Inga bent closer. ‘What are they?”
“Baby sharks,” said Folger. “They hatch alive in the uterus of their mother. Some fisherman must have bagged a female sand tiger who was close to term. He gave the uterus to his kids. Fish won’t live long in that pool.”
“They’re fantastic,” Per breathed. For the first time since Folger had met him, he showed emotion. “So young and so ferocious.”
“The first one hatched usually eats the others in the womb,” said Folger.
“It’s beautiful,” said Inga. “An organism that is born fighting.”
The sibling combat in the pit had begun to quiet. A few sand tiger babies twitched weakly. The children nudged them with the sticks. When there was no response, the sticks rose and fell violently, splashing the water and mashing the fish into the sand.
“The islanders hate sharks,” Folger said.
She awoke violently, choking off a scream and blindly striking out at him. Folger held her wrists, pulled her against him, and then began to stroke her hair. Her trembling slowly subsided.
“Bad dreams?”
She nodded, her hair working softly against his jaw.
“Was I in them?”
“No,” she said. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“What happened?”
She hesitated. “I was swimming. They—some people pulled me out of the water. They put me on a concrete slab by the pier. There was no water, no sea—“ She swallowed. “God, I want a drink.”
“I’ll fix you one,” he said.
“They pulled me out. I lay there and felt the ocean drain away. And then I felt things tear loose inside me. There was nothing supporting my heart and liver and intestines and everything began to pull away from everything else. God, it hurts—”
Folger patted her head. “I’ll get you a drink.”
“So?” said Per. “Sharks aren’t particularly aggressive, are they?”
“Not until after the war,” said Folger. “Since then there’s been continual skirmishing. Both the villagers and the sharks hunt the same game. Now they’ve started to hunt each other.”
“And,” said Inga, “there has been you.”
Folger nodded. “I know the sea predators better. After all, that was my job.”
The children, bored with the dead shark pool, followed the adults toward the village. They gawked at the Lindfors. One of the more courageous boys reached tentatively toward Inga’s hair as it blew back in the wind.
“Vayan!” shouted Folger. “All of you, move!” The children reluctantly withdrew. “They’re accustomed to whites,” he said, “but blondes are a novelty.”
“Fascinating,” said Inga. “It is like an enclave of a previous century.”
The road widened slightly and became the village’s main street, still unpaved, and winding down along the edge of the sea. Folger saw the aluminum bulk of an airboat tied to a pier, incongruous between two fishing ketches. “You come alone?” he said.
“Just the two of us,” said Inga.
Per put his hand lightly on her wrist. “We’re quite effective as a team,” he said.
They passed a dark stone house, its door swung open to the wind. Rain blew across the threshold
“Abandoned?” said Inga.
“Quaint old island custom,” said Folger. “Catholicism’s a little diluted here. Priest only comes twice a year.” He pointed at the open door. “The man who lived there died at sea a couple days ago. Family’ll keep the door open, no matter what, for a week. It’s so his soul can find shelter until it’s shunted to heaven or hell.”
Per said, “What happened to the man?”
“He was fishing,” Folger said. “Friends saw it all. A great white shark got him.”
Closer, now:
“Dolphin!”
“Shark!”
They lay together.
“I wish we had more time,” said Inga. “I should like to hunt a shark.”
“Perhaps on some future leave,” said Per.
“And that’s about it for the village,” said Folger. “There isn’t much more to see, unless you enjoy native crafts like dipping tallow candles or carding wool.”
“It’s incredible,” said Inga. “The only time I have seen anything remotely like this was in pre-Reconstruction America.”
Folger said, “You don’t look that old.”
“I was barely into puberty. The Protectorate brought our father from Copenhagen. He is a design engineer in hydro-electrics. He worked on the Oklahoma Sea projects.”
They stood on a rough plank pier beyond one horn of the crescent of houses. Per tapped a boot on the wood to shake loose some of the mud. “I still can’t see how you endure this place, Folger.”
Half asleep, Folger said, “Some day when the war is over, we’ll get a place by the ocean. There’s still some great country north of San Francisco. We’ll have a house among the trees, on a mountainside overlooking the beach. Maybe we’ll make it a stone tower, like Robinson Jeffers built.”
Close to his ear, Valerie said, “A tower would be nice.”
“You’ll be able to read all day, and swim, and we’ll never have any visitors we don’t want.”
“It’s a fine dream for you,” Valerie whispered.
“I came as jetsam,” Folger said.
The three of them stood silently for a few minutes, watching clouds darker than the water roil in from the west Triangular shapes took form on the horizon. Folger squinted. “Fishermen are coming in.” After another minute he said, “Tour’s over.”
“I know,” said Inga.
“—hoping. I kept hoping.” Folger raised himself on one elbow. “You really are going to go through with it.”
The fishing boats neared the breakwater. Folger and the others could hear the faint cries of the crewmen. “Why are you here?” he said.
Per Lindfors laid a comradely hand on Folger’s shoulder. “We came here to kill you.”
* * * *
Folger smiled. What other response could there be?
“Tell me how it works,” said Valerie.
They paused on a steel catwalk overlooking the catch pens. In the tank immediately below, two divers warily man-handled a five-meter great blue in an oval path. If water weren’t forced over the shark’s gill surfaces, the fish would suffocate. The water glittered in the glare of arc lights. Beyond the pens, the beacon on Cape Pembroke blinked its steady twelve pulses per minute.
“I know the general techniques,” said Folger. “But it’s not my specialty. I’m strictly mapping and logistics
“I don’t need apologies,” said Valerie.
“Excuse me while I violate the National Security Act.” Folger turned to face her. “Most of the technology is borrowed from the brothers upstairs on the orbital platforms. Everybody’s been doing secret work with cyborgs. Somewhere along the line, somebody got the bright idea of importing it underwater.”
“The Marine Forces,“ said Valerie.
“Right. The bureaucrats finally realized that the best weapons for fighting undersea wars already existed in the ocean. They were weapons which had been adapted for that purpose for more than a hundred million years. All that was needed were guidance systems.”
Valerie said wistfully, “Sharks.”
“Sharks and killer whales; squid; to a degree, dolphins. We’re considering a few other species.”
“I want to know how it’s done.”
“Primarily by direct transplant. Surgical modification. Nerve grafts are partially electronic. Is that what you wanted to know?”
She stared down at the docile shark in the tank. “There’s no coming back, is there?”
“We’ll probably use your old body to feed the new one.”
“So kill me. Do I rate a reason why?”
“Not if your execution had been scheduled now,” said Inga. “It would not have been merciful to alert you in advance. Such cheap melodrama is forbidden by Protectorate codes.”
Folger snorted. “Isn’t all this overly Machiavellian?”
“Not at all. We were given considerable latitude on this assignment. We wished to be sure of doing the right thing.”
“—come down to the point of whether or not I’ll stop you from doing this.” Wind off the headland deadened his words.
“Can you stop me?” Valerie’s voice was flat, without challenge.
He didn’t answer.
“Would you?” Valerie kissed him gently on the side of the throat. “Here’s a Hindu proverb for you. ‘The woman you love, you must not possess.’“
He said in a whisper, without looking at her, “I love you.”
“If you’re not going to kill me,” Folger said, “I’ve got work to do.”
“Folger, what is your fondest wish?”
He stared at her with enigmatic eyes. “You can’t give it to me.”
“Wealth?” said Per. “Recognition? You had a considerable reputation before the war.”
“When we leave,” said Inga, “we want you to return with us.”
Folger looked slowly from one to the other. “Leave the island?”
“A center for deep Pacific studies is opening on Guam,” Inga said. “The directorship is yours.”
“I don t believe any of this,” said Folger. “I’m in my fifties and even considering the postwar chaos, I’m a decade behind my field.”
“Some refresher study at the University of San Juan,” said Per.
Inga said, “Reconstruction is not all that complete. Genius is uncommon. You are needed, Folger.”
“Death or a directorship,” said Folger.
Folger spoke to the project manager in a sterile cubicle off the operating theater. “What are her chances?”
“For survival? Excellent.”
“I mean afterwards.”
The project manager drew deeply on his extinguished pipe. “Can’t say. Test data’s been spotty.”
“Christ, Danny!” Folger swung around. “Don’t doubletalk me. What’s that mean?”
The project manager evaded Folger’s eyes. “A high proportion of the test subjects haven’t returned from field trials. The bio boys think it may have something to do with somatic memory, cellular retention of the old, nonhuman personality”
“And you didn’t tell us anything about this?”
“Security, Marc.“ The project manager looked uncomfortable. “I never know from day to day what’s under wraps. You know, we haven’t had radio reception for twelve days now. Nobody knows—”
“I swear, Danny, if anything happens to her—” The pipe dropped from the project manager’s open mouth. “But she’s a volunteer—”
It was the first time Folger had ever struck another human being.
“Elections are approaching on the continent,” said Inga.
“Free?”
“Of course,” said Per.
“Reasonably,” said Inga. “Within the needs of reconstruction.”
A crowd of children scampered past. Farther down the beach, the fishermen began to unload the day’s catch.
“Do you remember a man named Diaz-Gomide?” said Per.
“No.”
“He is a Brazilian journalist.”
“Yes,” said Folger. “About two years ago, right?”
Per nodded. “He is not only a journalist, but also a higher-up in the opposition party. He is their shadow minister of information.”
“Senhor Diaz-Gomide has proved a great embarrassment to the present administration,” said Inga.
“The same regime that’s been in power for a quarter century,” said Folger.
Inga made a noncommittal gesture. “Someone had to keep order through the war and after.”
“The point is,” said Per, “that this Diaz-Gomide has been disseminating historical lies on behalf of his party.”
“Let me guess,” said Folger. He walked slowly toward the end of the pier and the Lindfors followed. “He had disclosed terrible things about the government in connection with the Marine Institute on East Falkland.”
“Among other fabrications,” said Per.
Folger stopped with his toes overhanging the water. “He alleged that inhuman experiments were carried on, that the brains of unwilling or unknowing subjects were transplanted into the bodies of sea creatures.”
“Something like that, except he couched it in less clinical language.”
“Down the rabbit hole.” Folger shook his head slowly. “What do you want from me—a disclaimer?”
Inga said, “We suspect Diaz-Gomide grossly distorted your statements in the interview. It would be well if you set the record straight.”
“The Marine Forces experiments have been greatly exaggerated,” said Per.
“Probably not,” said Folger.
They stared at each other.
Folger floated in the center of the holding tank. The whisper of the regulator sounded extraordinarily loud in his ears. He turned to follow the great white shark as it slowly circled, its eye continually focused on Folger. The shark—he found difficulty ascribing it her name—moved fluidly, weaving, head traveling from side to side slowly with the rhythm of its motion through the water.
She—he made the attempt—she was beautiful; implacably, savagely so. He had seldom been this close to a shark. He watched silently her body crease with a thousand furrows, every move-merit emphasizing musculature. He had never seen beauty so deadly.
After a time, he tried the sonex. “Valerie—inquiry—what is it like.”
The coded reply came back and unscrambled. “Marc—never know—mass&bulk&security—better.”
He sent: “Inquiry—happy.“
“Yes.”
They exchanged messages for a few minutes more. He asked, “Inquiry—what will they do with you.”
“Assigned soldier—picket duty—Mariana Trench.”
“Inquiry—when.”
“Never—never soldier—run away first.”
“So,” said Folger. “Recant or die?”
“We would like to see you take the directorship of the research center on Guam,” said Inga.
Folger found the paper among other poems scattered like dry leaves in Valerie’s room:
“In the void, inviolate
from what she was
is
and will be.”
He went outside to the catch pens. From the catwalk he looked into the tank. The shark circled ceaselessly. She swung around to his side and Folger watched the dark back, the mottled gray-and-white belly slide by. He watched until darkness fell.
“Do I get time to consider the offer?” Folger asked
The Lindfors looked at each other, considering.
“I was never good at snap decisions.”
“We would like to tidy up this affair—” said Per.
“I know,” Folger said. “Skiing the Sierras.”
“Would twelve hours be sufficient?”
“Time enough to consult my Book of Changes.”
“Do you really?” Inga’s eyes widened fractionally.
“Treason,” Per said.
“No. No more. My mystical phase played through.”
“Then we can expect your decision in the morning?”
“Right”
“And now it is time for supper,” said Inga. “Shall we go to the boat? I remember, Folger. Very rare.”
“No business during dinner?”
“No,” Inga promised.
“Your goddamn girl,” said the project manager. Soaked through with sea water and reeking of contraband liquor, he sloshed into Folgers quarters. “She got away.”
Folger switched on the lamp by the bunk and looked up sleepily. “Danny? What? Who got away?”
“Goddamn girl.”
“Valerie?” Folger swung his legs off the bed and sat up.
“Smashed the seagate. Let loose half the tanks. We tried to head her off in the channel.”
“Is she all right?
”
“All right?” The project manager cupped his hands over his face. “She stove in the boat. Got Kendall and Brooking. You never saw so much blood.”
Orbit 12 - [Anthology] Page 2