A Darkling Sea

by James Cambias

  “How’d they find out so fast?” asked Angelo Ponti. “We haven’t even been able to send word to Earth yet.”

  “Actually I have already sent a message. Dr. Castaverde and I agreed that Dr. Kerlerec’s death was important enough to use one of the message drones, so I sent it off just two days after the incident.”

  There was a moment’s silence as twenty- seven people did mental arithmetic. Ilmatar was thirty light-years from Earth, but cutting through gimelspace divided that distance by almost a million, so call it about 300 million kilometers. The drones were big solid-fuel boosters carrying a tiny transmitter, and could hit a hundred kilometers per second. That meant a trip time of only a month, which meant . . .

  “The Sholen have been eavesdropping!” Dickie Graves yelled. “There’s no way they could get a message from Earth and send a ship here.”

  “I don’t know if we can necessarily make that assumption,” said Dr. Sen. “They could have better boosters than ours, or have transmitters positioned in gimelspace to relay messages. At any rate, that is not the most important issue at this moment. What is important is that two Sholen are coming down to Hitode as we speak. The elevator is on its way up to collect them right now. We have two days to make everything ready for their visit.”

  “What if we don’t let them come down?” Dickie called out. “Tell them to fuck off and send them right back home again!”

  “Taking a confrontational attitude like that will accomplish nothing, Dr. Graves. The treaty gives both species inspection rights outside our respective home systems. We are obliged to let them examine the station and interview everyone involved in the Kerlerec incident.” At that particular moment, everybody managed to be looking at something other than Rob Freeman. “However, I think we can avoid a great deal of difficulty if the Sholen find nothing which might indicate contact with the Ilmatarans, or create any mistaken impression. We should place all the artifacts from the city sites out on the seafloor, encrypt any recordings of Ilmatarans, and relabel the cadaver sections. I also need a group to make a thorough sweep of the area around the station to make sure none of our equipment or waste has been left outside.”

  “Why do all this hiding?” asked Alicia. “We haven’t done anything wrong. All that research is allowed by the treaty, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is, Dr. Neogri. But there is a certain amount of public relations involved here. If the Sholen make a complaint about us and can present things like cadaver samples and artifacts, it will affect public opinion back on Earth. I’m afraid it is not enough to simply be innocent of wrongdoing; we must be sure to avoid anything which could be misinterpreted.”

  Since everyone was still not looking at him, Rob cleared his throat and raised his hand. “Dr. Sen? The Sholen are going to need someone to show them around, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, they will certainly need a guide. I had intended to perform that task myself but if you have a suggestion I’m sure we all would like to hear it.”

  “Since they’re going to want to debrief me anyway about what happened to Henri, why not let me be the tour guide?”

  “That is a perfectly sensible suggestion and I am happy to let you take over that part of the work. Now, we must all get started as quickly as possible. We only have two days.”

  THE Terran base on the surface of Ilmatar was built at the bottom of a long crack in the ice that the Terrans called Shackleton Linea. The landing area and beacon were up on the edge of the crevasse, and in order to reach the base proper the two Sholen had to seal up their suits and descend the cliff face in an open platform suspended from a crane that looked alarmingly makeshift to Tizhos. Their suit radios weren’t on the same channel as that of their Terran guide, so the entire trip down was spent in silence.

  The base itself was nothing but a squat foam- covered cylinder, about the size of a lander, standing on a cleared patch of ice on the floor of the crevasse. Clumped nearby were a power plant, an antenna mast, some machinery for making rocket fuel out of ice, and the gaping hole of the shaft down through the ice to the ocean beneath. Some distance off was the plasma furnace for waste disposal, which had made a huge ugly stain of soot on the ice for kilometers around. The whole place was surrounded by a litter of construction equipment and scrap.

  Another suited human met them at the airlock, and made some gestures of greeting before they all went inside. According to the glyphs on the hatch, the airlock was built to hold four humans, so two humans and a pair of Sholen made a very tight fit.

  Within the habitat it was cramped, overheated, and foul- smelling. The crew consisted of three male humans and one female, and all were dressed in very dirty suit liners. A male with a hairless head stepped forward and extended his hand in a gesture of greeting.

  “Welcome to Shackleton. I’m Claudio Castaverde, director of operations up here. We have a room for the two of you, if you need to rest.”

  “Very kind of you, but we rested in the lander,” said Gishora. He spoke the most common Terran language far more fluently than Tizhos could. “We must go down to the main base as soon as we can.”

  “The elevator is on its way up now. There’s nobody aboard so it will be here in just a few hours. In the meantime, if you’d like something to eat or drink, we were just about to have dinner. Would you like to join us?”

  Tizhos felt her mouth grow dry with disgust at the thought of eating in such a foul- smelling place, but Gishora was a hardened diplomat. “Thank you very much. That would give us great pleasure.”

  They did not actually eat any of the Terran food. Tizhos knew that Sholen could safely eat the starches and sugars, but she also knew the humans had a dangerous habit of flavoring everything with animal proteins that would almost certainly cause an allergic reaction.

  So Tizhos and Gishora dined on the food they had brought along. Their rations were simple balls of blended carbohydrates and lipids, but each was flavored with a mixture of aromatics, pheromones, and psychoactives, and the balls were coded to be eaten in sequence. The meal began with subtle vegetable tastes mixed with stimulants, progressed to strong spices and disinhibitors to improve the conversation, and wound up with aphrodisiacs and a mild narcotic with a blend of pickled fruit flavors. Tizhos felt mellow and well-disposed toward everyone afterward.

  While they ate, Gishora and the Terrans discussed the scientific research they were conducting. The hairless one, Castaverde, was studying the ionosphere and magnetic fields of Ilmatar, and how they interacted with the more powerful fields of the giant planet it orbited. The female was using a series of laser reflectors to measure the movement of the ice plates. The other two males were in charge of maintaining the base and the elevator. All four of them seemed desperately eager to show the two Sholen around. Tizhos had to suffer through a trip out to view the waste incinerator, and tried to stand patiently as the female human went on endlessly about the accursed thing.

  “The shell’s just hull plating we scavenged from some of the cargo drop pods. Inside it’s all lined with native basalt. Satoshi and I spent two weeks in the crawler dragging a sled full of rock back from the nearest outcrop. There’s a pure oxygen feed and a hydrogen plasma torch; anything organic gets completely burned up in minutes. No contamination.”

  “But it produces much soot,” said Tizhos. “One can see it from orbit.”

  The female made a gesture with her shoulders. “The original plan was just to dump all the waste on a piece of rocky surface somewhere and let it sit there for the next billion years. But you guys wanted us to burn everything. Burning stuff makes ashes.”

  “You could take it all away from this world.”

  “Are you kidding?” her voice was shrill over the radio. “That’s what, ten kilos of fuel for each kilo of garbage? We’re already mining as much ice as you guys will let us.”

  Tizhos looked over at the station and saw that the elevator capsule was just emerging from the top of the shaft.

  “I have enjoyed speaking with you, but I se
e the elevator coming up. I need to go now.”

  Despite their best efforts to make the humans hurry, it was more than an hour before Gishora and Tizhos could board the elevator, and then more delays as their gear was loaded and two of the Terrans checked out all the onboard systems. So when the ice wall began sliding upward past the tiny porthole in the hatch, Tizhos felt a tremendous sense of relief.

  The elevator was a little self- contained habitat unit, almost as big as the surface station. It had four human-sized beds, a table, a little waste-disposal unit, and a cabinet stocked with dehydrated Terran foods. The two Sholen had their own foodmaker and distilled water to drink, and plenty of time for conversation. The descent took thirty- six hours to give their bodies time to adjust to the pressure.

  Tizhos actually enjoyed the elevator descent. She and Gishora had complete freedom to talk about their work—Ilmatar and the Terrans. It was almost like being a student again. Tizhos could simply enjoy the company of another smart, curious Sholen for the better part of three Shalina days. Their sexual play became more than just an official duty.

  She briefed him about the planet and its inhabitants. “Of course,” she cautioned, “most of what we know about Ilmatar comes from the Terrans. They may well have learned more since my last opportunity to read their findings.”

  “I must ask you to compare what you have read with what we see here,” said Gishora. “Note any differences. If you find anything the Terrans have concealed, let me know at once.”

  “I believe you said we did not come here to judge.”

  “True. But we must strive for accuracy and impartiality. Just as I cautioned against too much suspicion, we should also avoid trusting them too much.”

  “I understand.”

  “Please proceed,” said Gishora.

  Tizhos called up an image on her terminal. “The moon Ilmatar orbits the giant planet the humans call Ukko. I believe these names derive from the mythology of a human culture exterminated long ago by a more aggressive one. Ilmatar fits a standard model for giant planet moons far outside the life zone of the central star: a rocky core covered by a thick layer of water ice. Diameter of 6,400 kilometers. Tidal heating has liquified the interior, creating an ocean two kilometers deep, buried under a crust of ice a kilometer thick.”

  “Hence this long ride down. I understand the physical details. Tell me about the things which live here.”

  “Life on Ilmatar resembles similar ecosystems on other subglacial ocean moons. We know of three others. On all of them, volcanic vents on the seafloor serve as energy sources, giving off warm water and carbon or sulfur compounds. The native organisms make use of both heat gradients and chemical energy.”

  “Tell me how such a low-energy system can support intelligent beings.”

  “The Ilmatarans descend—according to human scientists— from smaller species which live as scavengers and predators around energetic vents. At some point the Ilmatarans became intelligent enough to cultivate chemosynthetic organisms, and eventually developed a sophisticated analog of agriculture, using stone pipes and channels to conserve and distribute energyrich vent water.”

  “What sort of communities do they form?”

  “Again, the information I have only includes archaeological data and some images taken from a distance. It appears that the Ilmatarans live in small communities, each centered on an active vent. They have some sort of division of labor, as the humans have observed individuals performing distinct tasks consistently.”

  “How much they sound like Sholen,” said Gishora. “Small communities, careful stewardship of their resources, mutual assistance.”

  “I only wish we could learn more about them,” ventured Tizhos.

  “We will have the human rec ords to examine,” said Gishora. “I feel certain you look forward to that with great anticipation, as I do.”

  “In all honesty, yes.”

  “Tizhos—this elevator ride may represent our last chance to speak in complete privacy. Tell me if you pay much attention to the politics of consensus back home.”

  “Only somewhat. I attend my community and workinggroup meetings.” She did not add that she had long ago stopped paying the slightest attention to anything discussed at those meetings.

  “I assume you know that our world has not yet achieved consensus about the Terran problem.”

  “Yes.” Tizhos hesitated for just a moment. “I myself adhere to the Noninterference tendency on that issue.”

  “As do I,” said Gishora. “But I find it highly frustrating that most other members of our tendency support a complete withdrawal from space altogether.”

  “It frustrates me, as well. I suspect most in the space working groups agree.”

  “Some, but not most. Irona came on this voyage because he takes a prominent part in the Interventionist tendency regarding the Terrans. He wishes to restrict them to their own world, possibly even compel them to adopt planetary-management policies like our own.”

  “I know. He spoke to me about it several times during the voyage. I can’t understand why you brought him.”

  “I had no choice. The Interventionists support space travel— after all, one cannot meddle in the affairs of other species across interstellar distances without spacecraft.”

  “So you needed Irona’s support to get consensus for the mission, but at the price of including him.”

  “Exactly. Which means that our conclusions here must support Irona.”

  “You know your conclusions before gathering data?”

  “I fear we must use bad science to accomplish good politics. Our only hope for more space exploration lies with the Interventionists. I know for a fact that Irona has risked a great deal of his own prestige for this mission. If we return to Shalina and announce no need for any form of intervention, Irona loses much influence and the anti- space tendency can point to the enormous waste of resources our mission represents.”

  “You sound like an Interventionist yourself,” said Tizhos.

  “Not at all! I loathe the idea of imposing our consensus on the humans—and I don’t feel at all certain we would win a violent conflict with the humans. Their world holds ten of them for every one of us on Shalina.”

  “But surely our technology gives us the advantage!”

  “I have seen estimates of capabilities,” said Gishora. “They do not reassure me. We have knowledge far beyond anything the humans possess, but we have spent generations reducing our ability to use it effectively. Shalina has a single facility building spaceships; we know of at least eight on Earth. Right now we possess twelve starships, each superior to anything the humans can build—but they have thirty that we know of.”

  “Then I fear I don’t understand what you mean to accomplish,” said Tizhos. “You fear intervention but support it at the same time.”

  “We must produce a report which supports Irona’s beliefs, but which won’t tip the consensus at home in favor of the Interventionist faction.”

  “That sounds difficult. Especially with aliens involved.”

  “Very difficult. But consider what it means for the future: Irona and the Interventionists will owe their prestige to us. That gives us a way to control them.”

  “Tell me if you would like some food,” Tizhos asked.

  “Please,” said Gishora.

  She operated the foodmaker, feeling herself settle into the role of a subordinate. A comfortable feeling—especially if she didn’t have to make the kind of terrifying decisions Gishora did.

  As they began the meal she asked one final question. “You wish to maintain a balance between factions—but so much depends on the actions of the humans. Tell me how you can predict the behavior of alien creatures.”

  Gishora popped a food ball into his mouth and stretched lazily. “The Terrans have an obsession with rules and pride themselves on behaving rationally. Predicting their behavior seems like analyzing a computer’s output—as long as you know the relevant rules and inputs, determining th
e result poses no difficulty. Of all the elements, I worry least of all about them. They seem entirely predictable.”

  STRONGPINCER learns of the attack when a bolt glances off his headshield, waking him from a sound sleep. He pings and is shocked to hear a throng of armed adults converging on the rocks where his followers are camped. Half the attackers are on the sea bottom, arranged in a crescent around the rocks and moving inward. The rest float above, ready to intercept anyone trying to escape. There must be two dozen in all.

  “Wake up!” Strongpincer thwacks Hardshell’s headshield and pings the others as loudly as he can. “Militia!”

  The militia must be from Three Domes; many of the adults there are merchants and don’t like bandits, even if they don’t prey on Three Domes convoys. For them to come out in force like this is a surprise, but not impossible. It’s just Strongpincer’s bad luck that they’re out looking for bandits here.

  Where is Tailcutter? Strongpincer remembers leaving him on watch. The coward is probably swimming away as fast as he can go. Of course, that isn’t a bad idea, but how to get away without being cut off and shot full of bolts?

  “Onefeeler!” Strongpincer calls out. “Take Headcracker and Hardshell—try to get free. We hold them here.”

  He’s lying, of course. In battle, sacrifices are sometimes necessary. As soon as Onefeeler’s group go half a cable, Strongpincer and the rest scatter, each swimming as hard as he can in a different direction. That makes poor Onefeeler and his companions the biggest target, and Strongpincer can hear them getting swarmed by militia.

  The squad hovering up above are launching bolts at the fleeing bandits, and a couple pass near Strongpincer as he zigzags desperately. Halftail gets snared in a net, struggling to free himself until half a dozen bolts send him sinking gently to the bottom.