From behind my black armor, I rule the Polycarbon Clique. Their elite are my Advisers. I remember the cold, but I no longer fear it. I have buried it forever, as the cold of Mars is buried beneath its seething carpet of greenery. The two of us, now one, have stolen a whole planet from the realm of Death. And I do not fear the cold. No, not at all.
JAMES TIPTREE, JR.
Beyond the Dead Reef
People have been polluting the sea for countless millennia, ever since the first Cro-Magnon tossed the first piece of trash into the water, but it is only in the last hundred years or so that the problem has grown to really disastrous proportions. We are all, collectively, still tossing stuff into the sea—only now there are so many more of us, billions and billions more, and the stuff we are tossing in is mostly either poisonous or nonbiodegradable or both: plastic bottles and cups, beer cans, automobile tires, little Styrofoam peanuts, burned-out fluorescent tubes, rusting hubcaps, engine parts, sheets of polyethylene … To say nothing of massive oil spills, leaky containers of radioactive waste, and factories that pour millions of tons of lethal chemical sludge and untreated sewage directly into the ocean. Things have gotten so bad that Thor Heyerdahl, during his Ra expedition, found masses of floating pollutants even in the most remote regions of the Atlantic. In the last couple of decades people have begun to speak of the possibility that the sea itself might die from such treatment, a concept almost literally unimaginable only a few generations ago.
But—as this haunting story suggests—if the sea is doomed to die, it may go down fighting …
By now, probably everyone knows that the mysterious figure, James Tiptree, Jr.—for many years isolate and closemouthed enough to qualify as the B. Traven of science fiction—is really a pseudonym of Dr. Alice Sheldon, a semiretired experimental psychologist who also writes under the name Raccoona Sheldon. As Tiptree, Dr. Sheldon won two Nebulas and two Hugo awards (she also won a Nebula Award as Raccoona Sheldon) and established a reputation as one of the very best short-story writers in SF. She has published five books as Tiptree: the collections Ten Thousand Light Years From Home, Warmworlds and Otherwise, Star Songs of an Old Primate, and Out of the Everywhere, and a novel Up the Walls of the World.
“Beyond the Dead Reef” is one of a sequence of stories about strange doings in the Quintana Roo country of Yucatan; they will be collected in 1984 by Arkham House as Tales of the Quintana Roo. Upcoming are another new collection, as yet untitled, from Doubleday and a new novel called Green, Go.
A love that is not sated
Calls from a poisoned bed;
Where monsters half-created
writhe, unliving and undead.
None knows for what they’re fated;
None knows on what they’ve fed.
My informant was, of course, spectacularly unreliable.
The only character reference I have for him comes from the intangible nuances of a small restaurant-owner’s remarks, and the only confirmation of his tale lies in the fact that an illiterate fishing-guide appears to believe it. If I were to recount all the reasons why no sane mind should take it seriously, we could never begin. So I will only report the fact that today I found myself shuddering with terror when a perfectly innocent sheet of seaworn plastic came slithering over my snorkeling-reef, as dozens have done for years—and get on with the story.
I met him one evening this December at the Cozumel Buzo, on my first annual supply trip. As usual, the Buzo’s outer rooms were jammed with tourist divers and their retinues and gear. That’s standard. El Buzo means, roughly, The Diving, and the Buzo is their place. Marcial’s big sign in the window reads “DIVVERS UELCOME! BRING YR FISH WE COK WITH CAR. FIRST DRINK FREE!”
Until he went in for the “Divvers,” Marcial’s had been a small quiet place where certain delicacies like stone-crab could be at least semi-legally obtained. Now he did a roaring trade in snappers and groupers cooked to order at outrageous fees, with a flourishing sideline in fresh fish sales to the neighborhood each morning.
The “roaring” was quite literal. I threaded my way through a crush of burly giants and giantesses of all degrees of nakedness, hairiness, age, proficiency, and inebriation—all eager to share their experiences and plans in voices powered by scuba-deafened ears and Marcial’s free drink, beneath which the sound system could scarcely be heard at full blast. (Marcial’s only real expense lay in first-drink liquor so strong that few could recall whether what they ultimately ate bore any resemblance to what they had given him to cook.) Only a handful were sitting down yet and the amount of gear underfoot and on the walls would have stocked three sports shops. This was not mere exhibitionism; on an island chronically short of washers, valves and other spare parts the diver who lets his gear out of his sight is apt to find it missing in some vital.
I paused to allow a young lady to complete her massage of the neck of a youth across the aisle who was deep in talk with three others, and had time to notice the extraordinary number of heavy spearguns racked about. Oklahomans, I judged, or perhaps South Florida. But then I caught clipped New England from the center group. Too bad; the killing mania seems to be spreading yearly, and the armament growing ever more menacing and efficient. When I inspected their platters, however, I saw the usual array of lavishly garnished lobsters and common fish. At least they had not yet discovered what to eat.
The mermaiden blocking me completed her task—unthanked—and I continued on my way to the little inner sanctum Marcial keeps for his old clientele. As the heavy doors cut off the uproar, I saw that this room was full too—three tables of dark-suited Mexican businessmen and a decorous family of eight, all quietly intent on their plates. A lone customer sat at the small table by the kitchen door, leaving an empty seat and a child’s chair. He was a tall, slightly balding Anglo some years younger than I, in a very decent sports jacket. I recalled having seen him now and then on my banking and shopping trips to the island.
Marcial telegraphed me a go-ahead nod as he passed through laden with more drinks, so I approached.
“Mind if I join you?”
He looked up from his stone-crab and gave me a slow, owlish smile.
“Welcome. A diverse welcome,” he enunciated carefully. The accent was vaguely British, yet agreeable. I also perceived that he was extremely drunk, but in no common way.
“Thanks.”
As I sat down I saw that he was a diver too, but his gear was stowed so unobtrusively I hadn’t noticed it. I tried to stack my own modest snorkel outfit as neatly, pleased to note that, like me, he seemed to carry no spearguns. He watched me attentively, blinking once or twice, and then returned to an exquisitely exact dissection of his crab.
When Marcial brought my own platter of crab—unasked—we engaged in our ritual converse. Marcial’s English is several orders of magnitude better than my Spanish, but he always does me the delicate courtesy of allowing me to use his tongue. How did I find my rented casita on the coco ranch this year? Fine. How goes the tourist business this year? Fine. I learn from Marcial: the slight pause before his answer with a certain tone, meant that in fact the tourist business was lousy so far, but would hopefully pick up; I used the same to convey that in fact my casa was in horrible shape but reparable. I tried to cheer him by saying that I thought the Buzo would do better than the general tourismo, because the diving enthusiasm was spreading in the States. “True,” he conceded. “So long as they don’t discover other places—like Belizé.” Here he flicked a glance at my companion, who gave his solemn blink. I remarked that my country’s politics were in disastrous disarray, and he conceded the same for his; the Presidente and his pals had just made off with much of the nation’s treasury. And I expressed the hope that Mexico’s new oil would soon prove a great boom. “Ah, but it will be a long time before it gets to the little people like us,” said Marcial, with so much more than his normal acerbity that I refrained from my usual joke about his having a Swiss bank account. The uproar from the outer rooms had risen several decibels, but j
ust before Marcial had to leave he paused and said in a totally different voice, “My grandson Antonito Vincente has four teeth!”
His emotion was so profound that I seized his free hand and shook it lightly, congratulating him in English. And then he was gone, taking on his “Mexican waiter” persona quite visibly as he passed the inner doors.
As we resumed our attention to the succulence before us, my companion said in his low, careful voice, “Nice chap, Marcial. He likes you.”
“It’s mutual,” I told him between delicate mouthfuls. Stone-crab is not to be gulped. “Perhaps because I’m old enough to respect the limits where friendship ends and the necessities of life take over.”
“I say, that’s rather good.” My companion chuckled. “Respect for the limits where friendship ends and the necessities of life take over, eh? Very few Yanks do, you know. At least the ones we see down here.”
His speech was almost unslurred, and there were no drinks before him on the table. We chatted idly a bit more. It was becoming apparent that we would finish simultaneously and be faced with the prospect of leaving together, which could be awkward, if he, like me, had no definite plans for the evening.
The dilemma was solved when my companion excused himself momentarily just as Marcial happened by.
I nodded to his empty chair. “Is he one of your old customers, Señor Marcial?”
As always Marcial understood the situation at once. “One of the oldest,” he told me, and added low-voiced, “muy bueno gentes—a really good guy. Un poco de difficultates—” he made an almost imperceptible gesture of drinking—“But controllado. And he has also négocios—I do not know all, but some are important for his country. —So you really like the crab?” he concluded in his normal voice. “We are honored.”
My companion was emerging from the rather dubious regions that held the excusado.
Marcial’s recommendation was good enough for me. Only one puzzle remained: what was his country? As we both refused dulce and coffee, I suggested that he might care to stroll down to the Marina with me and watch the sunset.
“Good thought.”
We paid Marcial’s outrageous bills, and made our way through the exterior bedlam, carrying our gear. One of the customers was brandishing his speargun as he protested his bill. Marcial seemed to have lost all his English except the words “Police,” and cooler heads were attempting to calm the irate one. “All in a night’s work,” my companion commented as we emerged into a blaze of golden light.
The marina to our left was a simple L-shaped muelle, or pier, still used by everything from dinghies to commercial fisherman and baby yachts. It will be a pity when and if the town decides to separate the sports tourist trade from the more interesting working craft. As we walked out toward the pier in the last spectacular color of the tropic sunset over the mainland, the rigging lights of a cruise ship standing out in the channel came on, a fairyland illusion over the all-too-dreary reality.
“They’ll be dumping and cleaning out their used bunkers tonight,” my companion said, slurring a trifle now. He had a congenial walking gait, long-strided but leisurely. I had the impression that his drunkenness had returned slightly; perhaps the fresh air. “Damn crime.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I told him. “I remember when we used to start snorkeling and scuba-diving right off the shore here—you could almost wade out to untouched reefs. And now—”
There was no need to look; one could smell it. The effluvia of half a dozen hotels and the town behind ran out of pipes that were barely covered at low tide; only a few parrot fish, who can stand anything, remained by the hotelside restaurants to feed on the crusts the tourists threw them from their tables. And only the very ignorant would try out—once—the dilapidated Sunfish and water-ski renters who plied the small stretches of beach between hotels.
We sat down on one of the near benches to watch a commercial trawler haul net. I had been for some time aware that my companion, while of largely British culture, was not completely Caucasian. There was a minute softness to the voice, a something not quite dusky about hair and fingernails—not so much as to be what in my youth was called “A touch of the tarbrush,” but nothing that originated in Yorkshire, either. Nor was it the obvious Hispano-Indian. I recollected Marcial’s earlier speech and enlightenment came.
“Would I be correct in taking Marcial’s allusion to mean that you are a British Honduran—forgive me, I mean a Belizéian, or Belizan?”
“Nothing to forgive, old chap. We haven’t existed long enough to get our adjectives straight.”
“May god send you do.” I was referring to the hungry maws of Guatemala and Honduras, the little country’s big neighbors, who had the worst of intentions toward her. “I happen to be quite a fan of your country. I had some small dealings there after independence that involved getting all my worldly goods out of your customs on a national holiday, and people couldn’t have been finer to me.”
“Ah yes. Belize the blessed, where sixteen nationalities live in perfect racial harmony. The odd thing is, they do.”
“I could see that. But I couldn’t quite count all sixteen.”
“My own grandmother was a Burmese—so called. I think it was the closest grandfather could come to black. Although the mix is extraordinary.”
“My factor there was a very dark Hindu with red hair and a Scottish accent, named Robinson. I had to hire him in seven minutes. He was a miracle of efficiency. I hope he’s still going.”
“Robinson … Used to work for customs?”
“Why, yes, now you recall it.”
“He’s fine … Of course, we felt it when the British left. Among other things, half the WCs in the hotels broke down the first month. But there are more important things in life than plumbing.”
“That I believe … But you know, I’ve never been sure how much help the British would have been to you. Two years before your independence I called the British embassy with a question about your immigration laws, and believe it or not I couldn’t find one soul who even knew there was a British Honduras, let alone that they owned it. One child finally denied it flatly and hung up. And this was their main embassy in Washington, D.C. I realized then that Britain was not only sick, but crazy.”
“Actually denied our existence, eh?” My companion’s voice held a depth and timbre of sadness such as I have heard only from victims of better-known world wrongs. Absently his hand went under his jacket, and he pulled out something gleaming.
“Forgive me.” It was a silver flask, exquisitely plain. He uncapped and drank, a mere swallow, but, I suspected, something of no ordinary power. He licked his lips as he recapped it, and sat up straighter while he put it away.
“Shall we move along out to the point?”
“With pleasure.”
We strolled on, passing a few late sports boats disgorging hungry divers.
“I’m going to do some modest exploring tomorrow,” I told him. “A guide named Jorge”—in Spanish it’s pronounced Hor-hay—“Jorge Chuc is taking me out to the end of the north reef. He says there’s a pretty little untouched spot there. I hope so. Today I went south, it was so badly shot over I almost wept. Cripples—and of course shark everywhere. Would you believe I found a big she-turtle, trying to live with a steel bolt through her neck? I managed to catch her, but all I could do for her was pull it out. I hope she makes it.”
“Bad … Turtles are tough, though. If it wasn’t vital you may have saved her. But did you say that Jorge Chuc is taking you to the end of the north reef?”
“Yes, why. Isn’t it any good?”
“Oh, there is one pretty spot. But there’s some very bad stuff there too. If you don’t mind my advice, don’t go far from the boat. I mean, a couple of meters. And don’t follow anything. And above all be very sure it is Jorge’s boat.”
His voice had become quite different, with almost military authority.
“A couple of meters!” I expostulated. “But—”
�
�I know, I know. What I don’t know is why Chuc is taking you there at all.” He thought for a moment. “You haven’t by any chance offended him, have you? In any way?”
“Why no—we were out for a long go yesterday, and had a nice chat on the way back. Yes … although he is a trifle changeable, isn’t he? I put it down to fatigue, and gave him some extra dinero for being only one party.”
My companion made a untranslatable sound, compounded of dubiety, speculation, possible enlightenment, and strong suspicion.
“Did he tell you the name of that part of the reef? Or that it’s out of sight of land?”
“Yes, he said it was far out. And that part of it was so poor it’s called dead.”
“And you chatted—forgive me, but was your talk entirely in Spanish?”
I chuckled deprecatingly. “Well, yes—I know my Spanish is pretty horrible, but he seemed to get the drift.”
“Did you mention his family?”
“Oh yes—I could draw you the whole Chuc family tree.”
“H’mmm … .” My companion’s eyes had been searching the pierside where the incoming boats were being secured for the night.
“Ah. There’s Chuc now. This is none of my business, you understand—but do I have your permission for a short word with Jorge?”
“Why yes. If you think it necessary.”
“I do, my friend. I most certainly do.”
“Carry on.”
His long-legged stride had already carried him to Chuc’s big skiff, the Estrellita. Chuc was covering his motors. I had raised my hand in greeting, but he was apparently too busy to respond. Now he greeted my companion briefly, but did not turn when he clambered into the boat uninvited. I could not hear the interchange. But presently the two men were standing, faces somewhat averted from each other as they conversed. My companion made rather a long speech, ending with questions. There was little response from Chuc, until a sudden outburst from him took me by surprise. The odd dialog went on for some time after that; Chuc seemed to calm down. Then the tall Belizian waved me over.
Year's Best Science Fiction 01 # 1984 Page 8