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“I should’ve stayed,” Scudi said. “You were my first, and you seemed to be doing so well …”
“I thought I was, too,” he said, “so don’t feel bad. Who was that medic?”
“Shadow Panille. I work with his department in Search and Rescue—Current Control.”
“I thought he was a medic, they said—”
“He is. Everyone in S and R holds that rating.” Scudi took his arm. “Are you all right now?”
He blushed. “It was stupid of me. I just felt I had to get some air, and when I got out into the passage …”
“It’s my fault,” she insisted. “I forgot about stress flash and they’re always telling us about it. I felt … well, like you’d always been here. I didn’t think of you as a newcomer.”
“The air in the passage felt so thick,” Brett said. “Almost like water.”
“Is it all right now?”
“Yes.” He inhaled a deep breath. “Kind of … wet, though.”
“It gets heavy enough to do your laundry in sometimes. Some Islanders have to carry dry bottles while they’re adjusting. If you feel well now, we can report in. Some people are waiting for you.” She shrugged at his inquiring look. “You have to be processed, of course.”
He stared at her, reassured by her presence but still nursing an abrupt hollow feeling. Islanders heard many stories of the way Mermen regulated everything in their lives—reports for this, tests for that. He started to ask her about this processing but was interrupted as a large group of Mermen clattered past carrying equipment—tanks, hoses, stretchers.
Scudi called after them, “What is it?”
“They’re bringing in the accident survivors,” one of them hollered.
Ceiling speakers came alive then: “Situation Orange! Situation Orange! All emergency personnel to your stations. This is not a drill. This is not a drill. Keep docking areas clear. Keep passageways clear. Essential duty stations only for regular personnel. Essential duty stations only. All others report to alternate stations. Medical emergencies only in the passages or trauma shed vicinity. Situation Orange. This is not a drill …”
More Mermen dashed past them. One shouted back, “Clear the passageways!”
“What is it?” Scudi called after him.
“That Island that sank off Mistral Barrier. They’re bringing in the survivors.”
Brett yelled, “Was it Vashon?” They ran on without answering.
Scudi pulled at his arm. “Hurry.” She directed him down a side passage and pulled up a large hatchway, which slid aside at her touch. “I’ll have to leave you here and report to my station.”
Brett followed her through a double-hatchway into a cafe. Booths with low-set tables lined the walls. More low tables were scattered throughout the room. Plasteel pillars in rows defined aisleways. Each pillar was set up as a serving-station. A booth in the corner held two people bent toward each other across the table. Scudi hurried Brett toward this booth. As they approached the figure on the right became clear. Brett missed a step. Every Islander knew that face—that craggy head with its elongated neck and its brace work: Ward Keel!
Scudi stopped at the booth, her hand gripping Brett’s. Her attention was on Keel’s companion. Brett recognized the red-haired woman. He’d glimpsed her on Vashon. Until he’d met Scudi, he’d considered Kareen Ale the most beautiful woman alive. Scudi’s low-voiced introduction was not necessary.
“There were supposed to be registration and processing personnel here,” Ale said, “but they’ve gone to their stations.”
Brett swallowed hard and looked at Keel. “Mr. Justice, they said a whole Island’s been sunk.”
“It was Guemes,” Keel said, his voice cold.
Ale looked at Keel. “Ward, I suggest that you and young Norton go to my quarters. Don’t stay long in the passages and stay inside until you hear from me.”
“I must go, Brett,” Scudi said. “I’ll come for you when this is over.”
Ale touched Scudi’s arm and they hurried away. Slowly, painfully, Keel eased himself from the booth. He stood, letting his legs adjust to the new position.
Brett listened to the people rushing through the passage outside the hatchway. Laboriously, Keel began shuffling toward the exit hatch. “Come along, Brett.”
As they stepped into the aisle leading toward the exit, a hatch behind them hissed open, gushing the rich smells of garlic fried in olive oil and spices he couldn’t name. A man’s voice called out: “You two! No one in the passages!”
Brett whirled. A heavy set man with dark gray hair stood in the open hatchway to the kitchen. His rather flat features were set in a scowl, which changed into a forced smile as he looked past Brett and recognized Keel.
“Sorry, Mr. Justice,” the man said. “Didn’t recognize you at first. But you still shouldn’t be in the passages.”
“We were instructed to vacate this place and meet the ambassador at her quarters,” Keel said.
The man stepped aside and gestured toward the kitchen. “Through here. You can occupy Ryan Wang’s old quarters. Kareen Ale will be notified.”
Keel touched Brett’s shoulder. “This is closer,” he said. The man led them into a large, low-ceilinged room flooded with soft light. Brett could not find the light source; it seemed to wash the room equally in gentle tones. Thick, pale blue carpeting caressed Brett’s bare feet. The only furnishings appeared to be plump cushions in browns, burnt red and dark blue, but Brett, knowing how Mermen swung things out of walls, suspected other furniture might be concealed behind the hangings.
“You will be comfortable here,” the man said. “Who do I have the pleasure of thanking for this hospitality?” Keel asked.
“I am Finn Lonfinn,” the man said. “I was one of Wang’s servants and now have the task of caring for his quarters. And your young friend is … ?”
“Brett Norton,” Brett answered. “I was on my way to registration and processing when the alarm sounded.”
Brett studied the room. He had never seen a place quite like it. In some respects, it was vaguely Islander—soft cushions, all the metal covered by woven hangings, many recognizably of topside manufacture. But the deck did not move. Only the faint sigh of air pulsing through vents.
“Do you have friends on Guemes?” Lonfinn asked.
“The C/P is from Guemes,” Keel reminded him.
Lonfinn’s eyebrows lifted and he turned his attention to Brett. Brett felt required to give a reply. “I don’t think I know anyone from Guemes. We haven’t been in proximate drift since I was born.”
Lonfinn focused once more on Keel. “I asked about friends, not about the C/P.”
In the man’s tone, Brett heard the hard slam of a hatch between Merman and Islander. The word mutant lay in the air between them. Simone Rocksack was a Mute, possibly a friend of Mute Ward Keel … probably not. Who could be friendly with someone who looked like that? The C/P could not be a normal object of friendship. Brett felt suddenly threatened.
Keel had realized with an abrupt shock that Lonfinn’s assumptions of obvious Merman superiority were barbed. This attitude was a common one among less-traveled Mermen, but Keel felt himself filled with disquiet at an abrupt inner awakening.
I was ready to accept his judgment! Part of me has as
sumed all along that Mermen are naturally better.
An unconscious thing, borne for years, it had unfolded in Keel like an evil flower, showing a part of himself he had never suspected. The realization filled Keel with anger. Lonfinn had been asking: “Do you have any little friends on Guemes? How sad that some of your less fortunate playmates have been killed or maimed. But maiming and death are such an integral part of your lives.”
“You say you were a servant,” Keel said. “Are you telling me these quarters are no longer occupied?”
“They belong rightfully to Scudi Wang, I believe,” Lonfinn said. “She says she doesn’t care to live here. I presume they’ll be leased before long and the income credited to Scudi.”
Brett gave the man a startled look and glanced once more around these spacious quarters—everything so rich.
Still in shock at his inner revelation, Keel shuffled to a pile of blue cushions and eased himself onto them, stretching his aching legs in front of him.
“Lucky Guemes was a small Island,” Lonfinn said.
“Lucky?” The word was jerked from Brett.
Lonfinn shrugged. “I mean, how much more terrible if it had been one of the bigger Islands … even Vashon.”
“We know what you mean,” Keel said. He sighed. “I’m aware that Mermen call Guemes ‘The Ghetto.’”
“It … doesn’t mean anything, really,” Lonfinn said. There was an undertone of anger in his voice as he realized he had been put on the defensive.
“What it means is that the larger Islands have been called upon to help Guemes from time to time—basic foods and medical supplies,” Keel pressed him.
“Not much trade with Guemes,” Lonfinn admitted. Brett looked from one man to the other, detecting the subterranean argument boiling. There were things behind those words but Brett suspected that it would take more experience with Mermen before he understood just what those things were. He sensed only the fact of argument, the barely concealed anger. Some Islanders, Brett knew, made slanted references to Guemes as “Ship’s Lifeboat.” There was often laughter in the label, but Brett had understood it to mean that Guemes held a large number of WorShipers—very religious, fundamentalist people. It was no surprise that the C/P was a native of Guemes. Somehow, it was right for Islanders to joke about Guemes, but it rankled him to hear Lonfinn’s intrusions.
