Adrift

by W. Michael Gear

  The room was so quiet Kalico thought she should be hearing their hearts beating.

  She stepped out around the table. “When we were ashore, I saw an eye sticking out of the surf. Watching us. I think the creature—Dr. Yoshimura and I are calling it a scimitar—destroyed the UUV, withdrew, and monitored us as we went ashore. My call is that it waited, watched, and studied us.”

  Yoshimura swallowed hard as the video showed the three-bladed predator launch itself out of a curling breaker. “Nothing hunts like this. Except maybe the crocodile, and it doesn’t race inland this far, let alone this fast.”

  Kalico froze the frame just shy of the scimitar-like blades slicing together around Shinwua. “Nothing, Dr. Yoshimura? This thing does. People, we have to rethink predation. It’s not in our mental framework to be hunted from the water. And this sure as hell is not a crocodile. More to the point, it figured out that the UUV wasn’t edible, backed off, and watched us. This is a guess on my part, but I’m willing to bet that it knew the seatruck wasn’t alive. Curious, it waited until we got out. Having never seen a human, it still recognized us as prey. It bided its time until Dr. Shinwua was far enough from safety to make it’s charge.”

  Thinking of the kids, she skipped the actual attack, stopped the recording where the beast was sideways, Shinwua’s body mostly hidden from view. “Here’s what the creature looks like. A riot of color, which is pretty normal for Donovan. Trilateral symmetry. What you would call the dorsal fins are flattened on the top of the body, and the two rows of ventral fins—if that term still applies—are perfectly adapted for terrestrial locomotion.”

  “And notice the musculature at the mandibles.” Yoshimura forced dispassion into his voice, walking over to point at the scimitar’s head. “These bulges lateral from the mandibular articulation pivot to provide the kind of biomechanical advantage that could cut through the UUVs plastic.”

  He glanced at Kalico. “Supervisor, is there any land-based form analogous to this?”

  “Not that we’ve seen so far. But Donovan is a big world. We’ve barely scratched the surface when it comes to biology. There are whole continents where we’ve barely set foot. Entire ecosystems that are unexplored. When it comes to the seas, we only knew about the jellyfish because one of the survey ships way back in the beginning scooped one up in a water sample. Even then, as today shows, we’ve completely misinterpreted how the organism lived based on a terrestrial bias.”

  “What if there are more of these things?” Michaela asked, pointing at the scimitar. “Maybe even bigger ones?”

  Kalico hitched her butt up onto the table. “Count on it, Director. The notion that we encountered the craftiest, largest, and only one of these things swimming around in the sea is statistically inconsistent with reality.”

  “But you shot it,” Lara Sanz’s voice was almost a protest. “Why didn’t it die?”

  Kalico shrugged. “Maybe I didn’t hit it in the right place. Maybe I mortally wounded it. Maybe it’s so damn tough it soaked up the explosive rounds and is healing as we speak. These are handgun rounds that we’re talking about. Not a rifle. That’s a change we’re going to have to make. Research trips are going to have to be armed, and with a lot more than a pistol.”

  “That’s not . . .” Michaela shook her head. “I mean, we’re scientists. The subs, the seatrucks are supposed to protect us.”

  Kevina Schwantz glanced sidelong at her son, Felix. “I told you at the time that I didn’t hit any reef. Maybe one of these scimitars cut the grooves in the bottom of the motor launch.”

  Jaim Elvridge—who was hands-on when it came to the watercraft—said, “From the angle of those scratches, that scimitar could only have raked the bottom with two of those . . . what are they called? Mandibles? There are seven streaks gouged out of the hull. And the gouges are too close together. I think it had to be something else.”

  “That’s creep-freaked,” Lara Sanz muttered.

  “We’ll just have to stay inside our vehicles,” Casey Stoner told them as she ruffled Tomaya’s hair with one hand; the woman cradled her two-month-old daughter, Saleen, in the crook of her other arm. “It will be all right. We can work that way. Use the remotes for anything dangerous.”

  “Assuming the rest of the UUVs don’t end up like the ones on the seatruck did.” Elvridge sounded half panicked. “Come on, people. That thing sheered a plastic, aluminum, and wire Aquaceptor III into pieces.” She pointed. “The second one has chunks missing out of the casing. But more than that, after all we’ve been through, Shin’s dead. Gone, guys. He was . . . I mean . . .” She sniffed. “We loved him.”

  Kalico watched Jaim Elvridge grab Breez into her arms, sobbing into the child’s hair as the little girl tightened her grip. Elvridge’s wife, Varina Tam, left her chair to wrap them both into an encompassing embrace.

  What the? Ah, yes. Kalico remembered that Shinwua was Breez’s father. Where he stood in the door, Bill Martin was now in tears, too, his sad eyes fixed on Jaim, Varina, and the child.

  “It’s . . . complicated.” Michaela noted Kalico’s confusion. “Jaim and Varina wanted a child. They chose Shin to be the father. Hey, it’s only sex.”

  People were standing, walking over to comfort Bill Martin or Jaim and her daughter.

  Kalico understood: This was somehow a pivotal moment. She was seeing the settling of that hellish realization that, after all they’d been through, they weren’t invincible after all. Sort of like the image of a hive coming together.

  What bothered Kalico was that instead of rallying her people, Michaela Hailwood seemed totally at a loss, her eyes fixed on the blue-yellow-and-red monster on the screen. In the picture, Kalico could see that stalk-topped eye. It stared back at her, black, shining, and filled with menace.

  20

  Talina stood in the doorway of her residential dome and looked out as Fred Han Chow descended her steps to the street. He carefully placed the litter back onto the cart and strapped it down. Fred and Tal had used it to transport Dek from the hospital to her place. Figured it lent a bit more dignity to the occasion than carrying him over her shoulder like a dead chamois.

  Just a normal Port Authority afternoon in the neighborhood. Up the street, C’ian Gatlin’s body looked half engulfed where it stuck out from the engine compartment of a backhoe he was working on. Some of the kids were racing down to the main avenue. Capella’s afternoon sun slanted, sending rounded shadows onto the rutted gravel. Clothes had been hung to dry behind Iji’s dome across the street. The botanist was currently in the southern hemisphere with Leah Shimodi, getting a first look at some of the vegetation while the geologist recorded potentially remarkable outcrops.

  Why did I bring Dek here?

  What was it about her and Derek Taglioni?

  “Want him,” Demon hissed from behind her liver.

  Yeah, well, just because the quetzal in her gut was a piece of shit didn’t mean he wasn’t right some of the time.

  From the very beginning Talina had felt an unsettling attraction. Was it real, or some fancy Taglioni trick? Perhaps a genetically engineered pheromone like the storied Transluna courtesans were supposed to have? Some chemical that triggered sexual interest in a woman’s limbic system? She wouldn’t put such a thing past a Taglioni. Especially since Dek had those dazzling genetically engineered yellow eyes that bordered on green in certain light. And who knew how many other little tweaks had been made to his body?

  She watched as Fred Han Chow wheeled the cart off down the street. She didn’t figure that good old Dek needed to know the thing was mostly used for hauling corpses up to the cemetery. Or maybe he already knew and just hadn’t said anything as he was loaded on and then off.

  Closing the door, she checked her racked rifles, unbuckled her duty belt with its pistol, knife, and survival gear, and hung it from the chair in her small living room. Dek’s rifle, pistol, and camping gear were stacked
in the corner where the breakfast bar jutted out from the dome wall.

  Walking into her bedroom, she stopped to lean against the doorframe and cross her arms. “You need anything?”

  Dek lay with his left leg out atop the sheets. A bandage covered his foot, ankle, and calf. The man’s back was braced on her pillows, arms behind his head. When it came to clothing, he was wearing a claw-shrub-fiber undershirt and shorts. His sandy-blond hair, though mussed, still had a wave to it. She could see a slight pinch tighten that patrician face of his, accenting the scar on his cheek and the dimple in his chin. His designer-yellow eyes were fixed on hers with an almost eerie intensity. Something about him seemed to be daring, hinted at the question: Here we are, what are we going to do with each other now?

  Yeah, Tal. Good question.

  She thought Rocket chittered amusement where he perched on her shoulder.

  A faint flicker played at Dek’s expressive lips, and in answer to her question regarding his needs, said, “Bowl of Inga’s chili with lots of fresh poblano pepper, a tall glass of amber ale, and Madison’s wheat bread to wash it down. But”—he raised a hand to forestall her response—“I’d settle for a plate of your breakfast tamales with that remarkable red sauce you make. And don’t stint on your homemade achiote.”

  “Sorry, Bucko. I’ve been too busy pulling soft meat out of the bush to spend time in the kitchen. If you’re thinking I’m cooking, cleaning, and bottle-washing on demand, you’re in for a surprise.”

  He waved it away. “That would be boorish, even for me.” A twinkle lit his eyes. “What’s the point of having a Taglioni in your bed if you can’t squeeze a little juice out of him? When you—”

  “Uh, what kind of ‘juice’ where you referring to? If you’re thinking that you and I are going to be sharing bodily fluids, you’re—”

  “Whoa!” He threw his hands up, laughing. “Back, woman, back! Juice? That’s Corporate slang. It’s an old term that was recycling itself when I left Transluna. I think it dates back to oranges or some such thing. You know, getting best part of something without having to peel it.”

  She gave him her best deadly and humorless grin. “Go on.”

  “As I was going to say, when you hear that Bateman has landed my airplane, there’s a sack of plunder under the toolbox in the aft left storage compartment. Mostly high-grade ore. Quartz thick with gold. Pieces of palladium. And I think some of the grayish-silver stuff is ruthenium.”

  “Just what do you expect in return for all this wealth?”

  He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I could probably buy a whole lot of carnal and licentious joy with it, which is what you are no doubt expecting from a Taglioni, but I’ve got a better idea.”

  “Which is?”

  “I want you to take that sack over to Inga’s, upend it on the bar so that it spills all over, and tell Inga I want it all credited to your account. Tell her that I figure it will cover home delivery of whatever you and I order for at least a week.” Dek grinned. “We’ll let someone else do the cooking and errand running. That’s the ‘juice’ I was referring to.”

  “Why do I think you’re a scoundrel?”

  “Because I am a Taglioni. It’s self-explanatory.” He stopped, and she saw something flicker behind his eyes. “Well, I was.”

  “And that bad old Derek Taglioni slowly faded away to nothingness during those years aboard Ashanti?”

  “Oh, he’s still in here. Along with . . .” He squinted as if something distracted him. “Along with whatever the hell is getting in the way of my thinking straight. Now it’s whispering something about . . . Shit. I can’t quite get it.”

  His eyes went vacant. “Seeing Kylee now. She’s a kid. Young. Golden hair. In the forest. Familiar forest. Seeing her with . . . what the? Like looking through three eyes. The feeling inside. Excited.”

  “That’s Rocket,” she told him walking over to settle on the side of the bed. “You’ll be getting images of his from when they were both little.”

  “Got another. Like it just blurred out of the old one. Seeing a boy. Kylee’s hiding. The boy is terrified, calling for her. He’s on the point of panic.”

  “I’ve got that one, too. Kylee told me she was punishing her big brother Damien when he was supposed to keep her safe.” She clenched a fist. “Tell me you don’t have any memories with me in them.”

  He hesitated a moment, let his eyes drift to one side. “Riding the death cart over here, watching you walk ahead of us on the avenue. Just a flash. You. Standing in a grave, struggling to lower Mitch’s body into it. And it shifted. You were in another grave, lowering another body. Young woman you really loved. Trish. You weren’t talking, but I could hear your thoughts. How sorry you were that you’d grown apart. The pain and grief. Regret that you’d lied about her mother’s rape and murder. I could feel your—”

  “Enough,” Talina snapped. “I hate this shit!”

  “You think it’s easy on my end? I’ve got things inside my head. Things that are not me. Half the time I think I’m going psychotic. Something’s reading my thoughts. Hey, I’ve done some pretty shitty things. Stuff that I’d like to forget. And this thing keeps digging it up.”

  “Demon’s looking for a handle, a lever it can use to manipulate you. And if it finds it, turns you into a weapon . . .” Talina let it hang, but fixed her eyes on his so that he knew she was dead serious.

  “What’s with the bowl?” he asked. “It didn’t click with me until I asked about your homemade tamales just now. I could smell them in the vision, too. That’s from your head, isn’t it?”

  Talina closed her eyes, reached up and massaged the back of her neck. “You got that, too, huh? How much of it? Don’t fuck with me. Tell me the truth.”

  “There’s a kitchen. On Earth, I think. Old-style stove and boiling pots of something. I see fingers, like your fingers, putting a bowl of some kind together. It’s been broken. And you’re fitting piece by piece back together.”

  “You see the quetzals?”

  He made a face, head slightly cocked, as though in hard thought. “No, I . . . wait. Like maybe an image, a sort of cartoon on the side of the bowl. You’re afraid, making some choice. Like your life is in danger. And there’s fear. But it’s not yours. It’s . . . sort of . . . quetzal fear? No, more like frustration. Is that right?”

  “Demon,” she told him. “Rocket and I worked out a kind of compromise. Rocket’s TriNA didn’t like what Whitey’s TriNA combined with Demon’s was trying to use me for. Listen, it’s complicated. Quetzal lineages don’t like each other. Rocket and the Rork quetzals showed me a way to keep my sanity, block out quetzal thought when I need to. Demon’s still in here.” She tapped her stomach. “Sort of like a delayed-action fuse. Biding his time. The piece of shit still talks to me. After all, he was the first to figure out how to interact with the speech centers in my brain. But, for the most part, he’s currently neutralized.”

  “Currently?” Dek asked. “You said he had the upper hand in my head.”

  “What’s he been telling you?”

  Dek’s gaze faltered, shifted, and he willfully said, “Shut the fuck up!”

  Talina fought a sour grin. Good work, Dek. You’re learning.

  “Okay, so he’s talking to you. Tell me, what is he saying? There’re no secrets between us for the moment. I need to know what he’s doing to you.”

  “Keeps telling me to have sex with you.” Dek winced. “And he’s doing it with words I stopped using long ago.”

  “Figures. He was always amazed by copulation.”

  “Why?”

  She took a deep breath. “Demon thinks it’s a weapon. Something to use against me. He’s good that way. Picks right up on grief, rage, any feeling of injustice. I think he uses them as a pathway to the limbic system. Maybe it’s how quetzals think of the world . . . that emotion can always be used as a tool or
lever.”

  “So, how do you live with it?”

  “Me? After I hallucinated the Sian Hmong shooting incident, I was strapped into that bed you just got out of. I sort of switched places with Raya—”

  “Who obviously hasn’t forgiven you.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ve brokered a sort of truce. Anyway, I escaped to Mundo Base, figured Kylee could help. She did. At least her molecules kept me sane enough to get the two of us out to Rork Springs . . . where I took on another load of quetzal TriNA that sort of flooded Demon’s influence.”

  She took his hand, saying, “Pay attention here. I found a way to come to terms. Used that bowl as mental metaphor, a way to piece my brain and consciousness back together. Most days I’m in charge, but not in my dreams. That’s when Demon is loose to terrify me, to haunt me with all the horrible things I’ve done. And he dearly loves to torture, to make me squirm with self-loathing.”

  Dek lowered his eyes. “He’s starting to have the same fun with me. Trying to figure out how to access those memories.”

  “Dek, understand that what I call ‘Demon’ is a community of related TriNA molecules that communicate with each other through molecular and recombinant means. It’s an incorporeal intelligence, one that utilizes memory and transferRNA to access and operate the cells in my body. Those RNAs are the same on Donovan as they are on Earth. Organic chemistry is organic chemistry no matter what planet you are on. Eventually, Demon’s going to dig out those memories. It’s going to find all the weaknesses and vulnerabilities”

  “Then maybe I’d save myself some agony if I just put a bullet in my brain?”