They were silent and somber for a moment, both men looking at the deck like the scratches in the well-worn wood might have an answer. Then Dennis chuckled and shook his head.
"And the vegetables Eugene would bring in his boatload are from farms that run off into this water, and help cause the problem that afflicts our sea."
Captain Eddie looked like he had bitten into something sour. “It is complicated, but things cannot stay as they are.” He set his jaw and reached for the paintbrush to finish detailing the electrical conduit. Dennis turned to go and almost collided with Dr. Coolidge, who was standing in the door of the wheelhouse.
"Gentlemen, I do not know if my readings will help to change the situation, but I pledge to you that I will do all that I can to make them known. You must know, though that even if every possible action is taken now, it may be a decade before you see schools of redfish on that screen again.” He gestured at the fish finder, then looked at it sharply. Faint wavy lines flickered near the bottom of the screen. He relaxed after a moment.
"Interesting interference pattern there. Probably a cold current going underneath a warm one at the thermocline. Not something I'd expect to see, even with the scope on high sensitivity."
Captain Eddie frowned. “It ain't on high sensitivity. That's standard."
The three men peered at the screen, where a straight line was arcing upward to resemble a dome.
"Big bubble of gas and mud sometimes comes up from the bottom, looks a little something like that,” volunteered Eddie uncertainly.” Just as he said it, the curve became sharper, and a piece of it separated into a disc and started to move laterally. “It don't do that, though."
"Your strip recorder—turn it on!” barked Dr. Coolidge. Captain Eddie flipped a switch, and paper started scrolling past a pen that twitched with each movement. Dennis had a different idea and grabbed his cell phone from the pouch at his hip, aimed the camera at the sonar screen, and started recording. “Good thought,” said Coolidge approvingly, his eyes not leaving the screen. The disc moved in a slow circle near the bottom of the screen, then came to a halt.
"Depth?” Coolidge asked crisply. Eddie glanced at a readout. “Canyon just south of here goes down past forty fathoms, but here we're at sixteen fathoms, pretty even.” The scientist stuck his head out the door to call to his assistants.
"Mac Leod, what's the oxygen level at thirty meters?"
There was a momentary hesitation, then a reply of, “Last reading, one point four parts per million."
"Nothing on Earth larger than bacteria can live under those conditions,” Coolidge said firmly. “The reading's wrong, or . . .” he broke off as the thing started moving again. “What size is it?"
Captain Eddie glanced at the gain dial on the finder. “Same as a fair-sized marlin . . . call it eight feet."
"I want it. Can you catch it?” He stuck his head out he window and bellowed, “Mac Leod, come here now and bring a recorder! Davies, to the port side amidships with a recorder, and catch any movement you see in the water!"
Captain Eddie glanced at Dennis. “Lonesome Joe done servicin’ that winch?"
"Oughta be.” Dennis stuck his head out the window and shouted, “Joe, whatever net you got ready, get it in the water, now!"
There was a sound of scrambling, the whirr of an electric motor and rattle of chains, then a splash and a sharp curse in Acadian French. Dennis and Eddie ran to the top of the gangway to see a piece of colorful striped fabric sliding below the deep blue surface of the water. Dennis laughed.
"Joe musta left his hammock draped over the boom, and when he swung it to attach the net, it went over. He's gonna have to go all the way to Grand Isle to get another one."
They were interrupted by a shout from the cabin. “What's that?"
They rushed in and looked at the video screen, where they could see the image of the waterlogged hammock undulating toward the ocean floor. “Hammock,” answered Dennis. “Got a piece of chain on one end to hook it up, why it's moving like that.” He pointed his cell phone camera at the display as the shape at the bottom of the screen started spiraling upward. Suddenly, it moved forward and struck at the hammock, then recoiled.
"A predator,” gasped Coolidge. “ I want it. How soon will that net be ready?"
"I'll check,” promised Dennis as he headed down the stairs two at a time. When he got to the stern, Lonesome Joe was grumbling curses as he finished attaching the shrimp net to the swivel. “Don’ like runnin’ like dat,” he grumbled, gesturing to the winch he had been working on. The cover was off and the freshly lubricated gears shone black next to coils of cable. “It snap, and somebody's killed."
Dennis nodded and ran back toward the wheelhouse, the deck suddenly vibrating under his feet as the big diesel engines fired up for the first time all day.
"Ready,” he said as he entered. “Closest thing to hand was a crab trawl net, and it's goin’ in. Current's gonna carry it a little behind that thing, then we haul it in."
The image on the screen was circling the place where the hammock hit bottom, watched by Coolidge and the graduate student who captured the image on his video camera. Captain Eddie put the engines in reverse and gently eased the throttle, glancing over at the fish finder every few seconds.
"Aimin’ at it the way we do for schools of redfish,” he commented without taking his eyes off his work. “Gonna try to float the net wide, behind and below it, then give the boat full engines ahead and the net full winch, haul it in quick. That thing down there can move fast when it wants to."
"When it comes to catching underwater creatures, I trust to your expertise, gentlemen,” said Dr. Coolidge.
"You went out in that boat you first chartered, you wouldn'ta had it,” observed Captain Eddie. “They woulda charged extra for expertise. We throw it in for free.” The conversation broke off as the thing stopped, changed direction, and started spiraling upward. Coolidge started to peer into the monitor, then realized that he was about to block the camera. “Getting this?” he asked the student.
"Every second,” replied Mac Leod. “It'll be the biggest thing on YouTube."
"They get it after Woods Hole has a look. Gods, every oceanographer and icthyolologist in the world would give their souls to be here right now. An unknown species that can live in this . . .” He broke off, then asked Captain Eddie, “What is its depth now?"
"Up to ten fathoms . . . nine now. Comin’ up eight.” They heard a wordless shout from Davies, the graduate student on deck. “Close enough so's you can see it, I'd guess."
Coolidge ran out of the wheelhouse and headed to the rail by Davies, followed closely by Dennis. They peered into the murky brownish depths at the bulbous shape that corkscrewed toward them in lazy circles. “Six fathoms!” came a shout from the wheelhouse.
"Davies, oxygen level at twenty meters?” asked Coolidge crisply.
"Last reading here, less than one point six parts per million. Rises to two point two at ten meters, almost three PPM at five meters."
"What's normal?” asked Dennis.
"Six to twelve at the surface,” answered Coolidge. “This is almost . . .” He stopped as the thing turned slightly and came out of the boat's shadow. “My god!"
The two sets of tentacles on each side pulsed in rhythm, while the fins worked independently to both steer and add momentum. Something gaped and closed next to each to the three compound eyes, and there was movement in the huge triangular mouth each time it opened. A dark band encircled its body just behind the tentacles, irregular bulges dangling from it.
As it entered the shaft of light, the tentacles went motionless, and it used its fins to turn so all three eyes faced the sun. The men at the rail stood stock still, gazing at the weird face pointed toward them. Dennis noticed a flicker of movement in the background just as Captain Eddie shouted “It's at two fathoms now!” from the cabin.
"Joe, haul the net in, full speed! Eddie, give her the gas!” Dennis shouted.
The engines roared
and the boat lurched forward just as a sharp whine sounded from astern. The net that had been spread out behind the creature started to tighten around it, drawing it toward the surface. It thrashed as it rose, and they noticed the tentacles scrabbling toward the dark band around its middle, then working at the net.
"Which rig is that, Joe?” Dennis shouted.
"Six millimeter propylene."
"Nothin’ can break that! We got it."
The tentacles flexed convulsively, and suddenly the thing had more room to move. They moved again, and even as a writhing mass of dazzling orange and green striped fins came partway out of the water, the thing leaped free through a ragged hole in the net and spiraled downward toward the ocean floor. This time its movements were erratic, as though the fins that had broken the surface were paralyzed. It swerved as it was at the edge of their vision, toward the undersea canyon to the south. The Miss Tillie lurched to follow it, but it was obvious that the old trawler couldn't keep up.
Dr. Coolidge's hands tightened on the rail until his knuckles were white, and he said, “Damn” with emphasis. Lonesome Joe used considerably more colorful language as he viewed the remains of the net dangling from the end of the boom. Nobody else said anything as the big engines stopped and the boat slowed to a stop.
"Lost him,” called Captain Eddie from the wheelhouse. “Swingin’ around like a bat all the way down into the canyon, but gone."
"Still recording,” called Mac Leod.
Coolidge brightened a bit. “Davies, you got that?"
When the other assistant nodded, Coolidge smiled. “We at least have two recordings of a creature never before seen—three, counting your cell phone, Dennis. Four counting the chart recorder, which probably got something. Plus the most amazing fishing story ever about the one that got away.” He glanced toward the stern and shouted, “Joe, don't touch that net! Might be DNA on the skin scrapings—or rather, whatever that thing uses instead of DNA."
"Doesn't everything use DNA?” asked Dennis.
"Every organism we know above the bacterial level uses DNA or RNA. But then, we may have just seen a product of a separate evolution."
"A space alien?"
"Another evolution on this Earth, one that happened a long time ago. The early Precambrian era, before photosynthesis, when algae started producing oxygen and changed the environment. The shift to an oxygen environment wiped almost all the anaerobic life-forms out—the only ones we know of are viruses and some bacteria, and a few microscopic creatures that live in the depths of the ocean, mostly near volcanic vents. Apparently, some larger forms evolved, too, and they still live deep where humans couldn't see them. And now, for the first time in eons, there is a path to the surface for them. A path humans made through stupidity."
There was silence for a time except for the sound of Lonesome Joe putting the cover back on the winch mechanism. Captain Eddie came out of the wheelhouse and walked slowly over to join them.
"I wonder why it came up here,” he mused. “Searching for food, I guess, or maybe just curious."
"Perhaps. I wonder, though. Remember the stripe around the creature? I think it was a tool belt, and I think that when we look at your net, we'll find that it has been cut. As for why it came here, miles above its ancestral home? After two and a half billion years in the dark at the bottom of the ocean, I wonder if its kind even has legends about the sun. It would be quite a temptation to see if ancient fables are true. There's a kind of mind that does that."
"A scientist?” asked Dennis.
"Their environment is changing, and it needs to know why. Perhaps it travels because it can.” Coolidge looked at the storm building in the east, the clouds now visibly angrier. “Nature is about to stir up this water now, make it inhospitable for them down to ten meters or so. We'll quantify that as best as we may, then head back to shore. And by the way, I'll pay for a new net, as our new acquaintance seems to have ruined that one."
Captain Eddie barked a laugh. “I guess I don't have to worry about him breaking the next one, seeing as how anywhere he can live, the fishing for me is gonna be mighty poor."
"And do ask your cousin to stock up at the market and ready his boat, as I think that once my institute sees these films, I shall have a budget increase. We can stay out here as long as we need to. We need to know about our new neighbors, because they now know about us. They may send a party to investigate, and we'll want to be ready to make them welcome."
Copyright © 2010 Richard Foss
Special thanks to Carrie Wolfe, Greg Hemsath, and Randy Brannan.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Reader's Department: THE ALTERNATE VIEW: TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE by Jeffery D. Kooistra
If there is one book I wish I could say I authored, it is The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester. When someone asks me, “What is your favorite book?” I never have to hesitate to think of an answer. That novel has been my favorite book since the first time I read it in 9th grade. Originally serialized in Galaxy in 1956, it is not just my favorite science fiction book, not just my favorite work of fiction, but my favorite book, of any kind, period.
I was digging through some boxes of old books a few weeks ago, thinning out the stock. I have more books than I will read for the rest of my life, and my kids are to the ages now where I can be sure that most of the books I've been keeping because they might find them of interest, they won't. Among the books I uncovered was In Search of Wonder by Damon Knight. It is a collection of reviews and critical essays about science fiction that Knight put together during the 1950s. I have the revised 2nd edition, which was enlarged with additional material Knight had originally planned to put in a second volume that never materialized. (No, this is not one of the books I'm going to get rid of.) While paging through the book I recalled that Knight had written some fairly critical things about The Stars My Destination, which I'd noticed far more than his words of praise for the story, and Bester's writing in general, back when I was young.
Some of the criticism was fair, even if I thought (then, and still) a bit beside the point. But the one thing that always stuck with me was that Knight had criticized Bester's inattention to accurate science, which in general was true, yet he cited as one egregious example a scene that wasn't inaccurate. I resolved at that first reading that one day I would “right that wrong!” When I stumbled upon In Search of Wonder and reread what Knight had said, I realized the time had come.
The actual scientific issue will take very little space to clear up. I will deal with it at the end of this essay, and in so doing make a point that desperately needs to be made (hence, the “two birds” allusion in the title). My November 2009 column about “global warming stuff” brought in more than the usual amount of mail, and rather than answer piecemeal in Brass Tacks, I decided to reply to questions raised and comments made in an upcoming Alternate View. This would have been that column, but then along came Climategate and a host of revelations about what some climate scientists were actually doing as opposed to what they said they were doing. So in my September Alternate View I will deal with those questions and with “global warming stuff” again, and in this one with thinking.
First, some preliminaries about The Stars My Destination and how it interacted with my life. Those of you who also love the story may enjoy recalling how it interacted with yours, but I really hope that readers who have never experienced it for themselves will be moved to find a copy and enjoy.
I first heard of the story because Arthur C. Clarke mentioned it in Chapter 7, “World Without Distance,” in his speculative Profiles of the Future. (Never read it? Do so!) While looking through the science fiction section in my high school library, I found the two-volume A Treasury of Great Science Fiction. In volume two was the entire Bester masterpiece. I paged through it, noted the odd typographical play, and at some point realized this was that book about teleportation Clarke had referred to.
Then I read it.
Oh my God!
Reflecting on it
now nearly forty years later, I realize that The Stars My Destination was the first truly adult novel I ever read. I had read others intended for adults, but this was the first one that explored themes I had not previously encountered, certainly not in such raw form. Here was rape. Here was lust. Here was anger, vengeance, death, depravity, sexual deviancy (some kinds of which are still considered deviant), self-destructiveness, irresistible compulsion, and multiple grotesqueries all thrown together in a story that grabbed me by the balls and would not let go until I was finished.
I was used to SF in which characters acted with logic, in which strong emotions were acknowledged and experienced but did not rule the day. I was used to characters confronting problems that required study, action, and sometimes luck, but in the end it all came out all right. But this was like nothing I had (yet) found in Heinlein, Asimov, or Clarke. For sure, it had spaceships, and a war, and settings not of this Earth. But who were the good guys, and who, the bad? It was hard to tell. They were all willing to use the same methods, killing those who got in the way, torturing for information or spite or vengeance. Even the kindest characters could fall in love with the darkest. Who had the pure motives? Who honestly cared for his fellow man? Who among them would I have wanted to spend an afternoon with? The characters portrayed the worst of human behavior and motives, yet I cheered for some and hated others.
In that book I first confronted the ambiguities of adult life.
I won't summarize the details of the plot. If you've never read it, you should. Whether or not you enjoy it, not having read it is as bad as never having read Hamlet or watched The Wizard of Oz. Plot details can be found online; the book does not lack for reviews or critical discussion. Some consider it the best science fiction novel ever written. Suffice to say that the story is set in the twenty-fifth century, when the inner planets of Earth, Venus, and the other terrestrial worlds are at war with the Outer Satellites of the gas giants. And human beings can teleport (Bester terms it “jaunting") by mind alone, but no one farther than 1,000 miles.
Analog SFF, June 2010 Page 14
