Seeds of Memory

by J. Richard Jacobs

  Essentially they believed he felt guilty, because he had it in his mind that there was something he could have done to prevent the terrible results of the Nurusha disaster; that he could have stopped a shifting planet from sucking an island under. His mind, according to them, was in the process of subconsciously searching for what that something might have been that would have saved all those people from destruction.

  Yet he tossed, he turned, he awoke in a bed drenched with perspiration. He remembered his PPCEGD and grimaced. It is a convenient theory, he thought, but it is definitely not my problem. I don't have any doubt that there was nothing I could have done—absolutely nothing. I know this, not just intellectually, but emotionally. No, this problem is something different. I think the best thing for me to do is just not to say anything more about it to them.

  They had strutted out their answers to him with the confidence of a flock of barkel cocks parading in front of the henhouse, and he knew, if he argued the point further, he would be kept in the hospital until he agreed with their diagnosis. No, he thought, I'll go ahead and suffer my PPCEGD as they think I should and get out of this shagrat nest like the rest of the Guilt Disorder ridden Operators.

  * * * *

  It was day eighty of the new year by the time he was released from the hospital. His first thought was to return to what was left of Nurusha.

  Maybe my boat is still in one piece. Maybe I can—no, none of that is any good. Everything is gone. Just—gone, and what purpose would it serve to go back? Go back to what; a broken fragment of an island to hunt fish that might not return to those waters for a hundred years? Stupid, that's what it is.

  He was on the Continent. There were grand libraries where the complete Ancient Record was kept, and he was in a place where he could go see, even touch, two of the sixteen shuttles that had survived the settlement landings.

  The Museum of the Ancients I read so much about actually exists here in this very city, right here in New London.

  He couldn't return. There was nothing to return to, and everything in which he had ever had any real interest was in New London. He would need work, of course. He would have to pay for his library and museum time. He also wanted to buy his own copy of the Ancient Record to study in his own time, and that would be expensive. He had read a lot of it in Sochi, but there was so much more to learn. So much more to know.

  Besides, what they released in the journals was always edited, and he wanted the Ancient Record, not some editor's impressions and opinions. So, he was off to the harbor. All he knew was fishing, and maybe he could find work there. A sense of urgency had invaded him.

  Niki's number one problem with the idea was that he would have to find the harbor. It had to be west of him, but where? Never having been outside of Sochi, he found himself in a confusing, bewildering maze of avenues and alley-ways. This was not the village of Sochi. There were streets that went on forever to who-knew-where, and there were some that went nowhere. And there were vehicles. Some appeared to be the personal transports he'd seen in magazines but never believed anyone could afford. Back home he had treated the concept of personal transport as so much fiction designed to lure folk into the big cities. But ... there they were, on the tracks, eight or ten of them at a time. This place was nothing like Sochi where one venerable tracmech had served all the needs of the island. Albeit slowly, but it had served.

  After an hour of asking directions of all he met and trying to sort out their conflicting answers, the harbor found him. As he rounded one last corner and was nearing total frustration, there it was; New London Harbor.

  Pictures in the periodicals had done nothing to prepare him for what he saw—the immensity of it staggered Niki. About a hundred meters down, at the base of a sheer cliff, were boats—big ones—maybe twenty, twenty-five meters long.

  Walking along the broad, open street that paralleled the cliff he was attacked by sounds and smells coming from hundreds of busy shops, open-air fish markets, and cafes dotted with brightly colored umbrellas to keep the glare of the still too close Vegamwun at bay while sweating clientele enjoyed all sorts of exotic foods at the outside tables. Some of the smells were offensive, not unusual during the hot times, but others beckoned seductively. Niki ignored them. The government's stipend for compensating Operators who survived the various tragedies of Perigamia was not sufficient to indulge himself in such extravagances. Niki needed work.

  There—there, by the Ancients, is what I'm looking for.

  A faded, badly painted sign on the front of one of the older buildings read, "GREELEY'S FISH BROKERAGE," and a smaller one, carelessly hand-drawn and taped to the window said, "Experienced Fishers Needed—Apply here." The ink had run and faded in the high humidity that would linger for several periods as Paz moved steadily away from Vegamwun, but it was legible and, he hoped, still in effect.

  “So, what's your experience, Mr. Kaznov?” The rather tough looking man behind the desk leaned forward. He was playing with a small box on the shiny, black surface of his desk and staring at Niki. It made Niki uncomfortable.

  “I do ... I did all the catching for Nurusha. I built and ran my own boat—and I did all the processing myself, sir."

  “Uh-huh. Well, this isn't Nurusha, Mr. Kaznov. Ever work mackrawl and dormcarp?” The big man stood and moved to the window overlooking the harbor, his hands folded behind his back like those of a general surveying his troops tied at the base of the cliff.

  “Mackrawl, yes sir. The dormcarp never travel that far south, but I've fought a lot of goldens, and they're meaner and smarter than dormcarp.... and their venom is terminal, no matter what."

  “So it is, Mr. Kaznov. So it is.” He turned to face Niki, bit off a piece of foul-smelling tarsac he had taken from the box and pointed a fat finger at Niki. “I have one position open here and you may just work out in it, but you'll have to strain gut for not much tickle. You have to start at bottom share like everyone else, working as helper for Mr. Mills on boat eleven. That all right with you, Mr. Kaznov of Nurusha?"

  “Yes. Yes sir,” Niki said, wondering what bottom share was but afraid to ask. “I'll be here at first light, sir."

  “First light, hell. Get your fuzzy backsides down to the boat right now. Ask for Mr. Mills and tell him I sent you. Got it?"

  “Yes, sir. Right now, sir. Got it.” Niki threw the small bag containing all his belongings over his shoulder and headed for the lift that would take him down to the boat pad. He was filled with strange, contradictory feelings. He didn't think he liked Greeley, but he needed a job. He wasn't sure what a helper did on a fishing boat, but he was sure he could learn quickly enough. He would do anything ... anything to gain access to the museum and the libraries. Anything.

  Boat eleven was one of the smaller ones, and a quick glance told him she was unloved and very much used and abused. Every fastening was weeping dirty, red-brown stains through dull white paint sloppily brushed over warped and checking planks of cheap clasca wood. The rails showed evidence of lines dragged a thousand times too many, and the telltale black shadows of rot spotted her in every corner.

  Oh well, I guess this is going to be home for a while.

  A huge, one-armed man was on the foredeck swinging a spiker at an unarmed but defiant carper. Each swing scarred the deck under the bird's well-timed hop, which was followed by a mocking squawk and another nasty deposit.

  “Excuse me,” Niki called out. “Excuse me, sir."

  The man straightened, his loose belly hiding the knot in the rope he used for a belt. He and the carper glared at Niki.

  “Yeah? What the hell ya want, gaf?"

  “If you want to get rid of that carper,” Niki replied, “all you have to do is whistle, like this.” Niki aimed a shrill warbling whistle at the belligerent bird.

  The man on the deck dropped his spiker, agape, as the carper cocked its head to one side, squawked, and flew off to make its deposits on number nine.

  “How the hell did ya do that, gaf?"

  “It's
a sacker hunting call,” Niki said. “Carpers are afraid of sackers, but they're too stupid to know sackers don't live up here. Too cold for them."

  “Well, I'll be. That's a good'n, gaf. Name's Mills. Virgo Mills. What is it yer doin’ down here?"

  “Afternoon, Mr. Mills,” Niki said, feeling relieved he hadn't had to ask for anyone. He hated doing that. “Mr. Greeley sent me down to talk to you, sir. He said I was to work as your ... um ... helper."

  “Oh? He said that, did he?” Mills grabbed the rail and jumped down to the pad next to Niki. His agility and speed caught Niki by surprise, and he flinched involuntarily.

  “Saw that, I did. One wing and fat, so ya figgered I'd be clumsy and slow, huh, gaf? C'mon ... follow me to the shack."

  The shack was a small, square building at the end of the boat pad, its top festooned with antennae of every description, and large windows that made it look open all the way around. Niki wondered how such a structure could withstand Perigamia, but as they drew near to the door he saw it was hundred mill glass set in hard-bar and set-shell like the Operator's shelter on Nurusha. Mills let out a low, growling grunt as he pushed on the heavy metal door and the two of them entered a room packed with radios, radar equipment, and computers.

  “Gimme yer C-card, gaf,” Mills said while turning on one of the computers. He slipped the card into a slot on the side of the machine, and the screen instantly filled with Niki's complete Council record.

  “Mmm,” Mills mumbled. “Born, Paz one-eighty-six."

  He entered some notations on a data pad, then returned to the screen.

  “Yer a rare one, huh? Delta seed? Never met a Delta before. Why's that, gaf?"

  Niki gave Mills a brief history of how he came to be the only surviving direct-line Kaznov Delta on Paz, while Mills, mumbling to himself, worked the data pad. Niki didn't understand why Mills had not met another Delta.

  “Yeah, well, we'll talk about that later on, gaf,” Mills said with a tone of mystery in his voice. “Here's some stuff ya got to remember. First, ya call me Virgo when we're alone and on the boat. I don't like ‘sir,” and I don't like ‘Mr.’ neither. Y'understand me, gaf?"

  Niki nodded hesitantly.

  “Yeah? Okay,” Mills continued, busily entering notes in the data pad. “Next thing. Whenever that shagrat Greeley's ‘round ya go back to ‘sir’ and ‘Mr.,’ right?"

  Mills glanced up at Niki to make sure he was paying attention, and Niki indicated he understood.

  “I'm sure he told ya bottom share was yer tickle. Ya can ferget that. Ya get standard fisher share from me, but ya don't tell nobody nothin', y'understand, gaf? We don't want no trouble ‘round here, ya know."

  Niki didn't know what the difference between bottom and fisher share was, but, from the way it was stated, fisher share was probably a lot more, and that suited him just fine.

  “Still listenin'? Okay. There's another man on the boat. He's a full fisher, so he's ‘Mr.’ and ‘sir’ round Greeley, too. Otherwise, he's Mustafa."

  Another look Niki's way, then back to the data pad.

  “Says here yer name's N-I-K-I-S-H-A. That's, uh, Nikisha? How do ya wanna be called, gaf?"

  “Everyone's always called me Niki. I guess that's it. Niki."

  “Yeah? Well, yer not gonna be no Niki on my boat. Sounds too much like a garmouse in heat. Nikikikikikiniki,” he whined in an atrocious mimic of a garmouse seeking a mate. “On the boat yer name's gonna be Nik. More man-like. Yeah, from now on, yer name's Nik.” Mills paused briefly while he hammered away on the data pad, then continued, “Of course, ya know yer not gonna be called Mr. Nik, or whatever, by me or Mustafa. Nik, or gaf, that's it."

  The session with Mills went on into the early evening, and Mills probed for a lot of information about Niki's family history and Nurusha. Niki didn't understand what all the queries were for, but he assumed Mills wanted to know as much as he could about anyone working on his boat. That seemed sensible, though some of stuff he wanted to know didn't seem all that pertinent.

  “Okay, gaf. Sorry—Nik,” Mills said. “Here's a thousand hard notes against yer share. Fifty of those'll get ya quartered at the place on this card. Ya go there and ya tell'im I sent ya. Don't go no place else, ya hear me?"

  Niki said he understood and stuffed the handful of small metal pieces in his jacket pocket.

  “Now, remember. Ya go to the place on the card and get a cube. I'll call ya when we're ready to go out. Maybe ten days, maybe a little more. Y'understand, Nik?"

  Mills didn't bother to look up from his work on the data pad, but it was obvious that the meeting was over. As Niki walked away from the shack he heard Mills laugh and repeat his awful representation of a garmouse. Niki had heard garmice in heat before, and he didn't think they sounded anything like that.

  Squinting in the dim light doled out by the meager street-lamps he could barely get the smudges on the card to resemble words.

  HOTEL LA PAZ FRONTIER

  28 Echo View Way

  That ought to be easy enough to remember.

  Niki slipped the battered card back into his pocket and set off in search of the address. He wandered darkened, deserted streets for two hours and found nothing that came close to the name on the card. It was getting late.

  Under a flickering lamp on the corner near where he had stopped out of frustration, he spotted a couple engaged in conversation. He didn't want to bother them, but his wounds were still healing, and he needed to get off his feet soon. His first day out of the hospital proved to be more than he could handle. He approached them.

  “Excuse me, please. I ... I think I'm lost. Could you tell me where I could find 28 Echo View Way?"

  “Of course,” the young female of the pair said and gave Niki a pleasant smile. “This is Echo. You're standing on it."

  Niki felt the warmth rush through his cheeks and he knew he was turning bright pink. He hoped they wouldn't notice it in the pale, soon-to-fail light.

  “But the sign says this is Amber Way,” Niki said, pointing to the sign on the corner across the street.

  “Yes, it does, but that's because we're on the north side of Flag.” She looked to her companion for confirmation.

  “Yeah, that's right. The place you're looking for is in the third square after you cross Flag. Oh, and mister, I can tell from your talkway that you're not from New London. You be careful on that side of Flag. Lots of badfolk roaming over in that quarter. Lots."

  Niki thanked them for their help and assured them he would be cautious, then bade them good night.

  The street lighting, though not particularly bright nor constant elsewhere, died completely on the south side of Flag, and it was still too early in the year for Vegamtu's help, so the darkness was deep and foreboding. Only Almug's dull orange glow and the brighter stars made it possible to tell one building from the other.

  It was difficult to see, but the number on the gate of a walled-in complex was 28. After a bit of searching, Niki found the combox and pushed the button. The voice that responded to his call sounded harsh and a little angry.

  “What? What? It's after twelfth hour, man."

  “Evening,” Niki said. “Mr. Mills told me I could find lodging here."

  “You mean a cube? Mills, did you say?"

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Mills from down at the harbor."

  “I know who Mills is, damn it. All right. All right. Fifty notes—hard note only ... don't accept that phony paper crap—for forty days. No animals, no alki, no street commercials, no tarsac, no exceptions,” the voice droned from the box. “Push the gate when you hear the click. Make sure it's closed behind you. Come to number four. First building, fourth door. Have the notes ready. I'm in no mood to witness Vegamwun come up."

  In Nurusha there were no such things as cubes, so Niki wasn't at all sure what to expect. The key card the controller gave him was bent, and he had to fool around with it to get it to fit. He worked it into the slot, trying not to make too much noise, wiggled it around and was almost re
ady to give up when there was a loud clank and the door swung open on four stark white walls. A bed, rudely crammed into one corner, and a combination toilet/sink occupied the other corner of the same wall. Two chairs and a small table were dropped unimaginatively into the remaining space. There had been no consideration given to whether there would be any room to walk to the end of the bed. A V-screen and link adorned the wall opposite the bed, their mounting something less than professional. The entire mess was squeezed into a space roughly four meters long, maybe two meters wide, and about two and a half meters high. Its bareness was nothing less than ... distressing.

  On my Ancient, the hospital was better that this.

  He poked at the switch for the V-screen and stretched out on the hard-here, soft-there bed. The late news was already running, and the commentator, a lumpy-looking blonde, was recapping the statistics on the recent Days of Disturbance.

  “...were destroyed,” she drawled. “One of the major Nucanda iron mines will not reopen until after Minor Tides, authorities said, reducing production to a below-standard level for a minimum of one year."

  Niki lay there, his eyes involuntarily opening and closing as she continued her indifferent delivery.

  “Loss of life for this cycle has been set at one point three million; a new record. The government has announced its intention to provide mating subsidies for qualified persons during this year. One of our fine Council members, Low LIC Mav, was quoted as saying, ‘The subsidies being offered are for commercial mating only. Production from pairing is too unreliable to qualify for this program. It must also be said that untracs will not be considered under any circumstances. Applicants must be of verifiable seed lot origin to take advantage of this generous financial support.’ As a result of the Low LIC Mav's comments, it has been reported that prices on commercial mating industry stocks have shot up several points in the last two days and a number of hastily opened illegal clinics have been shut down by our ever vigilant Enforcement organization.