Frozen Sky 2: Betrayed

by Jeff Carlson

  Was that to avoid fighting each other or because the matriarchs wanted more savages?

  It’s a double-edged sword, Vonnie thought. The intelligent sunfish can’t expand their colonies because they spend too much time controlling the disruptive elements inside their own homes. On the other hand, dealing with the savages has increased the matriarchs’ abilities to scheme and coax and think ahead.

  We don’t know if the larger sunfish have savages in their tribes. We don’t even know if they have matriarchs, although their females seem to be in charge.

  Did the smaller matriarchs goad the larger sunfish into following their lead with the threat of violence?

  Vonnie believed that was exactly what had happened. Studying her transcripts, she saw an uneven boil of anticipation mixed with paranoia. The larger breed exhibited anger. The smaller matriarchs were slyly triumphant.

  “Who do we approach first?” she asked. “The larger sunfish look like they’ve deferred to the smaller ones.”

  “Not quite,” O’Neal said. “The dynamic is subtle. The larger sunfish have had a relaxing effect on the group. They’ve influenced the overall mood.”

  Vonnie saw what he meant when she compared his sims to their AI scores. The larger breed moved among the smaller sunfish like sea lions among seals. They were louder and bulkier. Physically and mentally, they slowed the activity within the squirming tribe. “Are they smarter?” she asked.

  “Unknown. There’s definitely a higher level of semantic content among the larger breed. They use more signifiers, more complex phrases and vocabulary.”

  “Then I should approach them.”

  “I think that would be a mistake. Look at this.” O’Neal opened a new sim, a data summary gleaned from the females’ debates. “The larger breed came here because the smaller sunfish showed them metal tools and Lam, and because the smaller sunfish demonstrated unusual conviction in demanding a treaty with them. They weren’t submissive. They told the larger breed to join them or lose the opportunity to join us.”

  “You’re saying the smaller matriarchs took the initiative and they want to keep it.”

  “That’s how they’ve maintained control over their savages. They need to remain in dominant positions or the lesser males will rebel. This new tribe is precarious. It’s volatile.”

  “I need your official recommendation,” Koebsch said. “Are you advising us to stay out of the ice?”

  “If we don’t go in, the sunfish will leave,” O’Neal said.

  Vonnie grimaced. Why was Koebsch second-guessing his decision now? He must have heard from Berlin, she thought, glancing at her clocks. Enough time had elapsed for a response from Earth, although given the radio lag, their agency and government leaders were woefully behind unfolding events.

  At the moment, the datastreams reaching Earth would show Top Clan Eight-Six plunging into the ice and Dawson yelling that the sunfish planned to open a geyser.

  Too many people were pulling Koebsch in too many directions. Berlin could demand that he follow protocols. The proxies could hound him. Later, Earth’s governments and the media would criticize any decision he made—and none of that mattered. The weight of history belonged to Koebsch.

  Characteristically, he said, “I don’t like it. This is happening too fast. We’re not prepared.”

  “The sunfish don’t prepare,” Vonnie said.

  “They’ll never arrange a meeting at a conference table,” O’Neal agreed. “They don’t mark time like we do. Most of their actions are spontaneous.”

  Ash had been watching her clocks, too. “Sir, you heard from Berlin?” she asked.

  “My orders are to exercise extreme caution,” Koebsch said.

  He was obviously dissatisfied with this instruction, and Ben laughed. “’Extreme caution.’ That’s pointless advice. They’re covering their asses.”

  “Ben, shut up,” Vonnie said more harshly than she’d intended. “Koebsch, stop worrying about Earth. They’re too far behind the curve. We’re the ones on the front line. We can do something great here today.”

  “She’s right,” O’Neal said. “This opportunity is unprecedented. It may have been hundreds of years since the two breeds worked together.”

  “That’s why I don’t like it. We can’t predict their next move,” Koebsch said.

  “We know enough to barter with them,” O’Neal said. “The Top Clan wants more status and a better home. The Mid Clan wants our power.”

  “They might have other agendas,” Koebsch said. “Can they have children with each other? The smaller matriarchs may want to improve the health and size of their offspring. The larger breed could want savages for their own wars. If we accept a treaty with them… What kind of deal are we making?”

  Vonnie blinked. She regarded Koebsch as a good man, but she also thought of him as a desk jockey, not an astronaut, much less a scientist. I should give him more credit, she thought even as she haggled with him. “We can’t answer those questions if we don’t go down there,” she said. “The sunfish won’t accept a treaty without touching one of us.”

  “Koebsch, we need to do this,” O’Neal said.

  “Two of the smaller males are banging on 07 again,” Ben said. “It’s not a concerted effort, but they’re also screeching at the ice.”

  “They’re restless,” O’Neal said. “The larger sunfish are impatient, and their attitude is transferring to the rest. They won’t keep waiting. They’ll scavenge what they can from the mecha and leave. They may attack each other.”

  “Don’t miss our chance,” Vonnie said.

  Koebsch waved his hands as if forming a barricade to protect himself from Vonnie and O’Neal. “Enough,” he said. “I’m convinced, but I need you to realize we’re playing with fire. Who are their enemies? What are the Low Clans if they exist? Will the other Top Clans unite against us after we form an alliance with the larger breed?”

  “We can always back out,” Vonnie said. “We’re literally above their wars. We don’t need to get involved. We can be teachers and diplomats, not generals.”

  “Von, they may not let us stand on the sidelines,” Koebsch said. His gray-blue eyes were clouded with warning. He looked like he was about to order her to stand down. Then he gestured for her to proceed. “Bring your suit into the air lock,” he said. “We’re going in.”

  9.

  “Activate all combat systems,” Vonnie told Ash. It was a day for blindsiding each other. Koebsch had surprised Vonnie with his comprehensive grasp of the tribe’s prospects. Now she surprised Ash, who’d never imagined she would want weapons.

  “You didn’t… Why?” Ash asked.

  “Some of the smaller sunfish fought Ribeiro’s mecha,” Vonnie said. “Both breeds might have been among the groups who fought me. They understand guns, and they know when our sensors are hot. Turn everything on. Radar. Spotlight. Welding tool. Can you mag-lock an excavation charge on the wrist?”

  “What good would that do?”

  “We don’t need to detonate the charge. We want to intimidate them.”

  “Roger that.” Ash busied herself with the armory controls inside Module 01. “The suit is walking toward my air lock. When it’s outside, I’ll accelerate to a run. Your time of arrival is five minutes.”

  “I’m not sure we have that long,” Ben said. “The smaller males are agitated. They’re screaming at the matriarchs.”

  “I see them,” Vonnie said.

  Four of the smaller males were chopping at Submodule 07 with hunks of alumalloy from the destroyed mecha. They dug at the seams of the secondary hatch. Was it laced with Tom’s scent from the many times he’d entered and exited?

  Shrieking, posturing, the matriarchs demanded that they stop. —Drop your tools! Obey us!

  Two larger males tried to grab the smaller males. A smaller male cut one of his opponent’s arms. The wound was shallow, but the blood excited all of the sunfish. The smaller males spun as if to attack the matriarchs, widening their beaks.

>   “Lam, I’m coming in,” Vonnie said.

  —We hear you. I hear you.

  She hoped he was still relaying her broadcasts to the tribe. She deliberately insulted them. “Control your males!” she yelled. “Control them or I’ll control them for you. My tribe values self-discipline and cooperation. Only lesser animals cannot govern themselves.”

  —Yes. No. Yes.

  Was he cautioning her not to offend the matriarchs? She felt like she was on a thin line as she said, “Are you animals or are you Clans? Poor leadership is why you’re scattered and weak. My tribe wants to build a new empire, but we need healthy allies, not savages. We need Clans.”

  —No. Yes. They’re listening. Yes.

  The separate groups of sunfish whirled abruptly. The larger breed and the matriarchs leapt into the air and combined against Submodule 07, pinning the savages on its metal surface.

  The savages bit and thrashed, but the fighting stopped when the matriarchs allowed them to grope at the larger male’s injury. Terrestrial predators would have been further aroused by the gore. The sunfish were soothed by the taste of blood. They shared a new song of bonding as Lam said:

  —You’re entering the ice?

  “Yes. Soon.” Vonnie muted her radio link with him and glanced at O’Neal. “What do we call ourselves, Ghost Clan what?” she asked.

  “I haven’t parsed their identifiers,” O’Neal said. “The way they count is more than fours and eights. I think their tribe names also refer to the ratio of females to males, breeding pairs and able hunters.”

  “Which is better, big numbers or small?”

  “Big numbers denote larger tribes and more desirable homes. Top Clan Eight-Six had a different name before the survivors of Two-Four joined them. The larger breed, the Mid Clan, has used several numbers since they appeared. They’re experimenting. I don’t think they’ll determine their new name until we resolve things with them.”

  “What’s the biggest number you’ve heard?” Koebsch asked.

  “The Mid Clan called themselves Twelve-Eight in our first recordings of this group,” O’Neal said.

  “Let’s use our own math,” Koebsch said. “They know we’re different. Von, the proxies want you to call us Ghost Clan Forty-Fifty.”

  “The tribes don’t use tens or any quantity above sixteen,” O’Neal said. “Fifty isn’t a sunfish number. Even forty is too much.”

  “That’s why we should use human numbers,” Koebsch said. “We’re bigger than they are. We’re stronger.”

  “Size is less important to them than exquisitely described proportions,” O’Neal said. “War parties always round to the weakest amount. A thirteen-member pack is a twelve. A seven-armed sunfish is called a six. They never describe a tunnel or a cave as a single place. Everything is connected, including their concepts of tomorrow and yesterday. To them, Vonnie and Tom were a pair. When they separated, Tom became a zero until he returned to the tribe. Who knows how they thought of Vonnie after she was on her own. As far as they’re concerned, twos are indivisible. Time isn’t linear. Directions go both ways. We keep misinterpreting their actions because we think up is down and we see them as individuals when they only hear and smell the group.”

  “Roger that,” Koebsch said slowly.

  One of the most profound hurdles in dealing with the sunfish was that the tribes and humankind had opposite perspectives of which species stood above the other. To the sunfish, Europa’s ocean was the center of their universe.

  It was an insular view. It was a natural response to their sensory limitations.

  On Earth, even the most primitive sea organisms had been aware of the sun. The open surface, the light, the changing weather and the shorelines had eventually allowed for plant life, then amphibians, then reptiles and birds and mammals. Men had watched the stars, inventing myths to explain those distant suns, then developing calendars, navigational charts, and finally hurling themselves into space.

  Europa’s center drew the sunfish to safety. They did not try to escape their world as humankind had always yearned to fly. They followed Europa’s depths as far as they were able, climbing “up” through the ice like a man would climb a ladder.

  Even their terms for “Top,” “Mid” and “Low” had been misconstrued by humankind. “Top Clan” was not a claim of supremacy. The name was derogatory. To them, the surface was the bottom of everything.

  No one from Earth could say if Europa’s ocean was a safe, warm core. ESA models suggested the water was a vortex of riptides and scalding thermal vents. It also held stifling levels of sulfuric acid. The prime regions for life probably existed among the mountains and seas suspended in the middle sections of the frozen sky, presumably where the Low Clans resided. The Top and Mid Clans might want to climb only so far “up,” stopping short of the ocean—but to do so, they would need to invade the Low Clans, either an invasion by force or an invasion of ideas.

  We can teach them, although we need a firm hand, Vonnie thought. They won’t respect a gentle touch.

  She was uncomfortable with assuming the role of the tough guy, but stature was integral to their culture. She could no more present herself as their equal than she could speak English without pronouns or verbs. At best, she would sound muddled. She couldn’t make them listen unless she struck a brazen tone.

  Equally important was how the empty scout suit acted.

  “Ash, stomp your feet,” Vonnie said. “I want you to make as much noise you can.”

  “Roger that.” On their group feed, Ash danced her arms and legs inside a ROM program. She had been running the suit from 01 to 06. Now she exaggerated her stride, and her hazel eyes glinted. Maybe she enjoyed masquerading as a heavy-footed monster. She had been frightened by the sunfish too many times not to relish banging on the ice as Lam called:

  —We hear you. We’re waiting.

  “I’m approaching the air lock,” Vonnie told him. “You’ll hear more vibrations when I open the top hatch, then equalize the tube. Stay back from the bottom hatch.”

  —We’re waiting. We’re singing.

  “The matriarchs are calling again,” O’Neal reported. “They’re advising the group beneath the FNEE modules. Eight of those sunfish have left. They’re moving down and westward through the ice.”

  “Where are they going? Toward me?” Vonnie asked.

  “Yes. They’ll reach the cavern with Submodule 07 before your suit clears the tube.”

  “Are they smaller males or matriarchs?” Koebsch asked.

  “Smaller males,” O’Neal said.

  “Christ,” Ben muttered as Vonnie internalized a sharp curse of her own. Eight males will alter the nature of the pack, she thought. They’ll be more violent, less communicative. They’re sending warriors.

  Why would they do that?

  The suit was fifty seconds from reaching Module 06. “Can I see the proxies’ sims?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Koebsch said. “Your station is on quarantine until we’re certain about Lam, but the proxies are convincing. Their decision was ‘Ghost Clan Forty-Fifty.’

  “Their decision was by vote, and it included every ranking bureaucrat in the bunch,” O’Neal said. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. Bigger isn’t necessarily better to the sunfish, and the more valued number comes first. That’s how we knew Top Clan Eight-Six was more successful than Two-Four, not because their numbers were larger, because of the arrangement. ‘Forty-Fifty’ is a backwards name. Believe me. Ghost Clan Twenty-Sixteen is better.”

  “Koebsch, who do you trust, O’Neal or the proxies?” Vonnie asked.

  “We’re under orders,” he said.

  “I know, I know! Stop reminding us. Earth wants to tell you what to do after we’ve done it. You’re going to have to go with your gut.”

  “Von, the suit is outside your module,” Ash said. “I put ten lab tabs in the chest pack.”

  “Roger that.”

  Vonnie touched her display. Because she wore a press
ure suit, she was well-prepared to act as if she was inside the scout suit. To begin, she cloned the ROM program from Ash’s station. Virtual immersion and tactile cues completed the illusion. Her station projected a holographic field inside her visor. Then her gloves and boots squeezed slightly. So did the headband inside her helmet. Microscopic relays created physical feedback, which her station factored into the simulation.

  Vonnie shut her eyes at the stabbing pinch of a migraine. Her station adjusted its holography. The headache went away.

  She appeared to be wearing the scout suit. It stood five meters from Module 06 and the opaque tent that housed the cargo lock. The exterior of 06 blazed with spotlights and cameras. On her visor, she saw infrared beams and fine laser grids distributed among the lights.

  She advanced on the tent clumsily. Using a virtual program was a learned art. She couldn’t actually walk because her body was inside the confines of 06. She’d crash into the wall or Ben or Dawson. Sorry I stepped on your wrinkled old face, Billy, she thought, needing a joke. She needed to relax.

  Every nerve impulse was magnified and augmented by the ROM program. Tipping one heel caused the scout suit to step forward. Lifting and aiming her feet could set its boots on ladder rungs. Only its gloves operated with fine motor control, mimicking her hands exactly.

  She unsealed the tent’s outer flap, which led to an entry bubble lined with vents. “Stage one, go,” she said. Her visor darkened as UV lights baked the scout suit, cooking off any Earth smells and microbes. Next she was blasted with melted ice peppered with native dust.

  Alarm bars filled her display. Vonnie jerked her arm in front of her face, an astronaut’s instinct to guard her helmet. She thought the decontamination gear had malfunctioned. Then she realized their defense net was alerting everyone. The sunfish had screeched at the familiar drone of the machinery. Some of them were banging on Submodule 07 again.