Startide Rising

by David Brin

  "Communications. C-can I help you?"

  `Akki? Yes, child, it's Dr. Makanee. Have you made any plans for lunch? You know, I do think I still have some of that candied octopus left. You're free? How sssweet. I'll see you soon, then. Oh, and let's keep our date our little secret. Okay? That'sss a good lad."

  She departed Intensive Care, a scheme beginning to form in her mind.

  40 ::: Creideiki

  In the quiet grayness of the gravity tank, a faint moaning cry.

  * Desperate, he swims

  Tossed by gray storm winds, howling:

  Drowning! Drowning! *

  41 ::: Tom Orley

  A foul-tempered mountain growled in the middle of a scum-crusted sea.

  It had stopped raining a while ago. The volcano grumbled and coughed fire at low overhanging clouds, casting orange on their undersides. Thin, twisting trails of ash blew into the sky. Where the hot cinders finally fell, it was not to a quenching by clean sea water. They landed in a muddy layer atop a carpet of dingy vines which seemed to go on forever.

  Thomas Orley coughed in the dank, sooty air. He crawled up a small rise of slippery, jumbled weeds. The dead weight of his crude sledge dragged a tether wrapped around his left hand. With his right he clutched a thick tendril near the top of the weed-mound.

  His legs kept sliding out from under him as he crawled. Even when he managed to wedge them into gaps in the slimy mass, his feet frequently sank into the mire between the vines. When he awkwardly pulled them out, the quagmire would let go reluctantly, giving off an awful sucking sound.

  Sometimes "things" came out with his feet, squirming along his legs and dropping off to slither back into the noisome brine.

  The tightly wrapped thong cut into his left hand as he pulled the sledge, a meager remnant of his solar plane and supplies. It was a miracle that he had been able to salvage even that much from the crash.

  The volcano sent ochre flickers across the weedscape. Rainbow specks of metallic dust coated the vegetation in all directions. It was late afternoon, almost a full Kithrup day since he had banked his glider toward the island, searching for a safe place to land.

  Tom raised his head to look blearily over the plain of weeds. All of his well-laid plans had been brought down by this plain of tough, ropy sea plants.

  He had hoped to find shelter on an island upwind of the volcano, or, barring that, to land at sea and turn the glider into a broad and seaworthy raft from which to perform his experiment.

  I should have considered this possibility. The crash, those dazed, frantic minutes diving after gear and piling together a crude sledge while the storm lashed at him, and then hours crawling among the fetid vines toward a solitary hump of vegetation -- it all might have been avoided.

  He tried to pull forward, but a tremor in his right arm threatened to turn into a full-scale cramp. It had been badly wrenched during the crash, when the plane's wing pontoons had come off and the fuselage went tumbling across the morass, splashing at last into an isolated pool of open water.

  A gash across the left side of his face had almost sent him into shock during those first critical moments. It reached from his jaw almost to the neural socket above his left ear. The plastic cover that normally protected the delicate nerve interface had spun out into the night, hopelessly lost.

  Infection was the least of his worries, now.

  The tremor in his arm grew worse. Tom tried to ride it out, lying face down on the pungent, rubbery weeds. Gritty mud scraped his right cheek and forehead each time he coughed.

  Somewhere he had to find the energy. He hadn't time for the subtleties of self-hypnosis, to coax his body back into working. By main force of will, he commanded the abused muscles to behave for one final effort. He could do little about what the universe threw at him, but dammit, after thirty hours of struggle, within meters of his goal, he would not accept a rebellion by his body!

  Another coughing fit ripped at his raw throat. His body shook, and the hacking weakened his grip on the dry root. Just when he thought his lungs could take no more, the fit finally passed. Tom lay there in the mud, drained, eyes closed.

  * Count the joys of movement? --

  First among advantages:

  Absence of Boredom -- *

  He hadn't the breath to whistle the Trinary Haiku, but it blew through his mind, and he spared the energy for a brief smile through cracked, mud-crusted lips.

  Somewhere, he found the reserves for one more effort. He clenched his teeth and pulled himself over the last stretch. The right arm almost buckled, but it held as his head rose over the top of the small hill.

  Tom blinked cinders from his eyes and looked out at what lay beyond. More weeds. As far as the eye could see, more weeds.

  A thick loop of neustonicne stuck out at the summit of the modest hillock. Tom heaved the sledge high enough to wrap the slack line around the root.

  Sensation flowed into his numbed left hand, leaving him open-mouthed in silent agony. He slumped back against the hillock, breathing rapidly and shallowly.

  The cramps returned in force, and his body folded under them. He wanted to tear at the thousand teeth that bit at his arms and legs, but his hands were immobile claws. He lay curled around them.

  Somehow, the logical part of Tom's mind remained disconnected from the agony. It still plotted and schemed and tried to set time limits. He'd come out here for a reason, after all.

  There had to be a reason for going through all this .... If only he could remember why he was here in the stench and hurt and dust and grit ...

  The calming pattern he sought wouldn't form. He felt himself start to fade.

  Suddenly, through pain-squinted eyes, he thought he saw Gillian's face before him.

  Fronds of airy vegetation waved behind her. Her gray eyes looked his way, as if searching for something just out of range. They seemed to scan past him twice as he trembled, unable to move. Then, at last, they met his, and she smiled!

  Pain-drenched static threatened to drown out the dream-words.

  I send **** for good ****

  though you *** skeptical, love.

  *** though the whole **** might listen.

  He strained to focus on the message -- more likely a hallucination. He didn't care which it was. It was an anchor. He clung to it as cramps made humming bowstrings of his tendons.

  Her smile conveyed commiseration.

  What a mess *** are! The *** I love

  is ****** and careless! Shall I **** it better?

  Meta-Orley disapproved. If this was really a message from Gillian, she was taking a terrible chance. " I love you, too," he subvocalized. "But will you shut the hell up before the Eatees hear you?"

  The psicast -- or hallucination -- wavered as a fit of coughing struck him. He hacked until his lungs felt like dry husks. Finally, he sank back with a sigh.

  At last, Meta-Tom surrendered pride.

  Yes!

  He cast into the murk before his eyes, calling after her dissolving image.

  Yes, love. Please come back and make

  better ...

  Gillian's face seemed to diffract in all directions, like a bundle of moonbeams, joining the shimmering volcanic dust in the sky. Whether a true message, or an illusion borne of delirium, it faded like a portrait done in smoke.

  Still, he thought he heard a lingering trace of Gillian's inner voice ...

  *** *** is, that is, that is ...

  and healing comes, in dreaming ...

  He listened, unaware of time, and slowly, the tremors subsided. His fetal curl gradually unfolded.

  The volcano rumbled and lit the sky. The "ground" beneath Tom undulated gently and rocked him into a shallow slumber.

  42 ::: Toshio

  "No, Dr. Dart. The enstatite inclusions are one part I'm not sure of. The static from the robot was really strong when I took that reading. If you'd like, I can double-check it right now.

  Toshio's eyelids were heavy with ennui. He had lost track of time spen
t pushing buttons and reading data at Charles Dart's behest. The chimp planetologist would not be satisfied! No matter how well and quickly Toshio responded, it was never quite enough.

  "No, no, we haven't got time," Charlie answered gruffly from the holoscreen at the edge of the drill-tree pool. "See if you can work it out on your own after I sign off, okay?

  "It would make a nice project for you to pursue on the side you know, Toshio. Some of these rocks are totally unique! If you did a thorough study of the mineralogy of this shaft, I'd be happy to help you write it up. Imagine the feather in your cap! A major publication couldn't hurt your career, you know."

  Toshio could well imagine. He was, indeed, learning a lot working for Dr. Dart. One thing he had learned, which would serve him well if he ever did go on to graduate school, was to be very careful in choosing his research advisor.

  The question was moot, anyway, with aliens overhead getting ready to capture them. For the thousandth time, Toshio shied away from thinking about the battle in space. It only made him depressed.

  "Thanks, Dr. Dart, but ..."

  "No problem!" Charlie barked in gruff condescension. "We'll discuss the details of your project later though, if you don't mind. Right now, let's have an update on where the drone is."

  Toshio shook his head, amazed by the fellow's tenacious single-mindedness. He was afraid that if it got any worse he would lose his temper with the chimp, senior research associate or no.

  "Um ..." Toshio checked his gauges. "The 'bot's descended to a little over a kilometer, Dr. Dart. The shaft is narrower and smoother as we get down to more recent digging, so I'm anchoring the robot to the wall at each site."

  Toshio looked over his shoulder to the northeast, wishing Dennie or Gillian would show up as a distraction. But Dennie was with her Kiqui, and he had last seen Gillian seated in lotus position in a clearing overlooking the ocean, oblivious to the world.

  Gillian had been pretty upset earlier, when Takkata-Jim told her everyone at the ship was too busy getting Streaker ready for the move to talk to her. Even her questions about Tom Orley were brushed aside with abrupt politeness. They'd call her when they knew anything, Takkata-Jim had said before signing off.

  Toshio had seen a frown settle over her face as every call she made was deflected. A new comm officer had replaced Akki. The fin told Gillian every person she wanted was unavailable. The one crew member she was able to talk to was Charles Dart, apparently because his skills weren't urgently needed at the moment. And the chimp refused to talk about anything but his work.

  Immediately, she had begun getting ready to leave. Then came orders from the ship, directly from Takkata-Jim. She was to stay indefinitely and help Dennie Sudman prepare a report on the Kiqui.

  This time Gillian took the news impassively. Without comment, she had gone off into the jungle to be alone.

  " . . more of those tendrils of Dennie's." Charles Dart had been talking as Toshio's mind drifted. Toshio made himself sit up straight and pay attention to what the chimp scientist was saying.

  " ... The most exciting thing is the potassium and iodine isotope profiles. They prove my hypothesis that within recent geological time some sophont race has been burying garbage in this subduction zone of the planet! This is colossally important, Toshio. There's evidence in these rocks of multiple generations of dumping of material from above, and rapid recycling of stuff brought up by nearby volcanoes. It's almost as if there's been a rhythm to it, an ebb and flow. Something awfully suspicious has been going on here for a long time! Kithrup's supposed to have been fallow since the ancient Karrank% lived here. Yet somebody's been hiding highly refined stuff in this planet's crust up until very recently!"

  Toshio almost committed a rudeness. "Very recently" indeed! Dart was sleuthing in geological time. Any day now, the Eatees would be down on them, and he was treating the alleged burying of industrial garbage thousands of years ago as if it was the latest Scotland Yard mystery!

  "Yes, sir. I'll get on it right away." Toshio wasn't even sure what Dart had just asked him to do, but he covered his ass.

  "And don't worry, sir. The robot will be monitored day and night. Keepiru and Sah'ot have orders from Takkata-Jim to stay plugged into it at turns when I'm unavailable. They'll call me or wake me if there's any change in its condition."

  Wouldn't that satisfy the chimp? The fen hadn't taken well at all to that order from Streakers exec, but they would obey, even if it slowed Sah'ot's work with the Kiqui.

  Miracle of miracles, Charlie seemed to agree. "Yeah, that's nice of them," he muttered. "Be sure to thank 'em for me.

  "And say! Maybe, while Keepiru's plugged in, can he trace that intermittent static we keep getting from the robot? I don't like it, and it's getting worse."

  "Yes, sir. I'll ask him."

  The chimpanzee rubbed his right eye with the back of a furry hand, and yawned.

  "Listen, Toshio," he said. "I'm sorry, but I really need a break. Would you mind if we put off finishing this until just a little bit later? I'll ring you back after supper and answer all your questions then, hmmm? OK bye, then, for now!" Charlie reached forward and the holo image disappeared.

  Toshio stared at the empty space for a moment, slightly stunned. Mind? Would I mind? Why, no, sir, I don't believe I'd mind at all! I'll just wait here patiently, until either you call back or the sky falls down on my head!

  He snorted. Would I mind.

  Toshio stood up, his joints crackling from sitting cross-legged too long.

  I thought I was too young for that. Ah, well. A midshipman is supposed to experience everything.

  He looked toward the forest. Dennie was hard at work with the Kiqui. Should I bother Gillian, I wonder? She's probably worried about Tom, and who could blame her? We were supposed to have heard from him early yesterday.

  But maybe she wants company.

  Lately he had started having fantasies about Gillian. It was only natural, of course. She was a beautiful older woman -- at least thirty -- and by most standards quite a bit more alluring than Dennie Sudman.

  Not that Dennie wasn't attractive in her own way, but Toshio didn't want to think about Dennie much any more. Her implicit rejection, by effectively overlooking him when the two of them were alone and so much alike, was painful.

  Not that Dennie had said or done anything offensive, but she had become moody lately. Toshio suspected she sensed his attraction to her, and was overreacting by turning cold to him. He told himself that was an immature response on her part. But that didn't keep it from hurting. . ,

  Fantasizing about Gillian was another matter. He'd had shameful but very compelling daydreams about being there when she needed a man helping her overcome her loss ...

  She probably knew how he felt, but didn't let it change her behavior toward him at all. It was a comforting forgiveness, and it made her a safe object of semi-secret adoration.

  It could simply be that I'm very confused, of course, Toshio thought. I'm trying to be analytical in an area where I have almost no experience, and my own feelings keep getting in the way.

  I wish I wasn't just an awkward kid, and were more like Mr. Orley, instead.

  An uneven electronic tone behind him interrupted his fantasy -- the comm coming back to life.

  "Oh, no!" Toshio groaned. "Not already!"

  The unit spat static as the tuner sought to bring in an erratic carrier wave. Toshio had a wild desire to run over and kick the thing into the bottomless murk of the drill-tree shaft.

  Suddenly, a crackling, noise-shrouded whistle broke out.

  * If (crackle) midshipmen

  Stuck together

  Who could stop us?

  * And of midshipmen

  Who can fly

  Like Calafians?

  "Akki!" Toshio hurried over to kneel in front of the comm.

  * Right again,

  Diving partner --

  * Remember how we'd

  Once hunt lobster?

  "Do I? Ifni! I wish we wer
e home doing that now! What's happening? Are you having equipment trouble on the bridge? I'm getting no visual, and there's a lot of static. I thought you were taken off comm duty. And why the Trinary?"

  * Necessity

  Is someone's (crackle) mother --

  * I send this via

  Close nerve socket --

  * Anxious, I seek

  soft High Patron --

  * Urgently

  To pass (crackle) warning --

  Toshio's lips pursed as he repeated the message to himself silently. " ... soft High Patron." There were few humans given titles like that by fins. Only one candidate was here on the island right now.

  "You want to talk to Gillian?"

  * Urgently

  To pass on warning --

  Toshio blinked, then he said, "I'll get her right away, Akki! You hold on!"

  He turned and ran into the forest, calling Gillian's name at the top of his lungs.

  43 ::: Akki

  The monofilament cable was almost invisible against the rubble and ooze of the sea floor. Even in the light from Akki's harness lamp, it barely reflected a spiderweb's glimmer here and there amidst the rock and sediments atop this jagged ridgeline.

  The cable had been designed to be hard to detect; it was the only certain way Streaker could communicate with her two outlying work parties without giving away her location. Akki had been forced to search for over an hour, using the best instruments at his disposal and knowing where to look, before finding the line to the island. By the time he had clipped his neural tap into the line, more than half of the oxygen in his breather was gone.