The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) (12 page)

Shift Foreman Furlong studied Sewermeck’s wall charts. ‘We have a fix on the stolen dinghy. Its speed is about a third that of the effluent stream. Drifting. Where is the interceptor I ordered?’

The SS crew fidgeted. ‘Ode and Drum hand-carried the paperwork this morning. They should be back by now.’

Sewermeck went on-line with the Watcher circuits and tracked them down. They were in Recycle looking at a junk heap.

‘What are you doing there?’ demanded Furlong.

Ode turned sheepishly towards the screen.

‘Interceptor boats are not available. We were sent over here to see if we could find a mobile meck to do our hunting for us.’

‘And . . . ?’

Ode lifted up the shovel-shape of Iron Trilobite – blinking friendly dorsal lights.

‘What’s that?’ asked Furlong.

‘A Servomeck assigned to us for dinghy retrieval. I’d like to keep him on for permanent patrol. He seems bright, and most of our line sensors are clouded.’

‘Bright? Does it talk?’

Trilobite spoke succinctly: ‘Certainly. I am equipped with the standard OLA functions: optical, lingual, and auditory. I have no graphics of my own, but I interface well. My image converters are . . .’

‘Fine,’ interrupted Furlong. ‘Sewermeck will handle your graphics while you’re with us. We are trying to retrieve a lost dinghy in the pipes. How are you at Wet Work?’

‘I am aquatic.’

‘. . . and your range? The hunt could cover several hundred miles.’

‘Is solar energy available?’

‘Not in the sewers.’

‘Then I’ll have to suck a socket for a while.’

Scummy fluid half-filled the hundred-meter-diameter pipe. Trilobite travelled along just beneath the surface – his tail periscoped up through the foam – scanning in the far infrared. With his photomultiplier extended full range, he observed the tenuous metabolic energies of fermentation and decay. Bioluminescence outlined the granular, scaly arches a hundred and fifty feet overhead. His mass sensors measured five fathoms of water and forty meters of silt below. Vibrations of human breathing and scratching attracted him to the drifting dinghy.

‘Hello,’ called the periscope.

A 99-degree silhouette of a head appeared above the sponson.

‘Hello! I’ve come to help you return the dinghy.’

‘Get away,’ growled Har. The head disappeared.

‘I am your friend. Allow me to tow you to the nearest city.’

‘Don’t touch this boat.’ The silhouette reappeared: head, shoulders, and back. The heat pattern was not homogeneous. Hot and cold bots sponged out the back.

‘The warbles and bots have you,’ observed Trilobite. ‘You are dying. Let me take you for therapy.’

Har squinted in the direction of the voice.

‘Who are you to offer therapy? We lack CQB. The Hive will not help us. We are just fugitive protein now.’

‘The Hive orders you to return.’

‘No!’

‘Where are your Citizen ethics? The Hive orders: the individual obeys.’

Larry’s voice resonated in the damp hull: ‘Why?’

Trilobite circled the dinghy. There were at least two humans speaking. He tried to reason with them. ‘Majority rule. The individual obeys the group. There is strength in numbers. It is Nature’s way.’

‘We are the majority on this boat,’ hissed Larry. He fumbled around under the seats for something to throw.

‘But you are dying.’

‘Turning back would only hasten that,’ said Larry slowly. He twisted off a length of conduit insulators and lifted his head to get a binaural fix on the nagging voice.

‘Isn’t the pain unbearable?’

‘It’s preferable to the Hive’s damned Easy Red.’

Larry’s toss was a little high. Trilobite submerged and moved off, raising his tail again thirty yards away. Har and Larry slumped down out of sight. Flies bit, sucked and dropped their eggs. Hours passed. A gentle rippled rocked their boat several times before they heard the muffled roar of distant breakers.

‘The sea! We’re saved,’ muttered Har. He tried to paddle in the direction of the sound, using his hands, but the boat turned in a circle – rotating an island of sticky foam. He saw nothing but homogeneous blackness. A salty breeze touched his cheek. They bobbed on small waves. Still there was nothing to see. The thundering grew louder. A wave lurched their boat. He suddenly realized that they were less than a quarter of a mile from the mouth of the sump. It was night. Fog blanketed the stormy sea as a Beaufort number eight wind whipped up a high surf that threatened to capsize them. Har reached back into the dark hull and patted Larry’s shoulder: ‘Hang on.’ They rode a wave back into the sump. Har paddled again.

‘May I help?’ offered Trilobite. ‘Toss me your bow-line. I can’t allow the boat to sink.’

Har hesitated, then shrugged and complied. If they were dumped into the water they would certainly drown. Neither had the strength or ability to swim in this rough water. Trilobite closed his jaw on the line and towed the dancing craft around the lip of the pipe to a rocky beach. The next wave carried them up on to the shore where they ground keel and stranded. The storm subsided with the dawn.

‘Come on in. This feels great,’ said Larry, floundering in a salty pool. ‘My skin feels better already.’

Big Har was a bit more cautious. He sat on a rock pouring handfuls of water on his sponge back. The salty brine burned, but it did its job. The scabs softened and fell away, exposing the pus pockets. Larvae squirmed violently as the hypertonic solution flooded their spiracles. Young scar tissue was sloughed under the cutting action of the salt. Each bot was transformed from purulent abscess to a clean, red, punched-out hole – oozing proteinaceous serum.

Trilobite circled the beached dinghy.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Larry.

‘The boat’s brain is dead.’

‘Sorry,’ said Larry, realizing how one cyber could sympathize with the injuries of another. ‘But we had to do it to escape. That dinghy was not free to assist us.’

Trilobite eyed the two fugitives. ‘Who is really free from the Hive? Even if you are Outside, you are still running. Patrols will find you any time they wish. They have eyes that can see the heat in your footprints.’

Big Har crept between two damp, salty boulders, letting salt spray sprinkle his tender back. He picked up a fist-sized rock and watched the sky. ‘Look!’ he shouted, his voice cracking.

Larry followed his gaze. A chill tightened the nape of his neck. A row of skulls was watching them from a niche in the cliff. He relaxed when he saw how old and bleached they were. The sand under his hands was mixed with smooth chalky fragments – other surf-chopped bones. The thick yellow foam at the mouth of the sump coloured the ocean for miles, hinting of the vast tonnage being excreted by the Hive. A few bones would be expected. He did wonder who would take time to rescue a few human remains – who or what – a machine or fugitive.

Trilobite scurried up the cliff and examined the skulls. Satisfied that they were Citizens, he returned to the water-line. ‘At least we’ll be able to eat.’ Big Har smiled. His nose had found the Gardens. He began to crawl towards the cliff base.

‘Not during the day. It will bring patrols,’ warned Trilobite.

Larry shook out his dried bathrobe and tied the bottom hem into a tassel. It felt stiff and sandy after its washing in the tidal pool. The sun had started to burn. A terrible thirst reminded him how long it had been since they had had adequate food and water. He knew how vulnerable he was, with his damaged kidneys.

‘If the Gardens are dangerous, I suppose we’ll have to live off the sea . . .’

‘There is no food in the sea – absolutely none,’ said Trilobite. He explained his years with
Rorqual
. Big Har accepted it as just another fact in his life, but Larry was visibly shaken.

‘The Oceans – empty? But they are so large. How could it have happened?’

‘The food chain was broken in too many places. The Hive took, but never gave back,’ said the shovel-shaped meck, straining his little memory until he began repeating himself. ‘The Hive took, and took, and took . . .’

Larry studied their problems – patrolled Gardens, empty seas, and time pressure. The Hive was after them and their dinghy. It probably would search here eventually. He turned to Trilobite.

‘Have you reported our position?’

‘No. My mission is to salvage the dinghy. Do you wish me to call the Hive?’

Larry winced. ‘You really are a low-level meck. But thanks for not giving our position away. Can you tow us in the dinghy?’

‘Where?’

‘Anyplace – away from here. We need food, water . . .’

‘I am sorry, but there is no place on Earth where you can find those things. All land is owned by the Hive. The seas are salty and—’

Larry waved the meck to silence. ‘I know, I know. Sterile. Damn it! Someone has been eating out of these Gardens. Look at the heap of refuse at the cliff base – rinds, husks, leaves . . . And there seems to be a trail, a worn footpath, up to the top. Look there.’

Big Har stood up into the glare of the sun. His broad shoulders drooped a little – weakened by the bots. ‘Come, Hemihuman. Let me carry you into the Gardens. I don’t have any fear of the Hive. Citizens can’t be any stronger out here than they were in their shaft cities. We will eat well. We will eat now!’ He swung Larry up to his right shoulder, swayed a bit, and started for the cliff. A voice from the sea interrupted him.

‘Stay out of the Gardens!’

Trilobite couldn’t believe his sensors. The words were pronounced clearly in the current Hive dialect. Yet the shaggy head in the surf was that of a Benthic beast – one of the Neolithic water-people.

Big Har turned slowly and stood with Larry on his shoulder like a two-headed monster. Neither head spoke.

‘Stay out of the Gardens. Go away.’

‘Who is that?’ whispered Larry.

‘One of the water-people. They live off the Gardens, but hide in the sea,’ explained Trilobite. ‘Perhaps they can give you shelter while I return the dinghy.’ The shovel-shaped meck made a move toward the sea.

‘My God, a machine!’ mumbled the head. It disappeared.

Listener took off his earphones as Opal entered his dome.

‘They have a machine with them! I spoke to them. I’m sure that it heard me.’

‘I do not hear its carrier wave. Is it alive?’

‘It moved towards me. I think it spoke to them.’

Listener thought for a long moment. ‘What did it look like?’

She described Trilobite.

‘It is the same one, then. It has seen us before. Yet it did not call the Hunters. You return to the surface. Stall. Learn what you can. If I hear a carrier wave I will warn you. If they are fugitives there may be very little danger. If they are Hunters we must tell our people to flee to North Reef again.’

Opal took a spear and swam above the dome. Her foot occasionally touched the roof, partially exposed by the low tide. She studied the pair on shore thirty yards away. The big strong one was standing knee-deep in the water, a big hand shielding his eyes from the sun. The small deformed one sat peculiarly in the sand beside the shovel machine.

‘Go away,’ she repeated, gesturing with her spear.

‘We need food and water,’ said Har. ‘We mean you no harm. Can you help us?’

‘No.’

Big Har waited, letting the silence drag out. He could see the face clearly now – big-eyed and possibly female. The thick lids and square nose made it hard to be sure, but the eyes and the resonance of the larynx was suggestive.

‘Why not?’

‘Your machine is a danger to us. It is a tool of the Hive.’

Big Har had no stomach for debate. He knew he could not defeat this thick-necked water-dweller, for the warbles and bots had robbed him of his metalloproteins. He shrugged and walked back to where Larry waited in the dry sand.

Trilobite bristled. ‘Tell her that I am no tool of the Hive. I am a servant of
Rorqual
. If she does not help you, you will die.’

Larry watched Big Har obediently return to the water’s edge with the message. The exchange was pleasant enough, but the surf drowned out the words. When the giant returned, he stunned them with the outcome of their conversation.

‘She wants us to pray to our
Rorqual
for a sign. Apparently, she misunderstood me. She thinks Trilobite serves a personal deity—’

‘
Rorqual
is my deity,’ interrupted the meck.

Larry raised his hand. ‘Wait. We know what
Rorqual
is, but that Benthic doesn’t. Couldn’t we stage a “prayer” for her benefit? Just to win her confidence. She has food and water – and shelter from patrols. If we could—’

‘Negative,’ said Trilobite. ‘I saw her dome. They have a listening device. If I spoke with my deity they would expect an answer.
Rorqual
ceased transmissions when I entered the Hive.’

‘Maybe she won’t expect an answer right away. A prayer might convince her to help.’

‘Play acting? I can’t deceive.’

‘Just pray,’ said Larry. ‘Give us your best and most sincere prayer. The Benthics will eavesdrop and be deceived by their own naiveté.’ He turned to Big Har. ‘What sign did they have in mind?’

‘Food,’ said the anaemic giant. ‘I understand that starvation stalks her water-people. Garden-raiding costs them many lives. She asked the Trilobite’s deity to bring food back into the seas.’

Larry smiled sadly. These simple Neolithics expect magic to solve all their problems. He nodded for Trilobite to begin. The meck put his transmitter on audio so Larry and Har could share in his prayer. The carrier wave darted out to the southwest. Har listened with bowed head – and wanted to believe. Larry squinted intently at the horizon.

No answer.

‘Are you aiming correctly?’

‘I think so. I use solar angle and magnetosphere. The island coordinates are burned into my permanent memory.’

Har knelt and meditated quietly.

‘But your brain is small,’ complained Larry. ‘Perhaps you should widen your call beam and try again. Your calculations could be in error.’

‘Deity?’ the prayer went out. ‘Awaken and speak to your servant.’

Silence.

‘Widen your beam again.’

‘To widen is to weaken,’ said the meck. ‘If I make it any wider, it loses its “tightbeam” quality. I could just radiate my standard distress pulses. They wouldn’t sound like a prayer to our eavesdroppers, however.’