A Darkling Sea

by James Cambias

  Tizhos moved to lie beside him, and they cuddled and stroked one another, and after a time both could at least pretend to feel better.

  EIGHT

  AT Coquille 2, Rob, Alicia, and Josef settled into a comfortable exile. Rob had been worried that the three of them crammed into the tiny habitat would soon be at each other’s throats, but in fact the biggest problem for him was loneliness.

  Alicia was in a frenzy of data gathering. If and when the Sholen finally dragged her up to orbit she’d have terabytes of new information about Ilmatar and its native life. She concentrated on collection rather than analysis, which meant she spent about ten hours a day suited up, making video recordings of organisms she ran across, gathering specimens to freeze, and collecting hydrophone recordings. She went over the whole vent complex with a camera, documenting everything. Most evenings she climbed back into the habitat so tired she could barely make it into her hammock.

  Josef, on the other hand, was keeping tabs on the Sholen. He didn’t dare take the sub too close to Hitode, but he did spend hours sitting in it, powered down on the sea bottom with a laser link to a drone at the extreme limit of range, listening on the hydrophone for any sound of activity at the station.

  Rob looked after the habitat. Since it was brand new, that should have meant he had nothing to do except watch cartoons. But Theory, where everything works as intended, turned out to be a long way from Ilmatar. Rob had to fix systems that had been improperly installed back on Earth—or improperly designed in the first place.

  The dehumidifier posed the biggest problem, especially given that it was also their main source of drinking water. It started out producing just a tiny trickle, and then quit entirely on the second day. Rob took the whole device apart and rebuilt it, and in the process discovered that the compressor wasn’t compressing. That eventually turned out to be the fault of a loose shaft on the turbine pump, which Rob secured with a generous glob of epoxy.

  When the thing finally began to produce a steady trickle of water and a nice flow of warm air, Rob felt justifiably proud of himself. Human survival on Ilmatar depended on Rob Freeman.

  “We have water again,” he told Josef when the lieutenant climbed up through the hatch and unfastened his helmet.

  “Good,” Josef grunted. “Only one bottle left aboard Mishka. Sholen are more active today. Sounded like they are training.”

  “Training for what?”

  “Good question.”

  Alicia came through the hatch half an hour later.

  “We’ve got water,” said Rob, handing her a cup of instant tea.

  “Ah, warm. I think I have located a nest of some large pelagic swimmer. There are half a dozen eggs, about a liter each. I am going to set up a camera to watch them develop. We may get to see them hatch!”

  “Great. Did I mention we aren’t going to die of thirst because I fixed the water extractor?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “When will there be enough to wash?”

  “Sweetie, I do miracles every day but that’s just crazy talk. You can take a shower when the Sholen capture you, or when a relief ship gets here from Earth. Until then, you get two antiseptic wipes per day. Use them wisely.”

  She shrugged. “A little dirt will not kill us. What do we have to eat?”

  “Nothing but emergency food bars. If this was a proper expedition we could have brought along supplies from Hitode. There’s a little kitchen and a fridge. But since taking a big bag of food out of Hitode would have attracted some attention . . . we get food bars. Take your choice: chicken flavor, beef flavor, or vegetarian flavor.”

  “Make soup,” said Josef. “Stretch the bars that way, too.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” said Rob. “I’ll make us a pot of beef flavor food bar soup, with water from the extractor. Which I fixed today.”

  “Thank you for fixing the water extractor, Robert,” said Alicia, almost managing to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “I don’t know what we would do without you.”

  “Damn right you don’t,” he said, and began cutting up a food bar with his utility knife.

  TIZHOS felt uncomfortable leading a squad of Guardians, but Gishora had convinced her that he had to remain at the station. She did her best to establish the right sort of rapport with the fighters, but she only had a short time and could not overcome the tremendous differences in outlook and background that separated her from the Guardians.

  She did achieve a basic level of sexual attraction, since the unit included three males and only one other female. That required her to flirt outrageously and pretend to find them attractive. Of course, they did have the appeal of youth and health, but she couldn’t really discover any common interests to share with them. All their real affection still went to Irona.

  So when Tizhos set out from Hitode Station leading four Guardians to capture three humans, she hoped she could accomplish the job without any fighting. She didn’t bring along any obvious weapons of her own. Her Guardians had nothing but knives—and about twice as much mass as any human.

  The humans at Hitode still refused to repair the impellers, and the fugitive humans had the submarine, so Tizhos and her team had to swim all the way out to the temporary shelter. After the grueling five-kilometer swim even the healthy young Guardians needed a long rest and some food, so they paused about two hundred meters from the rubble field that concealed the habitat.

  Long before Tizhos wanted to continue, the timer clicked softly. “We must end our rest now,” she said to the Guardians. “Use your stimulants.”

  All of them, herself included, swallowed a wafer laced with high- energy compounds and neurotransmitters. In a moment Tizhos felt clearheaded, energetic, and a trifle aggressive.

  “Come on!” she called out, and began swimming.

  She passed the edge of the rubble field and switched her sonar unit to active mode. The high-pitched pings created an image of the ruined Ilmataran city around her, and about half a kilometer away she could make out a large blank area where something absorbed the sound waves instead of reflecting them. The shelter.

  Her unit detected one large moving target near the void. The sound of the breathing apparatus identified it as a human. When the Sholen approached within about two hundred meters the human reacted, hurrying to the shelter entrance and saying something indistinct by hydrophone.

  They’d been spotted. No point in trying to be stealthy, then. Tizhos activated her own hydrophone, at maximum volume so the humans could hear. She spoke in English. “We have arrived in order to take you back to Hitode Station. Cooperate in a peaceful way.”

  She heard no reply until her party reached a hundred meters from the shelter. Then a hydrophone, tinny and shrill, broadcast: “We refuse to leave! Go away!”

  Tizhos noticed the Guardian nearest her unsheathe his knife. Interesting: she had not known anyone on the expedition but herself and Gishora understood any human languages. “No need for that,” she said. “Put it away.”

  He hesitated. “Their statements sound aggressive. They may have weapons.”

  “Remember what we discussed. If they resist, you may use force, but only use weapons if they do.”

  Thanks to the stimulants, Tizhos felt not at all tired when the squad reached the shelter. The tiny entry hatch was located underneath, so only one Sholen at a time could enter: a very bad situation, tactically.

  She selected the biggest Guardian. “Nirozha, you first, then Shisora. I will follow. Gizhot, I want you and Rigosha to remain outside and receive the prisoners as we send them out. Tell me if you all feel ready.”

  The Guardians gave aggressive hoots, like dancers ready for a competition.

  “Then go inside now.”

  The humans had tried to lash the hatch shut, but Nirozha braced himself in the entry tube and used his midlimbs to shove it open far enough to cut the cord with his knife. The hatch popped open and he surged inside. Shisora followed swiftly in case of trouble.

  Tizhos struggled up the tu
be, her life- support pack scraping the side as her belly pressed against the ladder. She wondered briefly how a bulky Guardian like Nirozha had managed to fit.

  Then she pushed through the hatch into the shelter. The humans had turned off the lights so she could see only the jerky beams from the Guardians’ shoulder lamps.

  She aimed her light up. Three humans dangled in hammocks in the upper section. Nirozha had also seen them and began climbing the flimsy ladder up to them. They made no aggressive moves, which pleased Tizhos.

  A sudden screaming made her jump. All three humans began shrieking as Nirozha approached. He tried to pull one of the human males out of his hammock, but the human started struggling and kicking. Tizhos recognized him as Richard Graves. For some reason he did not use his arms.

  “Wait here. I will go up to assist Nirozha,” she told Shisora. The ladder felt as if it could barely support her weight. In the upper section she could hardly find room to move with three humans and Nirozha crowded in. The Guardian and Richard Graves still struggled. Nirozha grabbed his legs with all four arms and pulled, but he still did not come out. His shouting increased in volume. Tizhos found it hard to think.

  She could see something around Richard Graves’s wrists attaching him to the ring supporting the hammock. Tizhos wondered why the humans had restrained themselves.

  “Please quiet yourselves!” she called out, but the humans continued shouting. She could not make out anything they said, but their tones sounded angry.

  Nirozha used his knife to cut the restraint holding Richard Graves to his hammock. The human struggled free of Nirozha’s grip and danced around the upper part of the shelter, swinging from handholds and jumping over the other two humans. Finally the Guardian got his midlimbs around the human and half-passed, half-tossed him to Tizhos.

  She had to use three of her arms to hold Richard Graves, and could barely get down the ladder to the lower level, especially with him struggling and kicking his legs. Shisora and Tizhos held him down and tried to get him into a drysuit, but he continued kicking and struggling, still shouting.

  They got him suited and tossed him into the water for Gizhot and Rigosha to deal with.

  Next Nirozha captured the human female. Despite her smaller size she proved even more difficult for him to handle than the male. Twice he got her in his grip only to have her wriggle free. She struck and kicked him repeatedly, and finally Nirozha backhanded her with his left midlimb, knocking her down to the lower level where Shisora could pounce on her.

  Getting her into a suit felt worse than trying to wash an uncooperative infant. Infants didn’t kick as hard and scream insults. Infants didn’t grab at your own suit hoses, or throw equipment across the shelter, then break free when you had to let go to retrieve it.

  And then, when they had her legs into the suit for the third time and were trying to capture her arms, she punched Shisora in the ribs once too often.

  He hit her back, a powerful blow with his midlimb. And then he hit her again. He held her down with his upper arms and began hitting her with his midlimbs, over and over again. Her screams changed in pitch, getting higher and louder.

  Tizhos still held the female’s legs down. I should stop this, she thought. Before she gets badly hurt. But it felt so satisfying to watch the human being pounded. Tizhos’s suit reeked of anger and frustration, and watching Shisora work the human over felt almost as good as doing it herself.

  The screams stopped, and suddenly Tizhos snapped back to reality. “Shisora, stop. I order you to stop!”

  He got in one more blow, then sat back on his four rear limbs, breathing heavily. The human didn’t move. Circulatory fluid leaked from her mouth and nostrils, and Tizhos could see sections of skin changing color.

  The female human’s suit included a medical monitor, and when they turned it on the readouts showed lots of blinking red alert signals. Gizhot had the most medical training, and Tizhos knew enough first aid and human physiology to assist, but neither had ever tried to aid an injured human before. The little medical kit in the shelter contained a manual and some emergency drugs, but they didn’t do much. Eventually her heart stopped and she stopped breathing.

  The remaining male offered no resis tance. The one outside slipped away during the confusion. Tizhos led her little team back toward Hitode, towing the dead human’s body herself. Nobody spoke much.

  BROADTAIL is teaching the youngsters how to speak properly. Each student is kept in a pen, and Broadtail moves along the row with a bag of clinger meat. They strain against the netting of the pens, snatching at him, but he keeps behind the row of little stones marking the limit of their reach.

  He stops before each pen and conducts a little lesson. The student doesn’t get any meat until it can say “Give me food.” Half of them fail. Broadtail recalls Oneclaw’s advice.

  “Most of them fail at new lessons, but I expect improvement. Hunger is a good teacher.”

  The female at the end of the row, Smoothshell, can only snatch feebly. Broadtail doesn’t remember her eating anything in the pens. She fails all her lessons. Is she too stupid to learn? In that case she is nothing but food for the others.

  But she sounds clever enough. Her pings are rare but sharp. Broadtail recalls her almost getting herself untied from one of Oneclaw’s clumsy knots. Perhaps she is simply stubborn. He decides to try something he dimly remembers from his own youth.

  “Food,” he says, and loudly eats a bit. Then he places a chunk of clinger flesh where she can reach it. “Food,” he repeats as she grabs the bit. “Food.”

  “I give you food,” he says, putting out another bit. He listens as she gobbles it. He waits.

  She strains against the netting, clacking her pincers, but she can’t reach the bag.

  “Speak to me,” he says. “Speak or starve. Choose now. I think you understand me.”

  He waits. She stops struggling, tries one last surprise lunge, which brings her extended pincer almost close enough to touch him, then is still. He waits some more.

  “Food,” she says quietly.

  “Good. What do you want?”

  Another long pause, then she says “Give me food.”

  Broadtail shoves half a dozen clingers toward her. “Very good. I give you food. I give Smoothshell food.”

  “Holdhard,” she says a little more loudly. It is not a name he recognizes.

  “Where is Holdhard?”

  “I am Holdhard.”

  “You are Smoothshell.”

  “I am Holdhard.”

  This is a curious development. Normally children her age don’t have personal names. They can barely comprehend themselves as individuals.

  “Very well, Holdhard. I give Holdhard food.” He gives her the last two bits of clinger. “Broadtail gives Holdhard food.”

  He waits a little longer, then turns to go. As he leaves he just catches her saying “Broadtail gives Holdhard food” very quietly.

  ROB and Josef found Dickie Graves about half a kilometer from Coquille 1. Actually he found them—they were making a very stealthy approach to the Coq with Rob listening on all the external microphones for any hint of Sholen presence when a rescue strobe started flashing nearby. The sudden light made Josef cry out in surprise, but his hands on the thruster controls were perfectly steady, and he swung the sub around for a sudden getaway before Rob heard Dickie’s voice and told him to wait.

  Dickie had been in the water in his suit for two days, so during the voyage back to Coq 2 he gobbled down a couple of emergency food bars while telling his story.

  “The Sholies have gone utterly feral,” he said between bites. “They killed Isabel. Four or five of them came to drag us back to Hitode. We tried passive resistance—the old activist public theater script. Tied ourselves in with cable ties. Look what that bastard did to my wrists! Chanted at them. ’We will not be moved! We will not be moved!’ ”

  “What happened, Dickie?”

  “I don’t know all of it. They stuffed me into a suit and
tossed me down the hatch, then went for Isabel. I could hear a lot of fighting inside, and then screams. Then they called for a medic and one of the Sholies guarding me went inside. Then one of them sticks his head out and tells the guard ’The female died.’ I know enough of their language to understand that, but I pretended I didn’t and waited until they started dragging Fouchard out. He was still alive. Then I swam away as quick as I could and hid in the ruins.”

  “Could it have been an accident?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Freeman. They murdered her. Bloody butchers. I got out because I’m a witness. I hope Fouchard’s all right.”

  “What is the condition of Coquille 1?” asked Josef. “Usable?”

  “No. Bastards took the power unit. I went in once or twice to spare my APOS and get some food, but I was afraid they might come back.”

  Rob watched Dickie eat for a few minutes. “Dickie, this is important. What were you guys doing? Was it any kind of provocation—or something the Sholen might mistake for provocation?”

  “Why am I suddenly on trial when they’re the ones who killed Isabel? No, we didn’t do anything. We resisted, of course—I kicked my legs like a four-year- old and tried my best to wear them out. It was all pretty standard protestor antics, though. No direct violence.”

  “They don’t follow the same rules we do,” said Rob. “They’ve got that whole unanimous-vote government thing going. I guess active dissent is like some kind of a crime.”

  “Back home we call that fascism, remember? The mask is off now.”

  STRONGPINCER pulls his claw out of the youngster’s body and waits for the legs to stop twitching. “Any older ones hiding in the rocks?” he calls to Weaklegs.

  “Nothing but hatchlings.”

  Strongpincer begins cutting open the underside to get at the organ meat in the thorax. His plan is a failure. There are no older juveniles ready for training. Nothing but little ones, good only for food.