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“So I’m to prepare myself for an indefinite visit down under whose purpose you will not reveal until I get there?”
“Please trust me, Ward.”
“I trust you to be loyal to Merman interests,” he said, “just as I’m loyal to the Islanders.”
“I swear to you that you will come to no harm.”
He allowed himself a grim smile. What an embarrassment it would be to the Mermen if he died down under! And it could happen. The medics had been indefinite about the near side of the death sentence they had passed on Chief Justice Ward Keel.
“Give me a few minutes to pack my kit and turn over my more urgent responsibilities to others,” he said.
She relaxed. “Thank you, Ward. You will not regret this.”
“Political secrets always interest me,” he said. He reminded himself to take a fresh tablet for his journal. There would be things to record on this instructional visit, of that he was certain. Words on plaz and chants in his memory. This would be action, not speculative philosophy.
Chapter 10
A planet-wide consciousness died with the kelp and with it went the beginnings of a collective human conscience. Was that why we killed the kelp?
—Kerro Panille’s Collected Works
Shadow Panille’s thickly braided black hair whipped behind him as he ran down the long corridor toward Current Control. Other Mermen dodged aside as he passed. They knew Panille’s job. Word already had spread through the central complex—unspecified trouble with a major Island. Big trouble.
At the double hatch of Current Control, Panille did not pause to regain his breath. He undogged the outer hatch, ducked through and sealed the outer latch with one hand while spinning the dog for the inner hatch with his other hand. Definitely against Procedural Orders.
He was into the hubbub of Current Control then, a place of low illumination. Long banks of instruments and displays glowed and flashed against two walls. CC’s activity and the displays told him immediately that his people were in the throes of a crisis. Eight screens had been tuned to remotes showing dark blotches of sea bottom strewn with torn bubbly and other Island debris. Surface monitors scanned decrepit scatterings of small boats, all of them overcrowded with survivors.
Panille took a moment trying to assess what he saw. The small craft bobbed amidst a wide, oily expanse of flotsam. The few Islander faces he saw showed dull shock and hopelessness. He could see many injured among the survivors. Those able to move attempted to staunch blood flowing from jagged slashes in flesh. Some of the injured twisted and writhed from the effects of high-temperature burns. All of the small craft drifted nearly awash. One had been piled with bodies and pieces of bodies. An older woman with gray hair and stubby arms was being restrained in a long coracle, obviously to prevent her from throwing herself into the sea. There was no sound with the transmission but Panille could see that she was screaming.
“What happened?” Panille demanded. “An explosion?”
“It may have been their hydrogen plant, but we’re not sure yet.”
That was Lonson, Panille’s daywatch number two, at the central console. Lonson spoke without turning.
Panille moved closer to the center of activity. “Which Island?”
“Guemes,” Lonson said. “They’re pretty far out, but we’ve alerted Rescue and the pickup teams in their area. And as you can see we’ve lifted scanners from the bottom.”
“Guemes,” Panille said, recalling the last watch report. Hours away even with the fastest rescue subs. “What time are we estimating for arrival of the first survivors?”
“Tomorrow morning at the earliest,” Lonson said.
“Dammit! We need foils, not rescue subs!” Panille said. “Have you asked for them?”
“First thing. Dispatcher said they couldn’t be spared. Space Control has priority.” Lonson grimaced. “They would have!”
“Easy does it, Lonson. We’ll be asked for a report, that’s sure. Find out if the first rescue team on the scene can spare people to interrogate the survivors.”
“You afraid Guemes may have bottomed out?” Lonson asked.
“No, it’s got to be something else. Ship! What a mess!” Panille’s straight mouth drew into a tight line. He rubbed at the cleft in his chin. “Any estimate yet on the number of survivors?”
A young woman at the computer-record center said, “It looks like fewer than a thousand.”
“Their last census was a little over ten thousand,” Lonson said.
Nine thousand dead?
Panille shook his head, contemplating the monumental task of collecting and disposing of that many bodies. The bodies would have to be removed. They contaminated Merman space. And when they floated, they could only encourage dashers and other predators to new heights of aggression. Panille shuddered. Few things were more upsetting to Mermen than going out for a sledge job and running into dead, bloated Islanders.
Lonson cleared his throat. “Our last survey says Guemes was poor and losing bubbly around its rimline.”
“That couldn’t account for this,” Panille said. He scanned the location monitor for the coordinates of the tragedy and the approaching lines of rescue craft. “Much too deep for them to have bottomed out. It must’ve been an explosion.”
Panille turned to his left and walked slowly down the line of displays, peering over the shoulders of his operators. As he paused and asked for special views, operators zoomed in or back.
“That Island didn’t just fall apart,” Panille said.
“It looks as though it was torn apart and burned,” an operator said. “What in Ship’s teeth happened out there?”
“The survivors will be able to tell us,” Panille said.
The main access behind Panille hissed open and Kareen Ale slipped through. Panille scowled at her reflection in a dark screen. Of all the dirty turns of fate! They had to send Ale for his first report! There had been a time when … Well, that was past.
She came to a stop beside Panille and swept her gaze along the display. Panille saw the shock sweep over her features as the evidence
on the screens registered.
Before she could speak, he said, “Our first estimates say we’ll have at least nine thousand bodies to collect. And the current is setting them into one of our oldest and largest kelp plantations. It’ll be hell itself getting them out of there.”
“We had a sonde report from Space Control,” she said.
Panille’s lips shaped into a soundless ahhh-hah! Had she been notified as a member of the diplomatic corps or as a new director of Merman Mercantile? And did it make any difference?
“We’ve been unable to tune in any sonde reports,” Lonson said, speaking from across the room.
“It’s being withheld,” Ale said.
“What does it show?” Panille asked.
“Guemes collapsed inward and sank.”
“No explosion?” Panille was more startled by this than by the revelation that the sonde report was being withheld. Sonde reports could be suppressed for many reasons. But Islands as big as Guemes did not just collapse abruptly and sink!
“No explosion,” Ale said. “Just some kind of disturbance near the Island center. Guemes broke up and most of it sank.”
“It probably rotted apart,” the operator in front of Panille said.
“No way,” Panille said. He pointed to the screens showing the maimed survivors. “Could a sub have done that?” Ale asked.
Panille remained silent, shocked by the import of her question.
“Well?” Ale insisted.
“It could have,” Panille said. “But how could such an accident …”
“Don’t pursue it,” Ale said. “For now, forget that I asked.”
There was no mistaking the command in her voice. The grim expression on Ale’s face added a bitterness to the order. It sent a pulse of anger through Panille. What had that suppressed sonde view shown?
“When will we get the first survivors in here?” Ale asked.
“About daybreak tomorrow,” Panille said. “But I’ve asked for the first rescue team to assign interrogators. We could have—”
