A Darkling Sea

Thirteen

“I don’t know what we can do,” said Rob, using number-taps. “They’ve got the station, they’ve got the surface, and even if help is coming it’ll take months. I’m afraid we’re going to have to give up.”

Broadtail was silent for a while. Rob couldn’t tell if he was thinking about what he’d said or if he’d just fallen asleep the way the Ilmatarans did.

“I hold small echoes [of] stabbing,” said the alien. “Many cords I echo sound [of] stabbing twice adults-with-raised-pincers grasping carved stones.”

Rob mulled that over. At times he wondered if he and the alien were having completely different conversations. He looked through the lexicon. “You think we should try to attack the Sholen? Stab them?”

“I sound [of] stabbing twice. Sever many adults-with-raised-pincers outside a wall of ice.”

“Cut them off! I get it! Yeah! Good idea. But how?”

“Many large adults tie cords. Sever the cord tied to food.”

“There isn’t a—you mean the elevator?”

“You and I are a pair.”

“That’s a great idea, Broadtail. I’ll tell the others. If we can figure out how to do it, will you help us?”

“I and many adults swim beside you pincers extended.”

“Look,” said Rob. “They can’t have an infinite supply of those drop capsules; even if they’re fabbing up new ones they’ll run out of feedstock eventually. So their only way of bringing in more stuff is the elevator. Cut that off and all of a sudden we’re on nearly equal terms. Broadtail suggested it.”

There was a pause while Josef thought about it. “How will we get back up without it? I want to stay on Ilmatar, but not my entire life.”

Rob waved his hand as if brushing an insect aside. “Trivial. We reconnect the cable later. Forget the cable. If the Sholen haven’t packed up the surface base we can fab a new one out of local matter. The important thing is to steal the elevator capsule itself. Without it the Sholen can’t go up and down at all—and we can use it as another shelter. Heck, it is another shelter: same structure, same life support and power. The only difference is that the elevator has a hard-dock adapter instead of legs, and the buoyancy control system.”“Very well,” said Josef. “If we do want to steal it—how?

When? Elevator weighs tons.”

“We have a sub. If it can carry one of the Coqs it can carry the elevator.”

Josef looked thoughtful. “Is feasible, yes. As you say, load is comparable to a Coquille and elevator is neutrally buoyant. But taking cable is impossible.”

“So we cut it as high up as possible and make sure it doesn’t fall on Hitode. If the Sholen want to go out in suits and impellers to try to reconnect it, bully for them.”

“You forget about decompression. We need elevator to decompress going up. How can we capture it if we explode?”

“Use the sub. That’s my answer for everything. Take it up a kilometer next time the elevator comes down, so we can be in position when it’s on its way back up again. You and I can live aboard for a few days. Plus Broadtail says his people will help.

Next time it goes up, we board the elevator, take control, cut the cable, and skedaddle.”

“Elevator is probably guarded. Sholen are not stupid, you know.”

“I know they’re not stupid, which is why I don’t think they’d do that. A guard going up has to come back down again, which means the whole capacity of the elevator is reduced by twentyfive percent. It’d be simpler to just send up humans and send down more Sholen techs and soldiers. If they want to keep the passengers going up from messing with the elevator, they can just disconnect the internal controls and send them up without suits.”

“Hope the Sholen think the same. Robert, I have question for you. Do you want to find Alicia?”

“Well—kind of. It would make sense for them to get her out of Hitode as fast as possible. But this isn’t hormones talking.

Snatching the elevator makes sense no matter what.”

“Good. Just making sure you know your own motives.”

And so Broadtail finds himself with Holdhard and half a dozen of Longpincer’s servants, clinging to the back of the swimming shelter like so many juvenile mudcrawlers on their mother. Just ahead of him Builder 1 is speaking to the human inside through a slender cord. Broadtail isn’t sure how they do it, but it seems to work. The alien turns and taps Broadtail’s head gently with one digit. His tapping is still slow and full of false starts.“Rises house approaches. Builds fights. Grasp.”

The shelter starts to move through the empty water. Ahead Broadtail hears the faint echoes of something solid. As they get closer he can make out the echo of the great cable stretching from ground to sky. A few lengths below them an object the size of a small house is clinging to the cable.

Builder 1 pushes off from the back of the ship and swims toward the object. Broadtail wishes he had some cord to take notes on how the aliens swim. Broadtail pings and takes up his spear. He leads Longpincer’s servants down and takes up station beneath the climbing house, where the door is. Their job is to prevent the other creatures from beyond the ice from interfering with Builder’s work. “If anything comes out, count the limbs,” he reminds the others. “Four limbs good, six limbs bad.”

The swimming shelter maneuvers above the climbing house. Builder 1 connects a thick cable from the bottom of the swimming shelter to the top of the house, then moves around to the siphon devices on the sides of the climbing house that drive it upward.

They are making a tremendous amount of noise, which worries Broadtail. If there are enemies about, they are surely aware of what is happening. Broadtail doesn’t remember fighting these Squatters, but Builder 1 and the other Builders seem very afraid of them. He wonders if he can overcome one in a fight. They are as big as an adult, and their thick limbs could be very strong.

He catches a faint, sharp sound like the noise of Builder tools and risks a ping. The door on the bottom of the climbing house is open and a large creature is emerging. It is one of the Squatters! Broadtail summons as much anger as he can on behalf of the Builders. It is their climbing house and the Squatters are uninvited intruders. “Attack!” he calls to the others, and swims toward it.

The creature has a hard object in one of its smaller limbs. Broadtail remembers Builder telling him about the swimmingbolt launchers, so he jabs at the limb with his spear, knocking it to one side just as something shoots out of it, faster than bubbles from a hot vent. The thing goes right past Broadtail and strikes Longpincer’s servant Crestback.

There is a sudden very loud noise and Crestback breaks apart into little pieces of shell and meat.

Half-deaf, Broadtail surges forward at the Squatter. It grabs his spear, shoving the head to one side and trying to push him back. Broadtail lets go of the spear and swims forward, pincers extended. It’s pointing the launcher at him. He grabs that limb with both pincers and clamps down. It’s soft, with a hard center, just like the limbs of the Builder he remembers dissecting.

The Squatter hits him with its other limbs, and he can hear it take another hard tool from its harness. It sounds sharp. He squeezes the limb he’s holding until something cracks and hot blood flows into the water. The blood tastes very different from that of the Builders.

He lets go of that limb just as the creature jabs him with the sharp tool. The point grates along his shell without piercing. Broadtail grapples with the Squatter again, clutching with legs and his left pincer, while feeling for the back of its head with the tip of his right. The thing is struggling hard now. It’s very strong. Its sharp tool pokes his shell again, making a small hole. He feels the hard covering on the thing’s head and gets the tip of his pincer under the back edge. The thing twists and struggles, trying to grab his pincer with one limb but Broadtail gets all his limbs around it.

The outer covering is much tougher than what the Builders wear, but Broadtail is well-fed and angry and finally feels his pincer tip punch through. The water around him grows warm and he feels bubbles. The thing gives a last desperate twist of its body, snapping off one of Broadtail’s smaller limbs, but he’s got his big claw into it and drives it deeper into the hot flesh until he feels it grate on hard things. There’s a spot where two hard things inside the flesh join together. He forces the tip between them and the Squatter stops moving.

Rob opened the hatch cautiously, ready to drop back into the water if he saw a Sholen. He pushed it open a few centimeters and looked through the crack. A human hand grabbed the edge and pulled it all the way open, and a moment later Alicia was tearing off Rob’s helmet and half dragging him into the elevator.

“You are a madman! I love you!” she said between kisses. “How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t, I just hoped you were. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“I am well. The Sholen did not harm me. They have moved about half the people from Hitode up to the surface, and they have been bringing down soldiers.”

“Is that Robert Freeman?” said Pierre. Rob finally managed to take his gaze away from Alicia’s face to survey the room. Pierre and Nadia were standing behind Alicia, both wearing the look of patronizing amusement that married people tend to give young couples.

“How did you get past the guard?” asked Pierre.

“We brought some allies. Ilmatarans,” said Rob. “While I was cutting the cable and hooking up the tow line, Broadtail—that’s the one Alicia and I made contact with first—he grabbed the Sholen as he was coming out of the hatch.”

“Is he all right?” asked Alicia.

“Broadtail’s fine. The Sholen’s dead and one of the ’tarans got shot.” Rob’s mouth twisted. “I bet Broadtail’s going to take the body back for dissection.”

The elevator habitat began bobbing and pitching quite a bit as the sub got under way. Rob shut the hatch to keep water from sloshing in.IRONA took the news calmly. He came to see Tizhos in the laboratory and smelled almost serene.

“The humans have cast aside all rules and are behaving like wild creatures. They have stolen the elevator capsule and cut the cable.”

Tizhos felt a surge of irrational fear. Trapped! But it was followed almost immediately by the realization, more time to work! Irona continued. “I have a new project for you, Tizhos. I want you to give it your full attention. Ignore everything else.”

“Tell me the nature of this project.” She tried not to sound annoyed.

“I want you to make a complete study of all the human files on Ilmataran language. Create a translation protocol that we can use. I expect you want to do it anyway.”

“That sounds as though you want to speak to the Ilmatarans.”

“I do indeed desire that.”

“Tell me why.”

“Shirozha reported Ilmatarans helping in the attack on the elevator. The humans have made an alliance with some of them, or conscripted them. It hardly matters which. Since they have cut the elevator cable we must fight them with only the resources we have here.”

“I know all that.”

“With a supply line to the surface we could afford to wait them out. No longer. We must end this now. To accomplish that we need allies of our own. Natives who can speak with other natives and find where the humans lurk.”

“I cannot believe you wish to make contact with the Ilmatarans! That goes against the entire purpose of this mission!”

Irona’s scent turned dominating. “When we left Shalina the Consensus ordered us to prevent future contamination of this world by the humans. That remains the purpose of this mission.”

“But you suggest causing contamination of our own!”

“I see no alternative. We must choose between limited, controlled contact—which we can end as soon as we accomplish our mission—and unlimited, uncontrolled contamination by the humans. Indoctrinating them into human ideologies, distorting the natural evolution of their society, teaching them harmful practices.”

Tizhos thought it over. Irona had a point. And more importantly—she would get the chance to study Ilmatarans! In person and close up! No matter what purpose Irona hoped to accomplish, Tizhos would see more of the Ilmatarans than any Sholen before or to come.

“I will do all I can,” she said.

They towed the elevator back to the Ilmataran settlement, taking a roundabout course and stopping several times to see if the Sholen were following. Rob had hoped it would take them a while to figure out what had happened, but according to Alicia the Sholen guard had reported the attack before going out to get killed.

Pierre questioned the wisdom of camping at the Ilmataran settlement. “Wouldn’t it be better to pick a hidden spot? Make it harder for the Sholen to find us—and keep from involving the Ilmatarans in all this?”

“The ’tarans are already involved. They chose to be. Broadtail and the others who helped with the elevator raid all volunteered. Anyway, it doesn’t make sense to disperse. We need their help to survive, even with the elevator’s life support and supplies.”

A fleet of Ilmatarans rose from Longpincer’s vent farm to greet them as the submarine towed the elevator capsule to the settlement. Broadtail had them tie ropes to the capsule’s support skids, and then humans and Ilmatarans began the complicated process of lowering it to the seafloor.

Because the hatch was on the bottom of the elevator capsule they couldn’t just drop it anywhere. Unless it was properly level water would flood in every time they went in or out.

Josef operated the sub, staying in touch with Rob via laser link. The elevator’s comm system was down, so Alicia had to hang on just outside the hatch, sticking her head inside to relay messages by shouting. Nadia worked the capsule’s buoyancy controls by hand, with only a depth gauge and Alicia’s eyeballs for guidance.

Outside, four teams of Ilmatarans held the ropes and stood braced on the sea bottom, straining to keep the capsule centered above its intended resting place. Broadtail and Rob communicated by clicks, but there was an awful lag.

Rob’s biggest worry was Alicia. Though the elevator’s skids allowed two meters of clearance below the access hatch, they were still pretty flimsy. He was terrified that one of the skids would give if they dropped the capsule too quickly, and Alicia would wind up crushed. When it was finally resting on the bottom, he realized he was holding his breath.

Bossing a team of Longpincer’s apprentices and tenants as they help the Builders gives Broadtail an odd mix of feelings—as if he is hungry and full at once. It is good to be in charge, or ganizing teams and telling them when to haul as if he is a landowner.

But the work also reminds him of his old home, and the memories make him sad. Whenever he remembers Sandyslope he is startled by how much he still desires the place. If he concentrates he can remember the way the water tasted, the feel of the stones, and the chill of the currents.

With a patch of clear ground he could trace the entire Steepslope pipe system, with all the valves, leaks, and uneven flow spots precisely marked. He can even remember what grows where, and the flavor of the different crops. His jellyfronds always get a sour edge from the sulfur in the stones, but that also makes his spine-beds taller and fatter than any others in Continuous Abundance.

Not his spine-beds. Smoothpincer’s spine-beds. Broadtail wonders if they are even there anymore. He remembers Longfeeler suggesting putting in some fiber plants there, as even good-quality spines don’t fetch as many beads as rope does.

Longpincer’s apprentices haul on the rope to keep the floating shelter in the right position as the Builders lower it. Broadtail goes over to inspect it before they tie off. Work is better than remembering his lost property.

As he runs his eating-tendrils along the rope, making sure there is no slackness, Broadtail wonders if Builder 1 and the other strangers have any feelings as deep and unbreakable as the bond between an adult and his home. Certainly the strangers move about with little sign of grief for their lost shelter. Do they have homes in whatever faraway place they come from? Perhaps they do—in which case all their shelters in the ocean are like a traveler’s quarters.

Broadtail intends to ask Builder 1 about this, although he is not certain the stranger knows enough words to understand the question.

Tizhos waited alone in the cold ocean more than a kilometer from the station. She had only her helmet spotlight to keep the darkness at bay. She tapped the control in her hand and the big portable hydrophone unit began blaring its message into the water.

The humans had more sensitive hearing than any Sholen, and even they had been unable to duplicate the spoken language of the Ilmatarans. Tizhos hadn’t even bothered. Instead she had concentrated on creating a Sholen-to-Ilmataran lexicon based on the native beings’ written number code, using the Sholen-to-English dictionary and the captured notes.

The method was horribly inelegant and cumbersome, and it required literate Ilmatarans to understand it. Tizhos had no way to know if all the inhabitants of the region even used the same number code to write with. If they didn’t, she might be broadcasting gibberish, or horrible insults.

And if they weren’t literate at all, she was simply advertising her position to any hostile native or predator within hearing range. With the hydrophone cranked up to maximum volume that meant nearly five kilometers.

Tizhos had her all-purpose tool in her lower left hand, set to knife mode, but she didn’t think it would do her much good if something like an Aenocampus or a band of Ilmatarans with spears decided to attack her.

Strongpincer hears a sound. It’s a rhythmic tapping or clicking. He can’t quite figure out what is making it. It doesn’t quite sound like someone hitting something, or clicking pincers. He moves clear of the rocks where he is resting with his little band and listens.

Numbers. It’s sounding out numbers. That means an adult, probably a towndweller. The noise is a long way off, which means it’s very loud. Why is someone making numbers so loudly?

He remembers raiding the schoolmaster’s place, and listening to the old teacher telling the young ones about making words by tying knots in strings.

“Smallbody!” he calls. “Come up here!”

Smallbody scrambles up to the top of the rock.

“What does that noise say?”

Smallbody is silent, straining to hear. “It says ‘Adults ocean approach food adults multiple food.’ ”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure.”

“ ‘Multiple food,’ you say? That sounds fine with me. Wakethe others. Let’s go.”

Tizhos was about to give up and go back to the station when her sonar unit started clicking. She called up the visual display and saw a group of large creatures approaching swiftly. They were drawn up in a crescent formation, and held the alignment as they came. Ilmatarans.

Her suit stank of fear, and the hand gripping her all-purpose tool ached from tension. But she resisted the urge to flee. Instead she touched the control unit and turned down the volume on the hydrophone. No sense in deafening her guests.

This is utterly strange, Strongpincer thinks. No adults within hearing, or if there are, they are hiding. Just a large animal and some made objects sitting on the sea bottom making noise.

Strongpincer halts his band when they’re about three bodylengths from the thing. The repeating message stops, there is a brief silence, then a different pattern of clicks.

Smallbody translates. “ ‘Me and multiple adults are a group.’ ”

“I remember you going to a school,” Strongpincer says to Smallbody. “Do you know what that thing is?”

“No. I don’t even remember anyone telling me about anything like that. But it’s making numbers.”

Strongpincer doesn’t like being puzzled. “Kill it, save the meat, take the stuff.” He starts forward, choosing where he will stab it.

The numbers are replaced by a horrible noise, like the schoolmaster’s noisemaker but even louder. It is like being bashed in the head with a huge stone. Strongpincer clutches the sea bottom with his legs and flattens himself into the silt, not daring to move.

The noise stops. When Strongpincer can hear again, he pings. The others are all hunkered down as well. The thing is still standing before them. It touches some of its objects and the number clicking begins again.

“Smallbody,” Strongpincer pings. “What is it saying?”

“ ‘Adults fold pincers.’ ”

“Tell it we agree. Then ask it what it wants.”

A long exchange of clicks and pings between Smallbody and the thing. Finally Smallbody says, “It’s hard to understand it, but I think it wants to hire us.”

“Hire us?”

“Yes, it says it has tools and rope and things for us if we do what it asks.”

“What does it want us to do?”

After some clicking, Smallbody answers, “It wants us to go to villages and talk to other adults.”

Strongpincer feels himself grow calmer. “We can do that. Now let’s talk about the price.”

Tizhos led the Ilmatarans back to the station. It was not her idea. She was getting tired and cold, and her suit stank despite the pheromone filters. When she finally packed up her things to go, the Ilmatarans tagged along. At Hitode they camped around the nuclear power unit’s heat exchanger, snatching up some of the small swimmers that lived in the warm outflow, and scraping microorganisms off the rocks nearby.

She pulled off her suit and dried off, then went to talk with Irona. She would have preferred to eat and rest first, but she knew he would come and bother her if she didn’t report in.

“As you requested, I avoided speaking of any scientific matters. They do not know where we come from. Interestingly, these Ilmatarans did not display much curiosity about that, either. They seemed more interested in getting as much food and as many tools as they could in exchange for helping.”

Irona gave an approving gesture, but added, “Try to keep the number of tools small. Give them food or consumables. Leave as little trace of our presence as possible.”

Tizhos tried to keep from taking an irritated posture. “I have identified some problems with doing that. They do not seem to enjoy what our foodmaker produces. Giving them food would require someone to catch native organisms.”

“What about all these things the humans have stockpiled? They have hundreds of native creatures in jars or frozen.”

“You would let the Ilmatarans eat those samples?”

“I doubt we can afford the propellant to take them all back to Shalina. We will incinerate as much as possible.”

For once Tizhos is glad that she reeks of Ilmataran seawater, because it’s all she can do to keep from flooding the room with hostile scents. She even feels a slight urge to bite Irona. But she controls her feelings and says only, “The humans treated those samples with preservatives. I do not believe the Ilmatarans can eat them anymore.”

“Ah, well. You really cannot think of anything consumable we can give the natives?”

“No. But I doubt giving them tools would cause any problems. We can restrict our gifts to things like ropes, bags, knives, and nets. The Ilmatarans have all those things already; only the materials would differ, and since they have no way to make things of metal or polymers, the objects would not affect their society. In a few years, when the ropes and nets wear out and the knives corrode, no trace of us will remain.”

“I suppose so. Very well—I approve.”

“I do have one other thing to request. Could you arrange for some of the Guardians to give a demonstration of their weapons for the Ilmatarans?”

“Why?”

“I want these Ilmatarans to understand that we can harm them. I do not trust them. They appear to be a small, heavily armed band, traveling far from civilization and in no hurry to get anywhere. I suspect some community may have exiled them for some crime.”

“Some kind of breakaway group?”

“Or social predators. Possibly both—they may follow a consensus based on using force against nonmembers.”

“Ah, yes. A common feature of primitive societies,” said Irona.

“Indeed,” said Tizhos without a hint of sarcasm. “So a demonstration of our weapons would make it much easier to prevent conflict.”

“I approve. Now go and get some food and rest, Tizhos. You look exhausted.”

Strongpincer and Shellcrusher approach the town cautiously. Strongpincer doesn’t remember ever robbing anyone around here, but news does travel and townies are always suspicious. This is the third town he remembers visiting on this journey. The two of them are working their way along the edge of the shallows, cutting across the rifts. Strongpincer figures news would travel easily along the rift trade routes.

A youngster on patrol at the edge of town stops them. “What is your business in Bubbling Vent?”

“Trade,” says Strongpincer. “We have goods from Deep Fissure and the waters beyond the Shallow Basin.”

The youngster pings them, loud enough to hear what they’ve been eating. “All right. You may pass into the town. Private lands are marked with stones. Town law applies in common areas. Only town militia may carry spears longer than their bodies. Interfering with drag nets means you must replace the lost catch and repair any damage.”

“We promise to follow your laws.”

The town is small, but it sits on a trade route so is likely to get lots of news. Strongpincer leads Shellcrusher to the market, an open space downcurrent of the main vent. There are only a few other vendors: another traveling trader with a string of immature towfins, one of the locals selling stingers, and a schoolmaster with some apprentices for sale. Strongpincer finds a clear spot near the stinger-seller and lays out his wares.

The odd flavor of his items diffusing through the water draws some business. First some idle apprentices and tenant workers come to feel what he’s got. Then the landowners drift over.

“You’re selling string?” asks one, feeling a reel of the strangers’ cable with his feeding tendrils.

“It’s as thin as string, but stronger than any rope.”

“Nonsense,” says the landowner.

“Break it, then,” says Strongpincer. “You can have as much as you can break off the reel.”

The landowner’s a burly fellow with heavy pincers worn blunt by digging. He wraps a couple of loops of the cord around each pincer and pulls. He pulls harder. He pulls until his joints grind and the thick shell of his pincers begins to creak under the strain.

“That is tough!”

“It’s flexible, too. You can knit it into nets which can hold anything.”

“How much?” the burly fellow asks.

“Ten beads for a pincer’s length.” It’s a ridiculous price. Normally cord is priced by the cable-length, not the pincer-length. But nobody objects. Burly asks for five lengths.

“How do you cut it?” asks an apprentice.

Strongpincer is glad the youth asked. “With this!” he whips out another alien tool—an kind of artificial pincer made of something harder than stone but as light as shell. He grips the handles in his pincers and snips off a length of cord.

They do great business, selling cord, some of the cutting tools, and some incredibly strong awls. Shellcrusher begins to complain of hunger, so Strongpincer sends her with some beads to buy food. She comes back with cakes of roe and a couple of bunches of worms. Strongpincer lets her eat first, then leaves her in charge of the stall while he crawls aside to enjoy his own food.

A local approaches. From her grooved pincers Strongpincer guesses she’s the town rope-twister. She sits beside Strongpincer and listens to him eating for a while.

“That’s amazing cord you’ve got,” she says.

“Stronger than anything.”

“I remember examining it after buying a reel. It feels like a single fiber, not a twisted cord. And it doesn’t taste like anything I recognize. Where does it come from?”

“Very far away,” says Strongpincer.

“That’s right—don’t tell anyone. You’ve got a nice thing going and don’t want to spoil it. I understand completely.”

Strongpincer decides it’s time. “It’s difficult, selling my stuff town to town. I don’t know what’s in demand and there are bandits in the cold water. I don’t know when I’m getting cheated or when I’m asking too much. I worry about townsfolk robbing me.”

“A merchant’s life is full of uncertainty,” she agrees.

“I remember hearing about strange creatures,” he says. “Things nobody remembers anything about. Do you recall hearing anything like that?”

“Strange creatures? Are you interested in things of that sort? Because Spinylegs is the fellow you should talk with, then.”

“Why?”

“He likes to learn about things. I believe he knows about every kind of creature in the sea. And anything he can’t recall touching himself is in one of his reels of writing. I expect he’s got more cord than I do, but all tied in knots.”

Strongpincer is puzzled. “Why? Is he a schoolmaster?”

“No, he just likes to know things. And he’s a landowner so he can afford to waste beads on it.”

A fool, Strongpincer decides. But possibly a useful one. If this landowner likes to waste his wealth learning things, maybe he knows what Strongpincer is trying to discover. “Where does he live?”

“He has the Great Stone property—but he’s not there now. Nobody but apprentices running the place.”

“Well where is he, then?”

“He’s on a journey A friend of his called Longpincer has a big property downcurrent from here about a thousand cables. Spinylegs visits him to talk about animals and plants and old things.”

“Downcurrent along the rift?”

“Yes. If you plan to go there, be sure to mention I’m sending you.”

“I intend to.” Perfect! Strongpincer imagines that he and Shellcrusher are capable of bullying a couple of foolish landowners into telling what he needs to know. And if they have some valuable items lying around, so much the better.

Broadtail is helping some of Longpincer’s tenants put guy lines on a standing net when an apprentice pings him. “Excuse me, Broadtail, sir, but the boss wants you.”

“Very well. Here—hold on to this post, and when it’s just leaning into the current tell them to tie off the line.”

He swims back to the house, where a clutch of adults are gathered. There’s a strange towfin with a large cargo bundle beneath it, and an adult giving some kind of commercial pitch.

“Cable absolutely unbreakable by any pull! Netting so fine even the tiniest swimmers can’t pass through!”

Longpincer swims up to intercept Broadtail and takes him aside. “You hear them?”

“I do. A pair of traveling merchants. What of it?”

“Listen to the talk some more.”

The merchant booms, “I challenge any adult—any pair of adults—to sever this cord. You can use any tool you wish, but you cannot cut it! Anyone care to try?”

“Absurd,” says Broadtail to Longpincer. “Borrow one of Builder 1’s tools and snip it in half!”

“I have felt and tasted this merchant’s wares, Broadtail. They are very like some of the Builder tools and gear.”

“But how?”

“I am not sure. Possibly another group of Builders, selling their gear to a merchant in exchange for help? Possibly some cache of theirs, now in the grip of scavengers? Or—possibly Builder 1 is not telling us everything.”

“Builder 1 speaks of strangers unlike him, occupying his home and driving him into the wilderness.”

“Could these things be theirs?” Longpincer asks.

“That captures a netful of other questions,” says Broadtail. “Is this merchant a thief selling stolen goods of those other strangers, or are they his by trade, or is he their servant?”

“Let us speak with him.”

The two scientists approach the merchant. He is selling a length of un-cuttable cord to one of Longpincer’s tenants, and the landowner waits courteously until the trade is done.

“Come aside with me,” says Longpincer. “I have matters of importance to discuss.”

The merchant scuttles over, and as he approaches, Broadtail catches a familiar tang in the water. He knows this adult. Who is he? The memory of Onepincer’s school comes to mind. The bandit! He risks seeming rude and pings the fellow to make sure—a little larger and not quite so smooth-shelled, but it’s unmistakably the same adult. Strongpincer is his name. Broadtail says nothing, not wishing to open his pincer yet.

“Sir, your wares are extraordinary,” says Longpincer. “Can you tell me where they are made?”

“Far away. Very far indeed.”

“How far? I own craftwork from beyond the shallows and even from the deep basins. None of it resembles this at all. Let me put you at ease—I am only curious because I am a scholar. I have no wish to trespass on your trade.”

“Oh, surely not,” says Strongpincer. “But others may, and a secret makes many echoes when it’s spoken.”

“Yet I suspect I know the origin of these things,” says Longpincer casually. “I offer you one of my beads if you will answer a single question: are the makers adults like ourselves?”

There is a long silence before Strongpincer speaks. “No.”

“Two beads for a second answer. How many limbs do the makers have?”

“I cannot answer,” Strongpincer replies promptly.

Broadtail taps quietly on Longpincer’s tail. “Leave him. Must talk privately.”

“I must beg your pardon,” says Longpincer. “I must determine how much of your goods I need—and what I can afford to trade. Please excuse me.”

Strongpincer turns back to the throng of tenants while Longpincer and Broadtail hurry off to the entryway of the house.

“He is a bandit. I remember him robbing a schoolmaster, and I suspect him of attacking my exploring party. He calls himself Strongpincer.”

“His refusal to answer my second question is significant,” says Longpincer. “He knows there are two kinds of strangers with differing numbers of limbs. And I suspect he knows they are in conflict.”

Once again Broadtail is startled by Longpincer’s thinking. “True!”

“But we do not know where his loyalty stands.”

“That I can answer,” says Broadtail. “He is a bandit and his loyalty is to himself.”

“We can also deduce that he is not allied with the stranger you call Builder 1.”

“I believe his goods are stolen,” says Broadtail. “It makes perfect sense: this bandit comes across the other strangers—the ones I call Squatters. Perhaps he overcomes one in an ambush, or perhaps he simply takes a cache of goods left unguarded. He wishes to conceal this, so he answers you evasively when you ask about the origin of the items.”

Longpincer considers this. “But how does he know of Builder 1’s people, then?”

“I cannot explain that,” Broadtail admits. “It is extremely unlikely for one bandit to come across two sets of strangers by chance.”

“Then there are three possible sources of his knowledge: the Builders, the Squatters, and—ourselves,” says Longpincer.

“I recall Builder 1 being entirely ignorant of how to tap out words at our first meeting. That rules out his people.”

“And this bandit is a stranger here, which rules out any of us. A good thing, too—I should hate to think any of the Company were trying to gain knowledge secretly, hoarding it like scarce roe instead of passing it around generously.”

“Which leaves the Squatters,” says Broadtail. “This bandit is their hired worker. But doing what? If the Squatters hold Builder 1’s home, why send someone to search for him? Surely no creature could be so evil as to harry poor Builder 1 from shelter to shelter.”

“Spying,” says Longpincer. “They fear Builder 1, and wish to know if he plans revenge against them. Anyone would, in such a situation. So they hire this bandit to seek him out and report on what he is doing.”

“I suggest that I wait with some of the Company just outside your boundaries and kill this spy as he leaves. I promise you a share of his goods,” says Broadtail.

“I wish to know more before planning action,” says Longpincer. “I propose serving this merchant, or bandit, a very large meal and giving him as many stings as he wants. The food makes him content, the stings make him irresponsible—I imagine him telling us much he might otherwise keep secret.”

“But what do you intend when the dinner is done?”

“I think it best to let him go.”

“I imagine him telling the Squatters! Isn’t it better for him to simply disappear into your trash midden?”

“I do not have the reputation of a landowner who kills and robs passing merchants, Broadtail. Bitterwater is remote and I worry about traders avoiding my place if they fear being robbed. Besides, we have no way to know if he suspects the Builders are here.”

“He isn’t deaf, and neither are your tenants and servants. Can you keep all of them silent about such amazing news?”

“I don’t know. But I do know I don’t want you attacking this adult.”

Broadtail is unhappy, but agrees. He sets himself the task of remaining with the bandit, keeping him away from the shelter inhabited by the Builders. He sits and listens as the “merchant” sells a great deal of strong cord, some unbreakable tools, and a quantity of superfine netting. Longpincer’s tenants and staff buy all he is willing to sell.

The merchant takes payment in Longpincer’s beads, then sends off his helper to spend them. That means Broadtail can’t keep both of them in hearing at once.

He hears Holdhard nearby and gets her to help. “Stay here and listen to the merchant. Ask him many questions, keep him here. Do not speak of the Builders.”

“I understand,” she says.

“Good.” He crawls after the merchant’s helper. He recognizes her flavor in the water: she’s the big one who can crack an adult’s shell with her pincers.

He stays back, just close enough to hear her scuttling along. She probably knows he’s behind her. Broadtail remembers the attack on his expedition and grows more angry. He hopes she doesn’t like him following her. He hopes she tries to fight him. A fight makes everything simple: even Longpincer’s strong notions of hospitality don’t extend to strangers brawling with guests.

But if she does notice him, she gives no sign and shows no anger. She visits Longpincer’s store houses and the homes of his more prosperous tenants. She trades Longpincer’s beads for small, valuable goods: fertile eggs, hot-water crops, diamonds. All very sensible.

Broadtail feels momentary doubt. Maybe they are just merchants. He might be mistaken about them being bandits. They might have an innocent explanation of where the goods come from.

Then her course bends toward the shelter holding the Builders. Innocent or not, he can’t let her ping them. Broadtail leaves the ground and swims, beating his flukes noisily and dodging past nets and rigging.

The big female turns. He must sound hostile, swimming toward her like some hunter, for she raises her open pincers and braces herself. Broadtail forces himself to slow and drop to the bottom a couple of arm-lengths away from her.

“I come to warn you,” he says. “You are walking toward danger.”

“Danger?” she says. Her speech is slow and overly precise. A real cold-water barbarian, this one.

“Poison things grow over there,” he says, gesturing. “They make adults sick. Stay away.”

“What poison things?” She folds her pincers slowly.

Broadtail is a scholar and remembers being a landowner. He begins to reel off the most alarming poison growths he can think of. “There’s a nasty colony of gill-blight down there, and since nobody wants to go clear them out some stinging tendrilworms are nesting as well. So please, stay away.”

“Very well,” she says, though he suspects she doesn’t believe him. Too bad. She’s just a visitor here anyway. If Longpincer—or Broadtail acting on his behalf—wants to keep something secret, he has every right to do so. If she doesn’t like it she can leave, and Broadtail rather likes that idea.

She alters course and trundles toward some of the smaller tenant homes. Broadtail considers his mental map of the estate. From those homes she can cut back toward where the Builders are staying by following the sandy slope. He decides to wait there for a while and intercept her.

He finds a comfortable spot where the sand isn’t too unstable and sits quietly. While he waits his thoughts wander, but he is well-fed and does not sleep.

Broadtail thinks about his own place in the world. For now he is Longpincer’s guest, but he hopes to change that. He remembers meeting others like that—adults with some accomplishment but no property, living off some admiring landowner. It can be a good life, but it does not survive the death of the admirer. When an apprentice inherits, the permanent guests are the first to go. If they are lucky, and still fit, they may stay on as tenants or servants.

Broadtail is not a greedy adult, but he does have his pride. That is not what he imagines for himself. But what does he imagine? What does he want? In the quiet he tries to hear his own thoughts.

He does not imagine owning land again. Every property has too many apprentices waiting to inherit. He remembers cases of landowners naming a favored friend as heir and they always end badly. Legal challenges, labor troubles, sometimes ambush and murder in open water. And Longpincer is devoted to the Bitterwater property.

Not a guest, not a landowner. A crafter, perhaps? Living as a tenant but earning his own way? He is nearly as good at netmaking as any professional, and of course he is an excellent writer. Can one get paid for that? Not very well.

Fishing is tiring and leaves little opportunity for scholarship. He is not a good trader. He has no taste for mercenary soldiering. He knows a lot about plumbing and flow, but every landowner is a self-proclaimed expert about that.

What he wants to do is to study the Builders and learn about the worlds beyond the ice. Is there a way to get paid for that? Broadtail doesn’t know of one.

A sound draws his attention. Someone is approaching along the slope from the direction of the tenant homes. It sounds like the big bandit female. She passes a few arm-lengths below him without noticing him, heading for the Builders’ shelter.

His position is perfect. He can spring down on her and get a pincer behind her head-shield before she hears him. It is the logical thing to do—she is a bandit, a murderer herself. The secret of the Builders must be protected.

Broadtail sits quietly and lets her pass. It is far easier to plan and talk about killing someone by surprise than to do it. The bandits are capable of it, but Broadtail realizes that he is not. “You!” he calls out.

She hears him and turns, pincers raised unambiguously to fight.

“I remind you that place is not safe. The landowner forbids anyone to go there.”

“I do not remember him telling me. You are not the owner. I go where I choose.”

“I don’t wish to fight you,” says Broadtail.

“Then let me pass. I am not afraid to fight you.”

Broadtail feels the frustration of all vent-dwellers speaking with barbarians. For a civilized adult, being peaceable and willing to negotiate is an admirable thing, worthy of praise. But among the barbarians those who do not fight are quickly bullied to death. And this barbarian is bigger than Broadtail.

“As you choose,” he says. “But I go now to tell Longpincer. You are not behaving as a proper visitor and I imagine you and your companion being expelled for this foolishness.”

“I am not afraid of you,” she says again.

Strongpincer and Shellcrusher leave the settlement, tired and hungry. He is rather annoyed at being forced to go without eating any of the wonderful-tasting meal he remembers. The packed travel food seems dull and unsatisfying.

But they have important news for their patrons, and perhaps it is best not to wait. Shellcrusher is certain that the creatures they seek are concealed at Bitterwater.

He caches the trade goods, stripping down to just enough food for a fast swim back. Strongpincer has the faint echo of an idea: he suspects his patrons plan to attack Bitterwater and recapture the creatures there. Strongpincer imagines the landowner and many of his apprentices dying in that fight. Which leaves the vent in need of a new master. Why not… Strongpincer? With Shellcrusher and his alien patrons supporting him, he does not imagine any tenant daring to oppose him.

As they swim he half-dozes, letting his thoughts wander even as he keeps up a steady beat of his tail. A warm house of his own. Servants to make meals whenever he wants. Thick layers of weeds and crawlers on his shell. Nothing to do but molt and grow.

“I recall her getting close enough to the Builders’ shelter to ping it,” says Broadtail.

“Do you recall the reason for not stopping her?” asks Sharpfrill.

“She is a very large barbarian bandit. I am not. And it is not my property to fight on.”

Those who know his history tap quiet explanations to the others.

“I remember specifically asking Broadtail to avoid violence,” says Longpincer. “It is never proper to attack a visitor who commits no harm or theft.”

“But now they go to tell the Squatters what they remember hearing,” Broadtail points out. “I suggest we plan our course.”

“Your Builder friends are my guests,” says Longpincer. “They are under my protection.”

“Then how do we protect them?” asks Broadtail. “Builder 1 says he fears the Squatters coming here and attempting to recapture them.”

“I am sending out scouts now to alert us of their coming,” says Longpincer. “Beyond that, we simply wait. My apprentices and tenants all know what to do in case of attack.”

“Now that they know, maybe we should give up,” said Rob.

“You are afraid?” asked Alicia.

“Of course I’m afraid! In particular I’m afraid you’ll get hurt.

Last time it was just the two of us and they could afford to be careful. This time—it’s going to be ugly. There’s going to be microtorps flying all over, and it sounds like the Sholen have some Ilmataran thugs working for them, and God knows what else.”

“We will think of ways to trick them. You have been very clever.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. Maybe we can fool a drone, but what about a Sholen microtorp? They blew up Dickie when he tried to fight.”

She was quiet for a while. “I cannot simply give up, Robert. And we have no place we can run away to.”

“Will you promise me one thing, at least? That you’ll surrender? No glorious last stand?”

“I promise—if you will do the same.”

“Okay, then. I’ll try to be very clever one last time.”

Tizhos and Irona stood on the sea bottom near the moon pool entrance to Hitode Station. Their Ilmataran allies floated a few meters away while one laboriously tapped out a message.

“He says they have found the Terrans,” said Tizhos. “Excellent!” said Irona. “Tell them we leave in—oh, six hours. That should be enough time for everyone to rest and prepare. He must show us where they are.”

“He does mention what sounds like a problem. The humans have taken refuge in an Ilmataran community.”

“As we suspected. That does sound bad. Ask him how large a community. We need to know how many Ilmatarans know about them.”

“If the community includes a large number of individuals I fear we cannot preserve the secret.”

“Never mind that,” said Irona. “Get specific directions to this community and try to locate it on the maps we have of the sea bottom. I must begin preparing the Guardians.”

As Irona paddled up into the station, Tizhos consulted her lexicon and tapped out a message to the waiting Ilmatarans. “Immobility here. Food. Multiple swimming. Fighting.”

They seemed to understand, and Tizhos handed out the supplies of small creatures from the drift nets. She tried to engage the pair who understood the number-code language in conversation.

“Adults grasp fighting?” she asked.

“Grasp fighting quickly,” the Ilmataran replied, and Tizhos found that highly depressing. The more she understood about the Ilmatarans, the more she found herself disliking these allies Irona had recruited. They seemed little more than thieves, preying upon the labor of the vent settlements.

She knew how they must appear to Irona—small groups with a tight consensus, living in wild regions, attacking those who sought to manipulate the environment instead of accomodating to it. Noble primitives. But to Tizhos they seemed like entropy itself, constantly warring with the little outposts of knowledge and order.

Two of the larger Ilmatarans snatched the food away from one of the others and threatened him with their big pincers when he tried to take some back. Tizhos tossed a few extra dead swimmers his way. He got one or two, but the bigger ones grabbed the rest.

When they finished eating, she called up the map display and began trying to figure out where the Terrans had hidden. The Ilmatarans used prevailing currents rather than the inertial grid of her own navigation system, which made the task much more difficult. Fortunately they had a reasonably standardized and accurate system for measuring distance.

After more than twenty minutes she believed she had an accurate fix. All their route descriptions seemed to lead back to one isolated vent community—the one where the human Henri Kerlerec had died.

Scientists. The Ilmatarans at the vent had dissected Henri Kerlerec because they wanted to learn. Now Irona wanted to attack them and prevent them from learning. Tizhos felt ill.

ROB surfaced in the hatchway of the repurposed elevator capsule and opened his helmet. “They’re coming! Broadtail says one of Longpincer’s scouts just reported in.”“How long do we have?” Alicia called down from her hammock.

“No way to tell. Quantified linear time is still a crazy theory around here. I figure a minimum of one hour. Probably more than that—if they’re smart they’ll let their ’tarans rest up before the fighting starts. Broadtail and Longpincer are having a war council down at the main house. Wake up Josef and come on when you’re ready.”