Chapter Seven
Runei the Wanderer leaned forward until black-clad shoulders and gaunt green visage seemed to enter the office room of the suite. "My lord," he said, "you know the juridical position of my government. The sea people are sovereign over the Starkadian high seas. At most, landfolk ships may be conceded a limited right of transit—provided the sea people agree. Likewise, outworld craft fly above entirely on their sufferance. You accuse us of escalation? Frankly, I think I showed remarkable forbearance in not ordering my air fleet into action after your attack on a Merseian submarine."
Hauksberg managed a smile. "If I may speak rather frankly in return, Commandant," he said, "the fact that Terra's airborne forces would then have joined the fight may have stayed your hand. Eh?"
Runei shrugged. "In such case, who would have been escalating?"
"By usin' a purely Merseian unit against a, ah, Toborkan city, you've directly involved your planet in the war."
"Retaliation, my lord, and not by Merseia; by the Six-point of Zletovar, using foreign volunteers temporarily detached from duty with their regular units. It is Terra which has long promulgated the doctrine that limited retaliation is not a casus belli."
Hauksberg scowled. Speaking for the Empire, he could not utter his full disapproval of that principle. "Goes far back into our hist'ry, to the era of international wars. We use it these days so our people in remote parts of space'll have some freedom of action when trouble develops, 'stead of havin' to send couriers home askin' for orders. Unfortunate. P'rhaps its abolition can be arranged, at least as between your government and mine. But we'll want guarantees in exchange, y'know."
"You are the diplomat, not I," Runei said. "As of now, I chiefly want back any prisoners you hold."
"Don't know if there were any survivors," Hauksberg said. He knew quite well there were some, and that Abrams wouldn't release them till they'd been interrogated at length, probably hypnoprobed; and he suspected Runei knew he knew. Most embarrassing. "I'll inquire, if you wish, and urge—"
"Thank you," Runei said dryly. After a minute: "Not to ask for military secrets, but what will the next move be of your, khraich, allies?"
"Not allies. The Terran Empire is not a belligerent."
"Spare me," Runei snorted. "I warn you, as I have warned Admiral Enriques, that Merseia won't stand idle if the aggressors try to destroy what Merseia has helped create to ameliorate the lot of the sea people."
An opening! "Point o' fact," Hauksberg said, as casually as he was able, "with the assault on Ujanka repelled, we're tryin' to restrain the Kursovikians. They're hollerin' for vengeance and all that sort o' thing, but we've persuaded 'em to attempt negotiations."
A muscle jumped in Runei's jaw, the ebony eyes widened a millimeter, and he sat motionless for half a minute. "Indeed?" he said, flat-toned.
"Indeed." Hauksberg pursued the initiative he had gained. "A fleet'll depart very soon. We couldn't keep that secret from you, nor conceal the fact of our makin' contact with the Siravoans. So you'll be told officially, and I may's well tell you today, the fleet won't fight except in self-defense. I trust none o' those Merseian volunteers participate in any violence. If so, Terran forces would natur'lly have to intervene. But we hope to send envoys underwater, to discuss a truce with the idea of makin' permanent peace."
"So." Runei drummed his desktop.
"Our xenological information is limited," Hauksberg said. "And o' course we won't exactly get childlike trust at first. Be most helpful if you'd urge the, ah, Sixpoint to receive our delegation and listen to 'em."
"A joint commission, Terran and Merseian—"
"Not yet, Commandant. Please, not yet. These'll be nothin' but informal preliminary talks."
"What you mean," Runei said, "is that Admiral Enriques won't lend men to any dealings that involve Merseians."
Correct.
"No, no. Nothin' so ungracious. Nothin' but a desire to avoid complications. No reason why the sea people shouldn't keep you posted as to what goes on, eh? But we have to know where we stand with 'em; in fact, we have to know 'em much better before we can make sensible suggestions; and you, regrettably, decline to share your data."
"I am under orders," Runei said.
"Quite. Policy'll need to be modified on both sides before we can cooperate worth mentionin', let alone think about joint commissions. That sort o' problem is why I'm goin' on to Merseia."
"Those hoofs will stamp slowly."
"Hey? Oh. Oh, yes. We'd speak of wheels. Agreed, with the best will in the universe, neither government can end this conflict overnight. But we can make a start, you and us. We restrain the Kursovikians, you restrain the Sixpoint. All military operations suspended in the Zletovar till further notice. You've that much discretionary power, I'm sure."
"I do," Runei said. "You do. The natives may not agree. If they decide to move, either faction, I am bound to support the sea people."
Or if you tell them to move, Hauksberg thought. You may. In which case Enriques will have no choice but to fight. However, I'll assume you're honest, that you'd also like to see this affair wound up before matters get out of hand. I have to assume that. Otherwise I can only go home and help Terra prepare for interstellar war.
"You'll be gettin' official memoranda and such," he said. "This is preliminary chit-chat. But I'll stay on, myself, till we see how our try at a parley is shapin' up. Feel free to call on me at any time."
"Thank you. Good day, my lord."
"Good day, Com—Fodaich." Though they had been using Anglic, Hauksberg was rather proud of his Eriau.
The screen blanked. He lit a cigaret. Now what? Now you sit and wait, m' boy. You continue gathering reports, conducting interviews, making tours of inspection, but this is past the point of diminishing returns, among these iron-spined militarists who consider you a meddlesome ass. You'll see many an empty hour. Not much amusement here. Good thing you had the foresight to take Persis along.
He rose and drifted from the office to the living room. She sat there watching the animation. Ondine again—poor kid, the local tape library didn't give a wide selection. He lowered himself to the arm of her lounger and laid a hand on her shoulder. It was bare, in a low-cut blouse; the skin felt warm and smooth, and he caught a violet hint of perfume.
"Aren't you tired o' that thing?" he asked.
"No." She didn't quite take her eyes from it. Her voice was dark and her mouth not quite steady. "Wish I were, though."
"Why?"
"It frightens me. It reminds me how far we are from home, the strangeness, the—And we're going on."
Half human, the mermaid floated beneath seas which never were.
"Merseia's p'rhaps a touch more familiar," Hauksberg said. "They were already industrialized when humans discovered 'em. They caught onto the idea of space travel fast."
"Does that make them anything like us? Does it make us like . . . like ourselves?" She twisted her fingers together. "People say 'hyperdrive' and 'light-year' so casually. They don't understand. They can't or won't. Too shallow."
"Don't tell me you've mastered the theory," he jollied her.
"Oh, no. I haven't the brain. But I tried. A series of quantum jumps which do not cross the small intervening spaces, therefore do not amount to a true velocity and are not bound by the light-speed limitation . . . sounds nice and scientific to you, doesn't it? You know what it sounds like to me? Ghosts flitting forever in darkness. And have you ever thought about a light-year, one measly light-year, how huge it is?"
"Well, well." He stroked her hair. "You'll have company."
"Your staff. Your servants. Little men with little minds. Routineers, yes-men, careerists who've laid out their own futures on rails. They're nothing, between me and the night. I'm sick of them, anyway."
"You've me," he said.
She smiled a trifle. "Present company excepted. You're so often busy, though."
"We'll have two or three Navy chaps with us. Might interest you. Diff'rent from court
iers and bureaucrats."
She brightened further. "Who?"
"Well, Commander Abrams and I got talkin', and next thing I knew I'd suggested he come along as our expert on the waterfolk. We could use one. Rather have that Ridenour fellow, 'course; he's the real authority, insofar as Terra's got any. But on that account, he can't be spared here." Hauksberg drew in a long tail of smoke. "Obvious dangers involved. Abrams wouldn't leave his post either, if he didn't think this was a chance to gather more information than he can on Starkad. Which could compromise our mission. I still don't know but what I was cleverly maneuvered into co-optin' him."
"That old bear, manipulating you?" Persis actually giggled.
"A shrewd bear. And ruthless. Fanatical, almost. However, he can be useful, and I'll be sure to keep a spot on him. Daresay he'll bring an aide or two. Handsome young officers, hm?"
"You're handsome and young enough for me, Mark." Persis rubbed her head against him.
Hauksberg chucked his cigaret at the nearest disposal. "I'm not so frightfully busy, either."
***
The day was raw and overcast, with whitecaps on a leaden sea. Wind piped in rigging; timbers creaked; the Archer rocked. Astern lay the accompanying fleet, hove to. Banners snapped from mastheads. One deck was covered by a Terra-conditioned sealtent. But Dragoika's vessel bore merely a tank and a handful of humans. She and her crew watched impassive as Ridenour, the civilian head of xenological studies, went to release the Siravo.
He was a tall, sandy-haired man; within the helmet, his face was intense. His fingers moved across the console of the vocalizer attached to one wall. Sounds boomed forth which otherwise only a sea dweller's voice bladder could have made.
The long body in the tank stirred. Those curiously human lips opened. An answer could be heard. John Ridenour nodded. "Very well," he said. "Let him go."
Flandry helped remove the cover. The prisoner arched his tail. In one dizzying leap he was out and over the side. Water spouted across the deck.
Ridenour went to the rail and stood staring down. "So long, Evenfall," he said.
"That his real name?" Flandry asked.
"What the phrase means, roughly," the xenologist answered. He straightened. "I don't expect anyone'll show for some hours. But be ready from 1500. I want to study my notes."
He walked to his cabin. Flandry's gaze followed him. How much does he know? the ensign wondered. More'n he possibly could learn from our Charlie, or from old records, that's for sure. Somehow Abrams has arranged—Oh, God, the shells bursting in Ujanka!
He fled that thought and pulled his gaze back, around the team who were to go undersea. A couple of assistant xenologists; an engineer ensign and four burly ratings with some previous diving experience. They were almost more alien to him than the Tigeries.
The glory of having turned the battle of Golden Bay was blown away on this mordant wind. So, too, was the intoxicating sequel: that he, Dominic Flandry, was no longer a wet-eared youngster but appreciated as he deserved, promised a citation, as the hero of all Kursoviki, the one man who could talk the landfolk into attempting peace. What that amounted to, in unromantic fact, was that he must go along with the Terran envoys, so their mission would have his full approval in Tigery eyes. And Ridenour had told him curtly to keep out of the way.
Jan van Zuyl was luckier!
Well—Flandry put on his best nonchalance and strolled to Dragoika. She regarded him gravely. "I hate your going down," she said.
"Nonsense," he said. "Wonderful adventure. I can't wait."
"Down where the bones of our mothers lie, whom they drowned," she said. "Down where there is no sun, no moons, no stars, only blackness and cold sliding currents. Among enemies and horrors. Combat was better."
"I'll be back soon. This first dive is just to ask if they'll let us erect a dome on the bottom. Once that's done, your fleet can go home."
"How long will you be there yourself, in the dome?"
"I don't know. I hope for not more than a few days. If things look promising, I—" Flandry preened—"won't be needed so much. They'll need me more on land again."
"I will be gone by then," Dragoika said. "The Archer still has an undelivered cargo, and the Sisterhood wants to take advantage of the truce while it lasts."
"You'll return, won't you? Call me when you do, and I'll flit straight to Ujanka." He patted her hand.
She gripped his. "Someday you will depart forever."
"Mm . . . this isn't my world."
"I would like to see yours," she said wistfully. "The stories we hear, the pictures we see, like a dream. Like the lost island. Perhaps it is in truth?"
"I fear not." Flandry wondered why the Eden motif was universal in the land cultures of Starkad. Be interesting to know. Except for this damned war, men could come here and really study the planet. He thought he might like to join them.
But no. There was little pure research, for love, in the Empire any more. Outwardness had died from the human spirit. Could that be because the Time of Troubles had brutalized civilization? Or was it simply that when he saw he couldn't own the galaxy and consolidated what little he had, man lost interest in anything beyond himself? No doubt the ancient eagerness could be regained. But first the Empire might have to go under. And he was sworn to defend it. I better read more in those books of Abrams'. So far they've mainly confused me.
"You think high thoughts," Dragoika said.
He tried to laugh. "Contrariwise. I'm thinking about food, fun, and females."
"Yes. Females." She stood quiet a while, before she too laughed. "I can try to provide the fun, anyhow. What say you to a game of Yavolak?"
"I haven't yet straightened out those cursed rules," Flandry said. "But if we can get a few players together, I have some cards with me and there's a Terran game called poker."
—A head rose sleek and blue from the waves. Flandry couldn't tell if it belonged to Evenfall or someone else. The flukes slapped thrice. "That's our signal," Ridenour said. "Let's go."
He spoke by radio. The team were encased in armor which was supposed to withstand pressures to a kilometer's depth. Wish I hadn't thought of "supposed," Flandry regretted. He clumped across the deck and in his turn was lowered over the side. He had a last glimpse of Dragoika, waving. Then the hull was before his faceplate, and then green water. He cast loose, switched his communicator to sonic, and started the motor on his back. Trailing bubbles, he moved to join the others. For one who'd been trained in spacesuit maneuvers, underwater was simple . . . . Damn! He'd forgotten that friction would brake him.
"Follow me in close order," Ridenour's voice sounded in his earplugs. "And for God's sake, don't get trigger happy."
The being who was not a fish glided in advance. The water darkened. Lightbeams weren't needed, though, when they reached bottom; this was a shallow sea. Flandry whirred through a crepuscule that faded into sightlessness. Above him was a circle of dim radiance, like a frosted port. Below him was a forest. Long fronds rippled upward, green and brown and yellow. Massive boles trailed a mesh of filaments from their branches. Shellfish, often immense, covered with lesser shells, gripped lacy, delicately hued coraloid. A flock of crustaceans clanked—no other word would do—across a weed meadow. A thing like an eel wriggled over their heads. Tiny finned animals in rainbow stripes flitted among the sea trees. Why, the place is beautiful!
Charlie—no, Evenfall had directed the fleet to a spot in midsea where ships rarely passed. How he navigated was a mystery. But Shellgleam lay near.
Flandry had gathered that the vaz-Siravo of Zletovar lived in, and between, six cities more or less regularly spaced around a circle. Tidehome and Reefcastle were at the end of the Chain. The Kursovikians had long known about them; sometimes they raided them, dropping stones, and sometimes the cities were bases for attacks on Tigery craft. But Shellgleam, Vault, Crystal, and Outlier on the verge of that stupendous downfall of sea bottom called the Deeps—those had been unsuspected. Considering how intercity traffic pat
terns must go, Flandry decided that the Sixpoint might as well be called the Davidstar. You couldn't make good translations anyway from a language so foreign.
A drumming noise resounded through the waters. A hundred or more swimmers came into view, in formation. They wore skull helmets and scaly leather corselets, they were armed with obsidian-headed spears, axes, and daggers. The guide exchanged words with their chief. They englobed the party and proceeded.
Now Flandry passed above agricultural (?) lands. He saw tended fields, fish penned in wicker domes, cylindrical woven houses anchored by rocks. A wagon passed not far away, a skin-covered torpedo shape with stabilizer fins, drawn by an elephant-sized fish which a Siravo led. Belike he traveled from some cave or depth, because he carried a lantern, a bladder filled with what were no doubt phosphorescent microorganisms. As he approached town, Flandry saw a mill. It stood on an upthrust—go ahead and say "hill"—and a shaft ran vertically from an eccentric drive wheel. Aiming his laser light and adjusting his faceplate lens for telescopic vision, he made out a sphere at the other end, afloat on the surface. So, a tide motor.
Shellgleam hove in sight. The city looked frail, unstable, unreal: what a place to stage that ballet! In this weatherless world, walls and roofs need but give privacy; they were made of many-colored fabrics, loosely draped so they could move with currents, on poles which gave shapes soaring in fantastic curves. The higher levels were more broad than the lower. Lanterns glowed perpetually at the corners, against night's advent. With little need for ground transport, streets did not exist; but whether to control silt or to enjoy the sight, the builders had covered the spaces between houses with gravel and gardens.
A crowd assembled. Flandry saw many females, holding infants to their breasts and slightly older offspring on leash. Few people wore clothes except for jewelry. They murmured, a low surf sound. But they were more quiet, better behaved, than Tigeries or humans.
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