The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) (28 page)

‘I’ll set up a Web in one of your level-two domes. Perhaps we’ll hear them coming,’ said Listener.

Furlong sat by his screen in the committee room. The other members had been dismissed.

‘Are you certain there are no Benthics?’

The face on the screen was expressionless, the obedient captain of Pursuit Two. ‘We’ve made three passes over the area on the charts known as South Reef. None of the domes lives.’

Furlong studied the stills. ‘We’ve had sightings in the Gardens up and down the coast from there. They must be there somewhere.’

‘Sorry, sir. But there is no sign.’

The CO plotted another probability zone for the Hive ships to dredge.

Rorqual
ran silently below the horizon. ‘We must avoid contact until we see how they armed this ship. The Hive spent two years getting it ready. After our defeat of their Pursuit One I’m sure they learned something.’

ARNOLD was impatient. ‘Let’s just run in and crush them before they know what hit them.’

‘They’d see me about the same time I saw them. I assume that our sensors are about the same.’

Larry agreed. ‘The Hive hasn’t been able to improve on meck components for the past thousand years. If anything they are deteriorating.’

‘OK,’ grumbled ARNOLD. ‘Have your long ear open. See what you can pick up. Larry how did you organize our people?’

‘Six squads – one on each deck and two in reserve. Three back-up crane operators.’

‘Good.’

Scratch that,’ said the ship.

‘Now what?’ demanded ARNOLD.

‘Cancel those battle plans. They will fail. Here are transmissions I am picking up from the armada.’

‘Armada?’ gasped Larry.

The screen split into four quadrants. Each showed a different view of a group of ships. It took them a moment of comparing to realize that each view was taken by a high sensor crane of a different ship.

‘Look at those cranes! They must be twice as long as ours,’ exclaimed Larry. ‘And those fore cranes are as thick as a freight capsule.’

‘Four ships,’ mumbled Big Har. ‘Well, if they have no Arnolds we might still have a chance . . .’

The activities appeared to be mock battles. Two Hive ships squared off and went through drills with each pair of cranes. When they locked the bulldog fore cranes the entire ship trembled. The long aft cranes tossed satchel charges three miles. Mushrooms of steam pocked the target area. Larry and the Benthics slumped into despair. Only ARNOLD remained optimistic.

‘We are bigger, stronger, and faster,’ said the giant. ‘If we can board one of those ships—’

‘Negative,’ said
Rorqual
.

The screen showed two armed robots slugging it out with spiked maces. The mechanical devices were slow and awkward, but there was a variety of them exercising on the middle deck. Some appeared to weigh over a ton, obviously too large for a Benthic to defeat with a handmade spear.

‘I’m afraid those robots are on remote like the cranes,’ said Larry.

‘Correct,’ said
Rorqual
.

‘And if we attack?’

‘We will die,’ said the ship.

ARNOLD showed no fear. In his mind there was no alternative to battle. He would never run. ‘Let’s attack!’

‘But we can’t win!’ shouted Larry, dancing his little hemitorso around the chart table. ‘There must be some other way—’

‘Attack!’ repeated the giant.

Big Har and the Benthics glanced up from their flimsy weapons to the formidable Hive machines on the screen. ‘Is there another way?’ asked Har.

The ship blanked out the screen. Silence. ARNOLD blinked. He seemed to come out of a trance – his cerebellar fighting mode. ‘What?’

Rorqual
turned back towards the islands. ‘There may be a way. The probability of success is small but significant.’

ARNOLD was puzzled. ‘We will fight?’

‘We fight,’ said the ship, ‘later. There are preparations we must make.’

On their way to the archipelago they paused at several small desert islands, where the ship scooped up tons of smooth stones and sand from the beaches. As the cargo hold filled, the ship rode lower and lower in the water.

As they approached Har’s island home a small flotilla of victory canoes and catamarans met them in the bay. The reception lost its gaiety when
Rorqual
ordered them back to shore.

‘Drop your lowers. Let the larger catamarans pull alongside to take off my crew. Everyone is to go to shore except ARNOLD. In the coming battles I need only my captain.’

Larry questioned the ship’s decision, but she remained firm. Adopting some of the façade of a deity, she boomed her voice over the water: ‘I brought the warrior to your people and left his seed. We will do this alone!’

Hemihuman Larry climbed up the rope to the catamaran’s mast. Below the crowd of wives and children wept and screamed for their ARNOLD.
Rorqual
drew away, her decks deserted. The obedient Nebish crewman waited a respectful interval before hoisting sail. The fleet of small boats returned to the island.

ARNOLD stood in the control cabin, an arsenal by his side: stacks of neolithic spears fashioned by the islanders, throwing stones, small bows and arrows used in fishing, his trusty double-bladed axe. The forescreens gave the enemy’s position. The armada had reached the horizon.

Abruptly
Rorqual
swung to port and ran north along the archipelago.

‘Are we avoiding battle?’

‘Delaying,’ said the ship. ‘There is a ceremony we must perform.’

White Belly came out of her hiding place. She wore a flowery lavalava and carried a flask of purple wine.

‘You shouldn’t be here!’ scolded ARNOLD.

‘It is necessary,’ said the ship.

White Belly removed her colourful kilt and climbed up on the chart table, arching her back. She put her feet up and stretched out on the crackling printouts – nose and toes in the air, shoulders back and heels together. With her left hand she poured an ounce of purple wine into her navel.

ARNOLD was irritated. ‘We have no time for sex before battle—’

‘The ceremony is necessary – drink!’ said the ship. Its cyber-voice grew masculine and distant – a command.

ARNOLD shrugged. He put his left hand on her shoulder and his right on her knee. The wine was warm and a bit salty. She refilled the biological recess.

‘Drink,’ said the ship.

The floral and fruity molecules were more in evidence. The third drink was cooler.

‘Drink!’

Slurp!

Click! LEPTOSOUL DADDY LONGLEGS

ARNOLD had eight obedient legs – four coordinated pairs. The second pair waved overhead like antennae – listening and sniffing. Each leg had arachnoid spinnerets casting out stout webs. Eyes, twelve feet in diameter blinked out of his turret-like head. He thrashed the ocean into foam with his powerful legs. ARNOLD was now Daddy Longlegs – with a body a quarter of a mile long!

‘Sovereign. We’ve sighted
Rorqual
,’ announced Pursuit Two.

‘Take her!’ ordered Furlong from the Hive.

The armada turned. ARNOLD waited quietly with his legs folded on his back. Only his eyes moved – tracking. A fog bank thickened and rolled over his stern. The hovercraft circled him and returned to its hanger with engine trouble. The fog engulfed the Hive ships.

‘You can’t hide from us in here,’ said Furlong.

The sensors adjusted for water vapour and continued to send images to his screen. There was a moment of confusion on the decks as crane operators left their exterior booths and went to their remote controls below decks. They had drilled primarily on visual, and would be a bit awkward until they grew familiar with ship optics. Tinkers worked on the hovercraft. Archers shipped stimulants. Killer Mecks warmed up.

Daddy Longlegs ARNOLD listened to the Hive ships talk. He crouched in the fog.

‘Circle the Harvester if you can,’ said Furlong. ‘I don’t want her getting away this time. If you can get close enough, lock on the bulldog cranes and wait for the other ships to close before you try boarding. We don’t know how many Benthics may be on board. Remember she may be carrying as many as ten thousand!’

ARNOLD waited, his second pair of legs high in the air – alert. One vessel advanced slowly. The others began a fast encirclement. They were staying on an arc five miles away. He turned to the near ship. It’s bulldog cranes opened – distance 880 yards – two body lengths.

ARNOLD hit the water with eight legs, lunging forward. He planted R-1 on the ship’s foredeck to fend off the pincers; L-1 spewed sticky polymer and lassoed the enemy’s cranes. The Nebish crane operators fumbled with their controls, but the Daddy Longlegs was quick and agile, tying them up in a neat package. Squads of warriors swarmed the decks like ants – racing in circles in the fog.

‘Get a line on her! Board her!’

ARNOLD placed his first two pairs of legs on the pursuit ship’s middle deck and lifted himself up, crawling out of the water. His belly full of stones weighted him down. The enemy ship listed sharply to port. ARNOLD drank deeply, settling lower in the water.

Furlong was on his feet. ‘
Rorqual
has rammed Pursuit Two. They are sinking. Get in there fast and get a line on them.’

ARNOLD reached over with L-3 and plucked the hatch covers off the ship. He leaned back, rolling the ship over to let the sea cascade into the hold. He continued to drink. A second ship appeared. He pushed it away with R-4. Several grapples fell on his back. He scratched them away with his third pair of legs. Waves washed over them. He struggled to keep the ship under until it began to lose buoyancy. Two more ships appeared with wide pincers and trailing hooks. He pushed up on them with his legs diving deeper; the captive ship continued to struggle against him. He felt the powerful drive units as they dragged him around at thirty fathoms. At sixty fathoms the ship shuddered. It’s airtight compartments began to buckle. The pressure did not bother ARNOLD. He kept his pores open. The sea moved freely through his body. They came to rest on the bottom. He let go of the ship.

‘What happened?’ asked Furlong. His screen showed little more than foggy decks on three quadrants. The fourth quadrant was blank – the sunken ship.

The captain of Pursuit Three answered: ‘P Two engaged the enemy and destroyed him. Unfortunately P Two is down on the shelf in two hundred fathoms. The tip of her stern is visible.’

Furlong watched the fog separate for a close view as a sensor crane touched the aft keel. It protruded twenty feet into the air. The nose of the ship rested on the bottom. There was no sign of life – cracked plates and flooding had made the cyber units inactive.

‘Start salvaging immediately. I want
Rorqual
and P Two back in service for the Hive as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Using their one-eyed mechanical Tuna, the three Hive vessels lined up along the hull of Pursuit Two. They each directed a hose line into one of the submerged hatches and began to fill the hold with foam – firm polymer bubbles of air. While the pumping progressed, other motorized sensor lines were busy searching for
Rorqual
.

‘She’s afloat!’

A smooth black keel lay low in the water – a hundred yard long and ten feet high.

‘Keep pumping air into her. But start towing towards the Shipyards.’

‘Right away, sir.’

‘What happened to
Rorqual
?’

‘She’s still down there. We have her on our scope. However, she has slipped off the ledge and is lying in five hundred fathoms – in a trench. It will take a while to get our lines into her.’

‘Well, have Pursuit Five tow in the wreck. You two can stay at the scene until you raise
Rorqual
.’

‘We understand, sir.’

Furlong stood up and wiped his forehead.

‘Good work,’ said the CO. ‘With three ships in our fishing fleet we should see good times again.’

‘And the two damaged vessels should be back in service in a couple of years.’

‘Yes,’ agreed CO. ‘You may rest now. I will call a Committee meeting in twelve hours.’

Furlong walked behind a curtain, past the bulky terminals and flopped down on his cot.

‘Raid! Raid! Raid!

Furlong sat up sleepily. ‘Now what?’ He rubbed his eyes. Two hours of sleep was just enough to numb his face.

‘Intruder in the Garden!’ announced the view-screen.

‘That is no reason to awaken a sovereign!’ he growled. ‘Call Hunter Control.’

‘Six of our cities are under attack.’

‘Let me see who is attacking. Oh . . . Benthics. Must be a retaliatory raid. There are only two or three outside of each shaftcap. No problem. Notify Security and send out the Hunters. I’ll review the records in the morning.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Pursuit Three reporting: foaming
Rorqual
’s hull.’

‘Let me sleep. I don’t want to be disturbed again with these routine matters. The CO can update me when I get up in the morning.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Shaftcap breached. Twenty-three dead.’

‘. . . in the morning . . .’ grumbled Furlong.

Ten hours later, Furlong awoke, ate, and slept again. Late in the afternoon he gathered himself up, drank two pints of stimulant, and stumbled into the refresher.

‘Update me.’

The CO scanned the prior eighteen hours and verbalized over the roar of the air/water laminar flow. ‘Sea scene unchanged. Vessels Two and Five making progress slowly – ETA four days. Three and Four are lifting
Rorqual
. No problems. Four shaftcaps were invaded. The damage and lives lost were well within the projected limits. Three Benthics were killed, one captured.’

Furlong stuck his head out of the pulsing spray. ‘The prisoner . . . is he still alive?’

‘Yes. He was taken to the Bio Labs for dissection.’

‘Of course. Did we learn anything from him? We’ve had a terrible time finding their domes lately.’

The CO filled the screen with data. ‘We put him through a the usual psychic probing and CNS-molecular-memory analysis. This is what we learned. The Neurotecks will be removing his brain now to see if our electrical CNS-MM analysis matches their chemical analysis.’

Furlong glanced at the outline. ‘My! He’s a big fellow. Make a note to put his genes on file. So he thinks he has a deity on his side? Leviathan? Could he think the Harvester is his god?’