World of Water

by James Lovegrove

  “Glad you appreciate it.”

  “Wasn’t exactly rocket science, though. Not for trained Marines. We sonar-tagged every single vessel, both the incoming lot and the ones already here. When we saw the hostiles overwhelming the friendlies, I gave the order to step in. The person you really ought to be thanking is Gunnery Sergeant Jiang. She programmed the charges to go off with pinpoint precision.”

  “I’ll give her one of my coveted commendations too,” Dev said, “but later. First things first. I’ve got a funeral to attend.”

  He plunged into the sea again, where the debris from the battle was in the throes of being eaten. All sorts of marine life, from tiny fish to hulking great predators, were busily consuming the carrion from the destroyed subs. There were feeding frenzies here and there among the shoals of small fry that collected around free-floating chunks of flesh, while the larger creatures gnawed sedately and masterfully at the carcasses themselves, abandoning their meals only if a still larger creature came along and muscled in.

  It wasn’t just the subs that were being devoured either. The bodies of the Ice King worshippers were getting nibbled and slowly pulled apart. One of them even became the rope in a gruesome three-way tug of war between a trio of shark-like monstrosities. They yanked it this way and that until an arm tore loose, and then the remainder of the corpse was sundered it two at the waistline.

  At some distance from this grisly banquet, Ethel and her allies were gathered in the shadow of the two manta subs, which hovered dumbly above them, providing shelter with their giant, gently wafting wings. Ethel had dressed the wound on her shoulder using a sponge and strips of something that looked like seagrass.

  The pilots of the seahorse sub had perished along with their craft. One of the anglerfish sub’s pilots had been killed too. The other had survived, sustaining a broken arm during the hammering assault by the swordfish sub.

  With the addition of Ethel’s cousin, that meant four bodies now waited to be given Tritonian last rites.

  It wasn’t a funeral service as such, but it had a ceremonial aspect to it and was conducted with all due solemnity. The bodies were lined up in a row and each was assigned some personal belonging of their own, a single item which was attached to them by a tether of braided kelp. In the case of Ethel’s cousin it was his knife. For another of the bodies it was a bivalve shell with a drawing of a relative etched into its nacreous interior. Treasured possessions for the dead to take with them to their watery graves.

  The mourners, led by Ethel, announced each body one after another by name, celebrating their respective characters. Her cousin, it transpired, had been brave and steadfast with a wicked humorous streak.

  Then, their faces shining a solemn greyish blue, the Tritonians drew knives and slid the blades through the corpses’ ribcages deep into their chests, with practised precision. Blood came out but also a stream of bubbles, and Dev realised that the bodies’ swim bladders, which occupied pretty much the same space inside them as a human’s lungs, had been pierced. The bubbles were the gas inside the sacs escaping.

  The bodies began to sink. The mourners watched them descend with dashes of turquoise farewell cutting through the grieving blue on their cheeks and foreheads.

  Afterwards, Ethel swam over to Dev.

  We’re coming with you, all of us, she said. The others have agreed to be a part of your mission.

  Thank them for me.

  Where are you intending to go?

  Further south, most likely. That’s where the focus of the insurgent activity is.

  We’ll follow.

  Where’s the kid?

  In my manta sub. Still unconscious, securely tied up. He’s going nowhere.

  What do you plan on doing with him?

  I ought to return him to his drift cluster, wherever that may be. Send him home. Let his people deal with him as they see fit. It would be the fair and conscientious thing to do. But I’m not feeling very fair or conscientious towards him right now. Besides, the detour will cost us time, and you’d probably prefer not to have any more delays.

  For what it’s worth, I think we should hang on to him anyway, Dev said. If he knows anything more about the Ice King and the Ice King’s worshippers, anything at all, it’ll be useful. We can pump him for information when he comes round.

  Ethel signalled agreement. I hope we don’t have to use force to get him to talk. Then again, in some ways I hope we do.

  34

  BACK ABOARD THE Reckless Abandon once more, Dev found Handler up on the flybridge, seemingly staring into the distance. It was the trance-like gaze of someone in the middle of a commplant conversation.

  “Who are you talking to?” he asked.

  Handler blinked and held up a finger. After several seconds, he said, “Captain Maddox. I’ve just been letting him know where we are.”

  “Geographically or figuratively?”

  “Both.”

  “I’d have thought that was Sigursdottir’s job, not yours.”

  Handler looked furtive. “Maddox asked me to send him updates,” he confessed finally.

  “About me,” said Dev.

  “Yes. Not that he doesn’t trust you, I hasten to add, but he’s given you a squad of Marines...”

  “And he wants to know, from a third-party source, that I’m taking good care of them. I haven’t broken the toys he lent me to play with. Understandable, I suppose.”

  “I should have said something. I would have, if Maddox hadn’t told me to keep it strictly between him and me. I feel like I’ve betrayed you.”

  Dev shrugged. “It’s all right. Maddox seems like a hard man to say no to.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Why don’t you bring me in on the conversation? I might as well have a word with the grumpy old bastard myself.”

  “You won’t tell him you know? He’ll go mad if he finds out I’ve given the game away.”

  “Promise.”

  “Okay then.”

  Dev felt a tiny cerebral pop, like an airlock opening, as his commplant was patched in to Handler’s.

  Captain Maddox. Hope you don’t mind me horning in. I assume you called Handler because you’ve been having trouble getting hold of me.

  Yes. He says you’ve been underwater a lot. Incommunicado.

  I have.

  And I hear there’ve been some shenanigans.

  If by shenanigans you mean progress, then yes.

  A pitched battle of some sort? Tritonian versus Tritonian?

  The upshot of which is that I’ve recruited allies from among the indigenes. They can provide insider intel and they’re well motivated to support us both tactically and logistically.

  Fair enough. Always good to have some locals in your pocket. Hearts and minds. Even so, I’d watch my back if I were you. Can’t trust sea monkeys, any of them. Slippery buggers in every sense.

  Noted, but what we have here is a “my enemy’s enemy” scenario. These are Tritonians who want the insurgency reined in every bit as much as we do.

  If you say so. Handler also tells me you’re having a spot of bother with your host form. Sustainability issues. Specifics?

  You don’t really want to know the specifics. They’re pretty grim, trust me. Bleeding. Pain. Lost teeth. I’m half expecting a leg to fall off at any moment.

  He’s keeping you going, though?

  Handler butted in eagerly.

  Regular shots of stabilising nucleotides, Captain Maddox. I think they’re helping.

  Not making it worse, at least. They’re the maintenance this old banger needs to keep it on the road. Actually, captain, you’ve been on-planet a while, haven’t you?

  Maddox transmitted a heartfelt sigh.

  Too long, it feels like sometimes.

  I’d like to run something past you, if that’s okay. You too, Handler. This Ice King business...

  Ah yes. That. Superstitious bullshit, of course. The terrorists’ little fantasy. Their god. Like Polis Plus and thei
r Singularity. Ugh. Carte blanche for evil.

  It’s fair to say there’s a level of conviction among these fanatics that’s easily the equal of the Plussers’. It might even be greater.

  So?

  Well, I’ve just heard a reference to “the ice at the heart of the world”. It’s where the Ice King is supposed to be sleeping.

  Again, so?

  So, just spitballing here, but what if there’s a place? An actual location that’s, I don’t know, sacred to the Ice King’s worshippers. Somewhere they go to pay their respects and say prayers and do whatever else they do to earn his favour. Some sort of church or temple that’s perhaps also a refuge.

  Somewhere that matches the description “the ice at the heart of the world”?

  That’s what I’m thinking. How about one of the ice caps? Somewhere in the polar regions, at least?

  Handler chipped in.

  Triton does have ice masses at the poles, but they’re not huge and they’re subject to seasonal variations. In summer they shrink from around 20,000 square kilometres to a quarter that size.

  It’s summer now.

  Midsummer, almost, and on top of that the planet’s in an interglacial period, a geological epoch between ice ages. The ice caps are pretty much as small and thin as they could ever be, just a fragile crust on the sea’s surface, a scattering of broken-up floes. It’s highly unlikely anyone has sited a temple there.

  Granted, but you never know. It’s occurred to me, you see, that the insurgents might have a home base they operate out of.

  Captain Maddox responded to that idea with enthusiasm.

  I like the sound of this. Somewhere we can hit them, you’re saying. Where their leaders and main players congregate. The head of the monster. Cut it off and the insurgency’s dead.

  Handler came back in.

  Not really the heart of the world, is it, though? An ice cap. That’s more the top of the world. Or the bottom.

  Maybe I misinterpreted the remark. Maybe something got lost in translation.

  Or maybe it’s literally the heart of the world. The core.

  Go on, Handle With Care. Sounds like you’ve had a eureka moment.

  Triton used to be an ice giant, remember? And there’s ice at the very centre of it still. I’m talking a solid ball of permafrost several thousand kilometres in diameter, the nub of ice that was left after the planet greenhoused. A significant amount of that is methane clathrate, a form of frozen water with methane trapped in its crystalline structure.

  The same methane the settlers extract and use for boat fuel.

  And the same methane whose release contributed significantly to Triton’s atmospheric warming all those millions of years ago.

  Which gave us this charming world of water we’re all enjoying being on so much. Any chance that ice ball might be where the insurgents go to hole up?

  A couple of dozen kilometres down? Where the pressures are so immense they’d crush you flat in an instant? I very much doubt it.

  Fair point.

  No, what I’m getting at is, is this the truth behind the God Beneath the Sea myth?

  The whole thing’s a metaphor?

  Yes. The Ice King is the creator, but only in the sense that he’s the methane gas that made Triton what it is now. The Tritonians have anthropomorphised a global geological event into a divinity. He’s the embodiment of the warming process that resulted in the environment they now inhabit. He’s a racial-memory narrative of how the world as they know it came to be.

  And he’s still ‘sleeping’, as it were, in the ice core. He’s the latent methane. I get it.

  If we look at the Ice King symbol in that light, it takes on a new meaning.

  Those bits at the bottom aren’t lightning forks. They’re arrows. They show the direction the methane took, permeating upward into the atmosphere.

  Seems reasonable to assume.

  Well, so much for the myth. After all that, it’s nothing but hot air.

  Maddox laughed, with a touch of ruefulness.

  Oh, well. No convenient terrorist base for us to take out.

  Shame. I really thought I was on to something.

  Your best bet, Harmer, if you want my advice, is simply to stay on course. Keep going south and do whatever you can in the Triangle Towns region. Word of warning, though.

  Bad news? I can never have enough of that.

  Weather satellites are indicating a severe low-pressure system building in the Tropics of Lei Gong, with a high-pressure system coalescing around it. That’s a recipe for a typhoon. You’ll want to keep an eye on that.

  You’re right, I will.

  Also, do you know about the syzygy conjunction?

  When Triton and its moons line up in a row? Please don’t tell me that’s happening as well.

  Due tomorrow.

  Shit. Really?

  Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.

  Will there be a storm?

  Uncertain. Syzygy storms can’t be predicted. You can’t be sure if one’s going to crop up, let alone where. Too many variables. But there’s always a chance, especially down there in Lei Gong.

  The way things have gone so far, I wouldn’t bet against it. Fuck my fucking luck.

  Triton’s not been a bed of roses for you, has it, Harmer?

  Bed of nails, more like.

  The call ended there, and shortly afterwards the Reckless Abandon and the Admiral Winterbrook got under way again. As the boats picked up speed, Dev checked the sonar. The red dots representing the manta subs were keeping pace with them.

  A strong breeze arose, whipping up choppy waves crowned with creamy phosphorescing foam. In the sky, suspended amid the constellations, Triton’s moons glared down. They appeared to have edged closer together since Den had last looked at them.

  The eyes of the Ice King, Ethel had called them.

  Dev, like any sensible person, did not believe in gods and had no time or sympathy for those who did. Rationalism was the Terran orthodoxy, after all. Nonetheless he couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that the moons were somehow watching him, and their gaze seemed more focused now than before, more intense.

  More forbidding.

  Angrier.

  35

  OVERNIGHT, DEV AND Handler manned the helm in shifts, two hours on, two hours off. The navigation computer was perfectly capable of steering the jetboat without supervision, but both men felt safer knowing one of them was up top keeping an eye out, in case something sudden and catastrophic occurred. It helped make the two hours of sleep that bit sounder and more restful.

  Past midnight, the wind sharpened and the sea swell deepened. The Reckless Abandon rollicked along, automatically making tiny course corrections so that it cut into the waves with its bow rather than let them hit it abeam, thus reducing their impact. The Admiral Winterbrook was doing likewise, so that the two boats etched parallel zigzagging paths, responding to every minor alteration in the wind’s direction while still maintaining their southerly heading.

  Dev watched the two red dots of the manta subs on the sonar with envy. A hundred metres below the surface, Ethel and the other Tritonians weren’t getting buffeted about by the elements and jigging right and left erratically. Their journey was straight and smooth. Plain sailing.

  During the handovers between shifts, Dev would exchange a few words with Handler. On one occasion, the ISS liaison asked if Dev really didn’t mind that he had gone behind his back, reporting to Captain Maddox.

  “You seem to be taking it in your stride,” Handler said. “I’m surprised you haven’t made more of a fuss.”

  “I doubt you had a choice in the matter. I can’t hold it against you,” Dev said. “Can’t even be annoyed with Maddox. That’s what top brass do if they’ve got any sense: cover all the bases.”

  “I’ve not been spying on you, if that’s what you’re thinking. This isn’t some conspiracy.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t.”

  “Arkady Maddox might be an unreconst
ructed old warhorse...”

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  “...and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly...”

  “Again, no argument.”

  “...but he’s not a bad person. He’s just focused, purposeful. Likes things his own way.”

  “That’s how you get the scrambled egg on your dress cap, and how you keep it.”

  “At any rate, you caught me at it and the secret’s out. In a way I’m relieved. Thanks for not letting on, when you were talking to him.”

  “No harm done. In future, just keep me in the loop when you’re keeping him in the loop. Okay?”

  “I can do that.”

  The next time they swapped roles – Handler heading up to take the helm, Dev going down to his cabin for some shuteye – Dev said, “I’ve been meaning to ask. This boat of yours. Who came up with the name Reckless Abandon?”

  “I did. It’s not my boat, though, technically. TerCon supplied it for the use of us ambassadors.”

  “Ah, I see. And because it doesn’t belong to you, you don’t really care what happens to it. Reckless Abandon. Might as well call it I Can Bash Around In This Thing All I Like And It Doesn’t Matter Because The Government Will Pick Up The Tab For Any Damage.”

  “No. That’s not it. Actually, it’s what came over me the first time I drove the boat, the first time I gunned the engine on the open sea and really drove. Seriously, Dev, this thing’s so fast! Up until then it had always been known as Diplomat One, and that just seemed too boring and prosaic, completely unsuitable, so...”

  Dev chuckled. “You’re a dark horse, Handler. Hidden depths.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  At the subsequent handover, Handler made sure to give Dev a fresh dose of nucleotides.