World of Water

by James Lovegrove

  “High praise indeed.”

  “Milgrom’s not your biggest fan, though.”

  “Not yet. Now there’s a loose cannon.”

  “But also a good woman to have at your back in a firefight.”

  The URIB scudded onward, and Dev continued tending to the Tritonian, repeatedly re-soaking and reapplying the hooded top. The kid’s face radiated random colours, running through the entire visible spectrum. Dev found it indecipherable. It was, he presumed, equivalent to a human mumbling feverishly, talking gibberish.

  At one point the kid’s eyes snapped open and he was briefly lucid. His face flashed a mellow green glow of gratitude before he lapsed back into semiconscious incoherence.

  “You’re welcome,” Dev said. “Now just hang in there. Won’t be long.”

  Within half an hour they rendezvoused with the Admiral Winterbrook and the Reckless Abandon.

  As the URIB sidled up alongside the catamaran like a duckling re-joining its mother, Dev wrapped his arms around the Tritonian and rolled overboard with him.

  He stayed submerged, supporting the youngster, waiting for him to revive. Minutes passed, and the Tritonian started to stir. Cautiously Dev released him, leaving him to float unaided but remaining within arm’s reach. He wasn’t going to let him make a break for it, not without pumping him for intel first. The kid might be only an amateur insurgent, but that didn’t mean he knew nothing about the real insurgents.

  A loud splash heralded the arrival of Handler in the water. He shone curiosity and exasperation at Dev. Dev figured that he had been sent down by Sigursdottir to check on the rescued Tritonian and find out Dev’s intentions.

  Dev signalled that the Tritonian was coming round and they would soon be able to ask him questions. He still hadn’t quite got the hang of the visual mode of speech, judging by the frown and the amber-and-magenta puzzlement on Handler’s face, so he repeated what he had ‘said’ using supplemental hand gestures to get his meaning across.

  Handler registered comprehension, and joined Dev in treading water, while the Tritonian continued to show signs of emerging from his stupor. Dev was glad Handler was with him, since the ISS liaison spoke the indigenes’ lingo fluently while he himself had yet to master it. He stood to get more out of the kid with Handler there to translate.

  All at once the Tritonian was awake and alert, but no sooner did this happen than Dev became aware of a commotion in the water. Something sizeable was coming towards them, creating a powerful disturbance, a vibration he could feel viscerally.

  No, not just something.

  Several somethings.

  Silhouettes loomed in the darkness. Any fish in the vicinity scattered. Dev counted three – no, four – large shapes. They homed in on him, Handler and the Tritonian. They were sea creatures of some sort, but they moved with a weird purposefulness and precision, in a converging formation. Almost as if...

  Tritonian vessels. Among them was a manta sub, very like the one Dev had encountered at the Egersund, and which had intervened when he was being menaced by the cuttlefish sub. The one that appeared to be piloted by the couple he had first run into at Tangaroa.

  Seated in the hollow globes of its eyes were the female and the male from before. He recognised them mainly by the nautilus-pattern cicatrix tattoos on their chests.

  The other subs surrounded the two humans and the young Tritonian: a second, slightly smaller manta sub, a sub with the skeletal fins and lantern-jaw underbite of an anglerfish, and a tall, stately one which somewhat resembled a seahorse.

  Dev could see how the situation might look to the Tritonians. He and Handler were in close proximity to one of their kind who bore injuries consistent with torture. He wouldn’t blame them for jumping to the wrong conclusion: that the two hybrid humans had been responsible for the abuse.

  Worse, the Tritonians would be well aware of the Marine boat floating overhead, just as the Marines were doubtless aware of the arrival of the Tritonian submarines. Sigursdottir might perceive the subs as a clear and present danger and respond with a pre-emptive strike.

  Things were liable to turn nasty at any moment.

  28

  THE FEMALE TRITONIAN ducked out of her piloting station in the manta sub’s left eye. A few seconds later she emerged from the lipless rectangular slit of a mouth and swam forward, shock lance in hand.

  Dev’s own hand drifted towards the HVP, hovering over the grip like a gunslinger’s, ready to draw. Just a precaution. Just in case.

  As the Tritonian neared, Handler’s face emanated a greeting, albeit one that was shot through with pale yellow streaks of anxiety. Dev settled for polite amiability and what he hoped was innocence.

  Ignoring them, the Tritonian went straight to the youngster and examined him all over, inventorying the lacerations, the bruises and the peeling scales. Then came a rapid exchange of dialogue, colours on both their faces shifting too fast for Dev to follow the conversation easily.

  As near as he could tell, the female was quizzing the kid, her interrogation shot through with anger and concern. He was answering hesitantly but truthfully about his capture on Dietrich’s boat and subsequent ordeal at the hands of McCabe and friends in Llyr.

  A couple of times the female aimed what appeared to be suspicious glances at Dev and Handler before resuming her grilling of the boy. The kid eventually got round to explaining that one of these hybrid humans had helped him get away from his captors. Dev saw embarrassment and conflict on his face, as though he was having trouble reconciling his appreciation for what Dev had done with his resentment of humans as a whole. It seemed he couldn’t fathom why one of the enemy had treated him with compassion and not the cruelty the others had shown. It was confusingly unexpected.

  Dev wondered why the kid hadn’t simply lied and accused him and Handler of being his torturers. It would have been easy enough to do so, and the other Tritonians would have no reason to disbelieve him. The idea of landing the two humans in trouble must at least have crossed his mind. If he hated the species that much, he could have overcome his scruples and framed Dev and Handler. Vengeance from the other Tritonians would have followed swiftly and been total. The anglerfish sub alone, with its palisade of jutting, spiny teeth, could have made mincemeat of them.

  Then it dawned on Dev that the kid had to tell the truth. All Tritonians did. An emotion-based language made lying impossible. Each of them could tell at a glance if another was being evasive or insincere. It would be literally written all over their faces.

  Tritonians, by that logic, were the most honest race in the known universe. They had no choice in the matter. Whatever they communicated, they had to feel, and whatever they felt, they had to communicate.

  Now the female was looking at Dev and Handler, Dev particularly, with newfound admiration. Or so Dev thought. Those round black eyes of hers were hard to read, and her facial expression varied only minutely. A stone might have been less inscrutable.

  That was until her photophores flared green, with veiny pulses of pink trending outward from the corners of her mouth. Thanks and congratulations, it said, unmistakably, clear as day.

  Dev beamed back a smile in incandescent form. He had the impression that he had earned more than the female’s esteem. He had in some way justified a judgement she had made about him; passed a test he hadn’t even known he was taking.

  Handler propelled himself forward. With tensions de-escalating, he became more confident. His ambassadorial side asserted itself.

  He insinuated to the female that he and the other humans were on an important mission which would benefit everyone on the planet, settlers and indigenes alike.

  No one here bears any ill will towards your people, he said. The rescue of the boy is surely proof of that.

  He begged her, in the name of peace, not to instigate an assault on Llyr. The perpetrators of the boy’s kidnap and abuse had been punished. Retaliation against them was not necessary and would only add to the breakdown in relations between her race and h
umans.

  Dev chipped in with a plea of his own. Would the female mind assisting him? He needed to show her something, up on the boat. Something she might be able to clarify for him.

  Wariness flickered yellowly on her face. I suspect a trap, she said.

  He assured her it was no trap.

  She wavered. Pondered.

  Then she replied that she had no alternative but to agree to his request. She touched the young Tritonian on the shoulder, indicating that she owed Dev a debt. I’m putting my trust in you to continue to act with the forthrightness and integrity you’ve demonstrated so far. These are qualities that are uncommon in your kind but prized by mine.

  Is that why you’ve been following me? Dev asked. Why you took my side against the people in the cuttlefish submarine? Because I behave like a Tritonian?

  More so than an ungilled, yes.

  Ungilled carried derogatory connotations. But it was no worse than sea monkey, Dev thought, and was biologically accurate if nothing else.

  You intrigue me, she continued. The way you dealt with the reptile.

  The thalassoraptor.

  You had no weapon, she said. You ought to have died. You are either insane or foolish.

  I’ve been called both, Dev said.

  But you might also be exceptionally courageous. I feel that you are someone we can work with. Someone who may serve as a bridge between us and your kind. Am I wrong?

  I hope not.

  I have persuaded others to join me in trailing you, so that we may all of us assess your worth.

  That explains this lot, said Dev, indicating the other subs. Friends of yours?

  Likeminded individuals.

  And your... husband? He was referring to her manta sub co-pilot.

  Cousin. I am unpartnered. Now, shall we float here all day talking or shall we go to your boat so that I can see whatever it is you wish to show me?

  Of course.

  She instructed the boy to board the manta sub and wait there. As he swam off, she projected a message to the other Tritonians present. I’m accompanying the humans, heading above the surface. I won’t be gone long.

  Within the cockpits of the manta subs, the anglerfish sub and the eel sub, faces glowed, offering reluctant acquiescence.

  If I fail to return, she added, you know what to do.

  It was a threat, and not a very thinly veiled one. If these ungilled imprisoned or harmed her, they should be destroyed.

  29

  BARELY HAD THEY broken the surface – Dev, Handler, and the Tritonian – and climbed onto the dive deck of the Reckless Abandon than they heard Lieutenant Sigursdottir calling across from the Admiral Winterbrook.

  “Harmer, what the actual fuck is going on? There are Tritonian craft below, and you’re inviting one of the occupants onto your boat? I’m sure there’s a rational explanation.”

  “There is,” Dev yelled back. He could just make out Sigursdottir at the starboard rail of the catamaran, flanked by Milgrom and Blunt.

  “Message me and tell me about it.”

  “Can’t. Commplant’s down.”

  “I can see she’s got a shock lance. If you’re acting under duress...”

  “We’re not.”

  “But if you are, I can have men over there in seconds.”

  “No need. Really. Handler can fill you in on the details.” Lowering his voice, Dev said to the ISS liaison, “Fire her a quick message, will you? Say everything’s okay, nothing to get her panties in a bunch about.”

  “I’ll phrase it a little more tactfully, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yeah, I would. Main thing is she backs off and stays backed off. I’m not going to get much useful out of our fishy friend here if a herd of Marines comes stampeding in.”

  Handler’s gaze defocused as he composed the message to Sigursdottir. Dev meanwhile ushered the Tritonian up to the Reckless Abandon’s main cabin. She walked with little of the grace that she swam with. The steep staircase from the lower deck to the upper gave her particular trouble. She stumbled flat-footedly at the top, and Dev sprang reflexively to catch her before she could fall. She shrugged off his hand with a pale flare of irritability, insisting she could manage on her own.

  Dev apologised. I meant no insult.

  She tripped as she stepped over the raised threshold of the cabin door, and this time Dev left her to fend for herself. She managed to recover her footing with as much dignity as she could muster. Dev could imagine how clumsy she must feel, going from the supportive buoyancy of water to the unforgiving emptiness of air. She was out of her element, in a realm where you were obliged to hold yourself vertical when moving and where gravity was all at once a treacherous foe, always ready to undermine you.

  He showed her to a chair, inviting her to sit, and she sank into it with some relief. He begged her patience. I need to prepare something.

  His commplant was status-signalling that it had insite connection and could be restarted. He ordered a complete restore, with all cached data to be downloaded from remote backup.

  While he waited for the mental beep that would tell him the commplant was back online, Dev watched the Tritonian surveying her surroundings. The cabin furniture, with its sleek, rounded lines and artificial fabrics, seemed to fascinate her, as did the small galley nook and the recessed ceiling lighting. She remained on her guard, however, warily fingering the coral handle of her lance, as if drawing security from it.

  “Dev,” said Dev. He accompanied the word with the facial colouration that meant he was introducing himself formally.

  The sound of his voice startled her, and her grip on the lance tightened.

  “Dev,” he repeated, injecting friendliness into his voice and smiling.

  “Doesn’t mean a thing to a Tritonian, tone of voice,” Handler said, entering. “They can’t differentiate kindness from anger, sadness from amusement, anything from anything. Spoken speech in general is just noise to them. You might as well be oinking like a pig. Same with facial expressions. They don’t use them so they have no idea what yours are for.”

  Dev persevered anyway, offering his name a third time, projecting the friendliness now in lights.

  The Tritonian responded with a complex configuration of swirling geometric patterns.

  Dev frowned at Handler. “Am I right in thinking that’s her name?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it feels more like... an attitude. Determination. Resolve. With a sense of justice thrown in.”

  “That’s who she is and what she is,” said Handler. “The patterns she just used are unique to her, like a fingerprint. She’ll have refined and developed them over the years as she matured. They’re her perception of her own personality, the image she portrays to others. It’s not a name in sense that you or I understand. It’s deeper than that, an emotional autograph, a declaration of her inner self.”

  “I was hoping for something a bit more practical, something I can use when referring to her out loud. She can’t just be ‘that Tritonian over there.’ How about Ethel?”

  “Ethel?”

  “There was a singer, Ethel Merman, a century or so Pre-Enlightenment.”

  “Merman. I get it. Did you happen to have that fact at your fingertips?”

  “No. I ran a search earlier, after I first met her. Mermaid, merman, that sort of thing. Just in case. ‘Ethel Merman’ cropped up, and I made a mental note.”

  “Well, you can call her what you like, verbally. It’ll be just a meaningless burble to her. But if you want to address her by name in a way she’ll understand, reproduce the light patterns she showed you a moment ago. That’s how it works.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Yes, it’s tricky.”

  “I’ll give it a shot anyway.”

  Dev concentrated, summoning up what he hoped was the same cocktail of emotions that the Tritonian had displayed, each ingredient in the correct proportions.

  If her show of scornful amusement was anything to go by,
he failed dismally. She repeated the patterns, and he tried again to replicate them. He still didn’t get it right, but her amusement was no longer quite as haughty this time around, so he assumed he had made a better job of it.

  He then lobbed a question at her. The scar tattoo on your chest – what does it represent?

  At first he thought he hadn’t expressed himself clearly enough, since the Tritonian he had chosen to name Ethel looked blank.

  What came next, however, was a slew of concepts that lit up every corner of her face. The regularity of the nautilus shape, the mathematical progression in the size of the chambers within the shell, the spiralling steady growth of it, the sturdiness, the rigidity, the support it provided, the pride it instilled in her...

  Dev looked at Handler. “I’m not sure I got all of that. Did you?”

  “Think so. The nautilus is a badge of some sort, an emblem of a social movement. It’s all about evenness and solidarity – strength in numbers. The more of you there are, the greater you are. You augment one another.”

  “And you all stem from a common point of origin. You all share the same core ideal.”

  “That’s it. Fairness. Reasonableness. Interdependence.”

  Dev turned back to Ethel and asked if she was the leader of this Nautilus Movement.

  Her answer was curtly negative. It doesn’t have leaders, only members. We work together towards a mutual goal. No hierarchy is necessary when everyone is in agreement about their aims.

  Dev would have pressed her for details, but Ethel began to display impatience. My time in the air is limited. What is the reason you have brought me up here, other than to ask your fumbling questions?

  Ethel, Dev realised, was not a woman to be trifled with. She and Sigursdottir should meet, he thought. They would get on like a house on fire. Or end up at each other’s throats. Either way, sparks would fly.

  His commplant announced that it was working once more, with a proviso: