A Darkling Sea

Eight

At Coquille 2, Rob, Alicia, and Josef settled into a comfortable exile. Rob had been worried that the three of them crammed into the tiny habitat would soon be at each other’s throats, but in fact the biggest problem for him was loneliness.

Alicia was in a frenzy of data gathering. If and when the Sholen finally dragged her up to orbit she’d have terabytes of new information about Ilmatar and its native life. She concentrated on collection rather than analysis, which meant she spent about ten hours a day suited up, making video recordings of organisms she ran across, gathering specimens to freeze, and collecting hydrophone recordings. She went over the whole vent complex with a camera, documenting everything. Most evenings she climbed back into the habitat so tired she could barely make it into her hammock.

Josef, on the other hand, was keeping tabs on the Sholen. He didn’t dare take the sub too close to Hitode, but he did spend hours sitting in it, powered down on the sea bottom with a laser link to a drone at the extreme limit of range, listening on the hydrophone for any sound of activity at the station.

Rob looked after the habitat. Since it was brand new, that should have meant he had nothing to do except watch cartoons. But Theory, where everything works as intended, turned out to be a long way from Ilmatar. Rob had to fix systems that had been improperly installed back on Earth—or improperly designed in the first place.

The dehumidifier posed the biggest problem, especially given that it was also their main source of drinking water. It started out producing just a tiny trickle, and then quit entirely on the second day. Rob took the whole device apart and rebuilt it, and in the process discovered that the compressor wasn’t compressing. That eventually turned out to be the fault of a loose shaft on the turbine pump, which Rob secured with a generous glob of epoxy.

When the thing finally began to produce a steady trickle of water and a nice flow of warm air, Rob felt justifiably proud of himself. Human survival on Ilmatar depended on Rob Freeman.

“We have water again,” he told Josef when the lieutenant climbed up through the hatch and unfastened his helmet.

“Good,” Josef grunted. “Only one bottle left aboard Mishka. Sholen are more active today. Sounded like they are training.”

“Training for what?”

“Good question.”

Alicia came through the hatch half an hour later.

“We’ve got water,” said Rob, handing her a cup of instant tea.

“Ah, warm. I think I have located a nest of some large pelagic swimmer. There are half a dozen eggs, about a liter each. I am going to set up a camera to watch them develop. We may get to see them hatch!”

“Great. Did I mention we aren’t going to die of thirst because I fixed the water extractor?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “When will there be enough to wash?”

“Sweetie, I do miracles every day but that’s just crazy talk. You can take a shower when the Sholen capture you, or when a relief ship gets here from Earth. Until then, you get two antiseptic wipes per day. Use them wisely.”

She shrugged. “A little dirt will not kill us. What do we have to eat?”

“Nothing but emergency food bars. If this was a proper expedition we could have brought along supplies from Hitode. There’s a little kitchen and a fridge. But since taking a big bag of food out of Hitode would have attracted some attention… we get food bars. Take your choice: chicken flavor, beef flavor, or vegetarian flavor.”

“Make soup,” said Josef. “Stretch the bars that way, too.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Rob. “I’ll make us a pot of beef flavor food bar soup, with water from the extractor. Which I fixed today.”

“Thank you for fixing the water extractor, Robert,” said Alicia, almost managing to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “I don’t know what we would do without you.”

“Damn right you don’t,” he said, and began cutting up a food bar with his utility knife.

Tizhos felt uncomfortable leading a squad of Guardians, but Gishora had convinced her that he had to remain at the station. She did her best to establish the right sort of rapport with the fighters, but she only had a short time and could not overcome the tremendous differences in outlook and background that separated her from the Guardians.

She did achieve a basic level of sexual attraction, since the unit included three males and only one other female. That required her to flirt outrageously and pretend to find them attractive. Of course, they did have the appeal of youth and health, but she couldn’t really discover any common interests to share with them. All their real affection still went to Irona.

So when Tizhos set out from Hitode Station leading four Guardians to capture three humans, she hoped she could accomplish the job without any fighting. She didn’t bring along any obvious weapons of her own. Her Guardians had nothing but knives—and about twice as much mass as any human.

The humans at Hitode still refused to repair the impellers, and the fugitive humans had the submarine, so Tizhos and her team had to swim all the way out to the temporary shelter. After the grueling five-kilometer swim even the healthy young Guardians needed a long rest and some food, so they paused about two hundred meters from the rubble field that concealed the habitat.

Long before Tizhos wanted to continue, the timer clicked softly. “We must end our rest now,” she said to the Guardians. “Use your stimulants.”

All of them, herself included, swallowed a wafer laced with high-energy compounds and neurotransmitters. In a moment Tizhos felt clearheaded, energetic, and a trifle aggressive.“Come on!” she called out, and began swimming.

She passed the edge of the rubble field and switched her sonar unit to active mode. The high-pitched pings created an image of the ruined Ilmataran city around her, and about half a kilometer away she could make out a large blank area where something absorbed the sound waves instead of reflecting them. The shelter.

Her unit detected one large moving target near the void. The sound of the breathing apparatus identified it as a human. When the Sholen approached within about two hundred meters the human reacted, hurrying to the shelter entrance and saying something indistinct by hydrophone.

They’d been spotted. No point in trying to be stealthy, then. Tizhos activated her own hydrophone, at maximum volume so the humans could hear. She spoke in English. “We have arrived in order to take you back to Hitode Station. Cooperate in a peaceful way.”

She heard no reply until her party reached a hundred meters from the shelter. Then a hydrophone, tinny and shrill, broadcast: “We refuse to leave! Go away!”

Tizhos noticed the Guardian nearest her unsheathe his knife. Interesting: she had not known anyone on the expedition but herself and Gishora understood any human languages. “No need for that,” she said. “Put it away.”

He hesitated. “Their statements sound aggressive. They may have weapons.”

“Remember what we discussed. If they resist, you may use force, but only use weapons if they do.”

Thanks to the stimulants, Tizhos felt not at all tired when the squad reached the shelter. The tiny entry hatch was located underneath, so only one Sholen at a time could enter: a very bad situation, tactically.

She selected the biggest Guardian. “Nirozha, you first, then Shisora. I will follow. Gizhot, I want you and Rigosha to remain outside and receive the prisoners as we send them out. Tell me if you all feel ready.”

The Guardians gave aggressive hoots, like dancers ready for a competition.

“Then go inside now.”

The humans had tried to lash the hatch shut, but Nirozha braced himself in the entry tube and used his midlimbs to shove it open far enough to cut the cord with his knife. The hatch popped open and he surged inside. Shisora followed swiftly in case of trouble.

Tizhos struggled up the tube, her life-support pack scraping the side as her belly pressed against the ladder. She wondered briefly how a bulky Guardian like Nirozha had managed to fit.

Then she pushed through the hatch into the shelter. The humans had turned off the lights so she could see only the jerky beams from the Guardians’ shoulder lamps.

She aimed her light up. Three humans dangled in hammocks in the upper section. Nirozha had also seen them and began climbing the flimsy ladder up to them. They made no aggressive moves, which pleased Tizhos.

A sudden screaming made her jump. All three humans began shrieking as Nirozha approached. He tried to pull one of the human males out of his hammock, but the human started struggling and kicking. Tizhos recognized him as Richard Graves. For some reason he did not use his arms.

“Wait here. I will go up to assist Nirozha,” she told Shisora. The ladder felt as if it could barely support her weight. In the upper section she could hardly find room to move with three humans and Nirozha crowded in. The Guardian and Richard Graves still struggled. Nirozha grabbed his legs with all four arms and pulled, but he still did not come out. His shouting increased in volume. Tizhos found it hard to think.

She could see something around Richard Graves’s wrists attaching him to the ring supporting the hammock. Tizhos wondered why the humans had restrained themselves.

“Please quiet yourselves!” she called out, but the humans continued shouting. She could not make out anything they said, but their tones sounded angry.

Nirozha used his knife to cut the restraint holding Richard Graves to his hammock. The human struggled free of Nirozha’s grip and danced around the upper part of the shelter, swinging from handholds and jumping over the other two humans. Finally the Guardian got his midlimbs around the human and half-passed, half-tossed him to Tizhos.

She had to use three of her arms to hold Richard Graves, and could barely get down the ladder to the lower level, especially with him struggling and kicking his legs. Shisora and Tizhos held him down and tried to get him into a drysuit, but he continued kicking and struggling, still shouting.

They got him suited and tossed him into the water for Gizhot and Rigosha to deal with.

Next Nirozha captured the human female. Despite her smaller size she proved even more difficult for him to handle than the male. Twice he got her in his grip only to have her wriggle free. She struck and kicked him repeatedly, and finally Nirozha backhanded her with his left midlimb, knocking her down to the lower level where Shisora could pounce on her.

Getting her into a suit felt worse than trying to wash an uncooperative infant. Infants didn’t kick as hard and scream insults. Infants didn’t grab at your own suit hoses, or throw equipment across the shelter, then break free when you had to let go to retrieve it.

And then, when they had her legs into the suit for the third time and were trying to capture her arms, she punched Shisora in the ribs once too often.

He hit her back, a powerful blow with his midlimb. And then he hit her again. He held her down with his upper arms and began hitting her with his midlimbs, over and over again. Her screams changed in pitch, getting higher and louder.

Tizhos still held the female’s legs down. I should stop this, she thought. Before she gets badly hurt. But it felt so satisfying to watch the human being pounded. Tizhos’s suit reeked of anger and frustration, and watching Shisora work the human over felt almost as good as doing it herself.

The screams stopped, and suddenly Tizhos snapped back to reality. “Shisora, stop. I order you to stop!”

He got in one more blow, then sat back on his four rear limbs, breathing heavily. The human didn’t move. Circulatory fluid leaked from her mouth and nostrils, and Tizhos could see sections of skin changing color.

The female human’s suit included a medical monitor, and when they turned it on the readouts showed lots of blinking red alert signals. Gizhot had the most medical training, and Tizhos knew enough first aid and human physiology to assist, but neither had ever tried to aid an injured human before. The little medical kit in the shelter contained a manual and some emergency drugs, but they didn’t do much. Eventually her heart stopped and she stopped breathing.

The remaining male offered no resis tance. The one outside slipped away during the confusion. Tizhos led her little team back toward Hitode, towing the dead human’s body herself. Nobody spoke much.

Broadtail is teaching the youngsters how to speak properly. Each student is kept in a pen, and Broadtail moves along the row with a bag of clinger meat. They strain against the netting of the pens, snatching at him, but he keeps behind the row of little stones marking the limit of their reach.

He stops before each pen and conducts a little lesson. The student doesn’t get any meat until it can say “Give me food.” Half of them fail. Broadtail recalls Oneclaw’s advice.

“Most of them fail at new lessons, but I expect improvement. Hunger is a good teacher.”

The female at the end of the row, Smoothshell, can only snatch feebly. Broadtail doesn’t remember her eating anything in the pens. She fails all her lessons. Is she too stupid to learn? In that case she is nothing but food for the others.

But she sounds clever enough. Her pings are rare but sharp. Broadtail recalls her almost getting herself untied from one of Oneclaw’s clumsy knots. Perhaps she is simply stubborn. He decides to try something he dimly remembers from his own youth.

“Food,” he says, and loudly eats a bit. Then he places a chunk of clinger flesh where she can reach it. “Food,” he repeats as she grabs the bit. “Food.”

“I give you food,” he says, putting out another bit. He listens as she gobbles it. He waits.

She strains against the netting, clacking her pincers, but she can’t reach the bag.

“Speak to me,” he says. “Speak or starve. Choose now. I think you understand me.”

He waits. She stops struggling, tries one last surprise lunge, which brings her extended pincer almost close enough to touch him, then is still. He waits some more.

“Food,” she says quietly.

“Good. What do you want?”

Another long pause, then she says “Give me food.”

Broadtail shoves half a dozen clingers toward her. “Very good. I give you food. I give Smoothshell food.”

“Holdhard,” she says a little more loudly. It is not a name he recognizes.

“Where is Holdhard?”

“I am Holdhard.”

“You are Smoothshell.”

“I am Holdhard.”

This is a curious development. Normally children her age don’t have personal names. They can barely comprehend themselves as individuals.

“Very well, Holdhard. I give Holdhard food.” He gives her the last two bits of clinger. “Broadtail gives Holdhard food.”

He waits a little longer, then turns to go. As he leaves he just catches her saying “Broadtail gives Holdhard food” very quietly.

Rob and Josef found Dickie Graves about half a kilometer from Coquille 1. Actually he found them—they were making a very stealthy approach to the Coq with Rob listening on all the external microphones for any hint of Sholen presence when a rescue strobe started flashing nearby. The sudden light made Josef cry out in surprise, but his hands on the thruster controls were perfectly steady, and he swung the sub around for a sudden getaway before Rob heard Dickie’s voice and told him to wait.

Dickie had been in the water in his suit for two days, so during the voyage back to Coq 2 he gobbled down a couple of emergency food bars while telling his story.

“The Sholies have gone utterly feral,” he said between bites. “They killed Isabel. Four or five of them came to drag us back to Hitode. We tried passive resistance—the old activist public theater script. Tied ourselves in with cable ties. Look what that bastard did to my wrists! Chanted at them. ‘We will not be moved! We will not be moved!’ ”

“What happened, Dickie?”

“I don’t know all of it. They stuffed me into a suit and tossed me down the hatch, then went for Isabel. I could hear a lot of fighting inside, and then screams. Then they called for a medic and one of the Sholies guarding me went inside. Then one of them sticks his head out and tells the guard ‘The female died.’ I know enough of their language to understand that, but I pretended I didn’t and waited until they started dragging Fouchard out. He was still alive. Then I swam away as quick as I could and hid in the ruins.”

“Could it have been an accident?”

“Don’t be a fool, Freeman. They murdered her. Bloody butchers. I got out because I’m a witness. I hope Fouchard’s all right.”

“What is the condition of Coquille 1?” asked Josef. “Usable?”

“No. Bastards took the power unit. I went in once or twice to spare my APOS and get some food, but I was afraid they might come back.”

Rob watched Dickie eat for a few minutes. “Dickie, this is important. What were you guys doing? Was it any kind of provocation—or something the Sholen might mistake for provocation?”

“Why am I suddenly on trial when they’re the ones who killed Isabel? No, we didn’t do anything. We resisted, of course—I kicked my legs like a four-year-old and tried my best to wear them out. It was all pretty standard protestor antics, though. No direct violence.”

“They don’t follow the same rules we do,” said Rob. “They’ve got that whole unanimous-vote government thing going. I guess active dissent is like some kind of a crime.”

“Back home we call that fascism, remember? The mask is off now.”

Strongpincer pulls his claw out of the youngster’s body and waits for the legs to stop twitching. “Any older ones hiding in the rocks?” he calls to Weaklegs.

“Nothing but hatchlings.”

Strongpincer begins cutting open the underside to get at the organ meat in the thorax. His plan is a failure. There are no older juveniles ready for training. Nothing but little ones, good only for food.

“Some dead ones here,” Shellcrusher pings. “Pretty big.”

Strongpincer breaks off the pincers to eat as he swims over. There are two dead ones, both torn and nibbled by scavengers, but each has a neat hole just behind the headshield, just the size of an adult’s pincer. He feels the bodies all over. One has defective pincers, the other’s head is small and misshapen. Failures.

He remembers his own time in a school: adults culling the weak and deformed, leaving the bodies for the survivors. He remembers his own gladness at realizing he is strong.

“There are schoolmasters nearby,” he says. “Taste the waters carefully and find out which way they went.”

Strongpincer hopes to salvage his plan. Schoolmasters can dominate the young, but they are often weak and cowardly when dealing with adults. He plans making a show of violence to overawe them. Isolated in coldwater among half-taught young, schoolmasters are often more than half wild themselves. Despite their blather about learning, they respect strength and cruelty. Strongpincer is strong and knows how to be cruel.

Back at Coquille 2, Dickie told his story again, at greater length and without as much chewing and swallowing. When he was done, Alicia was the first to speak.

“What do we do now?”

“We’ve got to fight them,” said Graves. “They’ve obviously taken the gloves off and the longer we wait the more harm they can do.”

“Can I talk to you alone for a second?” Rob asked Alicia.

“Where?”

“Just over here.” The two of them huddled by the rack of suits on the opposite side of the Coquille from the worktable. “I think you should turn yourself in,” he said.

“What?”

“Go back to Hitode and give yourself up. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“You are very noble, Robert, but I will not do that.”

“This is serious, Alicia.”

“I am serious, too.”

He looked into her eyes and came to a decision. “Okay, then. If you’re staying, then so am I.”

The two of them returned to the table, where Josef and Dickie pretended they hadn’t heard every whisper of their conversation.

“Okay,” said Rob. “We need to figure out how we’re going to defeat the Sholen.”

Broadtail is untangling some of Oneclaw’s books. The old teacher has some interesting works. Aside from standards like the Comprehensive List of Words by Roundbody 1 Midden or the Collection of Useful Arts by the Coldvent Company of Scholars, there’s a copy of The Anatomy of Communication by Flathead 67 Lowbasin, and the favorite of eccentrics everywhere, The Source of Flow by Longhead 52 Deepsand.

He’s running a copy of Sound-Pulses Directed Downward by Widehead 66 Coldruins through his feelers when Oneclaw comes to the entrance, pinging loudly.

“Quickly! A band of adults with a towfin are coming! Take up a weapon—they may be raiders.”

Broadtail grabs a bolt-launcher and hurries outside. There are two adults approaching the shelter, and he can hear another and a towfin about a cable away.

“Who are you?” calls Oneclaw as they approach.

“We are a horde of desperate killers,” says the leader. “Give us what we want or we attack.”

Broadtail pings them. He recognizes the speaker—it is the leader of the bandits he remembers plundering his expedition. Anger floods through him. Why can’t they leave him alone?

“Go away!” he shouts.

“Why so fierce?” Oneclaw taps quietly on Broadtail’s shell.

He answers aloud. “These are bandits. But not a desperate horde—cowardly ambushers and robbers.”

“I remember you,” says the leader. “And I remember attacking you in cold water. A fair fight, with no marker stones near. No law.”

“You are inside my boundaries,” says Oneclaw. “It is my law here, and I say peace. Agree, leave, or fight.”

“We are three, all strong and fit. You are two, with one missing a claw.”

“Then come and fight!” cried Broadtail. He quotes the epic The Conquest of The City of Three Vents. “ ‘Nothing is certain but your death.’ ”

For a moment nobody says anything.

“We ask your protection, then,” says the leader to Oneclaw. “My name is Strongpincer. My band and I wish to rest here.”

“Don’t trust them!” Broadtail taps out on Oneclaw’s shell.

“Of course not,” is the silent reply. “But I do not want fighting if I can avoid it.” Aloud, he says “I have a little fodder and some food, but little else to give you. You may rest and tether your beast by the boundary stones. I do not take you under my protection and you must leave when I ask.”

“Agreed.”

The newcomers set up camp just inside Oneclaw’s boundary, not far from the pens holding the students. By all law and custom they should lay aside their weapons, but Broadtail doubts Strongpincer cares much for law and custom.

Tizhos found Gishora in the dive room, getting into a suit. “Tell me if you intend to go out again.”

“Yes,” Gishora answered. “I have little to do within the station. You perform your tasks extremely well.” With the suit covering Gishora and the strong smell of the Ilmataran water, the words of praise had little effect.

“You know of the potential for danger outside. I urge you to take along Guardians.”

“The Guardians know little of proper scientific technique. I find it difficult to gather specimens with them around. Each time I go out I must teach them again not to make noise or stir up the silt.”

“They did not come here to do science.”

“Exactly.” Gishora was entirely suited but for his hood. “I feel no fear outside alone. The humans remain in hiding.”

Tizhos lowered her voice. “Irona contacted me privately. He expressed concern about how slowly the evacuation proceeds.”

“No doubt time seems to pass more slowly aboard the ship in orbit. Here I can barely find time for all the things I wish to do.”

“He said his Guardians complain that you spend more time doing science than hunting for the humans.”

“His Guardians? I did not know Sholen have become things one can own, or that our mission has become Irona’s personal property, rather than a working group assembled for a task.”

“The Guardians, then. Instead of critiquing my speech you should worry that they complain about you to Irona.”

“When I hear something which causes me worry, I will worry about it. The fact that some of the Guardians complain does not bother me.”

“I feel that you should pay more attention to Irona’s concerns. I think most of the others aboard the ship agree with him about the humans.”

Gishora stationed himself on the edge of the pool. “I know—but the faster we send up the humans, the less time remains to study this world. We have lost, Tizhos. Irona’s faction wish to end exploration here, for both Sholen and humans. Now that both sides have used violence, I see no way to salvage the situation.”

Tizhos cringed a little at that.

Gishora didn’t sound angry, though, and continued speaking. “Therefore I must gather as much information as I can while we remain here. We may never get the chance again. You might consider doing the same.” With that he sealed up his hood, then rolled into the water and disappeared.

Broadtail and Oneclaw take turns staying awake and on guard while the bandits are camped by the school. They don’t get much teaching done, although Broadtail does keep up the language lessons while feeding the students.

He’s trying to get Holdhard to say “Give me that food,” when he hears Strongpincer approaching. He turns, keeping his spear ready.

“A good class of young ones,” says Strongpincer. “Any of them ready to sell? I could use a few apprentices.”

“They’re still just learning proper speech. We still have much to teach them.”

“How much do they sell for? I’ve never bought one.”

“I remember buying one for a thousand beads at Continuous Abundance.”

“Do you remember doing something else before teaching?”

“I do. I recall being a landowner, and being exiled for murder.” He hopes that makes him sound more formidable.

“I must be wary around such a dangerous adult, then,” says Strongpincer, then turns and starts to swim away. As he does, something tied to his harness rattles oddly, and Broadtail gives a little ping to find out what it is. It’s some kind of box, carved of stone.

“What is that?”

“What? This thing?” Strongpincer taps it with a leg.

“Yes. Where do you remember finding it?”

“In some ruins. Hiding out from militia. Why do you ask?”

“I’m interested in objects like that. May I feel it?”

Strongpincer hesitates, then hands it to Broadtail. The lid of the box fits very closely, and inside is an object unlike anything Broadtail can remember. He sets down his spear and takes a reel of cord from his harness to make some notes.

“Please tell me everything you can about its origin,” he asks.

“What’s it worth to you?”

“You can have all my wealth,” says Broadtail. “Which is nothing. I am alive only because of Oneclaw’s charity.”

“Then give it back.”

For a moment Broadtail wants to fight Strongpincer for it, but then he realizes he has put down his spear. He passes the box back. “Do you have anything else like it?”

“What do I gain by letting you handle my things? You admit you have nothing.”

“You are a guest here. I am certain Oneclaw is also interested in strange things.”

Strongpincer turns to go. “We camp by the boundary, and one of you always stands guard. That is not how one treats a guest. I owe you nothing.”

“What do you want for it, then?”

Strongpincer stops and turns back to Broadtail. “I need some apprentices. Trade me four of the young ones here for the box.”

“They are not mine to trade.”

“Tell Oneclaw, then. Or—”

“What?”

“You sound like a good fighter. As he sleeps, gather the young ones and come with me.”

“I owe Oneclaw my life. I remember almost dying but for him.”

“And now you are no better than an apprentice here. You have nothing that is not his. I can show you where I recall finding the box. Others may be there. Leave the schoolmaster.”

Broadtail is tempted. He doesn’t even like Oneclaw very much. But… “No. It is wrong to even suggest it.”

“Calm yourself. Think about it. Consider my offer carefully—and consider what you can expect by staying here. I must go.” He turns again and strolls off. The students clamor for food as he passes.

Dickie Graves let the current push him toward Hitode, kicking occasionally to keep himself oriented and maintain depth. He took shallow breaths, trying to stay irregular. There was a plastic bag over the hydrogen vent on his backpack, and from time to time he emptied it. Presumably the Sholen would be listening for the regular bubble-bubble-bubble of an unmodified APOS.

According to the inertial compass he was less than a kilometer from Hitode. Which meant he’d be coming up on the outer line of hydrophones soon.

The raid was his own idea: a trip by impeller to the jumbled rocks at Maury Epsilon, then an easy two-klick swim, sabotage one of the hydrophones and swim away before the Sholen could react. Over time he could make the station deaf, or force the Sholen to send out patrols—which could be ambushed.

It was all just like Von Lettow in Africa: keep the enemy uncertain and force him to guard all possible targets. Classic guerrilla strategy. The Sholen might have advanced nanotech and stuff like that, but their society had forgotten how to make war. They were making themselves into sheep while humans were still wolves. Dickie Graves thought he was a particularly fearsome wolf.

According to the inertial compass he was just a hundred meters from hydrophone six. He let himself drop to the sea bottom and began to crawl, moving from rock to rock. This was familiar territory; he’d helped set up the hydrophone net. Number six was just ahead, perched atop a boulder to keep it from getting covered with silt. He’d come at it from the side and cut the data cable, then grab the phone and swim like hell.

He had covered sixty meters creeping along the bottom when he heard someone swimming. His helmet sonar pinpointed the source: a single individual coming out from Hitode. For a moment Dickie was afraid he’d been heard, but then the swimmer veered off to the west, heading for one of the nets. Dickie toggled up the sound volume and listened. It didn’t sound like a human swimming. It sounded like a Sholen.

Dickie hunkered down behind a rock, waiting, barely breathing. He pressed the deadman button to shut off his APOS for extra quiet—the oxygen inside the suit would last him a few minutes if he didn’t exert himself.

The Sholen meandered along, stopping from time to time to pick up rocks or bottom-dwelling life. Finally the alien reached the nets and began taking out the various swimmers and flotsam caught there.

Dickie considered his strategy. If he took out the hydrophone first, the Sholen might hear and come to investigate. But if he tried to neutralize the Sholen, it would certainly make enough noise to alert the aliens inside Hitode Station. The urge to strike back at one of them was strong, but in the end Graves restrained himself. Concentrate on the job you came to do, he told himself.

He let go of the deadman button and took on some oxygen, then pressed it again and pushed off against the rock, launching himself at the hydrophone. Halfway there he had to let go of the button and start swimming. The phone was certain to hear him.

The hydrophone was just where he’d installed it, a bright orange casing taped to a boulder, with a long optical cable trailing off through the silt. He slashed the cable and pulled the hydrophone off the rock. No sense in wasting it; properly set up it could be an early warning system for the new camp.

He swam hard, trying to get away from Hitode before someone came to investigate. His own external pickup detected a sonar ping. The Sholen was swimming toward him. Damn.

Gishora heard the noise of something swimming rapidly and checked the helmet display. He could see no icons indicating other divers around Hitode. So either the noise came from one of the renegade humans, or an Ilmataran organism. Either way, he ought to investigate.

It swam toward a clump of rocks. He gave it an active sonar ping, to get a better image of whatever it was. Four limbs, about half the length of a Sholen, bulbous head and backpack. A human, then. Gishora felt a little bit disappointed at that.

“I want you to stop swimming away,” he called out. “I see no way for you to escape.”

The human ducked behind the rocks and Gishora swam faster to catch whoever it was. In the human’s wake the water contained a great deal of silt. All Gishora could see was the cloudy cone of light from his helmet lamp. It made him feel disoriented and a little frightened. He had to keep checking his faceplate displays to be sure to stay level.

The rock outcropping was a welcome bit of firm reality in the dark chaos of the silty water. Gishora touched it, holding on as though some powerful current might sweep him away.

Something struck his head hard, knocking him down. The displays went crazy, and he could hardly make sense of the text and symbols flashing across his vision. He tried to get up, but felt something land on top of him, clinging to his back.

Gishora gave a cry of surprise, then tried to reach behind him to dislodge the human. He felt cold water against the back of his head, pouring into the suit, separating the clinging inner membrane from his skin. It was so cold it burned. He couldn’t see anything. The water was full of silt and bubbles.

Then he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen, and more cold water. Amid the flashing lights in his hood he saw the MEDICAL ALERT icon and the OXYGEN SYSTEM FAILURE symbol. Behind them, half-obscured by the swirling silt, he glimpsed a face. It was the human Richard Graves, baring his teeth inside his helmet and raising his utility knife for another stab.

The blade jabbed into Gishora’s upper right shoulder. He tried to grab the human, but the cold and the pain made it hard to move, and his suit was filling with water.

Gishora couldn’t see Graves anymore, but he felt the blade slice into the muscles of his back, and again into his side behind his midlimbs. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer, and coughed and choked as the burning cold water entered his lungs.

Broadtail hurries back to the shelter and wakes Oneclaw. “Those bandits want to take the students!”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. I recall Strongpincer suggesting I kill you and join his band with the students.”

“I assume you choose not to?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I ask because it is not illogical for you to be in league with the bandits. I remember worrying about that when rescuing you.”

“I am no bandit!” says Broadtail indignantly. “I am a scientist!”

“You might be a bandit scientist. But never mind that now. I trust you. We have more important problems. How can we stand against a whole gang of them? Perhaps we should flee.”

“In cold water they can snatch us one at a time. Fortifying ourselves within the shelter is the only way. Two of us with spears can hold the entrance.”

“A good plan, worthy of Shortleg 88. But we cannot fit all the students inside.”

Broadtail looks around and makes a quick inventory of their supplies. “I imagine bringing in the two best and leaving the rest.”

“Which ones?”

“The two females. Holdhard is small but clever. Sharpclaw is strong. I imagine both fetching a good price as apprentices.”

“I agree.”

The two of them go out to fetch the two students. Broadtail can hear one of the bandits—probably the big one—moving with them about half a cable away. But nothing happens and they return to the shelter with Holdhard and Sharpclaw. Oneclaw takes them inside and secures them while Broadtail begins fortifying the doorway and plugging gaps in the walls of the shelter.

He hears someone approach, and takes up his spear. It’s Strongpincer.

“Do you accept my offer?”

“Rob Oneclaw and join your band? No. I refuse.”

“Then I plan to take what I want.”

“And we plan to fight you.”

Strongpincer moves a couple of steps toward Broadtail, who swings up his spear, keeping the point between the two of them. Broadtail handles his spear well, like a landowner who hunts and drills with a town militia. Strongpincer backs away.

Broadtail waits until the bandit is half a cable away, then goes inside.

He gives food to the students, to keep them quiet while he and Oneclaw prepare. The old teacher has all his weapons piled in the middle of the shelter. It isn’t a very good arsenal.

There are four hunting spears, but one of them has only the sharpened end of the shaft instead of a proper obsidian head.

He has a couple of hammers, a single bolt-launcher for close-in work, and the noisemaker.

“Do you imagine this working?” Broadtail asks Oneclaw, holding up the noisemaker.

“I cannot remember ever actually using it in combat. It does give us the advantage of surprise—I doubt coldwater bandits ever read Swiftswimmer.”

“Then I suggest using it only in the direst emergency.”

“Agreed. Do you hear them coming? That is the worst part of any fight like this: waiting for the enemy to actually do something.”

Strongpincer knows about attacking a fortified shelter, and what he knows is that surprise is the best tactic. Drop down out of the water onto a farm without being heard, cut off the landowner and apprentices from the shelter, and the battle is all but won.

But when the defenders are barricaded inside, everything changes. Even if there are gaps in the shelter—and Oneclaw’s shelter is old stonework—anyone attacking an opening risks a spearpoint in the head.

But even that is better than the alternative of trying to wait out the defenders. Doing that requires enough food and patience to outlast them, and Strongpincer has neither.

There are the students in the pens, and a few bits of gear left around the school worth taking, but Strongpincer knows all the really good stuff is inside the shelter. He suspects the two students inside are the best of the lot, as well.

Strongpincer decides to attack. His band has three good fighters against a couple of schoolmasters and two students, and one of the masters is deformed. He knows that getting Shellcrusher inside the shelter is all he needs to win.

He lets Shellcrusher and Weaklegs rest a while before attacking. The schoolmasters won’t come out, and he wants to give them the chance to be bored and sleepy themselves.

When he judges they have slept enough, he wakes his team and the attack begins. The three of them surround the shelter and come at it from different sides, probing for weaknesses.

Shellcrusher has the door. It is barricaded with all manner of junk, but that makes it hard to defend as she gets her powerful pincers into seams and starts to pry the door apart.

Weaklegs and Strongpincer attack small gaps in the stonework. They have spears, and Strongpincer instructs Weaklegs to probe the hole and draw the attention of those within. He himself is less aggressive, keeping to one side where a bolt-launcher cannot hit him, jabbing with his spear at the opening and making a lot of noise.

He gets a response: a spear thrusts out from the opening, probing the open water. Strongpincer tries to grab it but whoever is at the other end is quick enough to pull it back out of reach.

After a bit more poking with his spear, Strongpincer risks trying to pull away some of the stones around the opening. He drags down some smaller chunks and gets no reaction. Perhaps those inside are occupied trying to keep Shellcrusher from breaking in the door.

He grabs a larger stone and braces his legs against the wall as he pulls. It shifts a little, but then he feels a sharp pain as something jabs his left pincer joint. He jerks back and feels his wounded claw. It is a small puncture, the kind that heals up, but it makes him wary. He jabs at the hole with his spear again to drive back whoever stabbed him.

From inside he hears excited pinging, then a loud crunching noise as Shellcrusher finally tears the door apart. Strongpincer abandons the little opening and swims around to back up Shellcrusher at the entrance.

Just then comes the most awful noise Strongpincer remembers ever hearing. It is a throbbing high-pitched tone that drowns everything else out and leaves him deafened when it stops.

Broadtail gropes about, trying to find Oneclaw. He is completely deaf. Someone bumps him and he barely restrains the urge to stab. It tastes like Holdhard, so he places a pincer on her back to calm her. He remembers facing the bandit with Oneclaw to his left, so he moves to the side, feeling with his free claw.

He finds Oneclaw and taps his shell. “No more sound. I cannot hear. We must get out now.” The device makes them as helpless as their attackers; it is useless for defense but he imagines them using it to cover their escape.

Through his feet and tendrils he feels something moving up ahead. Are the bandits coming in? “Make the noise again and then push out of the shelter,” he taps to Oneclaw. He feels around for his spear and picks it up, bracing himself for the awful sound.

Being deaf means the noise isn’t as loud, but it still feels like a pincer jabbed straight into his head. Holdhard flinches but Broadtail holds her steady, then charges, pulling her along. He hopes Oneclaw is following.

The bandit is just outside the doorway, off guard from the new blast of noise. Broadtail jabs with his spear to drive her back, then swims straight up. Holdhard gets the idea and soon is swimming as fast as he is. They go up until he cannot taste the sea bottom anymore, and Broadtail feels mild fear. He has no way to sense his surroundings—there is nothing to touch, nothing to taste, and he still cannot hear. Only his pincer resting on Holdhard’s back gives him any contact with reality. For once it is almost pleasant having another person so close.

He slows and then stops, then concentrates, trying to orient himself. He levels off as best he can by feel, then swims in a random direction. He lets go of Holdhard, but his tendrils can still feel her swimming along with him. He is a little surprised that she isn’t going off on her own, but he doesn’t mind having an ally.

A sound! Broadtail can make it out very faintly. His head still feels like it’s buried in mud. The sound comes again, louder, and this time he recognizes it. It’s Oneclaw’s voice, calling out for help. The old scholar is cut off in mid-cry, and after that Broadtail hears nothing more. He picks a direction at random and swims away. Holdhard follows.

Irona reached Hitode Station nine hours after Gishora died. He came with two more Guardians, using the last of the rapid-deployment pods as the elevator was still going up with a load of humans. Tizhos gave him a report on the situation as he peeled off his suit and dabbed himself with scent.

“The humans appear to feel very unhappy and contrite about Gishora’s death,” she told him. “Several have spoken to me privately, assuring me that they have no doubts of the incident’s accidental nature.”

“Tell me if you have examined the body.”

“Yes. It appears that some individual stabbed Gishora repeatedly with a blade similar in size and design to a human-made utility knife.”

“That does not sound like an accident.”

“No,” said Tizhos. “Someone killed him.”

“Tell me if any human currently in the station might have done it.”

“I consider that very unlikely. I watched Gishora depart shortly before his death, and I feel reasonably certain that all the humans remained in the station. He refused to take a Guardian along.”

Irona growled a little at that. “It surprises me you even considered one of the Guardians as a suspect.”

“I failed to make my meaning obvious. I meant only that Gishora ventured outside alone, with nobody present who might have seen his attacker.”

“I accept your apology,” said Irona, caressing the underside of Tizhos’s neck. “So it seems the rebellious humans killed Gishora.”

“Yes,” said Tizhos sadly. Irona’s sexual overture was proper for a leader, especially at a time of transition, but Tizhos felt absolutely no attraction. She did her best to respond, if only to avoid conflict.

“Tell me if you expect more violence.”

“I do not know. The rebellious humans may attempt more raids, or they may feel as shocked by this as the others. Certainly the humans here at Hitode seem very unlikely to commit any violent acts.”

“If I remember, you and Gishora said the same before he died. We must assume all of them can and will resort to violence. From now on they must remain in their cabins except when eating. No more science, no more maintenance.”

“Tell me if you think the station can remain habitable without anyone to maintain it.”

“Of course it cannot. Which gives the humans a very good reason to leave.” He nuzzles her, then gives her flank a brisk pat. “Go inform the humans of the new rules. Make it clear to them that I will not tolerate disobedience. Tell them their little holiday with Gishora just ended.”

Broadtail is tired and hungry, and is far from Oneclaw’s school compound. He judges it safe to descend to the bottom. He senses another swimmer behind him and nearly turns to fight before remembering it is only Holdhard.

“Are you hungry?”

“Holdhard wants food.”

“You don’t have to use your whole name. We two are alone.”

“I want food.”

“Much better. You sound like a landowner. We search for food on the bottom and share what we find.” He began a gradual dive, aiming for a section of bottom that sounded like angular stone. Perhaps old ruins—a good place to forage. “Share?” She sounds suspicious.

“I give you part of what I find, and you give me part of what you find. Share.”

“Why?”

“Because we are both hungry.”

She is quiet as they drop a couple of cables, then asks, “Whyshare?”

Broadtail feels his pincers ready for a stab before he carefully folds them. “Which of us is bigger?”

“You are.”

“If we fight over food, who wins?”

“You do,” she says very softly.

“Exactly. If we don’t share, we fight. I don’t want to fight. Sharing means we both get food and nobody gets hurt. We can rest and take turns listening for danger.”

More silence, and then: “Why don’t you want to fight? You’re bigger.”

He waits until they set down on the rocks. No swimmers or bottom-crawlers, but some of the stones have a good thick growth mat. He shows Holdhard how to scrape the growth, and savors the weak flavor for a bit before answering her. “Holdhard, when we fight we can’t do other things. We can’t build, or hunt, or even search for mats like this. When we share, we get more than when we fight. You and I can scour these rocks because we are not fighting. Do you remember visiting a vent settlement? Perhaps as a hatchling?”

“I remember—there are many little ones like me and we are eating wonderful food, but an adult drives us away.”

“Vent farms have all kinds of wonderful food, because the landowner and the apprentices work together and protect the farm against bandits. They build pipes and shelters, and are stronger than all but the biggest bandit gangs. They are rich because they can work instead of fighting. Do you understand?”

“Working makes food?”

“Exactly! Fighting only steals food, but working makes more.”

“You work? You make food?”

“I remember being a landowner and making much food. And I remember fighting, and losing all my wealth. Now I suggest eating and resting before talking.”

They eat until several stones are quite clean, then find separate niches for resting. As he feels himself drifting into unconsciousness, Broadtail briefly worries about Holdhard. Why is she still with him? Does she intend attacking him by surprise in order to steal his things and devour his corpse?

No, he decides. She is too clever for that. In effect, she is his apprentice. It is odd to have an apprentice with no land or flow rights. He has nothing for her to inherit, except what he knows. Very well, then, Holdhard can be his science apprentice. A curious idea, but it puts an end to his fretting and he sinks into sleep.

Broadtail wakes. Someone is tapping his shell. It is Holdhard. He tries to make sense of what she is tapping, then remembers she doesn’t know the dictionary. “What is it?”

“Food!” she says. “Come catch it!”

He follows her downcurrent to a spot where the two of them can hide amid rocks and mud. They listen, and he hears it: a large creature swimming. It must be nearly his own size. It sounds familiar.

Then Broadtail remembers, and his pincers stiffen as if he’s going into battle. This is one of the odd creatures! The sound it makes while swimming is unmistakable.

“Holdhard,” he says quietly. “That is not food. But we must follow it as quietly as we can.”

“It is not good to eat?”

“No. I remember tasting one—the flesh is awful. We do not eat them. However, I do want to learn about it. Come along.”

The two of them follow the four-limbed animal as it swims awkwardly downcurrent. It slows as it reaches a large object. The object is as big as a large house, but sounds like soft mud. It is difficult for Broadtail to get a good impression of its shape or what it is made of.

He can barely contain his excitement. So much to learn! He speaks quietly to Holdhard. “Do you wish to be my apprentice?”

“Yes,” she answers without hesitating.

“Good. Then we begin the task at once. We stay here and listen and take notes. We learn everything about these creatures.”

“What do we eat?”

“Eat? We have rocks to scour. This is more important than food. This is science!”