Into the Maelstrom

by David Drake

  The shadow passed the ice edge and a bulge of water formed under the waves, causing the tops to break away in wind-blown spray speckled with orange. The harpooner noticed his puzzled expression.

  “The plankton are orange,” the gunner said, putting his head close to Allenson’s ear.

  The spirotrich broke surface. Allenson found that he was not disappointed at all. The beast was massive, perhaps a hundred meters long, an orange-tinged, semi-transparent, cone-shaped worm with a long trailing tail. There were no fins that he could see and the open end of the cone was at the front. Waves of spirals descended into the mouth of the cone, turning rapidly counterclockwise such that the spirotrich rotated slowly in the opposite direction. It was a surreal sight, almost hypnotic.

  The car moved closer until the individual meter-long cilia that gave the illusion of waves could be seen beating. The cilia pushed water down the gullet and out through slits near the tail. The system served for both jet-propulsion and filter feeding. There was no sign of a brain or central nervous system, indeed, little evidence of organs within the vast body at all. It seemed to be mostly jelly. Spirotrichs were huge, dumb, simple beasts.

  Plankton accumulated in dense orange sacks near the water exit slits before some process pushed the material through the jelly towards the head. The plankton lent the whole organism its orange-brown shade. Modified cilia around the mouth of the cone projected outwards. No doubt they carried sense organs like simple eyes and chemo-receptors.

  The gunner pulled down a large red-handled lever at the base of the harpoon gun. He took hold of the double-handed trigger grip and swung the gun left-right, up-down to check the gimbals moved freely. The spirotrich submerged and the car moved ahead to intercept at its next broach. The gunner pointed the weapon down over the starboard bow, clearly expecting the pilot to position the target on that flank. Allenson was intrigued to find out how the gun would work. It wasn’t going to kill the spirotrich with a single shot. How do you “harpoon” a mass of jelly?

  The spirotrich broke through the surface of the water again and fell back in a great splash of foam. The gunner fired. The electrical flash around the muzzle burned green lines on Allenson’s retina. He leaned out over the side to watch. Cable spun out of a power reel with a loud whine that sounded even over the turbofans. It was the sort of nail-down-a-blackboard noise that made your teeth curl. The harpoon struck true about a third of the way down the spirotrich’s body, slicing easily into the jelly.

  The harpoon head expanded like an opening parachute. The power reel went into reverse, hauling in the cable until it twanged taut. The pilot increased power and the turbofans screamed. By brute force the vehicle pulled the head of the monster around to point towards the shore.

  The spirotrich dived and the reel spun out more cable to prevent the car being dragged under. When the monster broached, the cable ran back in to take up the slack. The pilot played the beast like a fish on the end of a rod and line. All the time he fought to keep the spirotrich moving towards the edge of the ice sheet.

  The crisis came when the spirotrich tried to dive under the ice. The pilot gave the rotors all the power he had to keep the beast’s head up. The cable twanged under the strain, shaking off water which fell towards the sea in a fine spray. The beast crashed head first onto the ice sheet, which submerged and split under the impact. The monster twisted left and right, trying to roll back into the sea.

  The car lurched without warning. Allenson was thrown against the side. The gunner crashed into his back, flipping him clean out of the compartment.

  Allenson hung one-handed from the rail. He clawed desperately with the other to find something, anything, to grab hold of. The gunner stared down at him, frozen, not attempting to help. The moment of time lasted ten thousand years. Todd hauled the gunner out of the way and reached down to Allenson.

  The car gave another lurch and Allenson’s hand slipped. He had one quick glimpse of Todd’s horrified expression before he fell backwards into empty space.

  He hit the cable with his shoulders and bounced off. He made a wild grab that missed but managed to get one arm around the line, then the other. Initially he fell freely, the cable sliding easily through his hug. Increasingly as he dropped the cable curved, wrenching at his arms. He went into the water feet first. The shock of the chill liquid against his unprotected face made him gasp and nearly inhale but the sudden slack gave him a chance to get his hands firmly on the cable.

  Allenson clutched the cable with all his strength when it dragged him under. He held his breath until the line tightened, pulling him up towards the light. He shot right out of the sea like a rabbit out of a burrow as the car fought against the weight of the spirotrich. The cable hurled him into the air until it twanged straight. He lost his grip, fired like an arrow from a bow.

  Sky and sea rotated in an orange blue blur until he fell with a squelch into something mushy. He struggled in a sticky mix of goo and fibers, spitting foul-tasting muck out of his mouth. He just about managed to stand upright buried to his waist when the spirotrich lurched. He lost his footing and got another protoplasmic ducking. It was like trying to wade through blancmange. He partly crawled, partly slid, and partly swam. Another heave and he was out of the monster, rolling and falling. He hit something hard that knocked the breath from his body.

  Allenson tried to stand, but slipped onto his bottom. He discovered that spirotrich goo on ice gave an almost frictionless surface. The spirotrich rolled away from him. Allenson scooted inland as fast as he could in case the creature reversed its roll. He slid on his bum until he reached a place where the ice had broken and refrozen, giving some purchase for his feet on the roughened surface.

  The car swooped over him. The downdraft from its rotors became a howling gale that bowled him over once again. God he was going to have some spectacular bruises by morning. The car sank down and landed. Todd was over the side before the rotors stopped turning.

  “Uncle Allen, are you okay?”

  Allenson sat up and spat again, trying to clean the oily taste of spirotrich blubber from his mouth.

  “I’ll live.”

  He started shaking.

  “You’re cold.”

  “Water got in my suit,” Allenson replied defensively.

  Actually the water inside the insulated survival suit was warm, heated by his body. He shook with shock, not cold.

  Todd assisted Allenson to his feet and helped him back to the car.

  “Right, let’s get you back to the station.”

  Allenson noticed he had drawn his ion pistol, which seemed a strange thing to do under the circumstances.

  “It’s all right, Nephew, I’m not a complete invalid,” Allenson snapped as Todd tried to help him up the steps.

  “Of course not, Uncle,” Todd replied, hovering close as Allenson climbed.

  Todd followed him into the larger rear compartment of the car and addressed the hunt captain.

  “Get this thing back to the station immediately so we can get the general checked over.”

  “But we haven’t cut our way into the spirotrich to check for ambrein yet,” said the hunt master.

  Todd pointed the pistol at the master.

  “Fine, if any of you feckers want to get out on the ice that’s up to you but this car is heading back right now. Am I making myself clear?”

  He was.

  Allenson’s injuries turned out to be superficial and were soon fixed by the paramedic. The station had a decent medical facility as accidents were not uncommon given the crews’ line of work. He valued the hot shower after treatment rather more than the medical aid. After he had dressed in clean clothes Todd insisted that they go out onto the landing pad to look over the barge. Redley and Buller remained in the bar.

  Boswell sat stoically on the barge in a survival suit watching the Icecube riggers charge their cells.

  “Everything in order, Boswell?” Todd asked.

  “Yes, sar,” the unflappable servant replied. “W
e’ll be finished within an hour or two.”

  “Very good.”

  Todd steered Allenson past the barge to where they could not be overheard.

  “Something bothering you?” Allenson asked mildly, although he was a little irritated at being treated like cargo.

  “Yes, something’s bothering me. Those bastards tried to kill you back there.”

  “Oh come on,” Allenson replied. “Surely it was an accident. Why would these people have designs on my life?”

  “Because you’re about to upset the order of things and they’ve a nice little business here provided matters stay as they are. If the revolutionaries get in power they could all be out of a job.”

  Allenson thought for a moment and then shook his head.

  “No one could have set up an assassination plot. No one knew we would come here. Hell, I didn’t know myself until a few hours before we arrived.”

  “Oh, I agree. This wasn’t a conspiracy, just a bit of freelance initiative on the part of the local Icecube management.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like Hawthorn.”

  “Colonel Hawthorn talks a deal of sense. If I hadn’t been there what do you bet you’d have never got off that ice sheet alive? They didn’t turn to pick you up until I pulled my pistol.”

  The suggestion was preposterous but then he remembered the car’s crewman looking down at him impassively while he hung by one hand.

  Maybe Hawthorn had a point.

  CHAPTER 10

  Trent

  The barge made a further stop at a small agricultural and logging community called Sark. It could have made Port Trent in one jump by running along the smooth passage of the Great North Road. Buller pointed this out at some length. Todd was insistent that Allenson needed a day or two’s rest after his accident before throwing himself into the maelstrom of Trent politics. Allenson did not argue the point

  Sark’s landing beacon guided them to a small guest house located on a spit of land turned into a cluster of small islands. A meandering river had burst its bank sometime in the past and cut off an oxbow. No doubt at some time in the future the old channel would silt up completely, creating a lake. For now Sark was scattered over what were known as the Channel Islands.

  The guest house was simply furnished but comfortable. Allenson retired immediately and slept the sleep of the completely exhausted. He met up with Todd for a substantial breakfast of locally caught smoked fish washed down by cafay, real coffee being unobtainable.

  “Where’s Buller and Redley?” Allenson asked.

  “Still getting their beauty sleep,” Todd grinned. “We went onto a local bar, the local bar, after you retired for the evening.”

  Allenson pointed his fork at Todd before noticing he had speared a piece of fish with it.

  “I see. So how come you’re awake?”

  Allenson pushed the fish into his mouth. It had a peppery flavor that was not unpleasant. He wondered whether the taste was a property of the fish or the wood they used to smoke it.

  “Genosurgery can only do so much, Uncle. Neither Buller nor Redley are young men.”

  Allenson winced. “No need to rub it in, Nephew.”

  Todd gave a sly grin.

  “And I took the precaution of taking a detox pill before going out.”

  They applied themselves to eating. Eventually, Allenson pushed the remains of the fish away, quite beaten by the liberality of the house’s hospitality. He broke what was left of his bread in half and consumed a piece.

  “You were right,” Allenson said. “I feel much refreshed after a decent night’s sleep. We can go on to Trent after we collect the old soaks.”

  Todd spluttered into his cafay.

  “That’s no way to talk about two senior officers of our new nation.”

  Allenson sighed.

  “I doubt whether the Assembly on Paxton has got around to declaring independence yet so there’s probably no new nation. They’re no doubt still debating what color the flag should be. We are, I’m afraid, not only an army without professional soldiers but an army without a state—a somewhat original position for a captain general to be in.”

  “About leaving today,” Todd said, carefully not looking at Allenson.

  “Yeees,” Allenson replied.

  “We’re not,” Todd rushed out. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “You don’t think it’s a good idea?” Allenson asked, using a tone to remind his nephew who was the general and who the aide.

  “I have hired a couple of men to sit in the barge and pedal to boost up our charge so we have a decent safety margin. Boswell’s keeping an eye on them for me. I don’t want us to have to pedal into Port Trent, Uncle. It’s undignified. Buller and Redley would be useless so it would come down to you, me and Boswell.”

  “So what am I supposed to do all day?” Allenson asked.

  “Ah, I’ve thought of that. Apparently, there is a spectacular water feature upstream, so I’ve also hired a boat to go and look at it. Our hostess is preparing a picnic hamper as we speak.”

  “You think of everything,” Allenson said, not sure if he was amused or annoyed—or both at the same time.

  Allenson paraded, no other word sufficed, through the tiny village down to the small quay on the river bank. Men wished to be recorded shaking his hand. Even more embarrassingly, women wished to be recorded kissing his cheek, if he was lucky, or his lips if he was not. One plucky matron with arms like tree trunks hauled him down to her level before sticking her tongue down his throat. She retreated to sustained cheers from her peers.

  “For pity’s sake get me out of here,” Allenson whispered to Todd, all the while waving and smiling until his cheek muscles ached.

  Todd cleared a way through the enthusiastic villagers to their awaiting fishing boat. It was flat bottomed and open and a tube drive clamped to the transom propelled the boat. The boatman touched his forehead upon Allenson’s arrival.

  He and Todd clambered in, Todd resting his legs on the hamper. The boatman unhitched the rope at the stern, threw it in and jumped in after it. The boat rocked alarmingly. Allenson gripped the sides while maintaining his politician’s rictus of a grin. He hoped none of his admiring public noticed his mounting alarm. He was not keen on another ducking after Icecube.

  The boatman started the engine on the end of the tube drive by vigorously pulling on a cord until it fired. The clatter suggested some sort of long-stroke single cylinder piston motor. The crowd backed away. The reason became clear when the boatman lowered the end of the drive tube until it was partly submerged. It blew air, throwing up a spray of water and mud in a wide arc as he conned the light craft away from the bank. The water must have been scant centimeters deep.

  Once they moved out into deeper water the boatman lowered the tube until it pumped only water. It was then far more efficient. He throttled back the motor, reducing the noise considerably. Allenson was intrigued by the novel device.

  “What do you use as a power source?” he asked, turning his head to communicate with the boatman at the stern.

  “Ethanol, Sar General. We distill it from the fermentation of a native high sugar vegetable root. Makes decent fuel—and a fair tonk too if you don’t mind your gums shrinking.”

  Allenson made a mental note to stick to plum brandy or beer while on Sark. The river was slow-flowing so they made fast progress upstream, but the waterway was so meandering that they traveled three kilometers for every kilometer closer to their destination. The banks on either side were flat. Crops grew down to the water, with small huts scattered about. No doubt the local farmers used them to store tools or even to sleep in over busy periods. These signs of habitation gradually became rarer as they went upstream until they disappeared altogether.

  The sunshine was warm but not unpleasantly hot. Sark had a most agreeable climate for . . . whatever season it was. He had an impulse to look it up on his datapad but couldn’t be bothered. After all, it hardly mattered.

 
; He shut his eyes and half dozed, lulled by the rocking of the boat and the gentle play of warm air on his face.

  “General,” Todd said, touching him lightly on the arm to get his attention. He nodded towards the boatman.

  Allenson realized that the man had been speaking.

  “My apologies, master. What did you say?”

  “Over there, sar, razor fish.”

  A shoal of narrow silver fish leapt into the air, tails thrusting vigorously but pointlessly. The fish provided a graphic lesson in the uselessness of power without traction. They measured about twenty centimeters long including the long narrow snout and forked tail. The water around the shoal boiled white, throwing a fine mist into the air. Sunlight glittered of the creature’s metallic scales and filtered through the water to create an ever changing iridescent pattern of transient rainbows.

  Larger torpedo shapes prowled under the water around the edge of the shoal. The silver fish jumped not for pleasure but in panic.

  Refreshed and wide awake, Allenson looked around. Trees like pines with dark green needlelike leaves grew in clumps on the bank. The farther they went the more the trees replaced grassland until they lined the banks and turned the waterway into a corridor.

  After another half an hour or so the boatman cut the power and drifted the boat into the left-hand bank. A couple of felled trees served as a makeshift dockside. The boatman jumped out with a mooring rope line that he tied to a convenient branch. He pulled the craft flat alongside the shore and held it so Allenson and Todd could alight safely.

  Now that the motor was quiet Allenson heard a dull rumble in the distance. Otherwise the countryside was utterly silent except for the boat tapping gently at the wooden dock.

  “The lookout point is dreckly reached by cutting overland to avoid the last loop of the river. I don’t want to risk taking the boat too close to the Gate. The currents can be fair scary.”