Fall of the White Ship Avatar

by Brian Daley

  More than twenty additional gawks had died since the herd left the high desert. Alacrity confidently predicted that the human fatality rate over that same ground, given the prowling jackjaws, the flash floods, the bogs, zap-frosts, cruising dragon-kites, rockslides, and brush-fiends, would've been right around 100 percent. Throw in a personal convoy/bodyguard of two- to three-ton gawklegs evolved to thrive on Lebensraum, though, and all the equations changed. The humans had suffered no casualties but the gawks had, and Paloma, Floyt, and Alacrity were painfully aware of the connection.

  * * * *

  Things between the humans had changed, too, but in ways that were hard to define.

  At the end of the first day's journey down from the high desert, Floyt accepted Alacrity's and Paloma's word that there must be no more campfires after that night; the humans had thrown in their lot with the gawks irrevocably, and detection would likely mean death for all.

  So Floyt stared into the last fire, exhausted and still a bit bleary from the scuttle-death toxin, feeding the tiny blaze while Alacrity was off trying to get a location fix from surrounding land features and Paloma was gathering some menu extenders.

  Then Floyt realized Paloma was standing at his shoulder. She put down a meager double-handful of hardscrabble up-country nuts and roots on a flat rock, took her much-repaired camp stool, and joined him by the fire.

  "Just tell me this," she said suddenly. "Tell me what makes him so cocksure, huh? What're those little signals between you two? Why's Alacrity so smug about this White Ship business?"

  Floyt stared into the flames, debating where the next piece of wood ought to go, despondent about the nights that were to come, when there would be no light or warmth, but especially no light, and knowing he would miss, as well, his station as Keeper of the Flame.

  At last he sighed and gestured to the fire with the stick he held. "You think this is much of a light? Or that a bonfire is? God, Paloma, you should've seen the causality harp!

  "It was a Precursor artifact—at least I think 'was' is the right word; I'm fairly sure it was blown to oblivion. It was a—I don't know; a nebula, a living fire fifty meters high that sang and revealed Verities of its own, and what is to be."

  Paloma's face had clouded. "So what are are you telling me? You found some kind of Precursor crystal ball?"

  Floyt looked around at her suddenly, paused to consider, then nodded slowly. "That's exactly what I'm telling you; that's exactly what happened. Except that the crystal ball is more like some sort of wind chime that registered … well, I'm not sure what in creation it registered. Causality …

  "And Alacrity went out to it—almost into it—and asked it a question, asked it whether he'd be Master of the White Ship."

  "It told him yes, of course." Paloma frowned, on one knee by the fire. "And so now he figures he's got Destiny by the ass, hmm?"

  Floyt wanted to tell her everything but wasn't sure where to start, or how much it was fair to tell her about Alacrity's delusions in view of the fact that Floyt hadn't worked up the nerve to tell Alacrity himself.

  "S'right," Alacrity drawled, coming out of the dusk to balance on his teetering camp stool.

  Paloma looked him over. "And why should you control the Ship? Are you so much better than the Ghh'arkt? All they want to do is find the Precursors so they can pray to them. The rulers on Egalitaria claim they're going to administer all findings to benefit all life forms if they crack the Precursor mysteries. The Interested Parties want to show a profit, but at least they're a committee, or whatever, with some checks and balances. What makes you so special?"

  Alacrity made a sour smile. "Because I've been getting ready for it my whole life, and I don't owe anybody anything—no government, no god, nobody. Because the Ship's gonna be the greatest source of power of all time, and she's not to be controlled by the people who rule and the people who own!"

  He smiled again, self-deprecatingly, Paloma thought, drawn to his answer against her will.

  "And I haven't done much of either," Alacrity added.

  "But more to the point, you're the Anointed of the Causality Harp," she shot back, with a wicked set to her jaw, eyes slitted.

  That wiped the smile off Alacrity's face. "Besides," he said grimly, "that Ship means more to me than she does to any of them! I just—"

  He looked up at the stars. "It's got to be done fairly and justly. Precursor secrets're gonna dictate what happens to this universe; they have to be used right!"

  Paloma had moved from irritation to anger. "And that's what makes you so sure you know what's right? Some Precursor fireworks display?"

  Alacrity looked as if he was going to say something pompous and provoking; Floyt braced himself.

  But abruptly Alacrity's lopsided smirk appeared. "To level with you, yeah. And nobody's more surprised about it than I am."

  He shook his head, chortling, and rose to stroll back into the dusk, hands in his pockets and head tilted back to inspect the sky.

  * * * *

  Pokesnout and the humans were looking out at a string of acre-size turbo barges being guided and bapped as needed by waterjet workboats. For the Lebensraum Company, with its aged and limited industrial and technical base, surface shipping offered substantial savings over airfreighting; Lake Fret saw a lot of use.

  Clouds had closed in late in the day, giving the sky the textured grays and sepias of an old Earth platinum print. "The data says those schools of snapping whoosies and the rest of the lunch trade in the water there would tackle a human or a gawk," Paloma brooded. "If Hobie's idea doesn't work we're going to be turning in a very bad afteraction report on this one."

  "I don't see why it shouldn't," Floyt maintained. "You read the info and the calculations yourself. They may be guesswork, but they're good, informed guesswork."

  Lake Fret was a basin area formed through the solution of the underlying deposits of limestonelike sediments. Over the ages it had changed back and forth a number of times between a lake and a marshy prairie with areas of open water. But company documents said a vast, eroded cavern system typical of Karst topography remained beneath it. When occasional leaks developed in the limestone cap, company engineers were quick to reseal them with force-injected aquacrete composite on reinforced duralloy matrices; Lake Fret was important to the balance sheets for operation in that region.

  " 'We'll walk across, ' " Paloma quoted Floyt, patting his hand. "You really yinged me with that one! I saw us pulling off some New Testament extravaganza."

  "Or maybe Old Testament," Alacrity suggested, "parting the waters."

  "But you'll recall I never said anything about water," Floyt reminded them. "Now, when are the drones due?" He was checking his compass.

  Paloma read her proteus. "Let's see; they have fifty klicks to cover. If we programmed them right, they'll be here any time now."

  The company survey station, an automated facility, hadn't figured in their plans since it offered nothing of use. Mostly it was simply a seismic monitoring post and remote-controlled launch point for seismic sounding-charge drones. Then Floyt's brainstorm made it the linchpin of their survival. And so the three had left the herd long enough to break into the station and reprogram the six drones stored there. Company work records and maps showed them their exact targets.

  "Hey; here we go." Alacrity was pointing to the east. All six drones racked for launch at the station were programmed, but only three of the small shapes hove into view out of the cloud cover.

  "The rest must be on target already," Alacrity concluded. The other three objectives were closer to the station; the main one, out near Lake Fret's narrowest section, was vital and so the saboteurs were giving it double redundancy. As they watched, the chubby metal insects swung out to zero in on their objective.

  The trio settled down again to wait, sharing the little remaining food. They checked insect bites, blisters, injuries, and running sores acquired along the way. They spoke little, and only Pokesnout seemed relaxed.

  There was le
ss tension among the humans, though. An elegant system had evolved among them, vectors of attraction and friendship running in different directions and balancing each other, and caution running in opposite directions, canceling each other in at least one case.

  And so they were in a close partnership of adversity, with conflict very much in the background. Moreover, as Floyt had discovered, the hardships of a cross-country odyssey left a lot less time and inclination and energy for romance than the books, films, and holos might give one to think.

  But he suspected that if and when the three got to safety, the extreme circumstances of the Long Trek traded for comfort, privacy, and leisure, Paloma Sudan would let her desires come to the fore. He suspected, despondently, that her chosen lover would not be him.

  "Fancula! I'd give anything if we could tap into the company commo nets!" Alacrity fumed. A breeze stirred the trees, and gawklegs shifted around restively, eager to feed on the foliage but unable to because the New Verities included a lot of doctrine about staying hidden from possible observers, especially aerial ones. An adult gawk could put away more than one hundred kilos of forage a day, but the herd had been on thin rations for most of the Trek.

  Floyt was finishing the last of the food he'd saved, some freshwater shell creatures they'd dug from the lake's shallows with their lances. They wouldn't have appealed to him a few weeks before; now he prized at one with his survival tool, mouth watering and jaws aching in anticipation. As he did, the ground gave a distinct tremor and he nicked himself.

  "Alacrity! Was that—"

  "Had to be." Alacrity was on his feet, looking out over Lake Fret. Of course, there was nothing to see. "The other shock waves'll be a while longer getting here."

  He turned to Pokesnout. "We'd better move back from shore a little, just to be safe. And tell 'em they can come out from cover a little after dark to feed, as long as they don't strip the trees we're using for camouflauge."

  He looked out over Lake Fret. "And tell 'em we're coming into the home stretch."

  They kept lookout by turns that night, up on higher ground. The shore was in disarray, undergrowth and small trees draped with lake plants and battered by the miniature tidal waves kicked up by the blasts. It already stank of decay and death; the humans could hear small land animals moving around in the aftermath, feeding off beached lake dwellers and plants. Insects were swarming; luckily, there were no drillbugs in the area, but Alacrity opened his brolly and the three shared it as they had that first night.

  Paloma woke the other two around first light. Out over the lake, some sort of aircraft moved, showing an arcade of lights, playing spots, detector-lasers, and monitoring beams over the waters. A frightened groan went up from the hiding gawks until Pokesnout belched at them for silence.

  As the group looked on, the aircraft dropped some kind of tech buoy or probe robo far out over the water. Then it left.

  A short time later the light showed them, bit by bit, that the face of Lake Fret had changed; a mudflat over two-hundred meters wide led out to murky waters. The mud was draining, exposing pieces of embedded wood, silt-covered rocks, struggling, stranded lake creatures, and decomposing plants.

  A choking stench lay over everything. Flocks of flying things were gorging on the unscheduled feast, and scores of small, furtive shore animals who were predators or scavengers, as opportunity dictated, were sating themselves on the mass stranding. Insectlike life forms were out in clouds.

  "And there'll be bigger things along soon, to feed on those in turn," Paloma said, alluding to the breakfast contingent. "We'd better stay close to the gawks."

  "The limestone plug that gave way in that place on Terra—how long did it take to drain?" Alacrity asked Floyt as they took in the scene.

  "Paynes Prairie Lake? It took a week. It stranded steamboats and so forth, much as this will do. Of course, that lake was a good deal smaller than Lake Fret, but on the other hand the holes we've punched into the underground drainage are much, much bigger than the one that did the job on Paynes Prairie Lake, which was fairly modest.

  "I'd conjecture that it's just a question of how fast the drainage can handle water, and it's rather damned enormous, according to survey maps."

  "Fast enough, it looks like," Paloma agreed. "I'd say shaped deep-shaker seismic charges are a lot more efficient than a little chunk of stone giving way."

  "Just guessing," Alacrity said, "but it looks to me like we're due for a real low tide tonight." He consulted the holo lake charts and pointed. "Right across there. I do believe we're gonna make it."

  Floyt glanced at him. "I thought you were certain all along?"

  Alacrity hunched his shoulders, dropped them. "Oh, I believe it real hard, for about thirty seconds out of every hour or so. It comes and goes."

  "I never thought I'd say this, but don't start doubting now," Paloma told him. "We're a long way from home free."

  * * * *

  The mud was adhesive and deep, a sucking mire reeking with rotting microorganisms and higher life forms, still impassable to humans. But by nightfall a narrow isthmus had emerged from the receding waters. The three compared charts and depth readings and decided their chance had come.

  "Another day or three and that would be baked marl, an easy walk," Paloma estimated. "But that doesn't do us much good." The cover of darkness was essential, and there was no telling what problems another day's wait would bring.

  That mud was no great annoyance to the herd; gawklegs were used to mud, built for wading when necessary, and for enjoyment, and they had excellent night vision.

  The herd pushed off just after full dark. The humans couldn't do much but cling to their rides and hope; it all lay with Pokesnout and his people. One of Paloma's wilderness survival files had tipped them to a local plant, and now the three rode with all exposed skin rubbed down with leaves of cabbagelike stenchweed. It kept most of the swarmers from landing on them but not from circling maddeningly, whining and buzzing and ratcheting in the gloom.

  Seldom troubled by mud above the calves' knees, often in stuff that was less than hock-deep, the herd smelled and spied out the highest ground. Then too, since most of the weak and the sick had died along the way, the herd made good time.

  A few individuals got stuck, but the gawks constantly showed how adept they were at helping one another when they weren't hampered by sand devils. Every so often, as the exodus went on, Alacrity and the others heard strandees flopping and thrashing weakly in the mud. Those seemed fewer out along the isthmus, though; Alacrity reckoned that most of the lake's denizens had had time to make it to deeper waters. He was also assuming the Lebensraum Company had no intention of letting Lake Fret revert to prairie, thereby costing the company a fortune for a new air or dryland freighting system.

  At least, there was a lot of sky traffic, though less than there'd been during the day. Given the relative scarcity of flying craft on Lebensraum, Lake Fret was evidently an emergency-priority crisis. Most of the effort looked like it was going into moving crews and machinery to work sites after a day of evacuations and survey overflights.

  The herd forded on, dragging hooves from the clinging ooze to put them down again. Every so often an aircraft would rush by, sometimes at low altitude. The entire caravan froze then, though if the company was using detectors and looking for unusual movement there wasn't a prayer the herd wouldn't be spotted.

  "I don't know; that last one seemed to slow down for a second, there," Floyt said of one flyover. "How far do we have to go?"

  "Not far, I think," Alacrity said. "Pokesnout, how about it?"

  "We smell land very close, Speed. Do you not?"

  "I mostly smell me," Alacrity began, and heard Paloma gasp.

  "They've found us!"

  From the southeast came a flight of aircraft, several smaller ones and two giants, running lights blazing, megacandlepower spotlights playing back and forth across the water. They were bound straight for the herd.

  "Not much else they could be looking for o
ut here," Alacrity agreed. "And anyway, they're bound to see us. Okay, Pokesnout: remember what we told you. Let's go!"

  Pokesnout threw his head back and brayed loudly. The other gawks had seen the oncoming airships and knew the signal. They wuffed and honked among themselves, preparing to run. Pokesnout gave a brief, stertorous sound; the herd broke into a sloppy, desperate race.

  Mud was everywhere, hurled up by the broad hooves. Alacrity could only cling to Treeneck's surcingle, burrowing his head against the bull's neck. The mudflats shook to the cannonading. Almost from the first there were mishaps; gawks lost footing or collided with one another and went down, only to flail up again. They were the winnowed-out herd, consummate survivors, quick to rebound and incapable of giving up.

  The flight of aircraft was breaking formation, the individual ships spreading out slowly and deliberately, taking up what Floyt assumed to be attack positions. Some hung back as others moved right and left, and a lead vessel bore down right on the herd. It was then that Alacrity and Floyt heard Paloma calling out their names.

  "Rein back! Stay with me! Maybe we can stall them somehow so the others can make it!"

  It was sure that those gawks burdened with humans would never outrun aircraft. We'll be captured or killed whether we run or stand, Alacrity concluded. At least this way some gawks might live. It's the least we can do for leading 'em into this.

  Floyt made the same decision; in another moment the three were sitting side by side with Pokesnout, Treeneck, and Rockhorn rubbing shoulders under them as the lead ship closed. The gawks shook their horns, made bellicose sounds, and flung up muck with their hooves. Paloma, in the center, reached out to squeeze each man's shoulder.

  Alacrity was reviewing the alibis and lies he'd thought up over the weeks since Hecate whirled the trio away from the Wicked Wickiup. He hoped he'd get a chance to try one or two of them instead of being scorched on the spot. Just as he was making up his mind which one to go with first, the lead ship stopped, hovering, its spots raising their aim from the water and fixing on the two large ships, which had taken up station close to the lake's surface.