Thomas flicked to the view Panille’s screen displayed, saw the sensors signaling the approach of some large object from above.
“The cable’s gone slack,” Waela said. “It’s sinking!”
As she spoke, they all saw the first remnants of the LTA bag settling around them into the range of the dive lights—dull orange reflections from the fabric, black edges. It pulled a curtain over the bubble dome above them. This disturbed the creatures among the kelp and ignited a wild flickering in the kelp lights which vanished as the curtain settled around the sub.
“Lightning hit the bag,” Waela said. “It . . .”
“Stand by to drop the carrier and blow all tanks,” Thomas said. He reached for the controls, fighting to suppress panic.
“Wait!” Panille called. “Wait for all of the bag to settle. We could be trapped in it, but the sub can cut a way through it.”
I should’ve thought of that, Thomas thought. The bag could trap us down here.
Chapter 42
Hittite law emphasized restitution rather than revenge. Humankind lost a certain useful practicality when it chose the other Semitic response—never to forgive and never to forget.
—Lost People, Shiprecords
LEGATA SAT back, her whole body shaking and trembling. She could tell by the flickering cursor on the com-console that it was almost dayside. Familiar activities soon would begin out in Ship’s corridors—familiar but with a feeling of sparseness because of the diminished crew. She had kept illumination low during nightside, wanting no distractions from the holorecord playing at the focus in front of Oakes’ old divan.
Her gaze lifted and she saw the mandala she had copied for Oakes’ quarters at the Redoubt. Looking at the patterns helped restore her, but she saw that her hands still shook.
Fatigue, rage or disgust?
It required a conscious effort to still the trembling. Knots of tension remained in her muscles, and she knew it would be dangerous for Oakes to walk into his old cubby right now.
I’d strangle him.
No reason for Oakes to come shipside now. He was permanently groundside.
The prisoner of his terrors.
As I was . . . until . . .
She took a deep, clear breath. Yes, she was free of the Scream Room.
It happened, but I am here now.
What to do about Oakes? Humiliation. That had to be the response. Not physical destruction, but humiliation. A particular humiliation. It would have to be at once political and sexual. Something more than embarrassment. Something he might think of to do against someone else. The sexual part was easy enough; that was no challenge to a woman of her beauty and genius. But the politics . . .
Should I conceal the evidence that I’ve seen this holo?
Save that information for the proper moment.
That was a good thought. Trust her own inspiration. She keyed the com-console and typed in: SHIPRECORDS EYES ONLY LEGATA HAMILL. Then the little addition which she had discovered for herself: SCRAMBLE IN OX.
There. No matter who thought to search for such a datum, it would be lost in that strange computer which she had discovered in one of her history hunts.
I’ll stay shipside this diurn. She would not feel well. That would be the message to Oakes. He would grant her a rest period without question. She would spend her time here pulling every trick of computer wizardry she could to get the complete record on Morgan Oakes.
Political humiliation. Political and sexual. That had to be the way of it.
Perhaps that other Ceepee brought out of hyb, that Thomas, might hold a clue. Something in the way he looked at Oakes . . . as though he saw an old acquaintance in a new role . . .
And she owed a debt to Thomas. Strange that he should be the only one to know she had run the P. He had kept the secret without being asked . . . or asking. Rare discretion.
She had no thought of fatigue now. There was food shipside when she needed it. The power of Oakes’ position made that no problem. She sent her message to Oakes groundside, turned to the console.
Somewhere in the records there would be a useful fact or two. Something Oakes had hidden or that he did not even know about himself—perhaps something he had done and did not want revealed. He was good at this concealment game but she knew herself to be better at it.
She began at the main computer—Ship’s major interface with Shipmen.
Would it take fancy programming? A painstaking search through coded relationships which could hide bits of data far in the recesses of offshoot circuitry such as that Ox gate? How about the Ox gate? She hid things there, but had never asked it about Oakes.
She tapped out a test routine, keyed it and waited.
Presently, data began flowing across the small screen on the console. She stared. That simple? It was as though the material were waiting for her to ask. As though someone had prepared a bio for her to discover. Everything she needed was there—facts and figures.
“Suspect everyone,” Oakes had said. “Trust no one.”
And here he was being proved right beyond his wildest fears. The text kept rolling out. She backed it up, keyed for printout, and set it in motion once more.
The heading of the record was the most surprising thing of all.
MORGAN LON OAKES.
Cloned. Raised, as he would put it, “like a common vegetable.” Out of the axolotl tanks and into an Earthside womb.
Why?
There it was even as she asked. “To conceal the fact that it could be done, the birth was made to appear natural.”
It was a feat of politics worthy of Ship . . . or Oakes. Did he know? How could he know? She stopped the printout and asked who else had called up this data.
“Ship.”
It was an answer she had never before seen. Ship had worked with this data. Fearfully, she asked why Ship had called up the bio on Oakes.
“To store it in a special record for Kerro Panille should he ever desire to write a history.”
She pulled her hands away from the keys. Am I talking to Ship?
Panille was one of those who said he talked to Ship. Not one of the fools, then.
Am I a fool?
She found herself more fearful of this discovery than she had been of the Scream Room. Ship dealt in powers far beyond those of Oakes and Lewis and Murdoch. She glanced around the enlarged cubby—pretentious damned place. Her gaze fell on the mandala. He had taken the movable hangings. The mystical design lay exposed against a bare metal bulkhead of silvery gray. It appeared lifeless to her, robbed of some original breath.
I’m not worthy of talking to Ship.
This had been an accident . . . a dangerous accident. Hesitantly, she started the Oakes bio printing once more. Words again flowed across the screen and the printer rattled with its text.
Legata heaved a deep sigh of relief. Perilous ground. But she had escaped.
This time.
She felt that something strange was happening, some new program awakening in Ship. It was a feeling in her shoulder blades. Something even more awesome might happen and she was right in the middle of it.
Her attention returned to the Oakes bio. That had been a time of great scurrying about Earthside, great secrets. Salvation and survival—whatever the label—the arrival of Ship and the desperation of doomed people.
Desperation breeds extremes if nothing else.
“Legata.”
It was Oakes calling her name and she felt her heart skip a beat. But it was the console override. He was calling her from groundside.
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“My job.”
She glanced at the com-console telltales to see if he could find out what she was reading. It was still blocked by the Ox gate.
He recognized the sound of the printer, though.
“What are you printing out?”
“Some data you’ll find interesting.”
“Ahhhh, yes.”
She could almost
see his mind working on this. Legata had something she would not trust to the open channels between Ship and ground. She would show it to him, though. It must be interesting.
I’ll have to find something juicy, she thought. Something about Ferry. That’s why I’m here.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I’ve been expecting you groundside.”
“I’m not feeling well. Didn’t you get my signal?”
“Yes, my dear, but we have urgent matters demanding our attention.”
“But it’s not full dayside yet, Morgan. I couldn’t sleep and I still have work here.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Just busy,” she said.
“This cannot wait. We need you.,;
“Very well. I’m coming down.”
“Wait for me at the Redoubt.”
At the Redoubt!
He broke the connection and it was only then that she realized he had spoken of needing her. Was that possible? Alliance or love? She did not think there was much room for love in the convoluted patterns of Morgan Oakes.
Sooner expect Lewis to start raising a pet Runner.
Either way, Oakes wanted her presence. That gave her a wedge into the power she needed. Something still nagged at her, though—the one fear above all other: What if he does love me?
Once, she had thought she wanted him to love her. There was no question that he was the most interesting man she had ever met. Unpredictably terrifying, but interesting. There was much to be said for that.
Will I destroy him?
The printer finished producing the Oakes bio. She folded it, crossed to the mandala looking for a place to conceal the thick wad of Shipscript. The mandala was fixed solidly to the bulkhead. She turned and glanced around the cubby. Where to hide this?
Do I need to hide it?
Yes. Until the right moment
The divan? She crossed to the divan and knelt beside it. The thing was fixed to the deck by bolts. Could she call a serviceman? No . . . she didn’t dare let anyone suspect what she was doing. Gritting her teeth, she put two fingers on a bolt and twisted. The bolt turned.
Strength has its purposes!
The bolts removed, she lifted the end of the divan. My! It was heavy. She doubted that three men could lift it. She slipped the text under the divan, restored the bolts, twisting them tight.
Now for something juicy about Win Ferry.
She stood up and returned to the console. Ferry gave her no difficulty either. He practiced no discretion whatsoever.
Poor old fool! I’m going to destroy Oakes for you, Win.
No! Don’t trick yourself into nobility. You’re doing it on your own and for yourself. Let’s keep love and the glory of others out of it.
Chapter 43
Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master.
—Frankenstein’s Monster Speaks, Shiprecords
OAKES WOKE out of his first sound sleep groundside to muffled pounding outside his cubby.
His fingers reached his com-console before he was even awake and the viewscreen showed complete madness up and down Colony’s corridors.
Even outside his own locked hatchway!
“I’m hungry now! I’m hungry now! I’m hungry now!”
The chant was a snarl in the throat of the night.
There were no guns in evidence, but plenty of rocks.
In a matter of blinks, Lewis was on the line.
“Morgan, we’ve lost them for now. This thing will have to run its course until . . .”
“What the hell is happening?” Oakes did not like it that his voice cracked.
“It started out as a round of The Game down in the ‘ponicsways. Lots of drinking. Now it’s a food riot. We can flood ’em out with . . .”
“Wait a minute! Are the perimeters still secure?”
“Yes. My people are out there.”
“Then why . . .”
“Water in the passages will slow ’em down until we . . .”
“No!” Oakes took a deep breath. “You’re out of your league, Jesus. What we’ll do is let them go. If they seize food, then it’ll be their responsibility when food gets even shorter. The supply does not change, you hear me? No extra food!”
“But they’re running wild through . . .”
“Let them rip things up. The repairs afterward will keep them busy. And a good riot will purge emotions for a time, wear them out physically. Then we turn it to our advantage, but only after well-reasoned consideration.”
Oakes listened for some response from Lewis, but the ‘coder remained silent.
“Jesus?”
“Yes, Morgan.” Lewis sounded out of breath. “I think that you . . . had better move . . . to the Redoubt immediately. We can’t wait for dayside, but you’ll . . .”
“Where are you, Jesus?”
“Old Lab One complex. We were moving out the last of . . .”
“Why must I go to the Redoubt now?” Oakes blinked and turned up the illumination in his cubby. “The riots will pass. As long as the perimeter’s secure we can . . .”
“They’re not stamping their feet and whining, Morgan. They’re killing people. We’ve sealed off the gun lockers but some of the rioters . . .”
“The Redoubt cannot be ready yet! The damage there was . . . I mean, is it safe?”
“It’s ready enough. And the crew there is handpicked by Murdoch. They’re the best. You can rely on them. And, Morgan . . .”
Oakes tried to swallow, then: “Yes?”
Another long pause, garbled snatches of conversation.
“Morgan?”
“I’m still on.”
“You should go now. I’ve arranged everything. We’ll flood ’em out of the necessary passages. My people will be there within minutes: our usual signal. You should be at the shuttle hangar within fifteen minutes.”
“But my records here! I haven’t finished the . . .”
“We’ll get that later. I’ll leave a briefing disc for you with the shuttle crew. I’ll expect to hear from you as soon as you get to the Redoubt.”
“But . . . I mean . . . what about Legata?”
“She’s safe shipside! Call her when you get to the Redoubt.”
“It’s . . . that bad?”
“Yes.”
The connection went dead.
Chapter 44
Though a pendulum’s arc may vary, its period does not. Each swing requires the same amount of time. Consider the last swing and its infinitesimal arc. That is where we are truly alive: in the last period of the pendulum.
—Kerro Panille, The Notebooks
LEGATA LOOKED past Oakes to the sea below the Redoubt. It was an orderly suns-set out there, Rega following Alki below the rim of the sea. A distant line of clouds boiled along the horizon’s curve. Long waves rolled in to crash on the beach of their small bay. The surf lay out of sight beneath the cliffs upon which the Redoubt perched. Double walls of plaz plus an insulated foundation screened out most of the sounds, but she could feel the surf through her feet. She certainly could see the spray misting her view and beading the plaz along the view porch.
Orderly suns-set and disorderly sea.
She experienced a sense of calm which she knew to be false. Oakes had bolstered himself with alcohol, Lewis with work. They were still getting reports from Colony, but the last word suggested that the old Lab One site was under siege. Lucky thing Murdoch had been sent shipside.
Disorderly sea.
Only thin rags of kelp remained on the surface, and she found the absence of it a loss which she could not explain. Once kelp had dampened the surf. Now, wind whipped white froth across the wavetops. Had Lewis allowed for that?
“Why do you link the kelp and hylighters?” she asked. “You’ve seen the reports. They’re vectors of the same creature or symbiotic partners.”
?
??But it doesn’t follow that they think.”
Oakes directed a lidded stare at her, swirled an amber drink in a small glass. “Touch one of them and the other responds. They act together. They think.” He gestured at the cliffs across the Redoubt’s bay where a scattered line of hylighters hovered like watchful sentries.
“They’re not attacking now,” she said.
“They’re planning.”
“How can you be sure?”
“We plan.”
“Maybe they’re not like us. Maybe they’re not very bright.”
“Bright enough to pull out and regroup when they’re losing.”
“But they’re only violent when we threaten them. They’re just a . . . a nuisance.”
“Nuisance! They’re a threat to our survival.”
“But . . . so beautiful.” She stared across the small bay at the drifting orange bags, the stately way they tacked and turned, touching the cliff with their tendrils to steady themselves, avoiding their fellows.
Turning only her head, she shifted her attention to Oakes, and tried to swallow in a dry throat. He was staring down into his drink, gently swirling the liquid. Why wouldn’t he talk about what was happening at Colony? She felt nervous precisely because Oakes no longer appeared nervous. It had been two full diurns since the food riot. What was happening? She sensed new powers being invoked—the bustling activity all through the Redoubt while Oakes stood here drinking and admiring the view with her. Not once in this period had Oakes turned to her with an assignment. She felt that she might be on probation for a new position. He could be testing her.
Does he suspect what I discovered about him shipside? Morgan Lon Oakes.
Impossible! He could not appear this calm in the face of that knowledge.
Oakes raised his eyebrows at her and tossed back his drink.
“They’re beautiful, yes,” he said. “Very pretty. So’s a sun going nova, but you don’t invite it into your life.”
He turned back to the ever-present dispenser for another drink, and something about the mural on the inner wall of the porch caught his eyes, startling him. The thing seemed to move . . . like the waves of the sea.