DV 3 - The Lazarus Effect

by Frank Herbert

  The deeply lined face on the viewscreen frowned. The man started to speak, then thought better of it. He rubbed his fleshy nose with a thick finger and lifted his gaze. The chief appeared to be reviewing data from a source out of Keel's sight.

  "Mr. Justice," he said, presently, "someone will meet you in a few minutes. Where will you be?"

  "In my quarters. I presume you know where that is."

  The chief flushed. "Of course, sir."

  Keel switched off, regretting his sharpness with Security. They were irritating, but his reaction had come from thoughts aroused by that fading image. It was a disturbing thing. The artist who had captured the image of that object in the sky had not taken it to the C/P. Evidence of Ship's return, the man thought, but he had taken it to the Chief Justice.

  What am I supposed to do about it? Keel wondered. But I didn't call the C/P, either.

  Simone Rocksack would resent this, he knew. He would have to call her soon, but first . . . a few other matters.

  The water drum at his door thrummed once, twice.

  Security here already? he wondered.

  Taking the fading image of the thing in the sky, Keel walked through the hatchway into his main room, sealing off the kitchen area as he passed. Some Islanders resented those who ate privately, those whose affluence removed them from the noisy, crowded press of the mess halls.

  At the entrance to his quarters he touched the sense membrane and the responsive organics expanded, revealing Kareen Ale standing in the arched opening. She gave a nervous start as she saw him, then smiled.

  "Ambassador Ale," he said, momentarily surprised at his own formality. They had been Kareen and Ward off the debate floor for several seasons now. Something about her nervous posture, though, said this was a formal visit.

  "Forgive my coming to your quarters without warning," she said. "But we have something to discuss, Ward."

  She glanced at the image in his hand and nodded, as though it confirmed something.

  Keel stood aside for her to enter. He sealed the door against casual entry and watched Ale choose a seat and sink into it without invitation. As always, he was conscious of her beauty.

  "I heard about that," Ale said, gesturing at the stretched sheet of organics in his hand.

  He lifted the image and glanced at it. "You came topside because of this?"

  She held her face motionless for an instant, then shrugged. "We monitor a number of topside activities," she said.

  "I've often wondered about your spy system," he said. "I am beginning to distrust you, Kareen."

  "What is making you attack me, Ward?"

  "This is a rocket, is it not?" He waved the image at her. "A Merman rocket?"

  Ale grimaced, but did not seem surprised that Keel had guessed.

  "Ward, I would like to take you back down under with me. Let's call it an instructional visit."

  She had not answered his question but her attitude was sufficient admission. Whatever was going on, the Mermen wanted the mass of Islanders and the religious community left out of it. Keel nodded. "You're after the hyb tanks! Why was the C/P not asked to bless this enterprise?"

  "There were those among us . . ." She shrugged. "It's a political matter among the leading Mermen."

  "You want another Merman monopoly," he accused.

  She looked away from him without answering.

  "How long would this instructional visit require?" he asked.

  She stood. "Perhaps a week. Perhaps longer."

  "What subject matter will be covered by this instructional visit?"

  "The visit itself will have to answer that for you."

  "So I'm to prepare myself for an indefinite visit down under whose purpose you will not reveal until I get there?"

  "Please trust me, Ward."

  "I trust you to be loyal to Merman interests," he said, "just as I'm loyal to the Islanders."

  "I swear to you that you will come to no harm."

  He allowed himself a grim smile. What an embarrassment it would be to the Mermen if he died down under! And it could happen. The medics had been indefinite about the near side of the death sentence they had passed on Chief Justice Ward Keel.

  "Give me a few minutes to pack my kit and turn over my more urgent responsibilities to others," he said.

  She relaxed. "Thank you, Ward. You will not regret this."

  "Political secrets always interest me," he said. He reminded himself to take a fresh tablet for his journal. There would be things to record on this instructional visit, of that he was certain. Words on plaz and chants in his memory. This would be action, not speculative philosophy.

  A planet-wide consciousness died with the kelp and with it went the beginnings of a collective human conscience. Was that why we killed the kelp?

  -- Kerro Panille's Collected Works

  Shadow Panille's thickly braided black hair whipped behind him as he ran down the long corridor toward Current Control. Other Mermen dodged aside as he passed. They knew Panille's job. Word already had spread through the central complex -- unspecified trouble with a major Island. Big trouble.

  At the double hatch of Current Control, Panille did not pause to regain his breath. He undogged the outer hatch, ducked through and sealed the outer latch with one hand while spinning the dog for the inner hatch with his other hand. Definitely against Procedural Orders.

  He was into the hubbub of Current Control then, a place of low illumination. Long banks of instruments and displays glowed and flashed against two walls. CC's activity and the displays told him immediately that his people were in the throes of a crisis. Eight screens had been tuned to remotes showing dark blotches of sea bottom strewn with torn bubbly and other Island debris. Surface monitors scanned decrepit scatterings of small boats, all of them overcrowded with survivors.

  Panille took a moment trying to assess what he saw. The small craft bobbed amidst a wide, oily expanse of flotsam. The few Islander faces he saw showed dull shock and hopelessness. He could see many injured among the survivors. Those able to move attempted to staunch blood flowing from jagged slashes in flesh. Some of the injured twisted and writhed from the effects of high-temperature burns. All of the small craft drifted nearly awash. One had been piled with bodies and pieces of bodies. An older woman with gray hair and stubby arms was being restrained in a long coracle, obviously to prevent her from throwing herself into the sea. There was no sound with the transmission but Panille could see that she was screaming.

  "What happened?" Panille demanded. "An explosion?"

  "It may have been their hydrogen plant, but we're not sure yet."

  That was Lonson, Panille's daywatch number two, at the central console. Lonson spoke without turning.

  Panille moved closer to the center of activity. "Which Island?"

  "Guemes," Lonson said. "They're pretty far out, but we've alerted Rescue and the pickup teams in their area. And as you can see we've lifted scanners from the bottom."

  "Guemes," Panille said, recalling the last watch report. Hours away even with the fastest rescue subs. "What time are we estimating for arrival of the first survivors?"

  "Tomorrow morning at the earliest," Lonson said.

  "Dammit! We need foils, not rescue subs!" Panille said. "Have you asked for them?"

  "First thing. Dispatcher said they couldn't be spared. Space Control has priority." Lonson grimaced. "They would have!"

  "Easy does it, Lonson. We'll be asked for a report, that's sure. Find out if the first rescue team on the scene can spare people to interrogate the survivors."

  "You afraid Guemes may have bottomed out?" Lonson asked.

  "No, it's got to be something else. Ship! What a mess!" Panille's straight mouth drew into a tight line. He rubbed at the cleft in his chin. "Any estimate yet on the number of survivors?"

  A young woman at the computer-record center said, "It looks like fewer than a thousand."

  "Their last census was a little over ten thousand," Lonson said:

  Nine
thousand dead?

  Panille shook his head, contemplating the monumental task of collecting and disposing of that many bodies. The bodies would have to be removed. They contaminated Merman space. And when they floated, they could only encourage dashers and other predators to new heights of aggression. Panille shuddered. Few things were more upsetting to Mermen than going out for a sledge job and running into dead, bloated Islanders.

  Lonson cleared his throat. "Our last survey says Guemes was poor and losing bubbly around its rimline."

  "That couldn't account for this," Panille said. He scanned the location monitor for the coordinates of the tragedy and the approaching lines of rescue craft. "Much too deep for them to have bottomed out. It must've been an explosion."

  Panille turned to his left and walked slowly down the line of displays, peering over the shoulders of his operators. As he paused and asked for special views, operators zoomed in or back.

  "That Island didn't just fall apart," Panille said.

  "It looks as though it was torn apart and burned," an operator said. "What in Ship's teeth happened out there?"

  "The survivors will be able to tell us," Panille said.

  The main access behind Panille hissed open and Kareen Ale slipped through. Panille scowled at her reflection in a dark screen. Of all the dirty turns of fate! They had to send Ale for his first report! There had been a time when . . . Well, that was past.

  She came to a stop beside Panille and swept her gaze along the display. Panille saw the shock sweep over her features as the evidence on the screens registered.

  Before she could speak, he said, "Our first estimates say we'll have at least nine thousand bodies to collect. And the current is setting them into one of our oldest and largest kelp plantations. It'll be hell itself getting them out of there."

  "We had a sonde report from Space Control," she said.

  Panille's lips shaped into a soundless ahhh-hah! Had she been notified as a member of the diplomatic corps or as a new director of Merman Mercantile? And did it make any difference?

  "We've been unable to tune in any sonde reports," Lonson said, speaking from across the room.

  "It's being withheld," Ale said.

  "What does it show?" Panille asked.

  "Guemes collapsed inward and sank."

  "No explosion?" Panille was more startled by this than by the revelation that the sonde report was being withheld. Sonde reports could be suppressed for many reasons. But Islands as big as Guemes did not just collapse abruptly and sink!

  "No explosion," Ale said. "Just some kind of disturbance near the Island center. Guemes broke up and most of it sank."

  "It probably rotted apart," the operator in front of Panille said.

  "No way," Panille said. He pointed to the screens showing the maimed survivors.

  "Could a sub have done that?" Ale asked.

  Panille remained silent, shocked by the import of her question.

  "Well?" Ale insisted.

  "It could have," Panille said. "But how could such an accident . . ."

  "Don't pursue it," Ale said. "For now, forget that I asked."

  There was no mistaking the command in her voice. The grim expression on Ale's face added a bitterness to the order. It sent a pulse of anger through Panille. What had that suppressed sonde view shown?

  "When will we get the first survivors in here?" Ale asked.

  "About daybreak tomorrow," Panille said. "But I've asked for the first rescue team to assign interrogators. We could have --"

  "They are not to report on an open frequency," Ale said.

  "But --"

  "We will send out a foil," she said. She crossed to the communications desk and issued a low-voiced order, then returned to Panille. "Rescue subs are too slow. We must act with speed here."

  "I didn't know we had the foils to spare."

  "I am assigning new priorities," Ale said. She moved back one step and addressed the room at large. "Listen, everyone. This has happened at a very bad time. I have just brought the Chief Justice down under. We are engaged in very delicate negotiations. Rumors and premature reports could cause great trouble. What you see and hear in this room must be kept in this room. No stories outside."

  Panille heard a few muttered grumblings. Everyone here knew Ale's power, but it said something about the urgency of the situation that she would give orders on his turf. Ale was a diplomat, skilled at cushioning the distasteful.

  "There're already rumors," Panille said. "I heard talk in the corridors as I came over."

  "And people saw you running," Ale said.

  "I was told it was an emergency."

  "Yes . . . no matter. But we must not feed the rumors."

  "Wouldn't it be better to announce that there's been an Island tragedy and that we're bringing in survivors?" Panille asked.

  Ale moved close to him and spoke in a low voice. "We're preparing an announcement, but the wording . . . delicate. This is a political nightmare . . . and coming at such a time. It must be handled properly."

  Panille inhaled the sweet odor of the scented soap Ale used, touching off memories. He pushed such thoughts aside. She was right, of course.

  "The C/P is from Guemes," Ale reminded him.

  "Could Islanders have done this?" he asked.

  "Possibly. There's widespread resentment of Guemes fanaticism. Still . . ."

  "If a sub did that," Panille said, "it was one of ours. Islander subs don't carry the hardware to do that kind of damage. They're just fishermen."

  "Never mind whose sub," she said. "Who would order such an atrocity? And who would carry it out?" Ale once more studied the screens, an expression of deep concern on her face.

  She's convinced it was a sub, Panille thought. That sonde report must've been dangerously revealing. One of our subs for sure!

  He began to sense the far-reaching political whiplash. Guemes! Of all places! Islanders and Mermen maintained an essential interdependency, which the Guemes tragedy could disrupt. Islander hydrogen, organically separated from sea-water, was richer and purer . . . and the impending space shot increased the demand for the purest hydrogen.

  Movement visible through the plaz port drew Panille's dazed and wandering attention. A full squad of Mermen swam by towing a hydrostatically balanced sledge. Their dive suits flexed like a second skin, showing the powerful muscles at work.

  Dive suits, he thought.

  Even they were a potential for trouble. Islanders made the best dive suits, but the market was controlled by Mermen. Islander complaints about price controls carried little weight.

  Ale, seeing where he directed his attention, and apparently divining his thoughts, gestured toward the new kelp planting visible out the plaz port. "That's only part of the problem."

  "What?"

  "The kelp. Without Islander agreement, the kelp project will slow almost to a stop."

  "Secrecy was wrong," Panille said. "Islanders should've been brought in on it from the first."

  "But they weren't," Ale said. "And as we expose more land masses above the surface . . ." She shrugged.

  "The danger that Islands will bottom out increases," Panille said. "I know. This is Current Control, remember?"

  "I'm glad you understand the political dangers," she said. "I hope you impress this upon your people."

  "I'll do what I can," he said, "but I think it's already out of hand."

  Ale said something too low for Panille to hear. He bent even closer to her. "I didn't hear that."

  "I said the more kelp the more fish. That benefits Islanders, too."

  Oh, yes, Panille thought. The movements of political control made him increasingly cynical. It was too late to stop the kelp project absolutely, but it could be slowed and the Merman dream delayed for generations. Very bad politics, that. No . . . the benefits had to be there for all to see. Everything focused on the kelp and the hyb tanks. First recover the hyb tanks from orbit, and then deal with the dreamers. Panille saw the practicalities, recognizing th
at politics must deal in the practical while speaking mainly of dreams.

  "We'll do the practical thing," he said, his voice almost a growl.

  "I'm sure you will," Ale said.

  "That's what Current Control is all about," he said. "I understand why you emphasize the kelp project to me. No kelp -- no Current Control."

  "Don't be bitter, Shadow."

  It was the first time since entering Current Control that she had used his first name, but he rejected the implied intimacy.

  "More than nine thousand people died out there," he said, his voice low. "If one of our subs did it . . ."

  "Blame will have to be placed squarely," she said. "There can be no doubts, no questions . . ."

  "No question that Islanders did it," he said.

  "Don't play games with me, Shadow. We both know there are many Mermen who will look upon the destruction of Guemes as a benefit to all Pandora."

  Panille glanced around Current Control, taking in the intent backs of his people, the way they concentrated on their work while appearing not to listen to this charged conversation. They heard, though. It dismayed him that even here would be some who agreed with the sentiment Ale had just exposed. What had been up to now just late-night scuttlebutt, cafe chatter and idle stories took on a new dimension. He felt this realization as an unwanted maturation, like the death of a parent. Cruel reality no longer could be ignored. It startled him to recognize that he had entertained dream fancies about the essential good will underlying human interactions . . . until just moments ago. The awakening angered him.

  "I'm going to find out personally who did that," he said.

  "Let's pray it was a horrible accident," she said.

  "You don't believe that and neither do I." He sent his gaze across the awful testimony of those flickering screens. "It was a big sub -- one of our S-twenties or larger. Did it dive deep and escape under the scattering layer?"

  "There's nothing definite in the sonde report."

  "That's what it did, then."

  "Shadow, don't make trouble for yourself," Ale said. "I'm speaking as a friend. Keep your suspicions to yourself . . . no rumor-spreading outside this room."