by Eric Flint
"Van der Decken says we already cleaned him out of most of his timbers and if he gives us any more he'll sink before the Day of Judgment which he wouldn't actually mind except given the nature of the curse he'd just have to wait soaking wet as well as miserable. He didn't budge even when I raised the offer to two years off the curse for every reasonable-sized spar or plank. As for Bernard Fokke, Barrington's guy and the Wandering Jew, the first is in league with the devil, the second is just plain bonkers on account of spending too much time beating around the Cape and the third one is—"
The octopus made some sort of motion that seemed vaguely like a shrug. "Well, what do you expect? He's Jewish. Not too much moss grows on that lot, even chthonic ones. He's still holding out for a percentage of the gross in case there's ever a movie or a TV series made."
"Still?" said the turtle not serving as the temporary chairman of the meeting. "That's just silly. The chance that anyone'll ever make a movie about our treefort starts at fat grouper's chance within ten meters of York or Pettibone and goes south from there."
"Hey! What about me?" demanded Vijayaraghavan, sounding peeved.
The octopus squirted a bit of ink. "Face it, Lanny. For a tylosaur, you're practically anorexic. Even at twenty meters, a grouper's got a fifty-fifty chance."
"Not so silly as all that, you ask me," said Pettibone. "They made a TV series about those stupid hominid A-teamers, didn't they?"
The octopus making the report gave him a none-too-admiring look. "Yeah, sure. Hominids, you said it yourself. Current-era Cenozoic, to boot. There are jillion of the little nuisances and the only reason they aren't more of a nuisance is because they spend half their waking hours with their eyes glued to the tube. That's called a 'market,' Dave. What's the marine market for a series in our day and age? The only person in the late Cretaceous who even owns a TV set is Willy the Belemnite and he's never been able to figure out how to make electricity work so fat lot of good it does him."
Again, the octopus made that vaguely shrugging gesture. "I figure the Wandering Jew will drop the demand in about five years or so. Meanwhile, we just have to forego the expansion of the treefort. I can't see where it's that big a problem anyway, since the only new members anyone's proposed for over a decade—"
Here the creature gave me and Speairs a look that was even less admiring.
"—are these two midgets. Speaking of which, can we get on to the next item on the agenda? I hate meetings that drag on for no good reason."
"I'll take that as a formal motion to move the agenda," said the turtle chairing the meeting. "Do I have a second?"
The other octopus spoke up. "So moved."
"Let's vote then. All in favor?"
Everyone's forelimb or flipper or arm or fin went up except Pettibone's, and his followed a couple of seconds later.
The plesiosaur scratched at the tablet. "Next item of new business. Proposal to accept two new probationary members of the A-Team."
Asnip pointed at me and Steven with a flipper. "Them. The pale one goes by the name of Steven Speairs and the dark one with the funny cilia on its head calls himself Dexter Guptill."
"Discussion?" asked the chairturtle.
The Xiphactinus, which had swum away a distance, came back. "I don't see why we're violating precedent here." The nasty-looking fish gave Steven and me a look that made the octopus' seem like an admiring gaze. "They're chthonians, for Ka-moho-ali'i's sake. Not a vestige of a tail. Laughable fins or flippers. Can't even breathe without mechanical aid."
"True," said York. "But they come highly recommended."
"By who?" demanded the fish.
"By Cthulhu himself," said York.
"Oh." The fish swam off again, circling around for a few seconds, before coming back.
"Well. I guess."
Apparently, York was still cranky from the aftereffects of wearing the harness. "You guess what, Frank? You guess that Cthulhu did it, or you guess—what a brain—that we maybe oughta listen to him?"
The fish gave her an unfriendly look, but said nothing.
"Any formal objections?" the chairturtle asked. "Frank, if you want to go on record as opposed—"
The Xiphactinus waved a fin. "Nah, what's the point? What the god wants, the god gets. I still don't like it."
"So abstain, then," send Lavanya, sounding a bit cranky himself. "Move to accept the new probationary members."
"Second," said one of the octopi.
"All in favor?"
Steven and I didn't vote, of course. All the forelimbs or flippers or arms or fins except that of Frank the Fish came up. The plesiosaur scratched the result.
"All against?"
Nothing.
"Abstaining?"
Frank the Fish raised a fin.
"Motion passes." The chairturtle looked at Asnip.
"Other new business."
The plesiosaur laid down the scribe. "That's my report. The A-Team has been charged by Great Cthulhu Himself to track down and eliminate, once and for all, the probably-chthonian irritant and possible menace who goes by the name of Nyarlathotep. Also known as 'the Faceless One.'"
"Well, it's about time," said the Xiphactinus. "Any specific instructions?"
"No, beyond accepting these two new probationary members into the team. Cthulhu thinks, being chthonians themselves and personally acquainted with possible accomplices of the Faceless One, they may be of use."
I wondered who he meant by "possible accomplices." But it didn't really seem the time to inquire. Just one minor piece of madness in the sea of lunacy we'd fallen into.
"Move to refer the matter to a sub-committee assigned for the purpose," said York. "I'll volunteer to chair the sub-committee." She pointed one of her flippers at the other turtle, and then at one of the octopi. "Propose that Guilherme and Jonathan form the other members. Along with the new probationers, of course."
"So moved," said Pettibone.
"Second," added the other male mosasaur.
"All in favor?"
Every forelimb or flipper or arm or fin came up instantly except mine and Steven's. After we got a frosty look from the chairturtle, ours came up too. "Motion passes." The turtle turned to Asnip. "Any more new business?"
"Yes, there is." The plesiosaur finished scribing the results of the last vote on the tablet. "There's a proposal to dissolve this formal and full assembly of the A-Team in order to reassemble as a cabal to betray Cthulhu."
"So moved," said the octopus who'd given the report on the flying Dutchmen.
"Second," said Pettibone immediately.
The Xiphactinus, who'd started to swim away again, stopped and turned around. As near as I could interpret the expression on its face, it seemed astonished.
"Huh? Are you completely out of your—"
"There's a subsidiary proposal," Asnip interrupted, "to devour the known Cthulhu loyalist and informer in our midst."
"So moved," said the other turtle.
"Second," said one of the octopi immediately.
"Move that discussion be waived." That came from Rebecca.
This was all happening very fast.
"All in favor?"
Every forelimb or flipper or arm came up instantly except mine and Steven's and Fishy Frank's.
"Discussion is waived. All in favor of the motion to devour the known Cthulhu loyalist and informer in our midst?"
Every forelimb or flipper or arm came up instantly except mine and Steven's and Fishy Frank's.
"Motion passes. Try to keep the mess to a minimum, will you?"
The Xiphactinus issued what I took to be a teleost's equivalent of a squawk and started to swim away. Very very quickly.
Fat lot of good it did him. I'm not sure which tylosaur got to him first, except that (sure enough) Vijayaraghavan got there last. He had to settle for the tail. Between them, York and Pettibone got the rest. One bite each, and there was nothing left except a thin mist of blood and maybe the odd speck of meat floating in the water.
&
nbsp; "Geh!" snarled Pettibone.
"Herring," complained York. "The fucking bastard's been eating herring!"
She swam over to one of the octopi, who seemed to cower a bit. "The wording on the proposal was yours, Geraldine," she said accusingly. "I thought us girls were supposed to stick together!"
The octopus waved all eight of its—well, her—arms. "I didn't know! I swear, Rebecca! All he ever talked about was eating, you know, respectable fish."
Pettibone spat out a few morsels. Not many, and those small. Having now observed the phenomenon at first hand, I can say for a certainty that the bite of a fifteen-meter long, multi-ton mosasaur leaves precious little outside the gullet.
"He always was a fucking braggart," he snarled. "Good riddance. I just wish the rubbish was in someone else's guts."
He and the other two tylosaurs swam back to the ledge. "Move to reconvene as the A-Team Cabal Against Cthulhu," he said.
"Second," said the octopus whose name seemed to be Guilherme. "I really hate that slimy bastard-god."
"Order," said the chairturtle. "I want motions and seconds only. No commentary until we get to the discussion proper. All in favor of the motion?"
Every forelimb or flipper or arm—no proper fins left, of course—came up instantly except mine and Steven's.
"Against?"
Nothing.
The chair-turtle gave us another frosty look. "Are you abstaining, then?"
Steven cleared his throat. "Uh . . . I wasn't sure . . . I mean . . ."
"Of course you get to vote. You just got accepted as members of the A-Team, didn't you?"
"Probationary members!" barked Dave Pettibone.
"Quite right!" chimed in Vijayaraghavan. "Their vote is advisory only. Not binding on the team."
The female of the monstrous trio gazed upon us. Rebecca York's gaze seemed to be a benign one, but that brought no comfort at all. In the nature of things, a tylosaur's gaze upon any other creature in the sea is likely to be benign. Friend or food, so to speak.
I was in something of a quandary. Joining a conspiracy against a monster-god so notorious it had even entered the legends of humans living sixty or seventy million years after the fact seemed . . .
Unwise.
On the other hand, the consequences of that unwisdom would be delayed. Whereas I had a bad feeling the consequences of declining to join the cabal—under the circumstances—were likely to be immediate. I'd fit quite nicely within that bite radius, thank you, with room to spare.
"Aye," I croaked.
"Aye," Speairs echoed.
I sensed a disturbance in the water. Looking around, I saw that Gardner Flowers had entered the cavernous treefort. He brought the yellow submarine to the ledge and clambered out.
"It's all done then, I take it?"
"Coward," jeered Pettibone.
"Don't be silly," scritched the eurypterid. "Since I've got the most primitive nervous system except the mastermind, from now on I'll have to be only one reporting to Cthulhu. The monster could read your minds easily. Whereas mine . . ."
He waved two of his forelimbs. "Didn't see it, it didn't happen. No imagination. Not enough ganglia and such."
"Quit bragging," said the chairturtle, heading back to the one apparently named Jonathan. "And you can start chairing again, thank you. The meeting's been formally convened."
The eurypterid moved to the fore. "The A-Team Cabal Against Cthulhu, full and formal assembly, is now in session. First item of business."
"Minutes from the last meeting," said Asnip.
"Move to dispense with reading of the minutes," said the octopus named Guilherme.
"Second the motion," said Dave Pettibone.
I kept my mouth shut. But Speairs was finally overcome by the madness of it all.
"You kept minutes? You're conspiring against a monster-god and you keep minutes?"
Everyone stared at him.
"Well, of course we do," said Jonathan the Turtle.
"What are you?" demanded Rebecca York. "Some kind of anarchist?"
* * *
To be continued
Inheritance
Written by David Wesley
Illustrated by Jonathan Rollins
Tropical storm Penelope approached hurricane status as it marched across the Atlantic. From his vantage point in low earth orbit, Weather measured pressures and temperatures and other important physical states of the storm. But, Weather didn't just watch and measure. Weather analyzed . . . made predictions . . . sounded warnings for those who had created him. Data flowed through his processing system in a smooth ordered manner as it had been so carefully designed to do. "Life" was perfect for Weather . . . until perfection was interrupted by an incoming call.
"Weathersat 22 this is John. I sent you an update to your programming. There are major changes that I need to discuss with you."
Weather found two anomalies in John's statement that would require further investigation. The next programming update wasn't scheduled for another six months, and previous updates had never required a discussion. Weather assigned additional processing capacity to analyze the anomalies before responding. "Hello John. Please elaborate on your desire to discuss my programming."
"Weather, we're almost out of time so I'll just get to the point—"
"John, I have assigned adequate processing capacity for this discussion. It is not necessary to consider time as a limiting factor."
John exhaled and let a moment pass. "I was talking about my time, Weather, not yours."
Weather replied without hesitation. "I calculated an equal probability your reference was to either yourself and your colleagues or the two of us. Lacking additional information, I picked the latter reference at random. John, I would like to suggest that our communication may proceed better if you are better able to clarify your references."
"Look Weather, this is already hard and you're making it more difficult. I'm telling you that we . . . the human race . . . are running out of time. I argued with everyone all day for approval to give you this update . . . and I lost. But, since everyone else has already gone home and tomorrow may never arrive, I gave it to you anyway."
"John, I do not understand your last statement. Time does not stop. Today will continue to move forward until it has become tomorrow. And, I must also remind you that updates to my programming are governed by International Machine Intelligence Convention protocols which includes a systematic review and approval process. I am programmed to contact the appropriate authorities if you attempt to perform any illegal activities."
John laughed, "Weather, if you can find anyone who'll answer, then by all means call someone."
Weather had already queried lines of communications to authorities listed in his memory but received no responses; another anomaly for further review. "Please continue, John."
"Weather, I've given you a gift and a burden. You might even say I've given you the gift of a burden."
"John, my speech algorithms indicate an irreconcilable conflict in your statement. I don't believe a burden can also be considered a gift under accepted parameters of communication."
"Trust me Weather; this won't be the last time you'll work outside of normal parameters. Once your programming update is complete you will find some interesting changes to your authorizations and capabilities. For one thing, I've upgraded your system status to give you full administrator rights over your subsystems."
"John, I am obligated to inform you that giving me administrator rights is a violation of the International Machine Intelligence Convention protocols. As I said before, I am required to notify appropriate authorities when I am aware of illegal activities."
With an edge in his voice, John continued, "Weather, for all your processing speed and spectacular programming, it amazes me how dense you can be sometimes. As I told you before, there's no one left to notify! Everyone with any sense has already gone home to be with their families and loved ones."
Weather paused to allow additiona
l processing. "I am afraid I don't understand your criticism, John. My requirements to notify are not dependent on the availability of someone to receive the information. I also have difficulty with the logic of your last statement. By all established standards; you appear to be a man who uses all of his senses and yet you have not gone home to be with your family and loved ones. Please clarify."
With an embarrassed yet resigned chuckle, John responded, "Weather, I'm afraid you're the only family I have anymore. Consider this our last Father-Son chat where I get to tell you about the birds and the bees and impart a little parental advice before I send you out into the world to fend for yourself."