A Darkling Sea

by James Cambias

He hears someone approach, and takes up his spear. It’s Strongpincer.

  “Do you accept my offer?”

  “Rob Oneclaw and join your band? No. I refuse.”

  “Then I plan to take what I want.”

  “And we plan to fight you.”

  Strongpincer moves a couple of steps toward Broadtail, who swings up his spear, keeping the point between the two of them. Broadtail handles his spear well, like a landowner who hunts and drills with a town militia. Strongpincer backs away.

  Broadtail waits until the bandit is half a cable away, then goes inside.

  He gives food to the students, to keep them quiet while he and Oneclaw prepare. The old teacher has all his weapons piled in the middle of the shelter. It isn’t a very good arsenal.

  There are four hunting spears, but one of them has only the sharpened end of the shaft instead of a proper obsidian head.

  He has a couple of hammers, a single bolt-launcher for close-in work, and the noisemaker.

  “Do you imagine this working?” Broadtail asks Oneclaw, holding up the noisemaker.

  “I cannot remember ever actually using it in combat. It does give us the advantage of surprise—I doubt coldwater bandits ever read Swiftswimmer.”

  “Then I suggest using it only in the direst emergency.”

  “Agreed. Do you hear them coming? That is the worst part of any fight like this: waiting for the enemy to actually do something.”

  STRONGPINCER knows about attacking a fortified shelter, and what he knows is that surprise is the best tactic. Drop down out of the water onto a farm without being heard, cut off the landowner and apprentices from the shelter, and the battle is all but won.

  But when the defenders are barricaded inside, everything changes. Even if there are gaps in the shelter—and Oneclaw’s shelter is old stonework—anyone attacking an opening risks a spearpoint in the head.

  But even that is better than the alternative of trying to wait out the defenders. Doing that requires enough food and patience to outlast them, and Strongpincer has neither.

  There are the students in the pens, and a few bits of gear left around the school worth taking, but Strongpincer knows all the really good stuff is inside the shelter. He suspects the two students inside are the best of the lot, as well.

  Strongpincer decides to attack. His band has three good fighters against a couple of schoolmasters and two students, and one of the masters is deformed. He knows that getting Shellcrusher inside the shelter is all he needs to win.

  He lets Shellcrusher and Weaklegs rest a while before attacking. The schoolmasters won’t come out, and he wants to give them the chance to be bored and sleepy themselves.

  When he judges they have slept enough, he wakes his team and the attack begins. The three of them surround the shelter and come at it from different sides, probing for weaknesses.

  Shellcrusher has the door. It is barricaded with all manner of junk, but that makes it hard to defend as she gets her powerful pincers into seams and starts to pry the door apart.

  Weaklegs and Strongpincer attack small gaps in the stonework. They have spears, and Strongpincer instructs Weaklegs to probe the hole and draw the attention of those within. He himself is less aggressive, keeping to one side where a bolt- launcher cannot hit him, jabbing with his spear at the opening and making a lot of noise.

  He gets a response: a spear thrusts out from the opening, probing the open water. Strongpincer tries to grab it but whoever is at the other end is quick enough to pull it back out of reach.

  After a bit more poking with his spear, Strongpincer risks trying to pull away some of the stones around the opening. He drags down some smaller chunks and gets no reaction. Perhaps those inside are occupied trying to keep Shellcrusher from breaking in the door.

  He grabs a larger stone and braces his legs against the wall as he pulls. It shifts a little, but then he feels a sharp pain as something jabs his left pincer joint. He jerks back and feels his wounded claw. It is a small puncture, the kind that heals up, but it makes him wary. He jabs at the hole with his spear again to drive back whoever stabbed him.

  From inside he hears excited pinging, then a loud crunching noise as Shellcrusher finally tears the door apart. Strongpincer abandons the little opening and swims around to back up Shellcrusher at the entrance.

  Just then comes the most awful noise Strongpincer remembers ever hearing. It is a throbbing high-pitched tone that drowns everything else out and leaves him deafened when it stops.

  BROADTAIL gropes about, trying to find Oneclaw. He is completely deaf. Someone bumps him and he barely restrains the urge to stab. It tastes like Holdhard, so he places a pincer on her back to calm her. He remembers facing the bandit with Oneclaw to his left, so he moves to the side, feeling with his free claw.

  He finds Oneclaw and taps his shell. “No more sound. I cannot hear. We must get out now.” The device makes them as helpless as their attackers; it is useless for defense but he imagines them using it to cover their escape.

  Through his feet and tendrils he feels something moving up ahead. Are the bandits coming in? “Make the noise again and then push out of the shelter,” he taps to Oneclaw. He feels around for his spear and picks it up, bracing himself for the awful sound.

  Being deaf means the noise isn’t as loud, but it still feels like a pincer jabbed straight into his head. Holdhard flinches but Broadtail holds her steady, then charges, pulling her along. He hopes Oneclaw is following.

  The bandit is just outside the doorway, off guard from the new blast of noise. Broadtail jabs with his spear to drive her back, then swims straight up. Holdhard gets the idea and soon is swimming as fast as he is. They go up until he cannot taste the sea bottom anymore, and Broadtail feels mild fear. He has no way to sense his surroundings—there is nothing to touch, nothing to taste, and he still cannot hear. Only his pincer resting on Holdhard’s back gives him any contact with reality. For once it is almost pleasant having another person so close.

  He slows and then stops, then concentrates, trying to orient himself. He levels off as best he can by feel, then swims in a random direction. He lets go of Holdhard, but his tendrils can still feel her swimming along with him. He is a little surprised that she isn’t going off on her own, but he doesn’t mind having an ally.

  A sound! Broadtail can make it out very faintly. His head still feels like it’s buried in mud. The sound comes again, louder, and this time he recognizes it. It’s Oneclaw’s voice, calling out for help. The old scholar is cut off in mid-cry, and after that Broadtail hears nothing more. He picks a direction at random and swims away. Holdhard follows.

  IRONA reached Hitode Station nine hours after Gishora died. He came with two more Guardians, using the last of the rapid-deployment pods as the elevator was still going up with a load of humans. Tizhos gave him a report on the situation as he peeled off his suit and dabbed himself with scent.

  “The humans appear to feel very unhappy and contrite about Gishora’s death,” she told him. “Several have spoken to me privately, assuring me that they have no doubts of the incident’s accidental nature.”

  “Tell me if you have examined the body.”

  “Yes. It appears that some individual stabbed Gishora repeatedly with a blade similar in size and design to a human-made utility knife.”

  “That does not sound like an accident.”

  “No,” said Tizhos. “Someone killed him.”

  “Tell me if any human currently in the station might have done it.”

  “I consider that very unlikely. I watched Gishora depart shortly before his death, and I feel reasonably certain that all the humans remained in the station. He refused to take a Guardian along.”

  Irona growled a little at that. “It surprises me you even considered one of the Guardians as a suspect.”

  “I failed to make my meaning obvious. I meant only that Gishora ventured outside alone, with nobody present who might have seen his attacker.”

  “I accept your apology
,” said Irona, caressing the underside of Tizhos’s neck. “So it seems the rebellious humans killed Gishora.”

  “Yes,” said Tizhos sadly. Irona’s sexual overture was proper for a leader, especially at a time of transition, but Tizhos felt absolutely no attraction. She did her best to respond, if only to avoid conflict.

  “Tell me if you expect more violence.”

  “I do not know. The rebellious humans may attempt more raids, or they may feel as shocked by this as the others. Certainly the humans here at Hitode seem very unlikely to commit any violent acts.”

  “If I remember, you and Gishora said the same before he died. We must assume all of them can and will resort to violence. From now on they must remain in their cabins except when eating. No more science, no more maintenance.”

  “Tell me if you think the station can remain habitable without anyone to maintain it.”

  “Of course it cannot. Which gives the humans a very good reason to leave.” He nuzzles her, then gives her flank a brisk pat. “Go inform the humans of the new rules. Make it clear to them that I will not tolerate disobedience. Tell them their little holiday with Gishora just ended.”

  BROADTAIL is tired and hungry, and is far from Oneclaw’s school compound. He judges it safe to descend to the bottom. He senses another swimmer behind him and nearly turns to fight before remembering it is only Holdhard.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Holdhard wants food.”

  “You don’t have to use your whole name. We two are alone.”

  “I want food.”

  “Much better. You sound like a landowner. We search for food on the bottom and share what we find.” He began a gradual dive, aiming for a section of bottom that sounded like angular stone. Perhaps old ruins—a good place to forage. “Share?” She sounds suspicious.

  “I give you part of what I find, and you give me part of what you find. Share.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we are both hungry.”

  She is quiet as they drop a couple of cables, then asks, “Why

  share?”

  Broadtail feels his pincers ready for a stab before he carefully folds them. “Which of us is bigger?”

  “You are.”

  “If we fight over food, who wins?”

  “You do,” she says very softly.

  “Exactly. If we don’t share, we fight. I don’t want to fight. Sharing means we both get food and nobody gets hurt. We can rest and take turns listening for danger.”

  More silence, and then: “Why don’t you want to fight? You’re bigger.”

  He waits until they set down on the rocks. No swimmers or bottom- crawlers, but some of the stones have a good thick growth mat. He shows Holdhard how to scrape the growth, and savors the weak flavor for a bit before answering her. “Holdhard, when we fight we can’t do other things. We can’t build, or hunt, or even search for mats like this. When we share, we get more than when we fight. You and I can scour these rocks because we are not fighting. Do you remember visiting a vent settlement? Perhaps as a hatchling?”

  “I remember—there are many little ones like me and we are eating wonderful food, but an adult drives us away.”

  “Vent farms have all kinds of wonderful food, because the landowner and the apprentices work together and protect the farm against bandits. They build pipes and shelters, and are stronger than all but the biggest bandit gangs. They are rich because they can work instead of fighting. Do you understand?”

  “Working makes food?”

  “Exactly! Fighting only steals food, but working makes more.”

  “You work? You make food?”

  “I remember being a landowner and making much food. And I remember fighting, and losing all my wealth. Now I suggest eating and resting before talking.”

  They eat until several stones are quite clean, then find separate niches for resting. As he feels himself drifting into unconsciousness, Broadtail briefly worries about Holdhard. Why is she still with him? Does she intend attacking him by surprise in order to steal his things and devour his corpse?

  No, he decides. She is too clever for that. In effect, she is his apprentice. It is odd to have an apprentice with no land or flow rights. He has nothing for her to inherit, except what he knows. Very well, then, Holdhard can be his science apprentice. A curious idea, but it puts an end to his fretting and he sinks into sleep.

  Broadtail wakes. Someone is tapping his shell. It is Holdhard. He tries to make sense of what she is tapping, then remembers she doesn’t know the dictionary. “What is it?”

  “Food!” she says. “Come catch it!”

  He follows her downcurrent to a spot where the two of them can hide amid rocks and mud. They listen, and he hears it: a large creature swimming. It must be nearly his own size. It sounds familiar.

  Then Broadtail remembers, and his pincers stiffen as if he’s going into battle. This is one of the odd creatures! The sound it makes while swimming is unmistakable.

  “Holdhard,” he says quietly. “That is not food. But we must follow it as quietly as we can.”

  “It is not good to eat?”

  “No. I remember tasting one—the flesh is awful. We do not eat them. However, I do want to learn about it. Come along.”

  The two of them follow the four-limbed animal as it swims awkwardly downcurrent. It slows as it reaches a large object. The object is as big as a large house, but sounds like soft mud. It is difficult for Broadtail to get a good impression of its shape or what it is made of.

  He can barely contain his excitement. So much to learn! He speaks quietly to Holdhard. “Do you wish to be my apprentice?”

  “Yes,” she answers without hesitating.

  “Good. Then we begin the task at once. We stay here and listen and take notes. We learn everything about these creatures.”

  “What do we eat?”

  “Eat? We have rocks to scour. This is more important than food. This is science!”

  NINE

  BROADTAIL listens to the creatures constantly, stopping to eat or rest only when his feelers are so tired he can no longer tie knots in his line to make notes. He cannot remember ever being so happy and excited. Not even his memories of becoming the master of the Sandyslope property can compare with this feeling.

  Holdhard comes and goes. She listens with him for a time, then goes off to eat or rest. He shows her how he takes notes, and she is fascinated by how he knots the cord to represent words. But she lacks his patience and prefers not to go hungry. When she finds extra food she leaves him some.

  The creatures’ behavior is complex. They have a shelter and seem to be using tools. They do not hunt, or gather food, but now and then go inside their structure and return with what sounds like solid material in what must be a stomach. To Broadtail this suggests that they have a food cache, which in turn implies a high degree of planning and forethought.

  The creatures communicate. Of that Broadtail is certain. They call to one another often, although Broadtail finds it odd that the calls are only when there is some obstacle between the communicating pair. At close quarters they are silent. The calls are long and complex, with little or no repetition. They are not sending each other echo-patterns; it is more like long strings of simple tones.

  Like a reel of knots, he thinks. They are writing with sound. He makes a note, but his feeding tendrils feel thick and clumsy and he falls asleep still holding the cord.

  He wakes with a tremendous hunger. He eats a couple of floaters Holdhard leaves for him. The flesh is pulpy and unsatisfying, but better than nothing. He listens. No activity. Perhaps the creatures are resting. He goes over his last notes; he remembers being too tired to think clearly.

  “Sound writing,” is what his last note says. He remembers his thoughts now.

  And suddenly, as if his mind has molted and is kicking aside the old shell, he understands. The creatures are intelligent beings. Like adults! They build and plan and speak. They use tools, which they either make themselve
s or get from others. Which implies an entire society!

  Broadtail is thinking so fast his tendrils can barely keep up. His notes are little more than place-markers for his ideas. Where do these things come from? Are there any rec ords of them? What do they eat? How does their anatomy compare with any—

  He stops, and his excitement turns to fear. He remembers the captive specimen struggling and making noises during Longpincer’s dissection. Longpincer would not do that to an adult, or even a juvenile.

  It is not murder, he thinks. He distinctly remembers capturing the creature near an unclaimed vent. A fair fight. And he remembers the dissection taking place in Longpincer’s house, on Longpincer’s property. All legal. That is reassuring. But dissecting a stranger is still a terrible blunder. They may hold grudges, or demand recompense. Broadtail hopes to persuade Longpincer to apologize to them.

  He hears a sound from the shelter and listens. One of the creatures is emerging. A second follows. Sounds of hammering and digging.

  What is proper behavior? Broadtail imagines several courses. He can pack up his reels and make for Longpincer’s house. Inform Longpincer and the other scholars—and incidentally establish his own claim to this new discovery.

  Or he can go hunt for food, to keep himself from getting hungry as he continues his monitoring. After all, his notes are very rough. A complete monograph requires much more information about the creatures. Holdhard can help.

  Or . . . he can approach them. Speak to them. Do they understand the speech of adults? He imagines them vindictive, dissecting him in revenge for the specimen at Longpincer’s, or to protect their property.

  He remains undecided. His mind is like a stone held up by the flow of water from a pipe. When he does decide, it is a simple practical matter that determines his course: he has only one empty reel left. He expects it will take a netful of reels—a whole convoy’s cargo of reels!—to record all he wishes to know about the creatures. Getting more means telling Longpincer, and Broadtail discovers that he simply doesn’t want to share the creatures with anyone.

  He must approach them. It is the most sensible course.