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“No,” he laughed, “no, I don’t think so. He will come here when the time is right.” “What about the rest of them, the people here?”
“So far they suspect nothing. We have been very quiet, very selective. When shifts change, rations are left uneaten, then there will be talk. That will be hours from now, and we will be finished here.”
“Then what?”
He answered with his smile and a half-salute.
“I will check back to see how you’re doing. Go ahead with your piece on the OMC. Leon, good job. You know what to do.”
Then he was gone as quickly as he came.
“What is it you’re supposed to do, Leon?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, and he didn’t smile. He was lean and dark, like Brood, and she thought he might even be a relative.
Leon handed himself to one of the editing consoles and sat with his back to her. He was still for a moment, then he said, “We’re putting a story together on Crista Galli. And one on Ben Ozette.”
Beatriz felt herself go cold.
“And what’s the lead?”
Her voice stuck in her throat, barely a whisper.
“Crista Galli safely in the hands of Vashon Security Force.”
“And Ben … what about him?”
Leon was silent for a few more blinks. He typed something into his console and it came up on her own:
“HoloVision reporter killed in hylighter blast.”
She tried to still the trembling in her hands and her lips.
“It’s a lie,” she said. “Like the rest, it’s a lie. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
Without turning, without apparently moving a muscle, Leon spoke so quietly she barely heard. “I don’t know.”
Chapter 31
The gods do not limit men. Men limit men.
—T. Robbins, A Literary Encyclopedia of the Atomic Age
“Dr. Dwarf,” Spud called from behind the Gridmaster, “you were right. There’s another kelp frequency inside that sector—look here.”
Dwarf MacIntosh glanced up from underneath one of the consoles that fed the Gridmaster. Though a big man, MacIntosh had always been adept at getting at problems in small places. In fact, he preferred crawling through runnels of cables and switches to attending any of the so-called “recreational” events aboard the Orbiter.
He backed his way out of the shielding ducts and towered over Spud’s shoulder to see what he had found.
“This signal came through when we released the kelp in sector eight,” he said. “It’s taken me a while to fix and amplify.”
“I see the rest of the kelp is doing well,” MacIntosh said. He reviewed the readouts flanking the kelp display. “It released at least twenty captured cargo trains, if our data here are correct.”
Spud nodded. “They are. The kelp’s just floating free. Most of the vessels are on the surface, though, and the afternoon squall in that area’s due right about now. There are no kelpways, no way of guiding them through. Unless we get a grid in there pretty soon, they’ll just get fouled in all that slop.”
“This is a very small focus,” MacIntosh murmured.
His stare at the screen seemed intense enough to propel him right into the middle of the kelp itself. He pulled himself up to height and pressed a thin lip with his forefinger.
“Without tapping into that other signal, we won’t be able to enforce a grid. I’m sure of it. What’s the history?”
Spud spun the graphic yarn on Mack’s screen and said, “It moves.”
“Yeah.” MacIntosh nodded. “Runs the kelpways like a pro. And it’s something the kelp would gnaw a limb off for, don’t forget that.”
“So what do you think? Merman transplants being routed?”
“Signal’s too strong,” MacIntosh said. “A stand doesn’t register with us unless it’s achieved some kind of integrity, whether Flattery cuts it back or not. This is like having a whole stand of kelp in a spot no bigger than you or I …”
“And it can move.”
“And it can move.”
Mack stroked his chin in thought.
“It can persuade the kelp to resist our strongest signals, even with the threat of being pruned back to stumps. The dataflow tells us that the signal’s been getting stronger by the hour. Flattery’s been frantic about this in spite of riots at his hatchway. What does all this tell us?”
Spud frowned at the screen in imitation of Mack and tried stroking his chin, too, for answers. “There’s somebody running the kelpways, acting like a stand of kelp?”
MacIntosh whooped, grabbed Spud by the shoulders and gave him a shake. They both spun high against the upper bulkhead. The startled assistant’s eyes opened nearly as wide as his mouth.
“That’s it!” MacIntosh laughed. “What we’ve got disrupting the kelp grid in sector eight is a person pretending to be a stand of kelp!”
He dropped his grip on Spud and stuck his head back into the electronic and neuroelectronic guts of the Gridmaster.
“But who?” Spud asked.
“If you can’t guess, you’re better off not knowing right now.”
MacIntosh’s resonant voice was barely audible over the clicks and whirrs of the Gridmaster as it held the other stands of domestic kelp in functional stasis.
“More than anything right now we need a communications expert.” He backed out of the crawl space and added, with a sparkle in both eyes, “That would be Beatriz Tatoosh. Notify her that we require her services, if you would.”
Spud smiled a wide smile. “‘Services,’” he said, “that’s one way of—”
MacIntosh cut him off.
“Stow it,” Mack ordered, smiling his own wide smile. “Just get her in here, pronto.”
Chapter 32
&n
bsp; Men are moved by two principal things—by love and by fear. Consequently, they are commanded as well by someone who wins their affection as by someone who arouses their fear. Indeed, in most instances the one who arouses their fear gains more of a following and is more readily obeyed than the one who wins their affection.
—Machiavelli, The Prince
The fuel warning buzzer screeched above his console, and Spider Nevi cursed under his breath. They were very close now, very close, but he didn’t dare take chances on making contact with dry fuel tanks.
“We’re going to have to set down in that muck,” he said. “Make sure both screens and filters are intact. I don’t want kelp clogging our inlets.”
They’d seen several cargo train survivors on the surface, working to clear their intakes. They all moved in the slow-motion, dreamlike manner of those under the influence of one of the kelp’s toxins. Surface travel on Pandora’s seas was dangerous enough with the kelpways intact. Like great veins, the kelpways helped clear the waters of the storm-damaged fragments of fronds and other troublesome debris.
Zentz grunted an acknowledgment, then paled.
“But—but I’ll have to go out there after we set down,” he said. “That kelp is—it’s crazy. With only two of us …”
“With only two of us, one of us has to go out there. It’s your fault we’re out here at all, so you get the duty.”
The look on Zentz’s face was the one that Nevi wanted to see: fear. Not fear of the kelp, or fear of the sea, but fear of Spider Nevi. The expression of fear represented power to him, a raw power that even Flattery didn’t wield among the people. Flattery maintained the politician’s mask, and such a mask implied hope to anyone who witnessed it. Nevi projected no mask, no hope.
“If I go out there to clear those intakes, you will leave me.”
Nevi released upon Zentz one of his rare smiles.
