“Stand by for Mr Kenzig.” Clicks.
What in God’s name did they want of me? My eyes stung.
I stamped my foot, shot upward. Damn greenie. When I reoriented, I clutched the writing stick. “Why fish squiggle?”
“Seafort, Admiral Kenzig here.” His voice was strained.
“Yes, sir. Visuals, please.”
The same outrider answered me: FISH PLANET NO DOTS DIE.
I wrote, “I don’t understand.”
“Never mind that! You’re to—”
“Visuals, or I disconnect.”
FISH NO-FUSE PLANT THE NO DOTS. SHIP SQUIGGLE FISH DOTS. FISH PLANET NO-PLANET NO DIE.
A chill stabbed my spine. What I saw was of great import. Gibberish, but important.
“All right.” I was speaking to myself. “Fish go to planet and the no dots … without dots. Ship—us people—squiggle the dots. Fish don’t die. No, not all fish. Just the fish planet / no-planet.”
I wrote, “Why war?”
“Rank insubordination, Seafort! Here are your bloody visuals! Satisfied?”
FISH ONE-ARM NO WAR.
“Captain, Ship’s Boy Carr reporting. Don’t shoot them down, not yet. We’re so close!” Why should he listen to me? Moments ago I wanted them all dead. That poor boy Tyre … Lost, alone in a fish, as I was now.
Back to work, joey. My fish isn’t warring. Yeah, I see that. But the others do. Because of the dots. Why some, but not others?
“Pan the holocam. Who’s with you?”
“That’s none of your bloody business!”
I asked the outrider, “Fish equals fish?”
Great agitation. Outriders skittered about. One, quivering, finally wrote, FISH NOT EQUAL FISH.
“Sir, I have reason to believe you’re under duress.”
Why the incessant gabble? How could I concentrate with civil war breaking out all across …
Was that it? I stabbed with the tool. “Fish war fish?”
NO. Then, as if with great reluctance, OUTRIDER WAR OUTRIDER. HUMAN NO SQUIGGLE DOTS.
“I’ll squiggle your damn dots! Just call off the attack!”
“What, Randy?”
“Sorry, Captain. Thinking out loud.”
“I’m not under duress,” the Admiral fumed. “I’ve a mind to relieve you this moment!”
“With due respect, sir, I’d disregard your order.”
“Very well. Lieutenant Riev and Governor McEwan are in my office, but that’s of no consequence. You’re to proceed—”
“Who else?”
“Damn it to bloody hell, Seafort, not another word! SecGen or no, I’ll—”
“Scanlen, are you with him? Palabee? How many armed guards? Admiral, pan the holocam THIS INSTANT!” A pause. “Ah, I thought so. Odd, how I can’t see their hands. Mr Kenzig, come aboard Olympiad, and I’ll obey any order you issue. Under the circumstances—”
“You know damned well I can’t go aloft with fish—”
“The moment the crisis abates. Good day, sir.”
“Fish no go planet the no dots?” I hoped the outrider would understand. Do fish the without these mysterious dots, if they’re not going to a planet?
NO.
And he’d deposited sand at my feet, just as Harry’s predecessor, in our corridor, had deposited the nutrients it wanted. “I was afraid you’d say that.” Slowly, reluctantly, I reached for my helmet clamp. “Ship’s Boy Carr to Olympiad, making …” for a moment, I found it hard to speak “… what may be my final report. They want to squiggle dots. I think the dots are the white sand on the deck. I’m going to see what it is. If it burns me, I won’t be able to get back in my suit.” Not one-handed.
“No! Don’t—”
“Air’s short, and I’m running out of time. Please listen. The outriders have factions, like we do. Outrider war outrider. It’s all about the dots. Our faction—Harry’s group—wants to squiggle dots with us. The others, maybe they don’t want to, or don’t think it’s possible. So they’re attacking the Venturas. Maybe it can be stopped. Just a sec.”
I bent. “Why war planet?”
DOTS. PLANET DOTS.
“Sir, the Venturas have something they want. Harry’s people tried to explain, but …”
“Kaminski, this is Admiral Kenzig, linked with Vince Palabee and his government in the Venturas. We issue a joint order: blow that bloody fish out of Hope System! The one that has the boy.”
“Colonel, please disregard. Admiral Kenzig is under duress.”
ONE-ARM FISH. OUTRIDER. Then, WAR FISH OUTRIDER. No, the second picture was different. An outrider, but much larger.
“Seafort, you hear me? This is Right Reverend Ricard Scanlen. You’re to take out those fish, all of them! Do so and I’ll reconsider excommunicating your cronies. Branstead and that Dakko.”
How little he knew Fath, if he thought Mr Seafort would barter for his friends’ lives.
Fath would sooner trade …
Trade.
Squiggle.
“Fath—Captain, sir, I think I’ve got it. But I won’t do like Mr Tyre. Give me permission to take off the suit. I think I know what they want!” Most of it, anyway.
“Randy …”
“I had it off before.”
“For a moment, when you were choking.”
“Believe me, I won’t be much longer. Their air stinks. Hurry, please.”
“Seafort? Vince, talk to him, the madman won’t—”
“Granted, Mr Carr.”
I pulled my clamps, one at a time. The fish began to pulse. Perhaps it was airing the compartment in anticipation.
The helmet came off. My ears didn’t pop. Cautiously, I took a breath. Phew.
I ran a suit sleeve across my sweaty forehead. All right, now. I bent, ran gloved fingers through the dry sand. As before, it gave me no clue.
I sniffed it. Nothing, no odor at all.
Tentatively, the outrider approached.
Yeah, you disagree. I’ve got that.
NO DOTS, PLANET FISH DIE.
“And?” I spoke aloud, to no purpose.
NO DOTS FISH FUSE, NO DIE. NO DOTS FISH NO-FUSE, NO DIE. NO DOTS FISH PLANET, FISH DIE. They don’t need the white sand to Fuse, or propel themselves. Just to go planetside.
Wearily, I worked my arm out of my suit, trying not to breathe the fetid air. “Guess we’ve got to know, joey.” Somehow, I made my fingers approach the sand. One fingertip brushed it, jerked away as if scorched.
But I wasn’t burned. I examined my skin, took a deep breath, picked up a handful. It looked so familiar, but … Randy, you’re an idiot if you … I know. Get it over with. Screwing my eyes shut, I touched it to my tongue.
My eyes popped open. I stared at the outrider, then the sand. At the outrider. It couldn’t be. “This is all about … salt?” I grabbed a handful. “SALT?” Feverishly I wrote, “Dots equal one-arm hand?”
YES.
“Fish no the big number dots, small number?” How much salt do you need? Why hadn’t we worked out words for “how much” or “how many”?
SHIP OUTRIDER INSIDE.
“Yeah, Olympiad.”
He drew a line dissecting it, then another, and another.
“Don’t threaten me, joey!”
And another. Then he erased the remainder of the ship. There was left a small wedge. Far less than one cargo hold.
“Why can’t you get your own damn salt?” No use asking. We didn’t have the words to explain, and were out of time.
“Time small,” I wrote.
TIME NONE.
“Trade salt, outrider one-arm fish talk to outrider war-fish, say no war?” If we trade, will you get them to call it off?
YES.
“Million planets, million salt.” Surely the aliens had access to salt deposits elsewhere in the galaxy. It couldn’t be that rare. “Why salt one-arm planet?”
F
ISH FUSE FUSE FUSE FUSE. GO PLANET NOT DIE. NOT GO PLANET, DIE.
I blinked. Could it be that simple? They had to go ground-side every few Fuses, and needed salt to get down, or possibly to go aloft again? Salt wasn’t a fuel, but … hell they were organic. Lord God knew what chemicals they used to turn themselves into high-altitude balloons. Perhaps there weren’t that many planets with salt beds in our region of the galaxy. It might matter, but not here, not now.
The solution might be in our grasp, but … I wrote, “Big outrider?” He’d mentioned one, a few minutes past.
BIG OUTRIDER SAY WAR /NO WAR. SAY FUSE/NO FUSE. SAY PLANET/NO PLANET.
Right. His word was law. Like Fath’s. ONE-ARM SAY TRADE. It sounded like a demand.
“Let me think!” I sank to the deck, cradling my suit.
TIME SMALL. TIME NO.
First, I’d have to don my suit. Then it would take precious minutes to explain, more to persuade Fath … No time.
Yet what I contemplated would govern relations with the aliens, for generations.
No.
No matter what it cost, I’d have to ask Fath’s approval.
God, the air stank. Mechanically, I laid out my suit.
My malfunctioning prosth banged against my chest. I yearned to hammer it silent.
The air in my suit seemed stale. Well, it was stale. When that was gone, I could breathe what the fish provided, but unless the fish happened to engage in photosynthesis, it couldn’t store much. I had, what? An hour or so? Better get on with it. I flicked on my radionics.
“Stadholder Palabee, Bishop Scanlen, Governor McEwan, respond! This is Sarah Frand aboard Olympiad. Stadholder Palabee, Bishop Scan—”
“Go ahead, Ms Frand. Palabee.”
“With Reverend Pandeker’s sanction, I’ve relieved Captain Seafort. I have the bridge. He and his son are confined to quarters. Other officers too. I can’t raise Admiral Kenzig, would you—”
Oh, shit.
“Wonderful, Ms Frand!” Palabee. “Stand by, I’ll have the deacons … Kenzig will be on in a moment.”
“Tell him we’re making flank speed toward Venturas geosync.”
I pushed off from the bulkhead, floated idly in my dank suit. Time no longer mattered. The aliens would invade; Ms Frand would kill as many as she could. The frightful war that ravaged Earth, almost obliterated Centraltown, would rekindle. New generations would be squandered fighting the fish.
Wearily, I flipped off the speaker.
All for naught. Anthony’s death, to save our government. Dad’s, to save Earth’s population and his beloved Nick Seafort from Church domination. Andrew Ghent. Even poor Kevin Dakko’s grisly death, that had destroyed his father … for what?
I’d had the key almost within grasp. With Fath’s help, I might have persuaded …
No longer. Sarah Frand had made a catastrophic choice. To serve her Church, she’d betrayed her Navy. They would send Fath groundside, of course. Corrine, too, would burn.
TIME NO.
I muttered, “You’ve got that right.” I curled into a fetal ball. In the failing air, I drifted and dreamed. Laboriously, I put the pieces together. There, for Fath. There, for Kevin. There, for Dad and Anthony. There, for Mr Branstead.
An outrider brandished a gray appendage, turned me slowly, scrutinizing me through my suit.
ONE-ARM DIE?
The first Harry had died, his replacement had told us. Perhaps they assumed that on my death, we’d merely send another envoy.
No, we had no telepathy. What one human knew wasn’t automatically provided to us all.
I uncurled myself, scratched with the stick. “One-arm die one hour.” Or thereabouts.
The irony was, given a bit of air, a little time, I could still put it together.
But did I dare? I served in the U.N. Navy only by Fath’s edict. I had no authority, no right. My head swelled by Dad’s example and Anth’s foolish tolerance. Mr Tolliver had known how to handle me; after his most painful caning, I wouldn’t dare cross him soon.
Well, he was under arrest now, with Fath.
So, joeyboy. Shall you, or not?
I drifted in the zero-gee cocoon of the fish, and planned my treason.
“Humans trade salt.” I panted, as if making a long speech. Silly; my lips had barely moved. I wielded my writing stick.
YES. Quivering emotion.
“Humans not trade salt / hand. Not trade salt / ship.”
Emotion. It didn’t look like joy. Perhaps consternation. The chamber seemed crowded. More and more outriders wriggled through the permeable membranes, finding a roost on deck, bulkheads, overhead.
TRADE? NOT TRADE?
“Ships Fuse,” I said, writing.
YES. One outrider seemed to have become the spokesman. The others merely watched.
“Fish Fuse.”
YES.
“Fish Fuse outriders.”
YES.
“Fish Fuse ships?”
NO UNDERSTAND.
“Fish Fuse human nutrient?” Can you take a cargo?
SHIP FUSE HUMAN NUTRIENT. Well, yes. But that was beside the point.
“Fish fuse human nutrient, human rock-bomb?” It was the closest I could come to “ore.”
YES. I could have sworn the tone was doubtful. Something in the stroke of the “equals” …
“Time Fuse …” This was going to be tricky. I could only think of one place we both knew. “Time fish one-arm planet Fuse hundreds-of-dead-fish, dozens-of-dead-ships?” How long to home system? If we’d made a word for it, I’d forgotten. By the time I’d spelled it out, I was panting. I made a new symbol for home system, pointed to the phrase. Now we’d have a word.
.
He’d used hours; of course the number was large. I’d have to convert …
No, make him do it. “Time Fuse planet say month.” We’d built on seconds, gone as high as a year.
MONTH. MONTH. MONTH. MONTH. MONTH.
Six and a half months. Far less than our ships. I breathed.
“Thank you. God, if You exist, thank You too.” It wasn’t blasphemy, was it, if… no time for that now.
“One-arm trade salt / Fuse human rock-bomb. Fuse nutrient.
NOT UNDERSTAND. NO. FEAR. NO. ONE-ARM DEAD. WAR.
I swallowed. I’d known the risk. “Human not trade hand, not trade ship. Human trade Fish Fuse.”
HURT FISH.
“Not understand.”
SHIP FUSE, TASTE HURT FISH. OUTRIDERS
“Is one-arm fish
YES.
I licked my lips. “You joeys did something to your fish, didn’t you? So our Fusing wouldn’t drive them mad and attract them. They’re blinded, or deafened. For some reason, you can’t send altered fish to home system.”
“No-
YES. NO. The outrider skittered. NO-
“Good.”
But he wasn’t done. SHIP FUSE. FISH HURT. FISH WAR SHIPS.
“You’ll send them, and they’ll hear us Fuse, and go mad.” I frowned. “They’re out.” I drew, “
FISH FUSE FUSE FUSE GO PLANET. DIE NO SALT.
“But we have—they have plenty—oh, joey, it’s going to be all right!” One last writing. “Home system humans trade salt, here humans trade salt. No war.”
OUTRIDER TELL BIG OUTRIDER TRADE. ONE-ARM SAY TRADE HUMAN SHIP. NO WAR ONE HOUR. We have a deal. Let’s each tell our side. One hour truce.
“Hang on.” I had all the pieces. I keyed my suit radio.
ONE-ARM SUIT YES?
“Ship’s Boy Carr to Olympiad. Respond—
SUIT YES?
“Yes, the helmet’s sealed! Let me be for a—” As one, the outriders dissolved into the fish’s flesh. The fish pulsed. Colors swirled.
“What the—”
>
Pulse.
“Hey, wait!”
PULSE.
In the portholes, the stars disappeared. I blanched. We were Fused.
35
GOD, IT’S ME. RANDY. IT’S dark and I’m feeling a touch frightened. More than a touch. I’m not … I haven’t been … I don’t know how to do this; I’ve never prayed in earnest. Do You just listen, or do You intervene? ’Cause if You intercede, I need it now. Not for me. No, I really mean that. I don’t know how many lives ride on my … hundreds, certainly. Thousands. Probably millions. For them, would You …
I don’t know what I’m asking for. To let me finish this, I suppose. Fath says You’re real. I so want You to be, especially now. Can You hear me crying silently, inside my helmet?
Did You comfort Philip Tyre, in his wretched last moments? If You won’t help me finish, would You do as much for me? What was it Tyre said, in the humility that comes when all is lost? “I was an awful shit.” God … Sir? I can’t bring myself to admit it to Fath, or Mr Tolliver, but, Sir … I was an awful shit. To Anth, to Fath. I always wanted my way, rarely stopped to listen. Even more rarely did I do as I was told. Now I’m getting what I deserve. I’m really afraid there’s a Hell, and You’ll send me to it. If I promised, would …
No, I said I wouldn’t beg. Not for myself. I’ll pay my debts, and take the Hell. But might You help undo our muddle? Or somehow, let me do it, before I’m over?
If You hear me, could You give a sign, anything, no matter how sma—
Blinding light. I flung an arm over my visor.
Warily, I opened an eyelid. On one side, the fish’s skin glowed. Sunlight? In the flesh, colors swirled madly, over and over. A pattern? I couldn’t be sure.
Out of swirling flesh, outriders reconstituted themselves. They attached themselves to the fish’s outer membrane, became indistinct, passed through.
I made my way to a porthole, and gasped.
Below floated Hope Nation’s vast, green orb. We’d Defused into a huge mass of fish. Some, I saw, were dead; their skins gray and blistered. The outriders ignored them, launched themselves from one living fish to another.
One by one, the fish they reached Fused out.
Outriders—others, but I wasn’t sure how I knew—were absorbed through the membrane into our own fish. They stayed only a moment or so, and passed outward.
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