by Sean O'Brien
Fozzoli wiped his face with one hand, starting at his forehead and scraping downward, and punctuated the action with a drawn-out wheeze. “You were going out alone.”
“I’m not now. You can keep watch from here.”
“But you were going to go alone.”
Sirra shrugged. “Yeah, but that was, what, ten seconds ago, Foz. What’s past is past. Are you going to help me, or not?” She unhooked the first layer of her deepsuit from the rack and began opening it.
Fozzoli looked at her with an expression that betrayed his understanding of the situation. His face seemed to reflect the fact that he was going to lose this argument, as he had lost so many others with this determined woman. His sleep-sluggish brain was only a few seconds behind his face in its realization.
He shuffled towards Sirra and stared at her for a moment while she struggled to put her suit on. Presently, he reached out and helped her with the shoulders.
“What is this dive for? A late night tryst?”
Sirra snorted once. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m going to try to find Vogel. I promised him I’d be back.”
“Get some good tape on him. And be back before you redline, please.”
“Sure, sure.”
“I’ll monitor you from the lab. Might as well get some language work done while I’m up.”
“Thanks, Foz.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Sirra wished, not for the first time, that she could swim amongst the vix without the suit between them. The suit was as thin as was possible, while still keeping pressure out and air and heat in (to a depth of almost five kilometers, according to specifications) but it encumbered her attempts at true communication.
The vix were still active—they had their own sleep cycle that did not, of course, correspond to any surface night or day. As far as research had been able to determine, individual vix slept when it suited them. The changelessness of their environment allowed for such individuality.
It was not long before Sirra “saw” the faint outlines of a vix as she descended from the dive pool. High-frequency sonar (carefully tuned to not interfere with vix’ speech tones) relayed images to her faceplate. She could have used visible light from the suit’s powerful flood, but she always chose to swim among the vix using only those senses they themselves possessed.
“Greetings and praise, Hallowed-Fish-From-Above.” A vix the suit computer could not identify swam near her. Despite Fozzoli’s theory, the vix’ greeting sounded reverential and awestruck to Sirra’s suit translator.
Sirra tapped back, “Greetings to you. I am looking for one of your kin. He-Who-Searches.” Sirra used one of the many names Vogel had used for himself.
“Most Holy One, I was sent here to wait for You. I will take You to him.”
Sirra followed the vix as it dove swiftly towards the settlement below. She had to strain to keep up with the native. It wouldn’t do to let this supplicant believe a god was out of shape, she thought wryly.
The vix town was bustling with activity at her arrival. Several vix were “farming” in the kelp beds, cutting down stalk after stalk with scythes attached to their heads. As the kelp was cut, the vix used their low-hanging tentacles to gather the stalks together. Sirra knew the routine from years of study. The vix would then tie the stalks and attach a weight, usually a rock, and drop the bundle to baskets on the ledge floor.
Although she had watched the vix at their farms for years, Sirra was still amazed at the skill the vix showed in accurately dropping the kelp twenty or thirty meters to the waiting receptacles. They appeared to have an instinctual awareness of the currents in the water, despite the passage of other vix. As Sirra watched, she saw that one of the gently falling bundles was off-target and would miss its intended basket.
She thought to say something but did not know to whom she should speak. There was so much activity that she simply watched. Sirra’s sonar told her that several vix were abandoning their tasks as they detected her presence and were gathering a respectful distance from her. She continued to watch the farmers, most of whom had not spotted her yet.
A small, presumably very young, vix, its last pair of arms not fully developed yet, darted from behind her and swam towards the wayward kelp. The young vix passed nearby and thrashed its tailfin twice. The kelp bobbed in the vix’ wake and settled gently down, squarely into the receiving basket.
“Most Holy One, is all as it should be?”
Sirra turned toward her guide. “How should I know?” she said to herself, then tapped into her vixvox, “Yes. Your city is good.” She was hampered by the limited vocabulary in the translator.
The vix emitted a squeal that apparently overtaxed the translator, for Sirra heard her computer’s voice after a slight hesitation say, “Untranslatable utterance.”
“Here is he whom You requested, Your Sublime Reverence,” her guide vix said, then swam away to a respectful distance to join the growing number of vix who were assembled perhaps twenty meters away.
Vogel swam towards her, showing little of the reverence the other vix did. Sirra recognized the vix’s sonar signature through long association. She tapped, “I have returned, as I promised”
“I thank You.”
Sirra blinked. Vogel had not added an honorific.
The vix spoke again. “I am glad you are here. Much has been happening. The—” Sirra’s computer voice cut in with “untranslatable utterance” as Vogel continued, “—are becoming angry.”
Sirra swam closer to Vogel and pressed her hands against his head. The vix did not shrink from her touch. She felt the other vix squeal in supersonic frequencies. Her computer voice said, “Untranslatable utterance due to low resolution and multiple sources.” Sirra translated in her mind—the many vix who were still gathered in the distance had reacted to her contact with Vogel. Her computer could not make out their excited squeals, but it did not matter. She wanted to know what Vogel had said.
“Tell me again what you just told me.”
This time, Vogel’s answer came to her mind directly.
“Your presence here is welcome and necessary. The plot has reached a critical stage. The Crusaders are restless.” Her computer voice continued to translate as before, still unable to find a match in its lexicon for “crusader.” Sirra made a mental note to tell Fozzoli—he would be pleased at the new word.
Then Sirra frowned as the implications of Vogel’s remark sank in. Crusaders? She felt the word fit, but how could Vogel have meant that? Sirra activated her link to the lab above her.
“Foz, have you been listening?”
“Yes. What did Vogel say? I got some very odd guesses by the computer.”
“I think he said ‘the Crusaders are restless.’”
Fozzoli did not answer immediately. “Hm. That matches some of what I’m reading here. Religious overtones, violence, a pilgrimage. Crusader sounds about right.”
“I’m going with him.”
“What? Sirra, don’t. I said that there was violence in what he was talking about.”
“How else are we going to find out what he means?”
“By sending a fully equipped team.”
Sirra hesitated. Fozzoli was speaking sensibly. She should withdraw and return with the other scientists, and she should be armed. Whatever Vogel wanted to show her would wait.
She had felt nothing but benign eagerness from the vix when she had touched him, however. He did not want to hurt her, and she felt he would not knowingly lead her into danger. She was his God, after all.
But was he hoping she would solve whatever problem was developing with the crusaders?
“No. I’m going. Keep an eye on me.” She clicked off before Fozzoli could argue her out of her decision.
Vogel was still waiting patiently when Sirra turned back to him. She tapped, “Take me to them.”
Vogel spun around and down, spiraling towards the crevasse that bisected the vix settlement. Sirra adjusted her buoyancy and followed him. The two desce
nded towards the ocean floor where the vix town lay sprawled in a pair of half-circles, split by the trench to which Vogel led her. Sirra suppressed her nervousness as she descended below the floor on which the vix town was built and entered the trench. A glance at her depth indicator told her that she was reaching the suit’s nominal limit of forty-eight hundred meters. In all her exploring, she had never gone below forty-six hundred, even though she knew the suits could handle deeper. Vogel continued to dive, seemingly unaffected by the increasing depth.
Sirra’s sonar, which had been quiet since she had descended past the floor, sounded faintly. On her faceplate she saw the dim outlines of another ledge below. Vogel was clearly heading for it. She checked her rangefinder—the ledge was 4,882 meters below the surface.
Sirra continued down. At eighteen hundred meters, her suit warned her to resurface, but she turned off the warning. She also noted that Fozzoli was trying to contact her, but she ignored that, too.
The ledge was small—perhaps fifty meters long and only ten or twelve meters wide. Sirra’s sonar picked up multiple vix swimming around the ledge, all of whom were wearing helmet-spears.
Vogel stopped and hovered in front of a pair of vix who had risen to meet him, their spears bobbing a few meters before him. Sirra caught some of the exchange—the two armed vix were questioning Vogel about his purpose here. Vogel’s answers had something to do with Sirra, for she heard him utter one of his more religious labels for her. She suppressed a chill. She had not been down this far, and the limited drone reconnaissance the scientists had conducted in the trench had revealed little.
The argument between the armed vix and Vogel halted abruptly, and a moment later, Sirra saw another vix approaching. He was moving slowly, and Sirra’s sonar picked up a deep irregularity on his otherwise smooth surface—a scar? The two guardian vix separated slightly to allow the new vix access to Vogel. Sirra moved carefully closer to catch what he was saying.
“You brought the Divine Heathen.”
Sirra puzzled at the oxymoron. She checked her computer for other translations, but all were similar.
Vogel answered. “Yes. You may ask her your questions now.”
Sirra felt a thrill of anticipation. In her previous dealings with the vix, she had assumed Vogel was the tribe’s shaman and spiritual spokesman. The other vix seemed content to let him speak with her, and she had taken to escorting him to the outskirts of the settlement to discuss all manner of vix culture. No doubt that had increased his status in his tribe, but now Sirra suspected the real seat of religious power lay not on the ocean floor, but here in the trench.
This new vix, whom Sirra felt it appropriate to dub “Bishop,” turned to face her.
“Why do you return now?”
Sirra mentally ran through other interpretations of the utterance, but a quick glance at her helmet display insisted that it was accurate. She tapped back, “I have never been here before.”
“The [untranslatable utterance] told me you would come back.”
Sirra hesitated. She had to know what Bishop had said, but she would have to touch him. She tapped, “I do not understand you. May I touch you?”
A flurry of activity followed her request. Bishop squealed untranslatable sounds at her while Vogel swam forward and made his own sounds. Even the two armed vix got into the argument. Her computer was hopelessly overmatched for several seconds, before the noise settled down and she heard Vogel saying, “I have been touched, and I am not [untranslatable utterance].”
Bishop said, “That will be decided later.” He turned again to Sirra. “If you think that by touching me, you can [untranslatable utterance], then you are wrong.”
Sirra wasn’t sure if Bishop had given her permission or not. She decided to risk it. She swam forward slowly, eyeing the armed vix to either side. They seemed to be watching her closely but allowing the action, and Bishop did not lash out. She closed the distance and pressed her palm against the side of the vix’ head.
Sirra tapped out, “I am here to help you.”
“You come from Above.”
“Yes.”
“Then you are not here to help.” Sirra felt deep confusion in Bishop when he spoke. It was as if he wanted to believe her but could not with the facts at hand. More—as if the facts he had directly contradicted his beliefs.
“I will do what I can to help.” Sirra had a sudden idea. “I will take you to the surface.”
Bishop squealed. Her translator gave the expected “untranslatable utterance” readout, but Sirra felt the meaning behind Bishop’s words.
He was terrified and ecstatic at the same time. Conflicting emotion surged out of him with such strength that Sirra reeled at it. Bishop was repulsed by and attracted to Sirra’s words. He both loved and hated her at that instant, and he had had his fondest hopes realized at the same time he was plunged into despair.
Sirra let go of him and he thrashed about for a moment, still squealing. Vogel moved forward but was blocked by one of the armed vix.
Presently, Bishop’s speech settled down enough for Sirra’s translator to catch words here and there. “Take her to [untranslatable]. We will perform [untranslatable] there.”
The two armed vix moved towards her, slowly. Sirra activated her base link. “Foz, I’m in trouble. Foz?”
No answer.
Sirra quickly set her buoyancy to full and pumped her legs vigorously, rising quickly away from the spear-helmeted vix.
“Foz! Come in!” She could not see the upper lip of the ocean floor above her yet. Her sonar indicated that the vix were pursuing and would overtake her.
Sirra pumped even faster, but it was no use. She was outmatched here. One of the vix swam above her and prodded her menacingly with his spear. Sirra did not know if the vix could puncture the suit, but she suspected that with enough strength and speed, any vix could skewer neatly through it. And at this depth, a breach in her suit would be instantly fatal.
Sirra readjusted her buoyancy to slow sink and let the vix lead her back down to the ledge. She noted that her life support indicator had just passed the two hours remaining mark.
* * *
Iede had wanted to reach on foot the location given to her by Those Above, but as the rendezvous point lay some fifty kilometers away from the farthest outskirts of Arborurba, practicality dictated a vehicle of some kind. She had chosen a bicycle as a compromise between ascetic pride and pragmatic rationality.
Iede was comfortably tired as she surveyed the countryside. She could not see any sign of human habitation from where she was—even the Domes, large as they were, had faded to gentle green mist kilometers ago. The point Those Above had chosen was significantly higher than Arborurba’s almost sea-level elevation, and Iede could feel the scarcity of chlorine in the air at this height. She scanned the sky for any sign of the “vehicle” Those Above had spoken of. She did not know what to expect exactly, but she knew she would recognize it when she saw it.
The fifty-kilometer journey had not dulled her sense of pride at being chosen to ascend to the gods. Iede held no delusion as to what her gods were. She had studied the history of her ancestors’ journey; she knew about Ship and its mission, knew about the Flight Crew and the role they had played with her great-great-grandmother, both during the journey and after the establishment of the Family. She knew that those she called gods had started out as men and women long ago, or at least their ancestors had been so. What manner of creatures dwelt in the heavens now? What they had done for her mother thirty-seven years ago was nothing short of miraculous. And the miracle they had chosen to grant Yallia also resulted in Iede’s own birth. What better way to repay the debt than to worship those who had saved her newly-conceived life?
Iede had written the Articles of Faith twenty years before, when she had been a scant fifteen years old. She had taken as her inspiration the Book of Verse that Eduard Costellan had passed on to Jene Halfner—Iede had used the thirty-nine poems as epigraphs for each separate Article. Her writi
ngs had attracted a following, and her congregation now numbered in the thousands, not including those who considered themselves “casual worshippers.” Iede could not quite suppress the forlorn wish, immodest as it was, that the men and women of her congregation could see her imminent Assumption.
Iede saw the vehicle before she heard it. A speck had appeared in the air and had grown rapidly larger as she watched. She had to force herself to breathe. The vehicle was shaped like a native bird—large wings tapering from a central, ovoid shape—and was the purest white Iede had ever seen. There were no windows anywhere on the surface of the craft. Such a holy vessel could only have come from Above.
The vehicle stopped almost immediately above her, hovering perhaps twenty meters distant. It was then Iede heard the rush of the machine’s engines change from a gentle hum to a deafening roar. A violent gust of hot air almost knocked her to the ground. Iede squinted into the gale to see the vehicle slide sideways a few meters and start to gently descend. The hurricane wind subsided when the craft moved from above her, though Iede still felt the hot air and could see its effects on the ground below. She refrained from shielding her eyes from the grit kicked up at the vehicle’s descent—she wanted to see the landing. To her knowledge, it was the only such landing Those Above had ever made.
The craft settled to the ground and its engines quieted to an idle. Iede stared at it, wondering if she dared step towards it. She began the Lords’ Prayer to calm herself.
“Iede.” A flat, emotionless voice boomed out from the vehicle. Iede jumped and swallowed with a suddenly dry throat.
“Here, my Lords.”
“You may enter,” the voice said, and an iris valve opened in the side of the vehicle. Iede had not even seen the seams. She gathered her courage and walked towards the opening. She could not see inside—the interior of the craft was dark. She ducked her head slightly and stepped through the threshold, prepared to meet her gods.
The door closed behind her and the cabin lit up. It was empty. There was a cream-colored couch in the cabin with straps that hung limply down to the gleaming metallic floor. In front of the couch was a flat, dark panel.