"It's bending," Rico said, watching the Navcom monitor that marked out their grid system. "The whole grid's bending."
"We'd better surface," Ben said. "Prepare for -"
"Negative," Elvira said. "If this is a surface disturbance, things will be worse up there. We need information."
Ben grunted acknowledgment.
"Cargo train identity signal is registered to the Simplicity Maru," Elvira reported, fighting the controls to maintain hover and an equidistance between walls of the kilometer-wide channel. This ordinarily simple maneuver was made nearly impossible by the ever-changing walls of their kelpway. Rico noticed a sweat beading on Elvira's brow and upper lip.
Ben keyed for a low-frequency broadcast. He hoped he didn't have to explain the absence of their identity signal.
"Simplicity Maru, this is Quicksilver," he lied. "Do you have reports on current disruption?"
Static hissed back at them, then a microphone clicked on. The message came in badly broken. Undersea communication, especially around active kelp, was always difficult.
"Sim... Maru. Negativ... into kelp." There was the sound of shrieking metal in the background... . king up. We are preparin... ballast. Repeat, preparin..."
Elvira threw the throttles forward and in spite of a violent buffeting the foil leaped at her touch. Her lips were pressed into a tight line and her knuckles shone white on the controls.
"Wait, we can'..." Ben said. His body pressed further into his couch. "We can't go into deep kelp."
"They're blowing ballast," Elvira growled. "That whole cargo train's going to pop up into us like a cork."
Rico felt every fixture aboard rattle like his teeth.
"Ben, is the girl secure?"
"She's strapped in," Ben said.
Just then they cleared the rear cabin of the train. It blew past them toward the surface, containers and cabins tumbling like toys. A few of the containers snagged in the walls of the kelpway, walls that still vibrated with light and that same strange force.
"This is too weird," Ben said. "Let's surface and take our chances with the Director's air cover. This ride's getting much too ugly."
Elvira nodded curtly and the foil started its ascent. As though alerted by their control panel, the kelp fronds began closing above the Flying Fish. First they formed a canopy, then, a tight and impenetrable mesh. A sudden change of current lurched them to starboard and sent the foil tumbling end over end. Elvira righted them manually, her face very pale.
"Shit!" Ben fisted the arm of his couch. "Somehow Flattery must've got to Current Contro..." He snicked his harness release over Rico's protests.
"I'm checking on Crista," Ben said.
He had to use the handholds to make his way aft on the rolling deck. At the galley's hatch he turned, suddenly a bit pale himself, and Rico knew what thought had just struck Ben. Rico smiled.
"Rico," Ben said, "what i..."
"What if the kelp knows she's here?"
"Yeah," Ben said. "What if the kelp knows she's here?"
"We'd better hope she likes us."
"She probably doesn't have any say in this," Ben said, and undogged the hatch. Rico didn't care for the snap in his voice.
"Somebody has a say in this," Rico muttered. The hatch slammed, dogged itself. That was when Rico remembered when the kelp could have had a whiff of Crista Galli. It was the only time that hull integrity had been breached.
That bug! he thought. That goddamn little mercuroid chip of Flattery's.
"We ejected that transmitter, Elvira, and we ejected it in cabin air." He thought he detected an infinitesimal stiffening of her posture. "If that kelp can sniff, and I hear it can, then it knows there's more in this can than us worms."
***
Mercenary captains either are or are not skilful soldiers. If they are, you cannot trust them, for they will always seek to gain power for themselves either by oppressing you, the master, or by oppressing others against your wishes.
- Machiavelli, The Prince
The young security captain, Yuri Brood, was rumored by his men to be the unacknowledged son of the Director, product of an early tryst with a Merman woman from the Domes. The men based this notion on the strong physical resemblance between Brood and the Director, and on Brood's quick rise to an advisorship that went beyond the formalities of his rank. The two men shared a ruthlessness that did not go unnoticed outside the confines of the squad.
Captain Brood and his squad had been reared in a Merman compound near this Kalaloch district. Brood himself had been schooled privately in the mathematics of logic and strategy - that was standard operating procedure for anyone anticipating an executive position with Merman Mercantile. Brood himself preferred the more direct solutions of physical pressure to the subtleties of politics. His superiors shrugged it off as a phase, agreeing that Brood got results where others failed.
The old families, Islander and Merman alike, retained a strong sense of loyalty to their community that made the kind of enforcement that Flattery demanded impossible from within. Security command removed Captain Brood's team to Mesa for their training and formation of their combat bond, then deployed them to Kalaloch and its shuttle launch site for "police work." They were one another's only family, an Island adrift in a sea of enemy. Everyone was kept three villages away from home.
Survive your tour, advance your rank, retire to an office at the Preserve - this was the universal goal.
The young captain was afraid, and he wasn't afraid often. When he was afraid, heads rolled. He and his team were short-timers at one month remaining, just starting their countdown to home. The captain had something to return home to, and he intended to rotate on schedule. He intended that his men rotate back home with him, alive. For a year his district had been Kalaloch and the SLS. His squad's actions had drawn more citations than a dress suit could hold. During that year either the site or his men had been under fire daily.
Today the captain faced Beatriz Tatoosh from the back of the studio, and he thought what a pity it would be to have to kill her.
Beatriz did not know what the captain thought, but fear dried out her mouth when she saw his squad enter behind the lights and fan out along the bulkhead backing the studio.
The captain pointed out each of the live cameras to three of his men. They pulled away from their squad, drew lasguns and without a word each took careful aim at a cameraman.
Beatriz heard gasps, curses, the arming of weapons. It was difficult to see what was happening because of the glare in her eyes. The large monitor at the back of the studio cleared, then displayed a tape of the last launch, a tape cut by Beatriz and her present team.
We're not going out live! she thought.
"Dak," she alerted her floor man, "check the monitor."
When her gaze left the monitor it caught the young captain watching her. She remembered seeing him before, his dark eyes flashing her a smile as he led his squad through the labyrinth of the launch site. He half-smiled now, and nodded at her, and with that nod his three men executed her three cameramen.
At the first shot she was stunned at the suddenness of it all, the audacity as much as the horror. At the second shot it was the smell of death itself that stunned her. At the third shot she faced the immediacy of her own death. She also faced the captain, who was no longer smiling.
She remembered thinking how hard everyone was breathing just then, how the second guard stood over her dead cameraman and said to the first, "Shit, man, that was no signa..."
"Shut up, man," the third one said. "It's done. Just shut up. It don't change nothing here at all."
"All right!"
The captain fanned his fingers out from his left palm and the rest of the squad sealed off the studio area. She started to tremble, then concentrated on controlling it so that the captain wouldn't see.
Ben was right! replayed through her mind. And who will know?
Beatriz watched the replay of herself on the monitor, interviewing the Director during on
e of his ritual visits to the launch site. The expression on her face onscreen, one of admiration and deference, now made her sick to her stomach. Even so, her eyes stayed on the screen, rather than face the unbelievable reality unreeling in her studio.
Through the shock and the trembling she heard Harlan's voice from the back of the studio, speeding through a Zavatan chant for the dead. She remembered that the skinny cameraman with the fanlike ears on number three was Harlan's cousin. The security who had shot him was now dragging him by the feet to the wall. The cameraman's head bumped over the sprawl of cables across the deck, the hole in his chest burned so clean it barely bled.
The three assassins took wider positions in the room. Fifteen people were being held by nine guards in a very small studio with some very hot lights. The captain scanned the studio once, then turned to Beatriz. He indicated the red lights on the triangulators.
"The red light means the camera is on, correct? It is still recording?"
She did not answer. She felt it was important that he didn't hear her voice quaver. She could not take her eyes from his eyes.
He did not smile this time, nor did he nod.
"Finish them," he said. Then he nodded at Beatriz, "Except for her."
The screams, the pleading, the curses with Flattery's name on them silenced in the few moments it took the captain to walk her to the hatchway. It seemed that she walked forever, because there were the bodies of her crew to step over, and her legs were so uncharacteristically unsteady.
"Now see what you have done," Brood said to her. He squeezed her upper arm and shook her. "See what a mess your broadcast has made."
She couldn't speak or she would cry, and she didn't want to cry for him. She slapped away his touch when he took her arm to steady her. The last body she had to step over to reach the hatchway was the makeup girl's.
What was her name? Beatriz felt a new panic rise. I can't blank out her nam... !
It was Nephertiti, yes, Nephertiti. Someone pretty and dark-skinned, like herself, with wide eyes. She told herself to remember this, to remember it and to see that somehow, sometime the world would know.
"You're a cool one," the captain told her. "You probably saw worse than this at Mesa two years back."
She stopped in the hatchway and turned, still not speaking.
"I saw you there, too," he said. "I saw both you and your boyfriend bounced ass over teakettle when that mine blew up your rig. Thought you both bought it."
She nodded, started to say, "So did we," but nothing came out of her throat but a croak.
For the first time she noticed his name, stitched above the Vashon Security insignia at his left breast: "Brood." Her only wish right now was that she would live long enough to see Captain Brood die.
He turned back to the studio and its seventeen dead warm bodies. Beatriz looked once again at herself on the monitor. The tape replayed an interview with Dwarf MacIntosh, Kelpmaster of Current Control. He was one of the few humans, other than Flattery, to survive the opening of the hyb tanks twenty-five years ago. He was so tall she'd had to stand on a box to do the interview. She had met him on her first flight to the new orbital complex, the day after her last night with Ben. Within a month she was sure that she was in love.
"Bag 'em up," the captain told his men. "Squeegee this place down, seal it off, then get all their production shit aboard."
He bowed to her then, opened the hatch for her and said, "We're expecting the replacements for your crew any minute. They are my men, and will do as they're told. My squad and I will travel along, to see that you do, too."
***
The mind at ease is a dead mind.
- Dwarf MacIntosh, Kelpmaster, Current Control
Dwarf MacIntosh floated in the turretlike chamber of Current Control and surveyed the planet below for the birth of a certain squall at sea. It happened at about this time every day that a swirl of clouds materialized over Pandora's largest wild kelp bed. It was some comfort now to see this squall forming; it told him that something was normal today even though the behavior of the kelp was completely loco. Today, humans didn't make much sense to him, either.
"The Turret," as he called it, was a plasma-glass extravagance of materials and workmanship that MacIntosh had fabricated for himself before installing Current Control in the orbital station.
I'd have taken the job anyway, Mack admitted, but only to himself. "Kelpmaster" wasn't so much a job to him as it was a privilege. He couldn't have allowed any of Flattery's goons such an easy throttlehold on the kelp. Besides, he felt much more comfortable in orbit than he did on Pandora's surface.
Like Flattery, Mack had been cloned, raised and trained in the sterility of Moonbase, in the hyperregimentation and clonophobia of Moonbase. His whole life, until hybernation, had been spent orbiting an Earth that, for him and for all clones, never existed. In those days, Flattery had openly pined for a life Earthside, but even then Dwarf MacIntosh looked outward, past Earth's measly system to the possibilities beyond.
From his turret Mack observed and charted many of these possibilities. He named them, but not the few special names he saved for his unborn children. He had spent the past two years above Pandora, refusing the usual R&R rotations groundside. In that time MacIntosh had not recognized a single star that would lead them Earthward. He liked it that way.
Dwarf MacIntosh awoke from hybernation on Pandora one day in indescribable pain and found himself in the middle of nowhere, galactically speaking. In spite of the planet's horrors he was in his own heaven among a trillion brand-new stars. The other survivors clung to that little wretch of a planet and most of them died there. Alyssa Mars... well, she died, too. She died the day Moonbase started imprinting her for backup OMC.
Mack and Flattery shared a dream of driving further into the void. Mack felt it a pity, in a way, since he had never liked Flattery, even during training with him back at Moonbase. Their differences had come out lately over management of the kelp.
If Flattery had any idea of what we've done, of what the kelp i...
"Dr. MacIntosh, shuttle's set for launch."
Mack handed himself out of the turret and with one foot-thrust sailed across the huge control room to his personal console. Spud Soleus, his first assistant, busied himself at the primary terminal.
A glance at the number six display told Mack that the kelp in the SLS sector was performing as directed. The number eight display was a different story, however. The great kelp bed down-coast of Victoria was still a writhing tangle. No telling how many freighters were lost in there. He punched up another batch of coffee.
"What's the delay?"
Spud shrugged his skinny shoulders, keeping to his console.
"They said something about replacements for the news crew. You know Flattery, can't do anything without crowing to the press."
"Who's been replaced?" he asked. He felt his heart jump a bit. He'd been hopin... no, planning to see Beatriz Tatoosh again. He'd thought about Beatriz Tatoosh daily from the moment her shuttle left nearly two months ago. His dreams took up where his thoughts left off, and he had dreamed up the hope that she could make a permanent base aboard the Orbiter.
"Don't know," Spud said. "Don't know why, either. Everything was cool just a while ago for Newsbreak. Did you see it?"
MacIntosh shook his head.
"Yeah, you were in your turret. The Tatoosh woman did the show, said something about Ben Ozette missing. That must throw their staffing off or something."
"Yeah," Mack said, "he's a little goody-goody for me, but he means well. He's sure been on the Director's tail lately."
Dwarf could see Spud's frown reflected in one of the dead screens.
"It's not a good idea to get on the Director's tail," Spud said. "Not good at all. If you didn't see the Newsbreak, then you didn't see yourself, either."
"Me? Wha... ?"
"That show they did when you first installed this station," Spud said. "They reran it. Your hair wasn't as gray two years ago
. I wish that Beatriz Tatoosh would look at me the way she looked at you."
"Stow it!" MacIntosh said.
Soleus's shoulders sagged slightly, but he kept at his keyboard in silence.
"Sorry," MacIntosh said.
"Inappropriate," Spud replied.
"Want me to take it now?"
"I wish somebody would. What the hell's happening to our kelp?"
"It's not our kelp," MacIntosh reminded him. "The kelp is its ow... self. We're keeping it in chains. It's doing what any enslaved being with dignity does - it's fighting the chains."
"But Flattery's men will just prune it back, or worse yet they'll stump the whole stand."
"Not forever. There is a basic problem with slavery. The master is enslaved by the slave."
"C'mon, Dr. Mac..."
MacIntosh laughed.
"It's true," he said. "Look at history, that's easy enough. And Flattery, of all people, should know better. We clones were the slaves of our age. First-generation clones had it real tough. They were grown as organ farms for the donors. They needed us, but they needed us to do what we were told. Now he's enslaved the kelp, stunted its reason, because he needs it to do what it's told. He can't keep cutting it back, because he can't afford the regrowth time."
"So, what'll happen?"
"A showdown," MacIntosh said. "And if Flattery's still groundside when it comes he'd better hope that the kelp needs him for something or I wouldn't give you two bits for his chances."
"Two bits of what?"
MacIntosh laughed again, a big bark of a laugh to match his size.
"I wouldn't want to guess how old that expression is," he said. "When I was at Moonbase, two bits was a quarter, which was a quarter of a dollar, which was the currency we used. But it started way before that."
"We'd say, 'I wouldn't give a dasher turd for his chances.'"
"That's probably a better assessment."
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