A Darkling Sea

by James Cambias

  He rolls up his reel and stows it, then climbs out of the little den he has made among the rocks. Holdhard is sheltered nearby. “Remain here,” he says quietly. “Stay hidden. If you hear fighting, take my reel and flee.”

  Broadtail swims toward the creatures’ shelter. He goes slowly and makes no attempt to be quiet. Half a cable away he starts pinging, both to announce himself and to learn as much about the camp as he can in case he must flee a hostile response.

  ROB had almost finished getting the heat- exchanger set up when he heard a set of loud, regular sonar clicks. It sounded like a large animal. He flicked on the spotlight and had a look.

  Fifty meters away was an Ilmataran, swimming slowly toward him. It was a good- sized adult, festooned with tools and bags of stuff. Its pincers were folded back along its sides. Rob didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.

  He controlled his impulse to panic, to flee back to the Coquille—and his second impulse to pull out his utility knife. It didn’t look hostile, and it was alone.

  Rob wished someone could tell him how to act. Henri would know what to do. It might be completely wrong, but at least he wouldn’t be standing there like a squirrel in the middle of a driveway watching a car bearing down on it.

  Should he call Alicia? If things got ugly he didn’t want her out here. See what the alien wanted, first of all.

  Rob took a deep breath, stood up, and turned on his speaker. “Hey!”

  The Ilmataran halted in the water about ten meters away.

  Well, at least it wasn’t tearing him apart. Yet. Rob took a step toward it. “Hey there, guy,” he said, in the same voice he used to talk to his roommate’s cat back on Earth.

  The Ilmataran hovered there a while, then moved forward. Rob and the alien were about six meters apart now. He was closer to an Ilmataran than anyone but Henri had ever been. No stealth suit this time, either. He, Robert Freeman, was making contact with a new intelligent species.

  What the hell was he supposed to do? Shake hands? Pat its head? All his training had been about avoiding contact, not how to do it. He turned on his helmet camera so that if he did screw up royally, at least posterity could see what not to do.

  The alien made a complex sound, like a green twig snapping. Was it talking to him? According to Dickie Graves they communicated by sending each other sonar images.

  Could he maybe use his sonar display to decipher the alien speech? The thought was so exciting that for a moment Rob forgot how nervous he was. It would be pretty damned awesome if Rob Freeman was the one who figured out how to communicate with a whole alien civilization.

  He told his sonar software to bypass the signal pro cessor and feed the sound straight into the imaging system. That took a few minutes, during which the alien made some more sounds.

  “Okay,” said Rob when he was done. “Try talking to me now.” He knew it couldn’t understand him, but maybe his response would encourage the alien.

  It said something else, a long sound pattern like a distant volley of gunfire. Rob looked at his sonar display. Gibberish. A screen full of static. Evidently the Ilmatarans didn’t buy their sonar from the same supplier.

  Oh, well. It had been a great scientific advance for about five minutes.

  They spent half an hour there, standing a couple of meters apart, trying to talk to each other. Rob couldn’t get his sonar software to make sense of the alien’s sound images, and it was absurd to think it could understand English, no matter how loudly and slowly he spoke.

  “I give up,” Rob said at last. “I know you want to talk to me, and I want to talk to you, but we just can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Maybe the Ilmataran had reached the same conclusion, for it was silent for a good five minutes. Then it spoke again, but this time it sounded very different. It wasn’t making sonar echo- patterns, it was just making simple clicks. It sounded like a telegraph—click-click-click-click, pause,click-click-click-click- click-click-click, pause, more clicks.

  Morse code? Numbers?

  Rob took a screwdriver from his tool belt and began tapping it gently against the wrench. Start simple: one tap, pause, one tap, pause, two taps. One plus one equals two. Then he tried two taps, two taps, four taps. Was he getting through?

  The alien surged forward until its head was almost touching Rob’s knee. He had to force himself not to flee, and one hand went to the utility knife on his thigh.

  It clicked loudly once, then waited. For what? It clicked again. Rob tried tapping his tools together once.

  It raised its head then, grabbing for his arm with one of its big praying-mantis pincers, and for a moment Rob thought sure he was going to wind up like Henri. But it put his hand to its head and clicked once.

  Rob tapped the wrench once, then patted the Ilmataran’s head. “Okay, so does one click mean you, or your head, or touch me, or what?”

  He tried an experiment. He took its pincer and very gently moved it to touch his own chest, then tapped once. But the creature didn’t respond.

  BROADTAIL ponders. What is he to call this creature? There is certainly no number for it in any lexicon. He shall have to give it a name. Something simple. He taps out sixteen: two short scratches, four taps.

  This results in silence. Does it not understand? Or is it offended? Broadtail certainly means no insult. The name Builder is appropriate: the creature builds things. Until he knows more about it, that seems the most accurate thing to call it.

  Standing this close to the thing, Broadtail learns much about it. He hears a single heart pumping loudly within it. Sometimes it seems to beat more loudly than other times; possibly part of its digestive process? But the creature’s stomach is nearly empty. There is a constant series of clicks and buzzes coming from the back hump, and the creature releases bubbles into the water in a regular cycle that seems to be connected to the noise somehow. He has so many questions! It is extremely frustrating to be limited to simple words.

  They are interrupted by a second creature that emerges from the structure. It is similar in size and body plan to Builder, though when Broadtail pings it he can discern some minor variation in its internal organs. Without more of them to study, Broadtail can’t tell which differences are significant and which are simply individual variation. It approaches noisily, then halts about four body-lengths away and calls out to the other one. They exchange calls and the second creature approaches slowly. Its heart is also beating very loudly. The two exchange more calls, then the creature he calls Builder guides Broadtail’s pincer to touch the second being’s body.

  Broadtail names it Builder 2.

  WHEN they finally went back inside the shelter, Rob and Alicia were both exhausted. They’d been up for about twenty hours, and neither had eaten since lunch. They tore into some food bars and each had a bowl of the food-bar soup.

  Rob peeled off his damp suit liner and got into the slightly less clammy one he kept for sleeping, then the two of them cuddled up inside one sleeping bag in his hammock.

  Neither one could sleep at first. They were both too excited. Alicia had to keep unzipping the bag to get her computer and make notes. “This is magnificent!” she kept saying.

  “When that guy came up to me I didn’t know what to expect,” Rob told her.

  “You handled it very well, Robert. We have established peaceful contact with the species.”

  “Well, with one of them. We don’t know if he speaks for anyone else.”

  “Do you think it came here looking for us, or was it an accident?”

  “That’s a good question. He—”

  “Why do you assume it is male?”

  “I don’t know. There’s no real difference between the sexes anyway. I guess now that we’ve been introduced I feel kind of weird calling it ’it.’ Do you want me to start saying ’her’ instead?”

  “No, but I will tease you without mercy if it does turn out to be female.”

  “I’ll risk it. So what do we do tomorrow? More trying to learn the language?”


  “Yes. I want to find some of Dr. Graves’s notes and try to develop a way to do real-time translations.”

  The silences between statements were getting longer as they warmed up and began to relax. “I guess you want to handle that?” Rob asked her.

  “I will need you as well. I am no communication expert, and you have spent more time speaking with the Ilmataran than anyone.”

  Rob was about to ask if she thought the Ilmataran could really afford to rent an apartment in Houston without credit cards, but then he realized he was dreaming and let himself fall completely asleep.

  BROADTAIL is trying yet again to communicate with the Builder creatures. It is maddeningly difficult—much more so than teaching children. Children can at least speak. This is like teaching the dictionary to someone born deaf. He remembers reading about a case like that at the Big Spring community. Yet the Builders can hear, he is certain of that. They just don’t hear speech.

  When he places an object in their hands and taps out its number, the creatures can remember perfectly. But whenever Broadtail attempts to teach them something more complex, they just cannot grasp the meaning. The misunderstandings are almost comical. He remembers using his pincers to demonstrate “upcurrent” and “downcurrent,” only to have the Builders reply with the number for “pincer.” He can’t even say “yes” or “no” to them!

  “What is that sound?” Holdhard asks suddenly.

  Broadtail can hear it also: a sound like water rushing through a pipe, and a chorus of loud hums, and the echo of something big moving through the water. It’s about ten cables away, closing in swiftly.

  It’s so big and noisy Broadtail doesn’t need to ping it to get a clear idea of its form. It is shaped like an adult, but vastly larger—nearly the size of the shelter. Like the shelter, it sounds as if it is covered in soft mud. It moves toward them at a steady speed. Holdhard fidgets but does not leave. Broadtail remains where he is, waiting to learn how the Builders react to this new threat.

  The two upright creatures do not hide. They have turned to face the thing and are waving their upper limbs. Broadtail cannot tell if that is a threat or a sign of panic. The thing slows and drops toward the sea bottom.

  “I think that large creature is tame,” he says to Holdhard. “Much like a towfin or a scourer. Listen: it is slowing as it approaches. A hunter would speed up. If I am wrong, take my notes to Longpincer at the Bitterwater vent.”

  The hums get deeper before stopping, and the thing comes to a halt just next to the shelter. Two more of the creatures emerge from beneath the thing. One is about the same size as Builder 1, the second is larger and carries more tools. The four Builders float together, then turn and move toward Broadtail. The huge beast remains absolutely still and quiet behind them.

  The beast disturbs Broadtail. How can it eat? The water around the ruins is too cold to support such a large animal. Nor is there a stockpile of food for it.

  Then he wonders: is it a beast at all? Now that it is not moving it is completely inert. He can hear no motion, not even the fidgeting of a tethered beast. It resembles a shelter more than any living thing. Within its shell he can hear nothing.

  But it is a shelter that can move. How? The upright creatures do not push it as they swim; it would take a vast number of adults to shove something that big.

  Another mystery. These creatures spawn mysteries. (The thought leads Broadtail to a brief speculation about how the creatures do reproduce; he resolves to ask them at the earliest opportunity.)

  The four of them stop just outside pincer reach and wait. Broadtail says “Greetings!” in the hope that maybe one of the new arrivals can understand him.

  “YOU’VE been talking with them?” said Dickie. “Sort of. We can’t understand their calls or anything, but I think this one’s trying to teach us some kind of simple number code,” said Rob. “At least, he hands us stuff and then taps his pincers together. The number of taps is the same for the same item.”

  “That’s great!“ said Dickie. He sounded different. For the first time since—well, since the Sholen had arrived—Dickie Graves didn’t sound angry. “Send me all your notes. I had some tentative correlations from remote observation but this is just wonderful.”

  “All we really have is names for things like rocks.”

  “That’s a good beginning. Let me just get at my notes—”

  Graves started muttering voice commands to his computer.

  “Did you make recordings?”

  “Of course,” said Alicia. “I am sending them to you now.”

  “Super. I’ll need to dig up my analysis software to see if I can identify specific eidophones. Once I can do that, I can start making correlations and try to tease out a grammar. This is so exciting! Oh—” he paused and sounded almost surprised at himself. “I killed a Sholen. I think it was Gishora.”

  THE creature Broadtail calls Builder 3 makes very rapid progress learning language. The two of them work together, stopping for Broadtail to eat and sleep. When Broadtail returns to work he is startled by the creature’s progress. It seems to be learning even when Broadtail isn’t teaching.

  The biggest problem is that the creature learns words like a hungry child eating roe, but has no grasp of how to put them together. It taps out words all jumbled together, so that instead of making a statement like “Builder gives Broadtail the stone” it bangs out “Stone Builder large tail grasp into” or “Grasping stone Builder tail wide.”

  Still, they definitely are making progress. Unlike the other Builders, number 3 can actually understand speech and even utters a few echoes, though horribly distorted. As quickly as he thinks the creature can understand, Broadtail starts asking it questions. Some of the answers make sense; others only mystify Broadtail even more.

  He rests with Holdhard, tired out from a lot of teaching. She shares some swimmers, caught in one of the nets of the Builders. “What do you speak to them about?” she asks.

  “Many things. Where do they come from? What are their tools and shelters made of? What do they eat?”

  “Do they answer you?”

  “Yes, but—I don’t know if we understand each other correctly. I remember asking where they come from, and hearing the reply ’ice above.’ I don’t know if that means they are from some shallow place where the ice is only a few cables above the bottom, or something else.”

  “I remember you saying Builder 3 gets the words all jumbled up. Could he mean above the ice?”

  “There is nothing above the ice, Holdhard. It extends upward without end, growing colder and less dense with each cable of distance.”

  “How do you know?”

  Broadtail realizes that he doesn’t know. It is something he remembers reading in many books, and accepts because there is no better theory. But what if there is something above the ice? He feels his pincers stiffen as though some huge predator is swimming near. Despite his fatigue, he pushes off from the bottom.

  “Where are you going?” Holdhard asks.

  “I must find out if you are correct!” he calls back.

  ROB spent nearly eight hours seething inside the shelter before he could get Graves to leave the Ilmatarans alone and talk to his fellow humans. “So how the hell did you kill a Sholen?”

  “Back at Hitode. I was sabotaging the hydrophone net, trying to set things up for future infiltration. A single Sholen came along and tried to stop me. We fought, I won. Stabbed it with my utility knife.”

  “Jesus, Dickie, what are you trying to do? You can’t just go around killing people!”

  “I didn’t kill any people. I killed one of the Sholen. You know, the ones who killed Isabel.” The anger was back in his voice.

  “Yeah, yeah. We’re enemies. I know. But still. Are you sure it was Gishora?” asked Rob.

  “Yes. My computer was recording ambient sound at the time, and I’ve compared the noises he made with some old samples of Gishora speaking. When I baselined the phonemes it was a perfect match.”


  “I’m going to assume what you just said isn’t complete bullshit,” said Rob. “Okay, so you shanked Gishora. So what? Just randomly killing people—or Sholen—doesn’t accomplish anything.”

  “Oh, but it does!” said Graves. “The Sholen put great store in personal loyalty. Leaders and followers develop an intense bond with a strong sexual component.”

  “Yeah, we know all about that. The whole bonobo thing.”

  “Exactly. With the leader gone, the followers are going to be emotionally devastated and competing for the leadership role. Imagine a human family after a parent dies.”

  “Um, Dickie, if someone stabbed my dad I guess my sisters and I might be a little disor ganized, but I’m pretty sure we’d also be kind of pissed off. What if the other Sholen try some kind of reprisals? What if they kill someone back at Hitode?”

  “They would not do that!” said Alicia. “The Sholen are—”

  “What?” asked Dickie, turning on her. “Nonviolent? Remember how nonviolently they beat Isabel to death.”

  Rob felt queasy. Sholen were bigger than humans, and had claws and teeth. He could picture angry aliens rampaging through Hitode, people trying to flee, blood running in the drains under the floor grid. “Jesus, Dickie. Do you want them to kill more people?”

  “If that’s what it takes to make the others understand, yes! Everyone here—you, and Sen, and all the others—think this is all some kind of a game. We follow the rules and the Sholen follow the rules and nobody gets hurt. Well, it isn’t a game, and I’m sure the Sholen don’t think it is, either. They brought weapons, which means they’re prepared to use them. To kill us. We have to be ready to do the same.”

  Everyone except Josef Palashnik looked uncomfortable, but nobody said anything for a moment. Finally Rob spoke. “I’ve got to ask this,” he said. “Does anyone think we should surrender now? Give ourselves up to the Sholen and try to defuse the situation?”

  The other three all shook their heads. “We cannot abandon the Coquille now,” said Alicia. “We’ve made such a breakthrough with the Ilmatarans!”