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The realization made him extremely interested in the afternoon meeting with Kareen Ale, which was to follow this appeals hearing.
The three justices entered the hatchway to their smaller chambers. It was an informational room—small, well-lit, the walls lined with books, tapes, holos and other communications equipment. Matts and the Fish Man were already watching Simone Rocksack’s introductory remarks on the large view-screen. She would, of course, use the Vashon intercom. The C/P seldom left her quarters near the tank that sustained Vata and Duque. The four protrusions that made up most of the C/P’s face bent and waved as she talked. Her two eye protuberances were particularly active.
Keel and the others seated themselves quietly. Keel raised the back of his chair to ease the strain on his neck and its support.
“ … and further, that they were not even allowed to view the child. Is that not somewhat harsh treatment from a Committee entrusted with sensitive care of our life forms?”
Carp was quick to respond. “It was a gastrula, Simone, purely and simply a lump of cells with a hole in it. There was nothing to be gained by bringing the creature into public view …”
“The creature’s parents hardly constitute a public viewing, Mr. Justice. And don’t forget the association of Creator and creature. Lest you forget, sir, I am a Chaplain/Psychiatrist. While you may have certain prejudices regarding my religious role, I assure you that my preparation as a psychiatrist is most thorough. When you denied that young couple the sight of their offspring, you denied them a good-bye, a closure, a finality that would help them grieve and get on with their lives. Now there will be counseling, tears and nightmares far beyond the normal scope of mourning.”
Gwynn picked up at the C/P’s first pause.
“This doesn’t sound like an appeal for the life form in question. Since that is the express function of an appeal, I must ask your intentions here. Is it possible that you’re simply trying to go on record as establishing a political platform out of the appeals process?”
The nodules on the C/P’s face retracted as if struck, then slowly re-emerged at the ends of their long stalks.
A good psychiatrist has a face you can’t read, Keel thought. Simone certainly fills the bill.
The C/P’s voice came on again in its wet, slurpy fashion. “I defer to the decision of the Chief Justice in this matter.”
Keel snapped fully awake. This was certainly an unlikely turn of argument—if it was argument. He cleared his throat and gave his full attention to the screen. Those four nodules seemed to hunt out the gaze of both his eyes and fix on his mouth at the same time. He cleared his throat again.
“Your Eminence,” he said, “it is clear that we did not proceed with this case in the most sensitive fashion. I speak for the Committee when I voice my appreciation for your candid appraisal of the matter. Sometimes, in the anguish of our task, we lose sight of the difficulty imposed upon others. Your censure, for lack of a better word, is noted and will be acted on. However, Justice Erdsteppe’s point is well made. You dilute the appeals process by bringing before us matters that do not, in fact, constitute an appeal on behalf of a condemned lethal deviant. Do you wish to proceed with such an appeal in this case?”
There was a pause from the viewscreen, then a barely audible sigh. “No, Mr. Justice, I do not. I have seen the reports and, in this case, I concur with your findings.”
Keel heard the low grumbling from Carp and Gwynn beside him.
“Perhaps we should meet informally and discuss these matters,” he said. “Would that be to your liking, Your Eminence?”
The head nodded slightly, and the voice slurped, “Yes. Yes, that would be most helpful. I will make arrangements through our offices. Thank you for your time, Committee.”
The screen went blank before Keel could respond. Amid the mutterings of his colleagues he found himself wondering, What the devil is she up to? He knew that it must deal with the Mermen somehow, and the itch between his shoulder blades told him it was more serious than this conversation suggested.
We’ll find out how serious soon enough, he thought. If it’s bad, the appointment will be for me alone.
Ward Keel had done a little psychiatric study himself and he was not one to waste a skill. He resolved to be particularly attentive to detail when he met later with Kareen Ale. The C/P’s intrusion coincided with the Merman ambassador’s appointment too well—surely more than coincidence.
Actually, I think I’ll cancel the appointment, he thought, and make a few calls. This meeting had best be on my time, on my turf.
Chapter 7
How cruel of Ship to leave everything we need circling out of reach above us while this terrible planet kills us off one by one. Six births last nightside, all mutant. Two survive.
—Hali Ekel, the Journals
Feeling the warmth of the suns through the open hatch, Iz Bushka rubbed the back of his neck and shook himself. It was as close as he could let his body get to a shudder in the presence of Gallow and the other men of this Merman submersible crew.
Pride made me accept Gallow’s invitation, Bushka decided. Pride and curiosity—food for the ego. He thought it odd that someone, even someone as egocentric as Gallow, would want a “personal historian.” Bushka felt the need for caution all around him.
The Merman sub they occupied was familiar enough. He had visited aboard Merman subs before when they docked at Vashon. They were strange craft, all of their equipment hard and unforgiving—dials and handles and glowing instruments. As a historian, Bushka knew these Merman craft were not much different from those constructed by Pandora’s first colonists before the infamous Time of Madness that some called the “Night of Fire.”
“Quite a bit different from your Islander subs, eh?” Gallow asked.
“Different, yes,” Bushka said, “but similar enough that I could run it.”
Gallow cocked an eyebrow, as if measuring Bushka for a different suit.
“I was on one of your Islander subs once,” Gallow said. “They stink.”
Bushka had to admit the organics that formed and powered Islander submersibles did give off a certain odor reminiscent of sewage. It was the nutrient, of course.
Gallow sat at the sub’s controls to one side and ahead of Bushka, holding the craft steady on the surface. The space around them was larger than anything Bushka had seen in an Islander sub. But he had to avoid bumping into hard edges. Bushka had already collected bruises from hatch rims, seat arms and the handles of compartment doors.
The sea was producing a long swell today, gentle by Islander standards. Just a little wash and slap against the hull.
They had not been long into this “little excursion,” as Gallow called it, before Bushka began to suspect that he was in actual danger—ultimate danger. He had the persistent feeling that these people would kill him if he didn’t measure up. And it was left to him to find out what “measuring up” might mean.
Gallow was planning some kind of revolution against the Merman government, that much was clear from the idle chatter. “The Movement,” he called it. Gallow and his “Green Dashers” and his Launch Base One. “All mine,” he said. It was so explicit and unmistakable that Bushka felt the ages-old fear that crept up on those who’d dared record history while it happened all down the ages. It had a sweaty side.
Gallow and his men were revealed as conspirators who had talked too much in the presence of an ex-Islander.
Why did they do that?
It was not because they truly considered him one of their own—too much innuendo indicated otherwise. And they didn’t know him well enough to trust him, even as Gallow’s personal historian. Bushka was sure of that. The answer lay there, obvious to someone of Bushka’s training—all of that historical precedent upon which to draw.
They did it to trap me.
The rest of it was just as obvious. If he were implicated in Gallow’s scheme—whatever that turned out to be—then he would be Gallow’s man forever because it would be
the only place he could go. Gallow did indeed want a captive historian in his service, and maybe more. He wanted to go down in history on his own terms. He wanted to be history. Gallow had made it clear that he had researched Bushka—“the best Islander historian.”
Young and lacking some practical experience, that was how Gallow rated him, Bushka realized. Something to be molded. And there was the terrifying attractiveness of that other appeal.
“We are the true humans,” Gallow said.
And point by point, he had compared Bushka’s appearance to the norm, concluding: “You’re one of us. You’re not a Mute.”
One of us. There was power in that … particularly to an Islander, and particularly if Gallow’s conspiracy succeeded.
But I’m a writer, Bushka reminded himself. I’m not some romantic character in an adventure story. History had taught him how dangerous it was for writers to mix themselves up with their characters—or historians with their subjects.
The sub took an erratic motion and Bushka knew someone must be undogging the exterior hatch.
