I’m about five hundred metres off your port bow. Look. I’m the one in the water, waving.
Got you. Where’s Handler?
Down below. He’s safe.
Hooray.
Sigursdottir?
Yeah?
I’m glad you’re okay. And your men too. Even Milgrom.
Didn’t catch that.
I said I’m glad you’re –
Still not hearing anything. Just static.
You bitch, you’re screwing with me, aren’t you?
That I heard, loud and clear.
Dev laughed. No room for sentiment, not in Sigursdottir’s world.
As the catamaran wheeled round towards him, he set his commplant to run a diagnostic on itself.
The results were dismaying, if unsurprising. Not only had the shocks given him by McCabe damaged its operational efficiency, the commplant was now suffering from intermittent power supply. It drew bioelectricity from the user’s own physiology, specifically the action potentials in the nerve fibres, and wasn’t presently getting a consistent, reliable flow of juice from Dev’s host form. The cellular breakdown must be interfering with electrochemical reactions in his body.
It often affected commplants in the elderly and those with neurological disorders. The low-resistance electrodes and power harvesting circuitry found input harder to come by, and so the device performed less well. The usual remedy was the surgical installation of a pinhead-sized lithium polymer ion battery to boost its charge and normalise function.
Dev had neither the time nor the wherewithal to adopt that solution. He would just have to make do and hope for the best.
In the meantime, Opochtli beckoned.
He had a township to save.
40
THERE WAS A hastily convened conference.
Dev and Sigursdottir stood on the rear deck of the Admiral Winterbrook with Ethel and Handler. The catamaran was en route to Opochtli, and finding the increasingly high waves heavy going. The sky had darkened, the weather turning from blustery to squally. A warm, frenetic rain had started to fall, while sea spray burst over the Admiral Winterbrook’s twin prows with every wave the boat ploughed into, much of it vaulting over the superstructure and reaching all the way aft to soak the three humans and the indigene.
“And she has no idea what we’re up against?” Sigursdottir said, eyeing Ethel.
It was the first time the two women had been in close proximity to each other, and the Sigursdottir was as wary of Ethel as the Tritonian was of the Marine lieutenant. For all Dev’s assurances that Ethel was an ally, Sigursdottir had yet to be convinced. Ethel, likewise, seemed mistrustful – perhaps forgivably – of the woman who only yesterday had ordered her manta sub to be torpedoed. Her hand never strayed far from her shock lance.
“She has no clue what these Ice King guys used on Dakuwaqa?” Sigursdottir continued.
“None,” Handler replied, relaying Ethel’s answer. He, like Sigursdottir, had to raise his voice above the seethe of the sea and the whip of the wind. “Whatever it is, she doesn’t believe it’s Tritonian in origin. She says her race would never manufacture something quite so destructive.”
“Not even religious fanatics? The same people who just sicced a dirty great clump of living seaweed on us?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Ethel conceded, via Handler. “But I don’t know where or how they built it, if they did. What if, instead, they’ve somehow got hold of ungilled weaponry? What if they’re using some of your own explosive devices against you?”
“She has a point,” Dev said. “Maybe they’ve raided an armoury and stolen a bunch of missile launchers. What we saw at Dakuwaqa could, I suppose, have been caused by rockets packed with high-ex cluster-bomb submunitions. Thistledowns, for instance.”
“The dispersal pattern wasn’t right for Thistledowns,” said Sigursdottir. “The bomblets’ targeting would have been much more uniform and precise. Besides, the only military-grade armouries on this planet are ours, and there’ve been no thefts from them that I’m aware of. Captain Maddox would go apeshit if something like that happened. Man runs a tight ship, and a security breach on that level – he’d roast the poor sucker responsible alive, and every one of us would hear about it.”
“Somebody else has given them weapons, then.”
“Plussers?” Sigursdottir blinked rain out of her eyes. She was the only one present who had to. Dev and Handler’s nictitating membranes clicked protectively into place when exposed to water, while Ethel had no eyelids at all, her eyes quite comfortable with being wet.
“Stands to reason,” Dev said. “It’s the perfect set-up for them. A world on their doorstep which we’ve very cheekily come along and claimed for ourselves. A faction of the indigenous race that wants rid of us. Slip the insurgents a bit of high-end ordnance, light the blue touchpaper and retire. A little proxy war and they don’t have to get their hands dirty or risk a single casualty.”
“The Ice King worshippers are in league with your enemy?” Ethel said after Handler had finished explaining who Polis+ were and the state of chilly hostility that existed between them and the Terran Diaspora. He had had to coin a special Tritonese term to convey the concept of AI sentiences: ‘Number Folk.’ “I don’t know. They’re independent and righteous. Too proud to accept assistance from outside.”
“You sure about that?” said Sigursdottir. “Even if it’s assistance that gives them a winning edge?”
Ethel’s face went a muddy, equivocal ochre. “Having seen what they’re prepared to do – slaughter thousands in their god’s name – I’m not certain anymore. About anything. I don’t understand these people. Perhaps I never will.”
“It could be that they’re receiving help from Polis Plus without realising,” Dev said. “Plussers are tricky fuckers, we all know that. They could have infiltrated the Ice King worshippers. There could be agent provocateurs within their ranks who’ve convinced them that non-Tritonian weapons are the way forward.”
“Aren’t you trained to spot Plussers lurking in organic host forms?” said Handler.
“It’s a skill I’ve acquired. Trouble is, I’ve not been able to apply it yet. I haven’t had a chance to sit down with any insurgents and see if I can weed out ringers.”
Dev also had his doubts that the standard test questions would work on Tritonians. Their expressions and mannerisms were so different from humans’, not to mention their mode of speech, that the usual deviations from the norm – the quirks and atypical responses you had to watch out for – weren’t applicable.
An alien masquerading as a human was one thing. An alien disguised as another species of alien – then all bets were off. How could you tell which behavioural patterns were anomalous? It would be as though the Plusser was wearing two masks. Doubly impenetrable.
Besides, the true marker of a Plusser occupying a human host form was that unnerving deadness in the eyes, Uncanny Valley. And Tritonians’ eyes were naturally blank and inexpressive.
You could also make a Plusser agitated by mocking the race’s religion. Since the Tritonian insurgents were themselves religious zealots, however, exploiting that topic to provoke a reaction from them meant nothing. They would be just as touchy about it as any Plusser.
“I’ve a good mind to call Maddox and ask for reinforcements,” Sigursdottir said. “This is bigger than we thought, bigger than we’re equipped to deal with. We need backup.”
“You mean leave Opochtli to the mercy of the insurgents?” said Dev. “No way.”
“You’re in no position to give me orders, civilian. If I think waiting for reinforcements is a good idea, then waiting for reinforcements is what we’re going to do. Maddox can mobilise all of Station Ares and have three hundred heavily armed Marines here in no time.”
“In no time? How long do you reckon it’ll take them to arrive?”
“Best-case? Twelve hours.”
“Opochtli will be toast by then. Maybe Mazu too. By all means have Maddox deploy. The plain tru
th, though, is that right here, right now, it’s all on us. Me, you and your Marines, and Ethel and her pals. We’re less than twenty klicks out from Opochtli and, like it or not, we’re the best and only chance that town has.”
“It may already be too late. The attack may already be over.”
“We don’t know that,” Dev said, “and now’s not the time to start second-guessing ourselves. Whatever weapons the insurgents have, it’s up to us to stop them. Nobody else can. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re hopelessly outnumbered. Outgunned as well. But holding back and waiting for support simply isn’t an option. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it is.”
Sigursdottir squared her shoulders. It occurred to him that he might have pushed her too far.
“I bet you think that was a stirring speech, don’t you?” she said.
“I was going for impassioned, with a hint of rousing.”
“I’d still be within my rights to halt this boat and not go any further. I have a duty of care to my team. It would be crazy to send them into a firefight they probably can’t win. That’s just not sound tactics.”
“Agreed. But wouldn’t you say you had eight exceptional soldiers on board, yourself included?”
“Oh, you sly bastard.”
“Capable of meeting any challenge, however great?”
“Shut up.”
“And isn’t it your sworn responsibility to protect colonists on Triton from harm? Isn’t that the sole reason you Marines are garrisoned here?”
“I hate you, Harmer.”
“Only because you know I’m right. Believe me, I don’t much relish the prospect of what we’re heading into. I’m shitting bricks about it, in fact. Insurgents with enough firepower to level a town and no qualms about using it – what’s to love about that scenario? But if the alternative is sitting on our backsides and doing nothing while Opochtli burns, then that’s no alternative at all.”
Sigursdottir gave him a look that was equal parts resentment and resignation.
“I’ll tell you this,” she said finally. “If Corporal Milgrom was out here right now, she’d go down on one knee and ask you to marry her. That is a woman who loves having the odds stacked against her. She’s been itching for a proper, no-holds-barred scrap ever since she came to Triton.”
Dev mimed a profound shudder. “Marry Milgrom? I’d rather take my chances with a thalassoraptor.”
41
I DON’T TRUST him.
This was from Ethel as the manta sub coasted along in the Admiral Winterbrook’s wake. She had summoned one of the Tritonians from the other sub to pilot hers while she went topside for the conference. Now she was back at the controls, the other manta alongside, all three vessels bound for Opochtli.
Say that again? said Dev.
I said I don’t trust him.
Dev wondered if he had misinterpreted the sentence both times, perhaps got the gender wrong.
The ungilled soldier? he said, meaning Sigursdottir.
No. Not her. She seems straightforward enough, as far as I can tell. Even honest.
From a Tritonian, that was a compliment indeed.
No, it’s him, Ethel went on. The other hybrid like you. The ambassador.
Handler, she was talking about.
Yeah? Dev injected a note of offhandedness into the remark.
He’s careful about what he says. Too careful.
Maybe he just has trouble with your language.
You don’t seem to, not anymore, and he’s been here longer than you.
I’m a quick learner, Dev said glibly.
What he was reluctant to admit, even to himself, was that he had his own misgivings about Handler. It wasn’t just the business about the call to Captain Maddox, although that bothered him more than he had let on. Handler’s loyalties should lie with ISS first and foremost, and he shouldn’t have allowed Maddox to bully him into spying on Dev. At the very least he should have confided in Dev, telling him up front that Maddox had asked him to keep an eye on his progress and report back. More troubling than the deed itself was the duplicity involved.
Troubling, too, was the way Handler had gone to fetch the case containing the nucleotide shots when he and Dev were supposed to be leaping overboard. He had put himself in danger doing that, and while it seemed like a brave, selfless act, Dev wondered if it truly was. Mightn’t it have been something else, something more?
A thought kept nagging at him, a correlation between events. If he was wrong, if it was just coincidence, than he had nothing to worry about. If he was right, however, then a conspiracy was afoot and he needed to watch his back. The insurgency wasn’t the only threat to stability on Triton.
You don’t like him either, Ethel said.
You just couldn’t hide anything from a Tritonian. You couldn’t prevent your feelings leaking through any more than you could keep your cheeks from flushing when you were embarrassed.
Put it this way, Dev said. I’m revising my opinion about him. He’s polite, but sometimes politeness is deviousness in disguise.
I think I understand what you’re saying.
Some concepts are difficult to express in Tritonese.
I’m amazed how you ungilled, with those gurgling noises you make, communicate anything at all.
We manage. Now, if you’ll excuse me a moment.
Where are you going?
To see if that kid has come round yet.
Do you think he’ll know something about the Ice King worshippers’ weapons?
Frankly no. But it can’t hurt to ask.
The kid was awake and attempting to free himself. As Dev entered the sleeping chamber which had belonged to Ethel’s late cousin, he found the youngster struggling against his bonds. The kid froze as soon as he saw Dev, his face turning a surly yellow.
Saying nothing, Dev checked the cords binding the youngster’s wrists and ankles together in front of him. Made of plaited plant fibre, they were strong and tight. The knots looked secure. No amount of straining would work them loose.
Doesn’t look too comfortable, Dev said. I imagine your muscles are starting to seize up, being stuck in the same position for so long. They’ll be cramping soon, if they aren’t already. Your hands and feet will be going numb, too. You’d give anything to be untied and able to swim around again.
The kid’s reply wasn’t quite Go fuck yourself but it was unmistakably in that vein.
Dev hunkered opposite him. The sleeping chamber wasn’t large, a cartilaginous burrow just long enough to stretch out in, if not quite tall enough to stand up in. Bioluminescent polyps on the ceiling radiated a faint amber glow.
I’d be willing to release you, he said. You’re not important to me. Just tell me how your Ice King cronies were able to raze an entire ungilled settlement.
So I am important to you, the kid sneered.
No. You’re nothing. But if you know something useful, anything, that makes you slightly better than nothing.
I know that the ungilled’s days on this world are numbered. I know that the Ice King lives and you are all going to die.
Okay. Dev moved towards the door, another of those sphincter apertures that dilated when pressed to permit you to swim through. I gave you a chance.
Hateful scum! Fish-belly slime! You’re no better than the ones who put me in that tank and tortured me.
And you’re just an ignorant little punk who needs to grow up and learn the different between hating and being right.
Dev could have been talking to his own younger self. He mused on this irony as he left the kid in the sleeping chamber, face an inferno of insults.
He was satisfied that the kid hadn’t anything to offer in the way of relevant information. Beneath all the bluster and the aggression he was just a scared adolescent who had fallen in with the wrong crowd and knew it, but didn’t have the nerve to extricate himself. One day he would figure it out – if he didn’t get himself killed first playing the tough guy.
Back in the cockpit with Ethel
, Dev watched her guide the manta sub into a dense swarm of phytoplankton.
Feeding is necessary, she said.
The other manta sub joined them, and the two vessels turned cartwheels and figures of eight through the phytoplankton, scooping great swathes of the microscopic organisms into the mouths with the aid of their cephalic lobes. With their eyes modified into cockpits, the mantas were effectively blind, but electroreceptors at the fronts of their heads detected the bioelectric fields of other living organisms.
Replenished, fuel stop over, the mantas chased after the Admiral Winterbrook, soon catching up with the catamaran again.
Dev estimated they were now no more than five kilometres out from Opochtli. He scanned the deep, fathomless waters ahead for signs of activity, insurgents’ vessels, something.
Perhaps Sigursdottir had been correct. Perhaps they were already too late. The attack was over and the Ice King worshippers had moved on.
Then he saw it.
At first he wasn’t clear what he was seeing.
It was immense. It was a vast black silhouette, ponderously moving.
It seemed to be an island underwater.
Was it Opochtli, sinking? Had the township been demolished and was now slowly subsiding into the sea?
But it was moving horizontally, under its own steam.
It was gigantic and it was alive.
Dev felt a prickle of fear. Nothing that big could be an organism. Nature had its limitations. The largest creatures that had ever existed on Earth were all sea dwellers, from the blue whale to the megalodon. But they were still a couple of dozen metres in length at most.
This thing could be measured in hundreds of metres.
Ethel decelerated, bringing the manta sub to a near halt. He didn’t blame her. She looked as alarmed as him.
What is that? he said. Have you see anything like it before?
I haven’t. But look at the shape of it. The colours on her face were several shades paler than they ought to have been. If she had been using human speech, her voice would have trembled. We know that shape.
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