A Darkling Sea

by James Cambias

  “So what do we do now?” Rob asked Alicia. “I understand why we can’t go help set up—this way only Josef knows where both Coqs are—but it does leave you and me with nothing to do for a couple of hours at least.”

  “Robert, I hope you are not trying to interest me in any sexual adventures. This water is too cold.”

  “Relax. I don’t think about that all the time.”

  “You may think about it as much as you like, but I am not sure we will have many opportunities.”

  “We can try to be quiet when Josef’s around.”

  “We will be too busy. I want to use our time in the Coquille to get some field work done. We are not going on vacation.”

  “Great,” he said. “A romantic getaway in an alien ocean and you just want to do field work.”

  A splash caught his attention. Someone was leaving Hitode Station through the moon pool. Rob turned off his suit and helmet lights and motioned for Alicia to do the same. He cranked up the gain on his hydrophone.

  The breathing gear sounded Sholen, but there was only one individual. The Sholen troops always worked in pairs. Was it Tizhos or Gishora?

  Alicia and Rob swam quietly after the lone Sholen, staying well back and relying on sight and passive sonar. Their quarry moved away from the station heading upcurrent, stopped to examine some of the catch-nets in the rocks, then veered off toward the warm water exhaust from the power plant.

  “It is Gishora,” Alicia said over their secure link. “Tizhos is bigger.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “I think he is looking for specimens.”

  “You mean he’s doing science? I don’t get it.”

  “Why not? He has some free time; he gathers some data. It seems perfectly reasonable to me.”

  Rob was glad they weren’t using a video link, so he could roll his eyes in complete privacy. “Well, let’s hope he finishes up before Josef comes back for the second Coquille.”

  “I think that if his work is sufficiently interesting, he will not notice anything.”

  STRONGPINCER leads his band through the cold water, staying low near the bottom. There are large predators out here, some of them big enough or stupid enough to tackle a group of adults. It’s also easier to navigate when he can taste the silt in the water and occasionally ping to hear the landscape.

  He remembers there is a current whorl somewhere out here where young ones gather. His earliest memories are of being in a school with others, fighting over scraps left by bigger children, hiding from adults with nets. He remembers his first kill: he is very hungry and finds a trapworm egg case. A larger child tries to take it. Strongpincer attacks, ignoring the other’s jabs, dropping the eggs, going for his enemy’s underside. He grabs the base of the other’s pincers and cracks the joint in his strong grip, he hacks at gills and feeding tendrils, he gets a sharp pincer into the other’s tender mouthparts, and finally pierces the thin shell between body and tail.

  When it is over, Strongpincer finds himself missing a couple of legs and a feeler, but his opponent is dead. He feasts on the remains, then calls some others to share, and from then on Strongpincer is a power in the school.

  That school is where he’s trying to go right now. He does not imagine finding his own schoolmasters there, but he figures it must be a good spot to look for children. If the old school is empty, he imagines his band camping while they catch some new recruits for the gang. And if there are schoolmasters there—Strongpincer is bigger and stronger than he remembers being when he left the place. He wouldn’t mind the chance to teach a schoolmaster some things.

  A sound wakes Strongpincer from his memory. It is a faint, steady hum. It is difficult to tell which direction the sound is coming from. Strongpincer pings the others to quiet down, then swims in a wide circle, listening carefully. The sound seems to be strongest off to the left, which is very strange indeed. As far as Strongpincer knows, there’s nothing that way but an expanse of empty sea bottom.

  So what is the hum? It isn’t any kind of animal—it’s too steady. He listens but it never changes pitch or volume. A vent, perhaps? Possibly a pipe farm? Water through pipes can make all kinds of noises. A vent out here would be isolated, vulnerable. Easy pickings? Or abandoned, free for the taking?

  He turns toward the sound, but soon realizes his bearing is changing as he homes in. The noise is moving. It is also getting fainter even though he and the others are swimming hard.

  Strongpincer pauses for thought. A moving sound means some kind of creature, and if it can swim faster than a strong adult like himself, it must be quite large. He is content to hunt smaller prey. The three bandits give up the chase and turn back toward the current. There are swimmers to catch there, and rocks coated with edible growths. And he imagines that when they find a school of youngsters they can eat any they don’t recruit.

  THE ride out from Hitode with the second Coquille was slow and unsteady. The Coquille tended to swing astern as the sub moved, which angled its flat shape downward, turning the whole thing into a giant sea anchor trying to drag the sub into the sea bottom. Josef had to pitch the sub’s nose up at about forty-five degrees and redline the motors to compensate for the drag. Changing directions meant coming to a halt, turning the sub with the thrusters, and starting off again.

  The three of them had picked the ruins at the extinct Maury 19 vent as the best hiding place. Nobody back at Hitode knew where they were going, so there was no way the Sholen could learn their location without going out and searching. The Maury 19 site had lots of jumbled rock, including ancient Ilmataran cut building stones, which would hide the Coquille’s sonar signature.

  Setting up the Coquille was even more difficult than moving it. As designed, it was supposed to simply hang from the submarine while a couple of divers released the catches at the side of the shipping shroud and then began inflating it with an APOS unit. The flexible-walled shelter would unfold, and presto! An underwater house!

  It didn’t work that way. When Rob and Alicia released the catches and began inflation, the Coquille stayed sullenly inside the shipping shroud while precious argon bubbled uselessly into the ocean because the little pump in the APOS unit couldn’t generate enough pressure to blow up the big Kevlar-and-foam shelter unit.

  So Alicia monitored the inflation level while Rob moved around the outside of the shelter, manually cranking the four support struts into their extended position. Since extending any one strut too far would jam the others, this meant Rob had to give each strut a couple of cranks with the extremely inadequate folding crank tool, swim to the next and repeat the process, over and over and over until the Coquille reached its full four-meter height. He could feel blisters developing on his hands, and every muscle in his upper body ached by the time the job was done.

  Alicia spent the time fiddling with the inflation pump. Too much pressure and the gas backed up and bubbled away. Too little and the sides of the Coquille began to buckle inward. She lost several liters of argon before finding an inflation rate that matched Rob’s pace cranking open the struts.

  After an hour of exhausting work the Coquille was inflated. Rob took a breather and let Alicia extend the support legs. Then Josef, who had spent the whole time aboard the sub keeping it in exactly the right position with the side thrusters, lowered the structure to the seafloor.

  More work with the folding crank tool followed as Rob and Alicia got the legs adjusted to keep the shelter level. Then they could swim underneath to the access hatch and climb up into their new home.

  Rob went first, out of some atavistic impulse to make sure it was all right before letting Alicia inside. He cracked the hatch and then opened it, looking around to make sure nothing had shifted and was about to fall on his head. The light control was just inside, and after working in the ocean darkness by shoulder lamps, the halogen bulbs were blinding.

  The interior of the Coquille was all new and clean—shockingly so after his months living in Hitode’s high-tech squalor. All the equipm
ent was still packed in a layer on the floor, neatly covered with shrink-wrap.

  Rob cleared the hatch and winced a little as he slopped seawater onto the nice clean interior. Like getting the first scratch on a new toy. Alicia surged up next to him, squinting in the brightness.

  “Atmosphere test,” he said, then switched off his APOS and cracked his helmet.

  The smell nearly knocked him out. It was a powerful newcar smell of fresh plastic, a hint of ozone, and something unfamiliar that, after a moment, Rob realized was simply fresh, clean air. He’d been breathing his own and everyone else’s funk for so long the absence of any stench was shocking.

  The two of them got to work unpacking. They peeled up the shrink-wrap layer and began stowing all the items where they belonged. Everything had a helpful little label telling where it should go. It was like a tremendous birthday present. There was a compact life- support unit with its own radiothermal generator, four hammocks to go in the upper section of the shelter, a little aluminum worktable, a stove, a dehumidifier/potable water extractor, a freezer for food and specimens, a medical kit— everything a small team would need for extended field operations.

  The interior was a single space. They stacked the equipment against the walls and unfolded a table in the center. The hatch in the floor was off center, so that a fourth person could sit at the table as long as nobody needed to go in or out. The hammocks hung overhead, just above an average astronaut’s head—which meant that Josef had to stoop.

  The Coquilles had been designed to serve as temporary bases for exploration beyond the immediate surroundings of Hitode. The mission planners had imagined that archaeologists might set one up at a particularly good site for intensive digging, or biologists establish themselves at a rich vent to study the native life. Thanks to Sholen (and some Terran) concerns about “colonization” the Coqs had never been used.

  “What do you think?” Josef poked his head into the hatch and called out, making them jump in surprise.

  “It’s great! Sen couldn’t pay me to leave!” said Rob. “It’s going to be a little cramped with three of us, but not too bad. I don’t snore.”

  “And I’m certainly going to spend as much time as possible outside, observing and collecting,” said Alicia. “This site is a good example of a relatively rich current-fed ecosystem.”

  “You do that,” said Rob. “I can keep the hab running, Josef’s got the sub to tend, and we’ve got a month’s worth of food. When we get tired of each other we can go check out the other Coquille. It’s like a little vacation.”

  GISHORA only noticed the missing humans at the eve ning meal. He counted those present, and the count came up six short.

  “Tizhos!” he called over their private link. “Gather the Guardians and search the habitat. Six of the humans have gone missing.”

  While Gishora made sure nobody entered or left the common room, Tizhos and the four Guardians made a systematic sweep through the habitat modules. They could not account for six of the humans. A search of the dive room revealed that their suits were gone as well, and when Tizhos led two Guardians outside, they found no trace of the submarine.

  She reported back to Gishora in person. “I believe they have left the station.”

  Gishora motioned Vikram Sen over. “Doctor Sen, I would like you to tell us where the missing people have gone.”

  “I am very sorry but unfortunately I have no idea where they are,” said Sen. “Nobody at the station knows.”

  “I want you to tell me what purpose they intend to accomplish.”

  “As to that, you must understand that I did not order them to leave, so this is entirely speculation on my part. But it may well be that they have left Hitode because they don’t want to be dragged to the elevator, hauled up to the surface, and forced aboard your space vehicle. But, as I say, that is just speculation.”

  “It seems a foolish act,” said Gishora. “They can remain outside in their suits for a dozen hours, possibly as long as two dozen, but no longer. They will accomplish nothing.”

  Tizhos had been consulting her personal computer, and rubbed against Gishora to get his attention. “I see a problem,” she said in their own language.

  “Tell me.”

  “The humans brought along two temporary shelters, to aid in exploration. I did not see either of them outside when I searched. According to the mission plan, each one can support three humans for several weeks.”

  Gishora turned back to Vikram Sen and spoke in English. “Tell me if they have taken the temporary shelters.”

  “What a clever idea!” said Sen. “With the submarine they could take the Coquilles a considerable distance. You are going to have a very difficult time finding them.”

  “Tell me if you have a way to communicate with them. You must ask them to return.”

  “Sadly, no. They are undoubtedly beyond hydrophone range. Perhaps if you stop removing people from the station they will return.”

  Gishora was silent for a moment, then spoke to the whole room. “I must state that this action represents a very uncooperative attitude,” he said, then beckoned Tizhos to follow him back to their room.

  At first he walked slowly, but halfway there he seemed to brighten up, and his pace became almost jaunty.

  They gave Irona the bad news over a secure link to the ship in orbit. Tizhos thought the whole idea of encrypting their conversation seemed rather silly—after all, the humans could listen to what they were saying by simply putting an ear to the door of their room. But serious matters demanded the formality of pointless security.

  “It saddens me to report that some of the humans have fled the station,” said Gishora.

  “I don’t think I understand,” said Irona. “Explain how they can survive.”

  “Consult the original exploration plan: the humans brought along two small portable shelters.”

  “Yes, I remember now. We used diplomatic pressure to prevent them from expanding across the planet with these so- called ’temporary’ bases.”

  “They have now deployed them, and six humans now hide somewhere on the ocean floor. Vikram Sen claims they do this to protest our actions here,” said Gishora. “He says they acted without his permission.”

  “It surprises me that you believe such a statement,” said Irona. “You often describe humans as rule-bound and hierarchical. It seems more reasonable that they have a plan. They challenge us to take action.”

  “I prefer to wait them out,” said Gishora. “They cannot have an indefinite supply of food.”

  “We can assume nothing. Our own supplies cannot last forever, and those of us in orbit will eventually get too much radiation exposure. The humans may wish to keep our ship here until Terran military forces can arrive. You may not have considered that.”

  From his sudden change in posture Tizhos could see that, indeed, Gishora had not thought of that. The notion seemed ridiculous—did the Terrans even have military forces that could reach Ilmatar and fight a Sholen ship? But the idea appeared to disturb Gishora a great deal. “I wish to avoid conflict if we can,” he said.

  “Then I believe we must capture these hiding humans as quickly as possible,” said Irona. “Get all of them aboard and then leave this world. If you remember, I said at the very beginning that the success of this mission depends on rapid action.”

  “Above all we must avoid violence,” said Gishora. “The humans may return on their own.”

  “I doubt that,” said Irona, and Tizhos could almost smell the scent of scorn through the video link. “We must retain the initiative and send out searchers.”

  “If you think we can do that without provoking greater conflict, I agree,” said Gishora.

  “I do. Tell me if you need more Guardians. I can send more down with the elevator, now that we control it.”

  “No,” said Gishora quickly. “This station can barely accomodate the six already here. Wait until more of the humans leave. Tizhos and I will try to find where the humans hide. It may
take a little while,” said Gishora, and broke the link.

  “Tell me if you really believe we have enough Guardians,” said Tizhos as soon as she was sure Irona couldn’t hear.

  “I do. Vikram Sen has said the humans will not cooperate, but will not fight us, either. The six Guardians already here seem sufficient. And we still have no idea where the missing humans have hidden themselves, so they may yet return.”

  “Oh, but I do know their location!” said Tizhos. “One of the shelters, at least. Remember that I have explored the station computer network. Their submarine automatically joins that network whenever it comes within laser link range. The station system keeps a copy of the submarine’s log, including position and time rec ords. Look here!” She happily manipulated her terminal, connecting to the Hitode system and calling up the submarine logs. “After taking away the first shelter the submarine returned and the log automatically updated. You can see the complete profile of its voyage.”

  Gishora looked disappointed. “Explain why we still have access to the station’s network at all,” he asked after a moment.

  “Oh, we don’t. Vikram Sen locked us out shortly after you asked the humans to leave Ilmatar. But as part of our investigation I got copies of the dead Henri Kerlerec’s files, including his codes and passwords. They still work. Sen has not deleted him yet.”

  “Well done, Tizhos,” said Gishora, though he still did not sound pleased. “But I feel we can wait a few days before sending these results up to Irona. I don’t want to rush if I can avoid it.”

  Tizhos’s sense of triumph faded and she cringed. “I have bad news, then. I have made it my habit to send up copies of all my notes and logs every few hours. Irona already has this information, if he chooses to look.”

  Gishora cuffed her, but not hard. No more than a token gesture. “I fear that means we can’t delay too long in telling him about your discovery. Someone may compare times and dates later on. Tomorrow, then—but not too early.” He slumped on his cushions and looked beaten. “I hoped to use this delay to spend more time studying Ilmatar. Instead we must continue to act like warriors. I hate it.”