The realization made him extremely interested in the afternoon meeting with Kareen Ale, which was to follow this appeals hearing.
The three justices entered the hatchway to their smaller chambers. It was an informational room—small, well-lit, the walls lined with books, tapes, holos and other communications equipment. Matts and the Fish Man were already watching Simone Rocksack’s introductory remarks on the large view-screen. She would, of course, use the Vashon intercom. The C/P seldom left her quarters near the tank that sustained Vata and Duque. The four protrusions that made up most of the C/P’s face bent and waved as she talked. Her two eye protuberances were particularly active.
Keel and the others seated themselves quietly. Keel raised the back of his chair to ease the strain on his neck and its support.
“ … and further, that they were not even allowed to view the child. Is that not somewhat harsh treatment from a Committee entrusted with sensitive care of our life forms?”
Carp was quick to respond. “It was a gastrula, Simone, purely and simply a lump of cells with a hole in it. There was nothing to be gained by bringing the creature into public view …”
“The creature’s parents hardly constitute a public viewing, Mr. Justice. And don’t forget the association of Creator and creature. Lest you forget, sir, I am a Chaplain/Psychiatrist. While you may have certain prejudices regarding my religious role, I assure you that my preparation as a psychiatrist is most thorough. When you denied that young couple the sight of their offspring, you denied them a good-bye, a closure, a finality that would help them grieve and get on with their lives. Now there will be counseling, tears and nightmares far beyond the normal scope of mourning.”
Gwynn picked up at the C/P’s first pause.
“This doesn’t sound like an appeal for the life form in question. Since that is the express function of an appeal, I must ask your intentions here. Is it possible that you’re simply trying to go on record as establishing a political platform out of the appeals process?”
The nodules on the C/P’s face retracted as if struck, then slowly re-emerged at the ends of their long stalks.
A good psychiatrist has a face you can’t read, Keel thought. Simone certainly fills the bill.
The C/P’s voice came on again in its wet, slurpy fashion. “I defer to the decision of the Chief Justice in this matter.”
Keel snapped fully awake. This was certainly an unlikely turn of argument—if it was argument. He cleared his throat and gave his full attention to the screen. Those four nodules seemed to hunt out the gaze of both his eyes and fix on his mouth at the same time. He cleared his throat again.
“Your Eminence,” he said, “it is clear that we did not proceed with this case in the most sensitive fashion. I speak for the Committee when I voice my appreciation for your candid appraisal of the matter. Sometimes, in the anguish of our task, we lose sight of the difficulty imposed upon others. Your censure, for lack of a better word, is noted and will be acted on. However, Justice Erdsteppe’s point is well made. You dilute the appeals process by bringing before us matters that do not, in fact, constitute an appeal on behalf of a condemned lethal deviant. Do you wish to proceed with such an appeal in this case?”
There was a pause from the viewscreen, then a barely audible sigh. “No, Mr. Justice, I do not. I have seen the reports and, in this case, I concur with your findings.”
Keel heard the low grumbling from Carp and Gwynn beside him.
“Perhaps we should meet informally and discuss these matters,” he said. “Would that be to your liking, Your Eminence?”
The head nodded slightly, and the voice slurped, “Yes. Yes, that would be most helpful. I will make arrangements through our offices. Thank you for your time, Committee.”
The screen went blank before Keel could respond. Amid the mutterings of his colleagues he found himself wondering, What the devil is she up to? He knew that it must deal with the Mermen somehow, and the itch between his shoulder blades told him it was more serious than this conversation suggested.
We’ll find out how serious soon enough, he thought. If it’s bad, the appointment will be for me alone.
Ward Keel had done a little psychiatric study himself and he was not one to waste a skill. He resolved to be particularly attentive to detail when he met later with Kareen Ale. The C/P’s intrusion coincided with the Merman ambassador’s appointment too well—surely more than coincidence.
Actually, I think I’ll cancel the appointment, he thought, and make a few calls. This meeting had best be on my time, on my turf.
Chapter 7
How cruel of Ship to leave everything we need circling out of reach above us while this terrible planet kills us off one by one. Six births last nightside, all mutant. Two survive.
—Hali Ekel, the Journals
Feeling the warmth of the suns through the open hatch, Iz Bushka rubbed the back of his neck and shook himself. It was as close as he could let his body get to a shudder in the presence of Gallow and the other men of this Merman submersible crew.
Pride made me accept Gallow’s invitation, Bushka decided. Pride and curiosity—food for the ego. He thought it odd that someone, even someone as egocentric as Gallow, would want a “personal historian.” Bushka felt the need for caution all around him.
The Merman sub they occupied was familiar enough. He had visited aboard Merman subs before when they docked at Vashon. They were strange craft, all of their equipment hard and unforgiving—dials and handles and glowing instruments. As a historian, Bushka knew these Merman craft were not much different from those constructed by Pandora’s first colonists before the infamous Time of Madness that some called the “Night of Fire.”
“Quite a bit different from your Islander subs, eh?” Gallow asked.
“Different, yes,” Bushka said, “but similar enough that I could run it.”
Gallow cocked an eyebrow, as if measuring Bushka for a different suit.
“I was on one of your Islander subs once,” Gallow said. “They stink.”
Bushka had to admit the organics that formed and powered Islander submersibles did give off a certain odor reminiscent of sewage. It was the nutrient, of course.
Gallow sat at the sub’s controls to one side and ahead of Bushka, holding the craft steady on the surface. The space around them was larger than anything Bushka had seen in an Islander sub. But he had to avoid bumping into hard edges. Bushka had already collected bruises from hatch rims, seat arms and the handles of compartment doors.
The sea was producing a long swell today, gentle by Islander standards. Just a little wash and slap against the hull.
They had not been long into this “little excursion,” as Gallow called it, before Bushka began to suspect that he was in actual danger—ultimate danger. He had the persistent feeling that these people would kill him if he didn’t measure up. And it was left to him to find out what “measuring up” might mean.
Gallow was planning some kind of revolution against the Merman government, that much was clear from the idle chatter. “The Movement,” he called it. Gallow and his “Green Dashers” and his Launch Base One. “All mine,” he said. It was so explicit and unmistakable that Bushka felt the ages-old fear that crept up on those who’d dared record history while it happened all down the ages. It had a sweaty side.
Gallow and his men were revealed as conspirators who had talked too much in the presence of an ex-Islander.
Why did they do that?
It was not because they truly considered him one of their own—too much innuendo indicated otherwise. And they didn’t know him well enough to trust him, even as Gallow’s personal historian. Bushka was sure of that. The answer lay there, obvious to someone of Bushka’s training—all of that historical precedent upon which to draw.
They did it to trap me.
The rest of it was just as obvious. If he were implicated in Gallow’s scheme—whatever that turned out to be—then he would be Gallow’s man forever because it would be
the only place he could go. Gallow did indeed want a captive historian in his service, and maybe more. He wanted to go down in history on his own terms. He wanted to be history. Gallow had made it clear that he had researched Bushka—“the best Islander historian.”
Young and lacking some practical experience, that was how Gallow rated him, Bushka realized. Something to be molded. And there was the terrifying attractiveness of that other appeal.
“We are the true humans,” Gallow said.
And point by point, he had compared Bushka’s appearance to the norm, concluding: “You’re one of us. You’re not a Mute.”
One of us. There was power in that … particularly to an Islander, and particularly if Gallow’s conspiracy succeeded.
But I’m a writer, Bushka reminded himself. I’m not some romantic character in an adventure story. History had taught him how dangerous it was for writers to mix themselves up with their characters—or historians with their subjects.
The sub took an erratic motion and Bushka knew someone must be undogging the exterior hatch.
Gallow asked, “Are you sure that you could run this sub?”
“Of course. The controls are obvious.”
“Are they, really?”
“I watched you. Islander subs have some organic equivalents. And I do have a master’s rating, Gallow.”
“GeLaar, please,” Gallow said. He unstrapped himself from the pilot’s seat, stood up and moved aside. “We are companions, Iz. Companions use first names.”
Bushka slid into the pilot’s seat at Gallow’s gesture and scanned the controls. He pointed to them one by one, calling out their functions to Gallow: “Trim, ballast, propulsion, forward-reverse and throttles, fuel mixture, hydrogen conversion control, humidity injector and atmospheric control—the meters and gauges are self-explanatory. More?”
“Very good, Iz,” Gallow said. “You are even more of a jewel than I had hoped. Strap in. You are now our pilot.”
Realizing he had been drawn even further into Gallow’s conspiracy, Bushka obeyed. The flutter in his stomach increased noticeably.
Again, the sub moved erratically. Bushka flicked a switch and focused a sensor above the exterior hatch. The screen above him showed Tso Zent and behind him, the scarred face of Gulf Nakano. Those two were living examples of deceptive looks. Zent had been introduced as Gallow’s primary strategist “and of course, my chief assassin.”
Bushka had stared at the chief assassin, taken aback by the title. Zent was smooth-skinned and schoolboy-innocent in appearance, until you saw the hard antagonism in his small brown eyes. The wrinkle-free flesh had that soft deceptiveness of someone powerfully muscled by much swimming. An airfish scar puckered at his neck. Zent was one of those Mermen who preferred the fish to the air tanks—an interesting insight.
Then there was Nakano—a giant with hulking shoulders and arms as thick as some human torsos, his face twisted and scarred by burns from a Merman rocket misfiring. Gallow had already told Bushka the story twice, and Bushka got the impression that he’d hear it again. Nakano allowed a few wispy beard hairs to grow from the tip of his scarred chin; otherwise he was hairless, the burn scars prominent on his scalp, neck and shoulders.
“I saved his life,” Gallow had said, speaking in Nakano’s presence as though the man were not there. “He will do anything for me.”
But Bushka had found evidence of human warmth in Nakano—a hand outstretched to protect the new companion from falling. There was even a sense of humor.
“We measure sub experience by counting bruises,” Nakano had said, smiling shyly. His voice was husky and a bit slurred.
There was certainly no warmth or humor in Zent.
“Writers are dangerous,” he’d said when Gallow explained Bushka’s function. “They speak out of turn.”
“Writing history while it happens is always dangerous business,” Gallow agreed. “But no one else will see what Iz writes until we are ready—that’s an advantage.”
It had been at this point that Bushka fully realized the peril of his position. They had been in the sub, seventy klicks from the Merman base, anchored on the fringes of a huge kelp bed. Both Gallow and Zent had that irritating habit of speaking about him as though he were not present.
Bushka glanced at Gallow, who stood, back to the pilot’s couch, peering out one of the small plazglas ports at whatever it was that Zent and Nakano were making ready out there. The grace and beauty of Gallow had taken on a new dimension for Bushka, who had marked Gallow’s deep fear of disfiguring accidents. Nakano was a living example of what Gallow feared most.
Another chanted notation went into Bushka’s “true history,” the one he elected to keep only in his mind in the ages-old Islander fashion. Much of Islander history was carried in memorized chants, rhythms that projected themselves naturally, phrase by phrase. Paper was fugitive on the Islands, subject to rot, and where could it be stored that the container itself would not eat it? Permanent records were confined to plazbooks and the memories of chanters. Plazbooks were only for the bureaucracy or the very rich. Anyone could memorize a chant.
“GeLaar fears the scars of Time,” Bushka chanted to himself. “Time is Age and Age is Time. Not the death but the dying.”
If only they knew, Bushka thought. He brought a notepad from his pocket and scribbled four innocuous lines on it for Gallow’s official history—date, time, place, people.
Zent and Nakano entered the cabin without speaking. Sea water slopped all around them as they took up positions in seats beside Bushka. They began a run-through on the sub’s sensory apparatus. Both men moved smoothly and silently, grotesque figures in green-striped, skin-tight dive suits. “Camouflage,” had been Gallow’s response to Bushka’s unasked question when he first saw them.
Gallow watched with quiet approval until the check-list had been run, men said, “Get us under way, Iz. Course three hundred and twenty-five degrees. Hold us just beneath wave turbulence.”
“Check.”
Bushka complied, feeling the unused power in the craft as he gentled it into position. Energy conservation was second nature to an Islander and he trimmed out as much by instinct as by the instruments.
“Sweet,” Gallow commented. He glanced at Zent. “Didn’t I tell you?”
Zent didn’t respond, but Nakano smiled at Bushka. “You’ll have to teach me how you do that,” he said. “So smooth.”
“Sure.”
Bushka concentrated on the controls, familiarizing himself with them, sensing the minute responses transmitted from water to control surface to his hands. The latent power in this Merman craft was tempting. Bushka could feel how it might respond at full thrust. It would gulp fuel, though, and the hydrogen engines would heat.
Bushka decided he preferred Islander subs. Organics were supple, living-warm. They were smaller, true, and vulnerable to the accidents of flesh, but there was something addictive about the interdependence, life depending on life. Islanders didn’t go blundering about down under. An Islander sub could be thought of as just big valves and muscle tissue—essentially a squid without a brain, or guts. But it gave a pulsing ride, soothing and noiseless—none of this humming and clicking and metal throbbing, none of these hard vibrations in the teeth.
Gallow spoke from close to Bushka’s ear: “Let’s get more moisture in the air, Iz. You want us all to dry out?”
“Here.” Nakano pointed at a dial and alphanumerical readout above Bushka’s head on the sloping curve of the hull. A red “21” showed on the air-moisture repeater. “We like it above forty percent.”
Bushka increased humidity in gentle increments, thinking that here was another Merman vulnerability. Unless they became acclimated to topside existence—in the diplomatic corps or some commercial enterprise—Mermen suffered from dry air; cracked skin, lung damage, bloody creases in exposed soft tissues.
Gallow touched Zent’s shoulder. “Give us the mark on Guemes Island.”
Zent scanned the navigation instruments
while Bushka studied the man furtively. What was this? Why did they want to locate Guemes? It was one of the poorest Islands—barely big enough to support ten thousand souls just above the lip of malnutrition. Why was Gallow interested in it?
“Grid and vector five,” Zent said. “Two eighty degrees, eight kilometers.” He punched a button. “Mark.” The navigation screen above them came alight with green lines: grid squares and a soft blob in one of them.
“Swing us around to two hundred and eighty degrees, Iz,” Gallow said. “We’re going fishing.”
Fishing? Bushka wondered. Subs could be rigged for fishing but this one carried none of the usual equipment. He didn’t like the way Zent chuckled at Gallow’s comment.
“The Movement is about to make its mark on history,” Gallow announced. “Observe and record, Iz.”
The Movement, Bushka thought. Gallow always named it in capital letters and frequently with quotation marks, as though he saw it already printed in a plazbook. When Gallow spoke of “The Movement,” Bushka could sense the resources behind it, with nameless supporters and political influence in powerful places.
Responding to Gallow’s orders, Bushka kicked the dive planes out of their locks, checked the range detectors for obstructions, scanned the trim display and the forward screen. It had become almost automatic. The sub glided into an easy descent as it came around on course.
“Depth vector coming up,” Zent said, smiling at Bushka. Bushka noted the smile in the reflections of the screens and made a mental note. Zent must know it irritated a pilot to read his instruments aloud that way without being asked. Nobody likes being told what they already know.
Cabin air getting sticky, Bushka noted. His topside lungs found the high humidity stifling. He backed off the moisture content, wondering if they would object to thirty-five percent. He locked on course.
“On course,” Zent said, still smiling.
“Zent, why don’t you go play with yourself?” Bushka asked. He leveled the dive planes and locked them.