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“We don’t have the high incidence of health problems that you have topside,” Panille interrupted. Again, his eyes were on the screen filled with numbers and he spoke almost out of another consciousness. Still, Keel couldn’t let the remark pass.
“Young man,” he said, “I suspect you are brilliant in your work. Don’t let the confidence of that accomplishment spill over into other areas. You have a great deal yet to learn.”
Turning to lean on Ale’s arm, he allowed himself to be assisted out into the passageway, feeling the stares that followed them. He was glad to get out of that room. Something about it wriggled chills up and down his spine.
“Have I convinced you?” Ale asked. He shuffled along beside her, his legs aching, his head filled with bits of information that he knew would soon inflict themselves upon his people.
“You have convinced me that Mermen will do this thing,” he said. “You have the wealth, the organization, the determination.” He lurched and caught himself. “I’m not used to decks that don’t roll,” he explained. “Living on land is hard for an old-timer.”
“Everyone can’t go onto the land at once,” she said. “Only the most needy at first. We think other Islands will have to be moored offshore … or rafts may be built for such nearby moorage. They’ll be temporary living quarters until the agricultural system is well along.”
Keel thought about this a moment, then: “You have been thinking this out for a long time.”
“We have.”
“Organizing Islanders’ lives for them and—”
“Trying to figure out how to save the lot of you!”
“Oh?” He laughed. “By putting us on bedroom rafts near shore?”
“They’d be ideal,” she said. He could see a genuine excitement in her eyes. “As the need for them vanished, we could let them die off and use them for fertilizers.”
“Our Islands, too, no doubt—fertilizer.”
“That’s about all they’ll be good for when we have enough open land.”
Keel could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You do not understand, Kareen. I can see that. An Island is not a dead piece of … of land. It’s alive! It is our mother. It supports us because we give it loving care. You are condemning our mother to a bag of fertilizer.”
She stared at him a moment, then: “You seem to think Islanders are the only ones giving up a way of life. Those of us who go back to the surface—”
“Will still have access to the deeps,” he said. “You are not cutting the umbilical cord. We would suffer more in the transition. You seem willing to ignore this.”
“I’m not ignoring it, dammit! That’s why you’re here.”
Time to end the sparring, he thought. Time to show her that I don’t really trust her or believe her.
“You’re hiding things from me,” he said. “I’ve studied you for a long time, Kareen. There’s something boiling in you, something big and important. You’re trying to control what I learn, feeding me selected information to gain my cooperation. You—”
“Ward, I—”
“Don’t interrupt. The quickest way to gain my cooperation is to open up, share everything with me. I will help if that’s what should be done. I will not help, I will resist, if I feel you are concealing anything from me.”
She stopped them at a dogged hatch and stared at it without focusing.
“You know me, Kareen,” he prompted. “I say what I mean. I will fight you. I will leave … unless you restrain me … and I will campaign against—”
“All right!” She glared up at him. “Restrain you? I wouldn’t dare consider it. Others might, but I would not. You want me to share? Very well. The bad trouble has already started, Ward. Guemes Island is under the waves.”
He blinked, as if blinking would clear away the force of what she’d said.
An entire Island, under the waves!
“So,” he growled, “your precious current controls didn’t work. You’ve driven an Island onto—”
“No.” She shook her head for emphasis. “No! No! Someone has done it deliberately. It had nothing to do with Current Control. It was a cruel, vicious act of destruction.”
“Who?” He spoke the word in a low, shocked voice.
“We don’t know yet. But there are thousands of casualties and we’re still picking up survivors.” She turned and undogged the hatch. Keel saw the first signs of age in her slow movements.
She’s still holding something back, he thought as he followed her into her quarters.
Chapter 18
Humans spend their lives in mazes. If they escape and can-
not find another maze, they create one. What is this passion
for testing?
—“Questions from the Avata,” the Histories
Duque began to curse, rolling in the nutrient bath and pounding his fists against the organic sides until great blue stains appeared along the edge.
The guardians summoned the C/P.
It was late and Simone Rocksack had been preparing for bed. At the summons, Simone pulled her favorite robe over her head and let it drop over the firm curves of her breasts and hips. The robe in its purple dignity erased all but the slightest traces of womanliness from her bearing. She hurried down the passage from her quarters, pulling at her robe to restore some of its daytime crispness. She entered the gloomy space where Vata and Duque existed. Her anxiety was obvious in every moment. Kneeling above Duque, she said: “I am here, Duque. It is the Chaplain/Psychiatrist. How can I help you?”
“Help me?” Duque screamed. “You wart on the rump of a pregnant sow! You can’t even help yourself!”
Shocked, the C/P put a hand over the flap covering her mouth. She knew what a sow was, of course—one of the creatures of Ship, a female swine. This she remembered well.
A pregnant sow?
Simone Rocksack’s slender fingers couldn’t help pressing against the smooth flatness of her abdomen.
“The only swine are in the hyb tanks,” she said. She concentrated on keeping her voice loud enough for Duque to hear.
“So you think!”
“Why are you cursing?” the C/P asked. She tried to keep a proper reverence in her tone.
“Vata’s dreaming me into terrible things,” Duque moaned. “Her hair … it’s all over the ocean and she’s breaking me into little pieces.”
The C/P stared at Duque. Most of his form was a blurred hulk under the nutrient. His lips sought the surface like a bloated carp. He seemed to be all in one piece.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “You
appear intact.”
“Haven’t I told you she dreams me?” Duque moaned. “Dreams hurt if you can’t get out. I’ll drown down there. Every little piece of me will drown.”
“You’re not drowning, Duque,” the C/P assured. “Not here, baboon. In the sea!”
Baboon, she thought. That was another creature from Ship. Why was Duque recalling the creatures of Ship? Were they at last coming down? But how could he know? She lifted her gaze to the fearful watchers around the rim of the organic tank. Could one of them … ? No, it was impossible.
His voice suddenly clear and extremely articulate, Duque proclaimed, “She won’t listen. They’re talking and she won’t listen.”
“Who won’t listen, Duque? Who are ‘they’?”
“Her hair! Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said?” He pounded a fist weakly against the tank side below the C/P. She stroked her abdomen again, absently.
“Are the creatures from Ship to be brought down to Pandora?” Rocksack asked.
“Take them where you want,” Duque said. “Just don’t let her dream me back into the sea.”
“Does Vata wish to return to the sea?” “She’s dreaming me, I tell you. She’s dreaming me away.” “Are Vata’s dreams reality?” Duque refused to answer. He merely groaned and twisted at the edge of the tank.
Rocksack sighed. She stared across the tank at the mounded bulk of Vata, quiescent … breathing. Vata’s long hair moved like seaweed in the currents of Duque’s disturbance. How could Vata’s hair be in the ocean and here on Vashon simultaneously? Perhaps in dreams. Was this another miracle of Ship? Vata’s hair was almost long enough to be cut once more, it had been over a year. Was all of that hair that had been cut from Vata … was all of it somehow still attached to Vata? Nothing was impossible in the realm of miracles.
But how could Vata’s hair speak?
There was no mistaking what Duque had said. Vata’s hair spoke and Vata would not listen. Why would Vata not listen? Was it too soon to return to the sea? Was this a warning that Vata would lead them all back into the sea?
Again, Rocksack sighed. The Chaplain/Psychiatrist’s job could be troublesome. Terrible demands were made upon her. Word of this would be out by morning. There was no way to silence the guardians. Rumors, distorted stories. Some interpretation would have to be made, something firm and supportive. Something good enough to silence dangerous speculations.
