A Darkling Sea

by James Cambias

  “Some dead ones here,” Shellcrusher pings. “Pretty big.”

  Strongpincer breaks off the pincers to eat as he swims over. There are two dead ones, both torn and nibbled by scavengers, but each has a neat hole just behind the headshield, just the size of an adult’s pincer. He feels the bodies all over. One has defective pincers, the other’s head is small and misshapen. Failures.

  He remembers his own time in a school: adults culling the weak and deformed, leaving the bodies for the survivors. He remembers his own gladness at realizing he is strong.

  “There are schoolmasters nearby,” he says. “Taste the waters carefully and find out which way they went.”

  Strongpincer hopes to salvage his plan. Schoolmasters can dominate the young, but they are often weak and cowardly when dealing with adults. He plans making a show of violence to overawe them. Isolated in coldwater among half-taught young, schoolmasters are often more than half wild themselves. Despite their blather about learning, they respect strength and cruelty. Strongpincer is strong and knows how to be cruel.

  BACK at Coquille 2, Dickie told his story again, at greater length and without as much chewing and swallowing. When he was done, Alicia was the first to speak.

  “What do we do now?”

  “We’ve got to fight them,” said Graves. “They’ve obviously taken the gloves off and the longer we wait the more harm they can do.”

  “Can I talk to you alone for a second?” Rob asked Alicia.

  “Where?”

  “Just over here.” The two of them huddled by the rack of suits on the opposite side of the Coquille from the worktable. “I think you should turn yourself in,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Go back to Hitode and give yourself up. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “You are very noble, Robert, but I will not do that.”

  “This is serious, Alicia.”

  “I am serious, too.”

  He looked into her eyes and came to a decision. “Okay, then. If you’re staying, then so am I.”

  The two of them returned to the table, where Josef and Dickie pretended they hadn’t heard every whisper of their conversation.

  “Okay,” said Rob. “We need to figure out how we’re going to defeat the Sholen.”

  BROADTAIL is untangling some of Oneclaw’s books. The old teacher has some interesting works. Aside from standards like the Comprehensive List of Words by Roundbody 1 Midden or the Collection of Useful Arts by the Coldvent Company of Scholars, there’s a copy of The Anatomy of Communication by Flathead 67 Lowbasin, and the favorite of eccentrics everywhere, The Source of Flow by Longhead 52 Deepsand.

  He’s running a copy of Sound-Pulses Directed Downward by Widehead 66 Coldruins through his feelers when Oneclaw comes to the entrance, pinging loudly.

  “Quickly! A band of adults with a towfin are coming! Take up a weapon—they may be raiders.”

  Broadtail grabs a bolt-launcher and hurries outside. There are two adults approaching the shelter, and he can hear another and a towfin about a cable away.

  “Who are you?” calls Oneclaw as they approach.

  “We are a horde of desperate killers,” says the leader. “Give us what we want or we attack.”

  Broadtail pings them. He recognizes the speaker—it is the leader of the bandits he remembers plundering his expedition. Anger floods through him. Why can’t they leave him alone?

  “Go away!” he shouts.

  “Why so fierce?” Oneclaw taps quietly on Broadtail’s shell.

  He answers aloud. “These are bandits. But not a desperate horde—cowardly ambushers and robbers.”

  “I remember you,” says the leader. “And I remember attacking you in cold water. A fair fight, with no marker stones near. No law.”

  “You are inside my boundaries,” says Oneclaw. “It is my law here, and I say peace. Agree, leave, or fight.”

  “We are three, all strong and fit. You are two, with one missing a claw.”

  “Then come and fight!” cried Broadtail. He quotes the epic The Conquest of The City of Three Vents. “ ‘Nothing is certain but your death.’ ”

  For a moment nobody says anything.

  “We ask your protection, then,” says the leader to Oneclaw. “My name is Strongpincer. My band and I wish to rest here.”

  “Don’t trust them!” Broadtail taps out on Oneclaw’s shell.

  “Of course not,” is the silent reply. “But I do not want fighting if I can avoid it.” Aloud, he says “I have a little fodder and some food, but little else to give you. You may rest and tether your beast by the boundary stones. I do not take you under my protection and you must leave when I ask.”

  “Agreed.”

  The newcomers set up camp just inside Oneclaw’s boundary, not far from the pens holding the students. By all law and custom they should lay aside their weapons, but Broadtail doubts Strongpincer cares much for law and custom.

  TIZHOS found Gishora in the dive room, getting into a suit. “Tell me if you intend to go out again.”

  “Yes,” Gishora answered. “I have little to do within the station. You perform your tasks extremely well.” With the suit covering Gishora and the strong smell of the Ilmataran water, the words of praise had little effect.

  “You know of the potential for danger outside. I urge you to take along Guardians.”

  “The Guardians know little of proper scientific technique. I find it difficult to gather specimens with them around. Each time I go out I must teach them again not to make noise or stir up the silt.”

  “They did not come here to do science.”

  “Exactly.” Gishora was entirely suited but for his hood. “I feel no fear outside alone. The humans remain in hiding.”

  Tizhos lowered her voice. “Irona contacted me privately. He expressed concern about how slowly the evacuation proceeds.”

  “No doubt time seems to pass more slowly aboard the ship in orbit. Here I can barely find time for all the things I wish to do.”

  “He said his Guardians complain that you spend more time doing science than hunting for the humans.”

  “His Guardians? I did not know Sholen have become things one can own, or that our mission has become Irona’s personal property, rather than a working group assembled for a task.”

  “The Guardians, then. Instead of critiquing my speech you should worry that they complain about you to Irona.”

  “When I hear something which causes me worry, I will worry about it. The fact that some of the Guardians complain does not bother me.”

  “I feel that you should pay more attention to Irona’s concerns. I think most of the others aboard the ship agree with him about the humans.”

  Gishora stationed himself on the edge of the pool. “I know— but the faster we send up the humans, the less time remains to study this world. We have lost, Tizhos. Irona’s faction wish to end exploration here, for both Sholen and humans. Now that both sides have used violence, I see no way to salvage the situation.”

  Tizhos cringed a little at that.

  Gishora didn’t sound angry, though, and continued speaking. “Therefore I must gather as much information as I can while we remain here. We may never get the chance again. You might consider doing the same.” With that he sealed up his hood, then rolled into the water and disappeared.

  BROADTAIL and Oneclaw take turns staying awake and on guard while the bandits are camped by the school. They don’t get much teaching done, although Broadtail does keep up the language lessons while feeding the students.

  He’s trying to get Holdhard to say “Give me that food,” when he hears Strongpincer approaching. He turns, keeping his spear ready.

  “A good class of young ones,” says Strongpincer. “Any of them ready to sell? I could use a few apprentices.”

  “They’re still just learning proper speech. We still have much to teach them.”

  “How much do they sell for? I’ve never bought one.”

  “I remember buying
one for a thousand beads at Continuous Abundance.”

  “Do you remember doing something else before teaching?”

  “I do. I recall being a landowner, and being exiled for murder.” He hopes that makes him sound more formidable.

  “I must be wary around such a dangerous adult, then,” says Strongpincer, then turns and starts to swim away. As he does, something tied to his harness rattles oddly, and Broadtail gives a little ping to find out what it is. It’s some kind of box, carved of stone.

  “What is that?”

  “What? This thing?” Strongpincer taps it with a leg.

  “Yes. Where do you remember finding it?”

  “In some ruins. Hiding out from militia. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m interested in objects like that. May I feel it?”

  Strongpincer hesitates, then hands it to Broadtail. The lid of the box fits very closely, and inside is an object unlike anything Broadtail can remember. He sets down his spear and takes a reel of cord from his harness to make some notes.

  “Please tell me everything you can about its origin,” he asks.

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  “You can have all my wealth,” says Broadtail. “Which is nothing. I am alive only because of Oneclaw’s charity.”

  “Then give it back.”

  For a moment Broadtail wants to fight Strongpincer for it, but then he realizes he has put down his spear. He passes the box back. “Do you have anything else like it?”

  “What do I gain by letting you handle my things? You admit you have nothing.”

  “You are a guest here. I am certain Oneclaw is also interested in strange things.”

  Strongpincer turns to go. “We camp by the boundary, and one of you always stands guard. That is not how one treats a guest. I owe you nothing.”

  “What do you want for it, then?”

  Strongpincer stops and turns back to Broadtail. “I need some apprentices. Trade me four of the young ones here for the box.”

  “They are not mine to trade.”

  “Tell Oneclaw, then. Or—”

  “What?”

  “You sound like a good fighter. As he sleeps, gather the young ones and come with me.”

  “I owe Oneclaw my life. I remember almost dying but for him.”

  “And now you are no better than an apprentice here. You have nothing that is not his. I can show you where I recall finding the box. Others may be there. Leave the schoolmaster.”

  Broadtail is tempted. He doesn’t even like Oneclaw very much. But . . . “No. It is wrong to even suggest it.”

  “Calm yourself. Think about it. Consider my offer carefully— and consider what you can expect by staying here. I must go.” He turns again and strolls off. The students clamor for food as he passes.

  DICKIE Graves let the current push him toward Hitode, kicking occasionally to keep himself oriented and maintain depth. He took shallow breaths, trying to stay irregular. There was a plastic bag over the hydrogen vent on his backpack, and from time to time he emptied it. Presumably the Sholen would be listening for the regular bubble-bubble-bubble of an unmodified APOS.

  According to the inertial compass he was less than a kilometer from Hitode. Which meant he’d be coming up on the outer line of hydrophones soon.

  The raid was his own idea: a trip by impeller to the jumbled rocks at Maury Epsilon, then an easy two-klick swim, sabotage one of the hydrophones and swim away before the Sholen could react. Over time he could make the station deaf, or force the Sholen to send out patrols—which could be ambushed.

  It was all just like Von Lettow in Africa: keep the enemy uncertain and force him to guard all possible targets. Classic guerrilla strategy. The Sholen might have advanced nanotech and stuff like that, but their society had forgotten how to make war. They were making themselves into sheep while humans were still wolves. Dickie Graves thought he was a particularly fearsome wolf.

  According to the inertial compass he was just a hundred meters from hydrophone six. He let himself drop to the sea bottom and began to crawl, moving from rock to rock. This was familiar territory; he’d helped set up the hydrophone net. Number six was just ahead, perched atop a boulder to keep it from getting covered with silt. He’d come at it from the side and cut the data cable, then grab the phone and swim like hell.

  He had covered sixty meters creeping along the bottom when he heard someone swimming. His helmet sonar pinpointed the source: a single individual coming out from Hitode. For a moment Dickie was afraid he’d been heard, but then the swimmer veered off to the west, heading for one of the nets. Dickie toggled up the sound volume and listened. It didn’t sound like a human swimming. It sounded like a Sholen.

  Dickie hunkered down behind a rock, waiting, barely breathing. He pressed the deadman button to shut off his APOS for extra quiet—the oxygen inside the suit would last him a few minutes if he didn’t exert himself.

  The Sholen meandered along, stopping from time to time to pick up rocks or bottom- dwelling life. Finally the alien reached the nets and began taking out the various swimmers and flotsam caught there.

  Dickie considered his strategy. If he took out the hydrophone first, the Sholen might hear and come to investigate. But if he tried to neutralize the Sholen, it would certainly make enough noise to alert the aliens inside Hitode Station. The urge to strike back at one of them was strong, but in the end Graves restrained himself. Concentrate on the job you came to do, he told himself.

  He let go of the deadman button and took on some oxygen, then pressed it again and pushed off against the rock, launching himself at the hydrophone. Halfway there he had to let go of the button and start swimming. The phone was certain to hear him.

  The hydrophone was just where he’d installed it, a bright orange casing taped to a boulder, with a long optical cable trailing off through the silt. He slashed the cable and pulled the hydrophone off the rock. No sense in wasting it; properly set up it could be an early warning system for the new camp.

  He swam hard, trying to get away from Hitode before someone came to investigate. His own external pickup detected a sonar ping. The Sholen was swimming toward him. Damn.

  GISHORA heard the noise of something swimming rapidly and checked the helmet display. He could see no icons indicating other divers around Hitode. So either the noise came from one of the renegade humans, or an Ilmataran organism. Either way, he ought to investigate.

  It swam toward a clump of rocks. He gave it an active sonar ping, to get a better image of whatever it was. Four limbs, about half the length of a Sholen, bulbous head and backpack. A human, then. Gishora felt a little bit disappointed at that.

  “I want you to stop swimming away,” he called out. “I see no way for you to escape.”

  The human ducked behind the rocks and Gishora swam faster to catch whoever it was. In the human’s wake the water contained a great deal of silt. All Gishora could see was the cloudy cone of light from his helmet lamp. It made him feel disoriented and a little frightened. He had to keep checking his faceplate displays to be sure to stay level.

  The rock outcropping was a welcome bit of firm reality in the dark chaos of the silty water. Gishora touched it, holding on as though some powerful current might sweep him away.

  Something struck his head hard, knocking him down. The displays went crazy, and he could hardly make sense of the text and symbols flashing across his vision. He tried to get up, but felt something land on top of him, clinging to his back.

  Gishora gave a cry of surprise, then tried to reach behind him to dislodge the human. He felt cold water against the back of his head, pouring into the suit, separating the clinging inner membrane from his skin. It was so cold it burned. He couldn’t see anything. The water was full of silt and bubbles.

  Then he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen, and more cold water. Amid the flashing lights in his hood he saw the MEDICAL ALERT icon and the OXYGEN SYSTEM FAILURE symbol. Behind them, half- obscured by the swirling silt, he glimpsed a face. I
t was the human Richard Graves, baring his teeth inside his helmet and raising his utility knife for another stab.

  The blade jabbed into Gishora’s upper right shoulder. He tried to grab the human, but the cold and the pain made it hard to move, and his suit was filling with water.

  Gishora couldn’t see Graves anymore, but he felt the blade slice into the muscles of his back, and again into his side behind his midlimbs. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer, and coughed and choked as the burning cold water entered his lungs.

  BROADTAIL hurries back to the shelter and wakes Oneclaw. “Those bandits want to take the students!”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. I recall Strongpincer suggesting I kill you and join his band with the students.”

  “I assume you choose not to?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I ask because it is not illogical for you to be in league with the bandits. I remember worrying about that when rescuing you.”

  “I am no bandit!” says Broadtail indignantly. “I am a scientist!”

  “You might be a bandit scientist. But never mind that now. I trust you. We have more important problems. How can we stand against a whole gang of them? Perhaps we should flee.”

  “In cold water they can snatch us one at a time. Fortifying ourselves within the shelter is the only way. Two of us with spears can hold the entrance.”

  “A good plan, worthy of Shortleg 88. But we cannot fit all the students inside.”

  Broadtail looks around and makes a quick inventory of their supplies. “I imagine bringing in the two best and leaving the rest.”

  “Which ones?”

  “The two females. Holdhard is small but clever. Sharpclaw is strong. I imagine both fetching a good price as apprentices.”

  “I agree.”

  The two of them go out to fetch the two students. Broadtail can hear one of the bandits—probably the big one—moving with them about half a cable away. But nothing happens and they return to the shelter with Holdhard and Sharpclaw. Oneclaw takes them inside and secures them while Broadtail begins fortifying the doorway and plugging gaps in the walls of the shelter.