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The Immensity could think of no better place to start than with LaPush, the Holomaster. The Immensity knew good holos from bad. In this matter it would apprentice itself to Rico LaPush.
The hylighter tentacle that gripped LaPush was, in turn, gripped by a huge frond of blue kelp. It transmitted every move directly to the kelp. Rico’s automatic lapel camera unreeled a ten-second broadcast every hour, beamed back to its recorder in the foil. The Immensity received all broadcasts, including these.
Flattery was the dominant human, but the Immensity saw no future in him. He enslaved the kelp, but worse, he enslaved his own kind. Flattery didn’t trust any creature that might know what he was thinking, including humans. He had plans to hide the future of a world from its people, and the kelp noted a heavy stink of greed about him. Except for the kelp channels, Flattery controlled communication among humans. He discouraged it, as he discouraged their education. The kelp often marveled that humans survived themselves. They appeared to be their own fiercest predator.
Flattery would sacrifice many to save himself, it realized one day, perhaps even to the last human.
The Immensity harbored no illusions about its position in Flattery’s hierarchy.
The kelp knew that as long as humans accepted Flattery as the Director they would never realize their potential as One. If they did not do this, then neither would they recognize the need for Oneness among the kelp. Flattery saw this need as a threat, in humans and kelp alike. There would be no true Avata again as long as Flattery ruled. Whenever the brain grew, Flattery dealt it a stroke.
Since the day of insight, the Immensity had set about the downfall of Raja Flattery and the unity of pruned-down stands of kelp throughout the seas. The answer, it knew, was in holo. If it could project holo images, it could communicate in a way that humans would understand. It could speak to distant humans and to kelp alike.
A language between sentients, the Immensity thought, this is the Pandoran revolution.
Rico LaPush had been difficult to follow. He moved quickly and under cover, and spent most of his time landside these days. He’d been exposed to the kelp from organic islands that were the old cities and on assignment with Ben down under among the Mermen—still, he had chosen not to communicate directly with the kelp throughout most of his adult life.
It is simply a matter of privacy.
Unlike Flattery’s political fear of betrayal and death, Rico’s was simply a reluctance to let the kelp eavesdrop through his psyche. It did not make him feel “at one with Oneness” as it did many of the Zavatans, this the Immensity knew. What the kelp knew of Rico it had gotten from other sources, and from the airwaves of HoloVision.
Perhaps the Holomaster Rico LaPush would become the kelp’s Battlemaster if the image alone was not enough. Timing and presentation of images were essential. As a kelp channel, a simple conductor, the Immensity allowed itself to be used by the faithful in their struggle with the Director. Now it was time to use them in that same struggle.
The Immensity would win over other stands and reestablish Avata as the true governor of Pandora. It planned to help humans win over Flattery and to come to some symbiosis with these fearful humans. Oracles and kelpways were not enough. Images were tools beyond value, and the kelp would learn to use them.
“Seeking visions in the kelp violates civil rights,” Flattery had proclaimed. “If your son uses the kelp, then he and all who use it, including the kelp, know the most private thoughts and dreams of your youth, of your entire life before his conception. That constitutes mind-rape, the ultimate violation.”
He passed his law making contact “for the purposes of communication” an offense punishable in varying degrees, all of them unpleasant. The Zavatans universally ignored this law, much to the benefit of the kelp.
The Immensity had to snatch Rico quickly, before he alarmed the others. The enemy Nevi approached, and there was no time for petty confrontations. The Immensity had appropriate reverence for the kelpling Crista Galli. She would be the instrument that would complete the symphony of the kelp. But without Rico’s genius the kelp saw hopelessness, death and despair in Crista’s future, and in all of their futures.
The hylighter had turned in a superb performance. The Flying Fish now rested atop an Oracle, an old one secured by a small but hardy Zavatan band. Its cavern, much larger than Flattery’s, was occupied equally by the live kelp root and the Zavatans. Passage from the water side was too dangerous for a foil. The humans had burrowed a passageway down from the top of the bluff to meet the kelp’s burrow in the rugged rock near shore. It was identical to the Oracle that lay at the foot of Twisp’s command center beneath the high reaches.
Flattery had scoured the kelp clean from his cavern, to make it suitable to his tastes. He had destroyed one of the kelp’s nests, a socket where the kelp rooted into the continent itself. Zavatans protected hundreds of these stations along the coastline, careful to keep Flattery’s people at bay. Each Oracle was a strategic kelpwork of communication, a link with the entire world and with the Orbiter above it.
The Immensity had learned from certain Zavatans how images are formed on the matrix of the human brain, and how its own flesh correspondingly formed the images that it saw against the dreamscape of the sea. When it learned to project its thoughts, its images, as Rico LaPush projected his holos to fill empty space, then it would commence the salvation of Avata and of humans.
Woe to Flattery, it thought. Woe to selfishness and greed!
It dragged Rico inside the Oracle and among his own kind as quickly as it could so that he would not be unnecessarily fearful of his new pupil, Avata.
Chapter 51
What happiness could we ever enjoy if we killed our own kinsmen in battle?
—Bhagavad-Gita
When he announced after their midday ration that he would run the P, the Deathman’s squad beat him up. They thought that would bring him to his senses, or at the very least make running around the demon-infested Dash Point physically impossible. It didn’t work.
“I know why you’re doing this,” his squad leader told him. He was called “Hot Rocks,” and his sister was married to the Deathman’s brother back in Lilliwaup. They talked in private behind some boulders bordering Kalaloch’s refugee camp.
“Just like everybody else who does this, you’re fed up with killing. You want to do something for somebody, leave your insurance to your family, right?”
The Deathman just leaned back against the boulder and stared at a clear patch of blue sky scudding with the clouds.
“Who gets your back pay? Your mom? Your brother? That little piece of blonde action you’ve been plugging in the camp?”
The Deathman’s hand snapped toward Hot Rocks but stopped still at his throat. Hot Rocks didn’t flinch. Hot Rocks never flinched.
“My brother.”
Hot Rocks cursed under his breath, then whispered, “Wouldn’t it be better to go back there? Tour’s almost over, the worst is over. We’re all going home in a month. One month. If you still feel this way …” he looked both ways, “… then fight this thing at home. Work it out at home.”
“I’m no good for home,” the Deathman said. “The things I’ve done … I’m not normal, you’re not normal. We can’t go back there. We can’t!”
“So, instead of going home you run the P, you make the dash out Dash Point and back. You know the odds. Lichter made it a month ago. Spit made it and collected a year’s worth of food chits. Two out of twenty-eight—it’s suicide and you know it.”
“Either way, my family’s better off,” the Deathman said.
His voice was a monotone, and Hot Rocks could barely hear him above the light breeze.
“They get my insurance and back pay if I don’t make it, and the winnings if I do.”
“Yeah,” Hot Rocks said, “but they don’t get what they want—which is you. If I come back without you my sister will have my ass.”
“I can’t go back. You know that. You of all people
should know that. They should make a place for us, or let us go after these Shadows and take over wherever they are and stay there and then we won’t have to hurt anybody anymore …”
The Deathman choked up, and Hot Rocks looked away. He peeked around the boulders and saw the rest of the squad near the beach, backs together, watching for demons or a Shadow attack.
“You’re my brother-in-law, but let’s forget that,” Hot Rocks said. “You’re the best man I’ve got. These guys are alive today because of you—doesn’t that count for something?”
“It don’t mean shit,” the Deathman said. “It means I’ve got more ears in my pouch than anybody else. They throw rocks and garbage at us and we hit them with lasguns and gushguns—shit, man, if they were animals we wouldn’t even say it was good sportsmanship.”
“I think—”
“I think you better stop thinking for me, and start thinking for yourself,” the Deathman said. “I’ve learned how to kill here, but I haven’t learned how to like it and I sure as hell haven’t learned how to sleep nights. Last I heard, there were no openings for assassins in Lilliwaup.”
He stood up, brushed off his fatigues and hefted his lasgun.
“Now this is how it’s gonna be,” he said. “I’m doing the running whether you let me take the bets or not. You gotta admit, a sizeable winnings is good incentive, and I intend to add an attractive twist.”
Hot Rocks flicked his gaze around the beach, the cliff side, the tumble of boulders around them. This was hooded dasher country, and his caution was automatic. Besides, they’d burned out two boils of nerve runners here in the past week and nothing gave Hot Rocks the creeps more than nerve runners.
“Let’s do it,” he sighed, and they joined the rest of the squad at the tideline.
The bright afternoon suns ate away the tail of the daily squall and glistened off the wet black rocks of Dash Point. The narrow point jutted three kilometers into the ocean, and was named for its popularity as a place to run the P.
“Running the P” was a game as old as Pandoran humans. The first settlers took bets, then ran unarmed and naked around the perimeter of their settlement, hoping to beat the demons for a thrill and a few food chits. Though technically illegal, it was a game resurrected by the Vashon Security Force. In the old days, survivors of the run tattooed a single chevron over an eyebrow to mark their success. Though this tradition, too, had been resurrected, the runs were set in places like Dash Point that were famous for high demon populations. The two in twenty-eight that Hot Rocks had seen survive were exactly twice the actual average.
“Bets are always two to one,” the Deathman said. “The six of you match my month’s pay, then that means I get a year’s pay when I get back.”
“When he gets back,” McLinn muttered. “Listen to him.”
