The Lazarus Effect

by Frank Herbert

  “Seems everybody but me knew about you being from downcenter. That’s why you don’t like dead furniture.”

  “I got used to the coracle,” Brett said.

  “Not everybody can afford organics … or wants them,” Twisp said. “It costs a lot to feed good furniture. And organics don’t make the best small boats because they can go wild when they get into a school of fish. The subs are specially designed to prevent that.”

  Brett’s mouth began to twitch into a smile. “You know, when I first saw your boat and heard you call it a coracle, I thought ‘coracle’ meant ‘carcass.’”

  They both laughed, Twisp a little unsteadily from the boo. Brett stared at him. “You’re drunk.”

  Mimicking Brett’s tone, Twisp said, “Kid, I am getting dowright inebriated. I may even have another boo.”

  “My folks do that after an art show,” Brett said.

  “And you didn’t like it,” Twisp said. “Well, kid, I am not your folks—neither one of ’em.”

  A hooter went off just outside the Ace of Cups hatchway. The wall pulsed with the blast of sound.

  “Wavewall!” Brett shouted. “Can we save your boat?” Brett was already up and headed out of the coffeehouse in a press of pale-faced fishermen.

  Twisp lurched to his feet and followed, motioning to Gerard not to dog the hatch. The deck outside already was awash from a few low breakers. The passage was filled with people lurching and splashing toward hatchways. Twisp shouted at Brett’s retreating back far up the passage, “Kid! No time! Get inside!”

  Brett didn’t turn.

  Twisp found an extruded safety line and worked himself along it out onto the rim. Lights glared out there, throwing high contrast onto scurrying people, contorted faces. People were shouting all around, calling out names. Brett was out on the fishboat slip tossing equipment into the coracle’s cubby and lashing it down. As Twisp came up to him, Brett lashed a long line to the coracle’s bow cleat. The wind howled across them now and waves were breaking over the outer bubbly of the slip, filling the normally protected lagoon with frothing white water.

  “We can sink it and haul it up later!” Brett shouted.

  Twisp joined him, thinking that the kid had learned this lesson from listening to some of the old-timers. Sometimes it worked and certainly it was the only chance they had to save the coracle. All along the slip, other boats had been sunk, their lines dipping down sharply. Twisp found a store of ballast rocks near the slip and began passing the heavy load to Brett, who tossed them into the boat. The five-meter craft was almost awash. Brett jumped in and lashed a cover over the ballast.

  “Open the valves and jump!” Twisp yelled.

  Brett reached under the load. A strong jet of water pulsed up from the bottom. Twisp reached a long arm toward Brett just as the wavewall itself swept over the lagoon and crashed into the side of the sinking coracle. Brett’s outstretched fingertips grazed Twisp’s hand as the coracle went under. The line to the bow, passing across Twisp’s right arm, played out in a wet hiss. Twisp grabbed it, burning his palms, yelling: “Brett! Kid!”

  But the lagoon was a boil of white rage and two other fishermen grabbed him and forced him, soaked and still shouting, down the passage and through the hatch into the Ace of Cups. Gerard, in his motorized chair, dogged the hatch against the incoming sea behind them.

  Twisp clawed at the resilient wool. “No! The kid’s still out there!”

  Someone forced a warm drink of almost pure boo against his lips. The liquid gushed into his mouth and he swallowed. The liquor washed through him in a soothing blankness. But it did not drive away the tingle of Brett’s fingertips grazing his own.

  “I almost had him,” Twisp moaned.

  Chapter 9

  Space is mankind’s natural habitat. A planet, after all, is an object in space. I believe humans have a natural drive to be mobile in space, their true habitat.

  —Raja Thomas, the Histories

  The image caught on the small stretched sheet of organics was that of a silvery tube flying through the sky. The tube had no wings or any other visible means of support. Only that orange glow from one end, pale fire against the silver and blue of Pandora’s sky. The process that had caught the image was fugitive and the colors already had begun to fade.

  Ward Keel was held as much by the beauty of it as by its unique implications. Images made this way were a much-loved art form among Islanders, relying on the light-sensitivity of organisms that could be made to adhere in a thin layer on the stretched organics. Pictures on this preparation formed by exposure through a lens were admired as much for their fleeting existence as for their intrinsic beauty. This image, however, in spite of its exquisite play of colors and composition, was deemed by its creator to possess holy significance.

  Was that not Ship or an artifact from Ship?

  The man was reluctant to part with his creation, but Keel used the power of his position to silence argument. He did this kindly and without hurry, relying chiefly on delay—long and convoluted sentences with many references to trust and the well-being of the Islands, frequent pauses and silent noddings of his massive head. Both of them were aware that the picture was fading and before long would be a flat gray surface ready for renewal and the capture of another image. The man left finally, unhappy but resigned—a thin, spindly-legged fellow with too-short arms. An artist, though, Keel had to admit.

  It was early on a warm day and Keel sat a moment in his robes, enjoying the breeze that played through the vent system in his quarters. Joy had straightened some of the rumpled disarray around him before leaving, smoothing the covers on his couch and arranging his clothing across a translucent plaz sling-chair. The matching table surface in front of him still bore the remains of the breakfast she had fixed for them—squawk eggs and muree. Keel pushed the plate and chopsticks aside and put the stretched sheet with its odd image flat on the table. He stared at it a moment longer, thinking. Presently, he nodded to himself and called the chief of Inner-Island Security.

  “I’ll send a couple of people down in two hours,” the man said. “We’ll get right on it.”

  “Two hours is not getting right on it,” Keel said. “The image will be almost faded out by then.”

  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.

  Chapter 10

  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—”