Broadtail is not a greedy adult, but he does have his pride. That is not what he imagines for himself. But what does he imagine? What does he want? In the quiet he tries to hear his own thoughts.
He does not imagine owning land again. Every property has too many apprentices waiting to inherit. He remembers cases of landowners naming a favored friend as heir and they always end badly. Legal challenges, labor troubles, sometimes ambush and murder in open water. And Longpincer is devoted to the Bitterwater property.
Not a guest, not a landowner. A crafter, perhaps? Living as a tenant but earning his own way? He is nearly as good at netmaking as any professional, and of course he is an excellent writer. Can one get paid for that? Not very well.
Fishing is tiring and leaves little opportunity for scholarship. He is not a good trader. He has no taste for mercenary soldiering. He knows a lot about plumbing and flow, but every landowner is a self-proclaimed expert about that.
What he wants to do is to study the Builders and learn about the worlds beyond the ice. Is there a way to get paid for that? Broadtail doesn’t know of one.
A sound draws his attention. Someone is approaching along the slope from the direction of the tenant homes. It sounds like the big bandit female. She passes a few arm-lengths below him without noticing him, heading for the Builders’ shelter.
His position is perfect. He can spring down on her and get a pincer behind her head-shield before she hears him. It is the logical thing to do—she is a bandit, a murderer herself. The secret of the Builders must be protected.
Broadtail sits quietly and lets her pass. It is far easier to plan and talk about killing someone by surprise than to do it. The bandits are capable of it, but Broadtail realizes that he is not. “You!” he calls out.
She hears him and turns, pincers raised unambiguously to fight.
“I remind you that place is not safe. The landowner forbids anyone to go there.”
“I do not remember him telling me. You are not the owner. I go where I choose.”
“I don’t wish to fight you,” says Broadtail.
“Then let me pass. I am not afraid to fight you.”
Broadtail feels the frustration of all vent- dwellers speaking with barbarians. For a civilized adult, being peaceable and willing to negotiate is an admirable thing, worthy of praise. But among the barbarians those who do not fight are quickly bullied to death. And this barbarian is bigger than Broadtail.
“As you choose,” he says. “But I go now to tell Longpincer. You are not behaving as a proper visitor and I imagine you and your companion being expelled for this foolishness.”
“I am not afraid of you,” she says again.
STRONGPINCER and Shellcrusher leave the settlement, tired and hungry. He is rather annoyed at being forced to go without eating any of the wonderful-tasting meal he remembers. The packed travel food seems dull and unsatisfying.
But they have important news for their patrons, and perhaps it is best not to wait. Shellcrusher is certain that the creatures they seek are concealed at Bitterwater.
He caches the trade goods, stripping down to just enough food for a fast swim back. Strongpincer has the faint echo of an idea: he suspects his patrons plan to attack Bitterwater and recapture the creatures there. Strongpincer imagines the landowner and many of his apprentices dying in that fight. Which leaves the vent in need of a new master. Why not . . . Strongpincer? With Shellcrusher and his alien patrons supporting him, he does not imagine any tenant daring to oppose him.
As they swim he half-dozes, letting his thoughts wander even as he keeps up a steady beat of his tail. A warm house of his own. Servants to make meals whenever he wants. Thick layers of weeds and crawlers on his shell. Nothing to do but molt and grow.
“I recall her getting close enough to the Builders’ shelter to ping it,” says Broadtail.
“Do you recall the reason for not stopping her?” asks Sharpfrill.
“She is a very large barbarian bandit. I am not. And it is not my property to fight on.”
Those who know his history tap quiet explanations to the others.
“I remember specifically asking Broadtail to avoid violence,” says Longpincer. “It is never proper to attack a visitor who commits no harm or theft.”
“But now they go to tell the Squatters what they remember hearing,” Broadtail points out. “I suggest we plan our course.”
“Your Builder friends are my guests,” says Longpincer. “They are under my protection.”
“Then how do we protect them?” asks Broadtail. “Builder 1 says he fears the Squatters coming here and attempting to recapture them.”
“I am sending out scouts now to alert us of their coming,” says Longpincer. “Beyond that, we simply wait. My apprentices and tenants all know what to do in case of attack.”
“NOW that they know, maybe we should give up,” said Rob.
“You are afraid?” asked Alicia.
“Of course I’m afraid! In particular I’m afraid you’ll get hurt.
Last time it was just the two of us and they could afford to be careful. This time—it’s going to be ugly. There’s going to be microtorps flying all over, and it sounds like the Sholen have some Ilmataran thugs working for them, and God knows what else.”
“We will think of ways to trick them. You have been very clever.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. Maybe we can fool a drone, but what about a Sholen microtorp? They blew up Dickie when he tried to fight.”
She was quiet for a while. “I cannot simply give up, Robert. And we have no place we can run away to.”
“Will you promise me one thing, at least? That you’ll surrender? No glorious last stand?”
“I promise—if you will do the same.”
“Okay, then. I’ll try to be very clever one last time.”
TIZHOS and Irona stood on the sea bottom near the moon pool entrance to Hitode Station. Their Ilmataran allies floated a few meters away while one laboriously tapped out a message.
“He says they have found the Terrans,” said Tizhos. “Excellent!” said Irona. “Tell them we leave in—oh, six hours. That should be enough time for everyone to rest and prepare. He must show us where they are.”
“He does mention what sounds like a problem. The humans have taken refuge in an Ilmataran community.”
“As we suspected. That does sound bad. Ask him how large a community. We need to know how many Ilmatarans know about them.”
“If the community includes a large number of individuals I fear we cannot preserve the secret.”
“Never mind that,” said Irona. “Get specific directions to this community and try to locate it on the maps we have of the sea bottom. I must begin preparing the Guardians.”
As Irona paddled up into the station, Tizhos consulted her lexicon and tapped out a message to the waiting Ilmatarans. “Immobility here. Food. Multiple swimming. Fighting.”
They seemed to understand, and Tizhos handed out the supplies of small creatures from the drift nets. She tried to engage the pair who understood the number- code language in conversation.
“Adults grasp fighting?” she asked.
“Grasp fighting quickly,” the Ilmataran replied, and Tizhos found that highly depressing. The more she understood about the Ilmatarans, the more she found herself disliking these allies Irona had recruited. They seemed little more than thieves, preying upon the labor of the vent settlements.
She knew how they must appear to Irona—small groups with a tight consensus, living in wild regions, attacking those who sought to manipulate the environment instead of accomodating to it. Noble primitives. But to Tizhos they seemed like entropy itself, constantly warring with the little outposts of knowledge and order.
Two of the larger Ilmatarans snatched the food away from one of the others and threatened him with their big pincers when he tried to take some back. Tizhos tossed a few extra dead swimmers his way. He got one or two, but the bigger ones grabbed the rest.
When they finished eating, she called up the map display and began trying to figure out where the Terrans had hidden. The Ilmatarans used prevailing currents rather than the inertial grid of her own navigation system, which made the task much more difficult. Fortunately they had a reasonably standardized and accurate system for measuring distance.
After more than twenty minutes she believed she had an accurate fix. All their route descriptions seemed to lead back to one isolated vent community—the one where the human Henri Kerlerec had died.
Scientists. The Ilmatarans at the vent had dissected Henri Kerlerec because they wanted to learn. Now Irona wanted to attack them and prevent them from learning. Tizhos felt ill.
ROB surfaced in the hatchway of the repurposed elevator capsule and opened his helmet. “They’re coming! Broadtail says one of Longpincer’s scouts just reported in.”
“How long do we have?” Alicia called down from her hammock.
“No way to tell. Quantified linear time is still a crazy theory around here. I figure a minimum of one hour. Probably more than that—if they’re smart they’ll let their ’tarans rest up before the fighting starts. Broadtail and Longpincer are having a war council down at the main house. Wake up Josef and come on when you’re ready.”
FOURTEEN
THE scout gives her report to the assembled company. “I remember swimming as far as these stones on my patrol. I remember resting there and hearing this sound.” She imitates it: a steady chaotic churning noise superimposed on a heavy rhythmic swish-swish.
“I hear swimming adults and a towfin, but what is that other noise?” asks Longpincer.
“The Squatters,” says Broadtail. “They make paddling noises like the Builders, but with a tail beat.”
“Can we study how your Builders swim?” asks Raggedclaw.
“Certainly,” says Broadtail. “After the battle.”
“What battle?”
“The Squatters come here to fight,” Longpincer explains gently.
“What? Why?” Raggedclaw sounds highly irritated at the news.
“They wish to steal Broadtail’s Builders.”
“That is impossible! I still wish to learn how they can stand erect without a shell,” says Raggedclaw.
“Which is why we fight the Squatters,” says Longpincer.
“How many do you remember hearing?” Broadtail asks the scout, desperate to get the conversation back on course.
“Twenty-two adults and one large towfin, and maybe twelve of the alien swimmers.”
“The adults are bandits and wild children,” says Broadtail. “They carry spears and their own strong pincers, but little else.”
“My people all remember many fights with bandits,” says Longpincer. “Raiders are only brave if they are winning. Stand firm against them and they flee.”
There is a loud commotion of scrapes and thumps, and three of the Builders come into the room. Builder 2 raises a forelimb. “Greeting. Adults build fight reel.”
“Yes,” says Broadtail. “We know how to fight the bandits, but not the Squatters. Can you tell us what to expect?”
Builder confers with the other two before replying.
“Squatters carry”—a long pause and much Builder chatter— “spear tools stab adult one cable.”
“How is this possible?” asks Longpincer. “No creature, not even an alien, can carry a spear a cable long.”
“It is possible we are not understanding something,” says Broadtail. He asks Builder, “How can a spear be a cable?”
“Not spear. Push swim spear stab adult. Or swim spear loud sound.”
The remaining Bitterwater Company scholars listen in puzzlement. “Sounds like babble to me,” says Raggedclaw.
Broadtail asks Builder 2 to show them what it means. There follows a remarkable demonstration as the alien takes several items and uses its upper limbs to propel them through the water away from it. No adult has limbs that can do that, and all the company present think it is quite impressive.
“I think it means bolt-launchers!” says Broadtail. Longpincer orders several bolt-launchers brought and demonstrated for the Builders. They chatter excitedly, and Builder 2 says “Yes” several times.
“Well, if that’s all we have to worry about there is little danger,” says Longpincer. “Bolt-launchers may be a threat to soft- skinned beings like Builders or Squatters, but I know my shell is thick enough to stop one unless it is very close.”
But something is nagging at Broadtail’s thoughts. “I remember capturing the hanging shelter. The Squatter makes Crestback fly apart. I think that may be what the Builders mean.”
“Builder 2 may exaggerate.”
“Or not.” Broadtail clicks a question to Builder 2: “Launch bolt cable?”
“Cable, two cable,” it laboriously replies. “Bolt swim.”
“I think I understand,” says Broadtail to the Company. “The Squatter weapons have bolts which swim through the water— like the Builder moving shelter, only smaller. And then they burst apart like a thin-walled pipe. They may be very dangerous indeed.”
“I imagine having such a weapon,” says Longpincer. “In battle I stay far from my enemies and slay them with bolts, but they cannot stab me because they cannot reach me.”
They all think about that for a while. The Company members who are craftworkers are intrigued, imagining a town protecting itself against raiders with a handful of armed militia. Those who own remote properties like Longpincer imagine bandits capable of standing off and slaughtering defenders.
“We must fight them as though stalking swift prey,” says Holdhard. “Stay silent until they are close enough to grasp.”
Broadtail keeps up a running translation of the important remarks for the benefit of the aliens.
“Builder head silent,” Builder 1 points out. “Squatter head silent.”
Broadtail reminds the others. “The Squatters have the same silent sense as the Builders. They can find us without pinging. We must do more than remain still and quiet to surprise them.”
ROB and Broadtail were placed well forward, watching and listening for signs of the Sholen force. If the attackers were trying to be silent, they’d need lights to keep together and see where they were going. If they were staying dark, they’d need the occasional active sonar ping. Either way, one of the two scouts would notice.
It occurred to Rob that just a few days ago it would have been impossible for him to sit on the sea bottom in silence and total darkness this long without completely freaking. Now it almost felt restful. He had deliberately chosen an uncomfortable spot so that the hard stones pressing into his chest and thighs would help him keep awake.
He felt around for his spear. It was a two-meter piece of “wood” (more like biological fiberglass, really) from an Ilmataran “plant.” The tip was a leaf- shaped piece of carved obsidian, wickedly sharp. If everything went according to plan, at some point in the near future Rob was going to try to push that obsidian spearpoint into the vital organs of a Sholen or enemy Ilmataran.
Back before the ultimatum, or even during the first “camping trip” period in the Coquille, such a thought would have been completely absurd, like imagining himself biting off his own left thumb. Except for one or two inconclusive grade-school spats and an embarrassing drunken shoving match in college, Rob had never intentionally harmed another person.
Now he felt no reluctance at all. He’d been angry with the Sholen pretty much constantly since Gishora and Tizhos had first stepped out of the elevator. Now at least he could let it out. He was afraid for himself, of course, and for Alicia. Just about any injury here would be fatal, and she would certainly be in the thick of it, carrying the same kind of spear.
He held the spear loosely, just resting his hand on the shaft, ready to pick it up.
Something caught his attention. Out in the blackness he could see a faint spark. No, two sparks. Were they tiny and close up, or far away? He moved his head around, trying to get some paralla
x. The sparks stayed put. They looked like two stars now, faintly green.
He reached over to Broadtail and tapped from memory, “Adu lts come.”
The Ilmataran clicked softly in acknowledgement, and the two of them turned and began moving back to the defensive positions around the Bitterwater vent. Rob didn’t dare show a light, so he held onto a trailing line attached to Broadtail’s harness and did his best to keep up.
They followed a wide zigzag course, pausing occasionally for Broadtail to quietly ping out a warning to the fighters lying hidden on the seafloor. Nearly a quarter of Longpincer’s retainers were currently dispersed on the silty bottom about a hundred meters in front of the vent mound, buried under a thin layer of mud and old netting. The Ilmatarans were very good at masking their sonar signatures, but the humans had been hard- pressed to make sure they couldn’t be seen by Sholen eyes. How do you teach a blind being how not to be seen? Ultimately, the answer was just to cover them up and hope for the best.
The plan was for the camouflaged fighters to wait until the invaders were among them, then suddenly attack at close range. According to Broadtail, this was a well-known tactic mentioned in many of the Ilmataran classic books on warfare. They were gambling that neither the alien Sholen nor their semiliterate Ilmataran bandit allies had heard of the ploy.
Up ahead Rob could hear the faint constant rumble of the Bitterwater vent. There were tall nets rigged all around the heart of Longpincer’s holding. Again, standard tactics against barbarian raiders. They had to either try to get through the nets, in which case the defenders could move in with spears, or swim up over the barrier, exposing their thin- shelled undersides to bolts from below.
Broadtail clicked out a password and one of Longpincer’s apprentices untied a section of net to let them in. Rob left Broadtail and followed a guideline to where his drones were waiting. There were two of them still operational, and Rob had spent an afternoon converting them into weapons. There was nothing subtle about the armed drones: since he couldn’t come up with a decent explosive warhead, Rob had just attached the largest of Alicia’s dissecting knives to the front of each drone, just above its camera eye. Once the fighters outside the netting engaged the enemy, Rob was to pilot the two drones and attack as many of the Sholen as he could. A few ripped suits and damaged hoses would certainly hamper them.
A Darkling Sea Page 29
