk before you brought up the subject of leaving.” He gave a jaundiced grin. “Even at the Academy, you were famous for your people skills.”

  “So were you,” I said.

  People Skills

  One of the Skin-Face women trotted up to us. “Lord Tobit,” she said with a worshipful bow, “the bell just rang again.”

  “Hot damn!” he replied, rubbing his hands together like an enthusiastic host. “The sharks have brought another visitor, Ramos. Your partner, no doubt.”

  “No. My partner is dead.”

  “Dead?” Tobit stared as if I’d made a joke. “An Explorer dead? On a candy planet like this? What’d you do to him?”

  I returned Tobit’s gaze till he flinched.

  “The new visitor is probably a friend of mine,” I said coldly. “A local. We’d better go reassure her. She gets upset easily.”

  “A local,” Tobit repeated. “All glass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eloi,” snarled the Skin-Face woman, her lips curling into a sneer.

  “None of that,” Tobit snapped. “No one starts a fight on my birthday. Take the squad back to base, lieutenant.”

  “Yes sir,” she answered immediately. With a brisk salute, she pivoted away and returned to her three companions. A moment later, they disappeared into the nearest building.

  “Eloi?” I asked.

  “My own terminology,” Tobit replied. “The solid glass layabouts are Eloi; the ones with skin are Morlocks. It’s from a book.”