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What had that damned thing captured? Surely not a Colonist!
Murdoch backed off his focus to include the entire mob and saw then that they were targeting ground creatures, a mixed lot of them huddled on the plain. The arc of hylighters swept toward the crouching animals which waited mesmerized. He scanned them, identifying Hooded Dashers, Swift Grazers, Flatwings, Spinnerets, Tubetuckers, Clingeys . . . demons—all of them deadly to Colonists.
But apparently not dangerous to hylighters.
All of the ‘lighters carried ballast rocks, Murdoch saw, and now the central segment of the sweeping arc dropped their rocks. The bags bounced slightly and tendrils stretched out to snatch up the crouching demons. The captive creatures squirmed and flailed, but made no attempt to bite or otherwise attack the ‘lighters.
Now, all but a few of the ballasted ‘lighters dropped their rocks and began to soar. The few still carrying rocks tacked out away from the capture team, appearing to search the ground for other specimens. The monster bag which Murdoch had studied earlier remained in this search group. Once more, Murdoch enlarged the image in the scope, focusing in on the cupped tendrils beneath the thing’s bag. All was quiet there now and, as he watched, the tendrils opened to release their catch.
Murdoch dictated his observations into the recorder at his throat: “The big one has just dropped its catch. Whatever it is it appears to be desiccated, a large flat area of black . . . My God! It was a Hooded Dasher! The big ‘lighter had a Hooded Dasher tucked up under the bag!”
The remains of the Dasher struck the ground in a geyser of dust.
Now, the big ‘lighter swerved left and its rock ballast scraped the side of another large rock on the plain. Sparks flew where the rocks met and Murdoch saw a line of fire spurt upward to the ‘lighter which exploded in a flare of glowing yellow. Bits of the orange bag and a cloud of fine blue dust drifted and sailed all around.
The explosion ignited a wild frenzy of action on the plain. The other bags dropped their captives and soared upward. The demons on the ground spread out, some dashing and leaping to catch the remnants of the exploded ‘lighter. Slower creatures such as the Spinnerets crept toward fallen rags of the orange bag.
And when it was over, the demons sped away or burrowed into the plain as was the particular habit of each.
Murdoch methodically described this into his recorder.
When it was done, he scanned the plain once more. All of the ‘lighters had soared away. Not a demon remained. He shut down the observation post and signaled for a replacement to come up, then he headed back toward Lab One and the Garden. As he made his way along the more secure lighted passages, he thought about what he had seen and recorded. The visual record would go to Lewis and later to Oakes. Lewis would edit the verbal observations, adding his own comments.
What was it I saw and recorded out there?
Try as he might to understand the behavior of the Pandoran creatures, Murdoch could not do it.
Lewis is right. We should just wipe them out.
And as he thought of Lewis, Murdoch asked himself how long this most recent emergency at the Redoubt would keep the man out of touch. For all they really knew, Lewis might be dead. No one was completely immune to the threats of Pandora—not even Lewis. If Lewis were gone . . .
Murdoch tried to imagine himself elevated to a new position of power under Oakes. The images of such a change would not form.
Chapter 8
Gods have plans, too.
—Morgan Oakes, The Diaries
FOR A long time, Panille lay quietly beside Hali in the treedome, watching the plaz-filtered light draw radial beams on the air above the cedar tree. He knew Hali had been hurt by his rejection and he wondered why he did not feel guilty. He sighed. There was no sense in running away; this was the way he had to be.
Hali spoke first, her voice low, tentative.
“Nothing’s changed, is it?”
“Talking about it doesn’t change it,” he said. “Why did you ask me out here—to revive our sexual debate?”
“Couldn’t I just want to be with you for a while?”
She was close to tears. He spoke softly to avoid hurting her even more.
“I’m always with you, Hali.” With his left hand he lifted her right hand, pressed the tips of his fingers against the tips of her fingers. “Here. We touch, right?”
She nodded like a child being coaxed from a tantrum.
“Which is we and which the material of our flesh?”
“I don’t . . .”
He held their fingertips a few centimeters apart.
“All the atoms between us oscillate at incredible speeds. They bump into each other and shove each other around.” He tapped the air with a fingertip, careful to keep from touching her.
“So I touch an atom; it bumps into the next one; that one nudges another, and so on until . . .” He closed the gap and brushed her fingertips. “. . . we touch and we were never separate.”
“Those are just words!” She pulled her hand away from him.
“Much more than words, you know it, Med-tech Hali Ekel. We constantly exchange atoms with the universe, with the atmosphere, with food, with each other. There’s no way we can be separated.”
“But I don’t want just any atoms!”
“You have more choice than you think, lovely Hali.”
She studied him out of the corners of her eyes. “Are you just making these things up to entertain me?”
“I’m serious. Don’t I always tell you when I make up something?”
“Do you?”
“Always, Hali. I will make up a poem to prove it.” He tapped her wire ring lightly. “A poem about this.”
“Why’re you telling me your poems? You usually just lock them up on tapes or store them away in those old-fashioned glyph books of yours.”
“I’m trying to please you in the only way I can.”
“Then tell me your poem.”
He brushed her cheek beside the ring, then:
“With delicate rings of the gods
in our noses
we do not root in their garden.”
She stared at him, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“An ancient Earthside practice. Farmers put rings in the noses of their pigs to keep the pigs from digging out of their pens. Pigs dig with their noses as well as their feet. People called that kind of digging ‘rooting.’”
“So you’re comparing me to a pig.”
“Is that all you see in my poem?”
She sighed, then smiled as
much at herself as at Kerro. “We’re a fine pair to be selected for breeding—the poet and the pig!”
He stared at her, met her gaze and, without knowing why, they were suddenly giggling, then laughing.
Presently, he lay back on the duff. “Ahhh, Hali, you are good for me.”
“I thought you might need some distraction. What’ve you been studying that keeps you so shut away?”
He scratched his head, recovered a brown twig of dead cedar. “I’ve been rooting into the ’lectrokelp.”
“That seaweed the Colony’s been having all the trouble with? Why would that interest you?”
“I’m always amazed at what interests me, but this may be right down my hatchway. The kelp, or some phase of it, appears to be sentient.”
“You mean it thinks?”
“More than that . . . probably much more.”
“Why hasn’t this been announced?”
“I don’t know for sure. I came across part of the information by accident and pieced together the rest. There’s a record of other teams sent out to study the kelp.”
“How did you find this report?”
“Well . . . I think it may be restricted for most people, but Ship seldom holds anything back from me.”
“You and Ship!”
“Hali . . .”
“Oh, all right. What’s in this report?”
“The kelp appears to have a language transmitted by light but we can’t understand it yet. And there’s something even more interesting. I can’t find out if there’s a current project to contact and study this kelp.”
“Doesn’t Ship . . .”
“Ship refers me to Colony HQ or to the Ceepee, but they don’t acknowledge my inquiries.”
“That’s nothing new. They don’t acknowledge most inquiries.”
“You been having trouble with them, too?”
“Just that Medical can’t get an explanation for all the gene sampling.”
“Gene sampling? How very curious.”
