Copyright © 1999 by Shane
Tourtellotte
First published in Analog Science Fiction
and Fact, July/August 1999
The Supervisor's door opened itself at my approach. Nguyen Duc
Pho looked up, and immediately saw something he disliked. "You
don't seem happy to be here, Dar."
I shouldn't have let my annoyance show. He could contact me
in my workbooth, but he loves face-to-face meetings. I
softened my visage, despite his using that nickname I hate.
"Just a feeling it's bad news, sir." Police work rarely
gives one good news.
"Nonsense. You always look that way. Sit down." The door
swung shut behind me as I obeyed. "Truth is, this is probably
good news for you. I'm sending you to the coast."
A grin split his round, bald head, as though I should have
thanked him right away. "For what?" I asked cautiously.
His smile reversed. "For work, of course. You've heard of
jet-divers, haven't you?"
"Vaguely. No, definitely. But what--"
Well, the Adaptionists finally filed a formal complaint
against them, for cruelty to native species. The Plaza wants
it investigated expeditiously." He said it like he was
reciting. "They gave me choice of assignment, and I picked
you."
Again, that expectant smile. I couldn't oblige him. "The
Plaza? Agreed, colony government has final jurisdiction, but
why couldn't they pick a local department?"
"Because they want this discreet, too. Jet-divers will
probably know any local police they could send, so we're
sending one they don't know. When I saw you listed, my mind
was made up."
"Mister Nguyen, sir, I wouldn't call myself a diver. One
vacation a couple years ago--"
"And a full training course before that. You're qualified."
He lifted a pad off the neat pile at his desk corner. "All the
details are there. I want you in Oahe Harbor by tomorrow
noon."
"Tomorrow?" This was too much. "Sir, I had personal plans
for tomorrow. It's listed on the department schedule. I think
you should find another inspector for the job."
Nguyen's face darkened. In the proper mood, he would have
been a perfect model for those jolly Oriental idols of ancient
times. He never seemed to find that mood.
"No. I shouldn't. Quinn, I've had hopes for you for years.
When you apply yourself, you're one of my best officers, but
you never do motivate yourself. You always need prodding. That
inertia of yours has cost you promotions, more than once."
"I know that, sir." His reminders are like clockwork.
"You know, and still you don't act. I've been forbearing,
Quinn, but if you shirk this, my forbearance ends. Am I
pellucidly clear?"
I swallowed. "Pellucidly, sir." God, I hate that worse than
'Dar'. "I can ... work around my personal plans."
His scowl lightened to a frown. "I hope so." He shoved the
pad to my side of the desk. "Read up on the background, do the
research you need to from here--and be in Oahe bright and
early tomorrow."
"Yes sir," I replied, forcing myself not to slump in his
chair. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
Moire is far more beautiful than Nguyen when she's angry,
but makes for just as much anxiety. "You told him about
tomorrow, didn't you? Or did you forget?"
"I did. Tell him, I mean. I wouldn't forget this,
Moire."
I reached a hand for her stomach, still flat, but she
pulled away. "He can't make you forgo absent days, Darragh.
You have rights. Why didn't you fight for them?"
"Because he made it "pellucidly clear" it was as much as my
job is worth to refuse."
"He threatened to discharge you?"
"Not in those words, but--"
"But you heard what you wanted to hear." She stormed past
me, out of the kitchen.
"Moire!" I recovered in a moment, and followed her. I found
her seated in the dining room, hazel eyes staring fiercely at
the wall, slender fingers drumming on the table. It was a
ravishingly beautiful pout, but still a pout. "I think you're
being unfair."
"So are you." Those eyes seared me momentarily, then moved
on. "But I suppose it doesn't really matter."
"It matters to me." I approached. "This is our child. I
wanted to be there."
"But you won't be, so I'll adjust." She shifted, turning
her shoulder toward me. "I don't need my husband there for the
transfer. I can be my own moral support. You needn't concern
yourself."
I tried to protest again, but my mouth wouldn't serve me.
The silence became too much, and I retreated to the bathroom.
A shower cleansed me outside, but left my insides still
knotted. I spent a long time looking at myself in the fogged
mirror, pale eyes surveying pale skin, glancing over the sharp
widow's peak Moire likes so much, and is so much trouble to
gene-gin into permanence.
Was I a weak man? I couldn't properly stand up for myself
against Nguyen or Moire--but they both had points.
I'm not motivated at work: it's not what I imagined doing
on Niya when I arrived as a wide-eyed colonist, seven Terran
years old. As for Moire, it's uncommon for a woman to be
pregnant, even for forty days. I made allowances for her
condition, but apparently not enough. Now she'd have to
undergo the embryo transfer alone, and I could have been with
her--if I had stood up to Nguyen--if I had done my job right
in the first place.
My job. I got dressed and went into the workroom. If I
wanted to do my investigation right, I had to get onto one of
the jet-divers' expeditions, and there was little enough time
for that. I called the first outfit listed in my assignment
file.
"Jonah Expeditions. Paul Golba speaking."
Paul didn't look like a daredevil. His face was stuck in
adolescence, the gangly, awkward kind. His voice had
authority, though.
"Good evening. My name's Darragh Quinn. I was wondering
whether your next expedition had room for another."
"You're in luck. We had a cancellation yesterday. I will
need data about your level of experience."
I uploaded my training certificate. "Do you object to
having regular sight-seers along? I'd like to see jet whales
up close, but I'm not convinced I want to throw myself into
one."
Paul laughed. "Our expeditions usually start fifty-fifty
that way, but we always convert one or two." A hold pattern
briefly played across the screen. "Your training is okay, but
I'd like you down here tomorrow for some extra lessons. We
have a few others on your level, so you won't stick out."
"I understand. When do you launch?"
"Morning after. We'll be in position to catch the leading
edge of the migration. Ever dived with jet whales before?"
"Uh, no. Just river diving."
Paul grinned like a kid. "Trust me, this beats anything
you've ever done before--even if you don't go through the Big
Squeeze. See you tomorrow."
I awoke very early, and slipped out of bed without waking
Moire. We had made perfunctory apologies before turning in,
but I was glad to leave without speaking again.
The trip from Sakakawea to Oahe Harbor was six hundred
kilometers by lev-rail, three hours I hoped to fill by
studying jet whales. For all the recent fuss over them, I
didn't know all that much myself. I was afraid Paul would
sniff me out for a fraud over the screen.
I watched recordings of them. Not whales in the old sense,
but gilled fish. Fifteen meters long, a hint of green in their
rippling gray skins, great stiff tailfins trailing to wisps of
flesh--and those maws. Stretching out to engulf huge mouthfuls
of water, to drive the length of their bodies and out the end,
propelling themselves with endless waves of contracting
muscles and jetting seawater.
And in one of those recordings, human divers hurling
themselves down those throats, reappearing after a few seconds
that last for ages, unharmed, arms pumping in exultation. I
shook my head with amazement, and that brought a wave of
sleepiness over me, my early rising catching me from behind.
I slept most of the way, my nodding brain full of huge,
dark, undulating shapes. Once I even felt the smothering,
crushing pressure of a huge throat around me--before the train
and I both jolted.
Barely was I into the station before two strangers
converged upon me. "Detective Quinn?" the woman quietly asked.
"Yes?"
"Cassidy Nickells, from Call to Adapt." She shook my hand,
hard for so small a woman. "My colleague is Professor Nelson
Topa. We're glad the authorities are finally responding."
"Wait, wait." I led them to a untrafficked corner. "I
thought my investigation was supposed to be clandestine."
"Yes, but we requested it," Topa said. His dark,
gray-fringed face was familiar, but I couldn't pin it down.
"We have considerable political capital invested, and an
interest in its outcome."
Politics. Just what I needed. "Professor, ma'am, if you're
looking for someone to validate a foregone conclusion, I'm not
your man. I plan to run a disinterested inquiry, which if your
claim is valid, should satisfy you."
They stammered briefly. "We wouldn't think of influencing
your conclusions," Nickells said. "We just want you to
understand how important a timely resolution is. Every day
that passes, jet whales are put in further danger."
"And legitimate research is hampered through frivolity and
thrill-seeking."
I finally placed Topa: I had seen and heard him on
educational programming about Niyan marine biology. Smart man,
but he knew it too well.
"Those are your allegations," I said mildly. "It's my job
to determine whether those are the facts. If the jet-divers
see you tagging along, they won't act naturally around me."
Nickells's face puckered. "Do I gather you're ... going to
become one of them?"
"I'm diving with them, yes, but not jet-diving." Nasty
thoughts entered my head. "Have you made it public that
they're being investigated?"
They glanced at each other. "No," Nickells said,
unsteadily.
"Well, don't. If they're prepared, my report will
inevitably be incomplete, and the next investigation won't
come until the spring migration."
Another glance. "I think we understand. We'll leave you to
your work, Mister Quinn." She left hastily, Topa pushing to
keep up.
I found my way to the docks, breathing in the salt and
metal tangs of the ocean. Jonah Expeditions's headquarters was
an annex to a diving equipment shop, and I passed by once
before noticing the sign. I hoped they were more reliable than
this front promised.
Paul was right there to greet me, along with some fellow
expedition members. He introduced me to his brother straight
away, though I didn't believe him at first. Jim Golba was two
heads shorter than his brother, well muscled, and as tanned as
his brother was white. It takes a lot of outdoor exposure to
get a tan from Dakota's modest UV output.
"You're the last of the live bait, then," Jim said,
crushing my hand in his grip.
Paul smiled patiently. "That's what he calls every new
diver. Don't take him literally."
"Right. All in good fun." He slapped my back. "See you
around, chum. Ha-ha."
The others were more mundane, though I immediately noticed
there wasn't a woman in the group. Risk-takers tend to be
male, but this defied even those percentages. I didn't dwell
on it. I had other concerns. "You didn't bring your own suit,"
Paul observed.
"I thought I'd rent here." My expense account wouldn't
cover an outright purchase. "You'll have all the proper
accessories handy."
"Sure." Paul led me into the scuba store, and went over
various models like he had memorized a catalog. We settled on
a good mid-range suit, with heads-up mask display, flip-top
keypad on the left forearm, intersuit mike, and automatic
buoyancy control with decompression safeguards.
He insisted on strong suit materials, though downplaying
the crushing force of a jet whale's throat. "It's actually
rather pliant inside. The flesh has to be able to fit around
obstacles, close the throat completely to get full propulsion.
Still, we don't want equipment damaged, or divers."
The last members had arrived in the interim, men again.
Paul took some of us to a cordoned square of water behind the
shop, for our refresher dive.
"This is merely to reacquaint you with the water," he told
us as we suited up, "and with proper safety techniques. Diving
in the strait will be different, but we'll have experienced
buddies for each of you." He paired us off, assigning himself
to me. I began wondering whether he suspected something.
The harbor water wasn't bad for mid-autumn, though there
wasn't far to see. Paul put us through paces, giving orders
through his mike. The mouthpiece made for muffled speech, and
the henox mixture in his tank for a high voice, but we
understood simple orders well enough. I got through without
any serious anxiety.
Once we had surfaced and changed, he led up to the
chartered boat that would take us into Oahe Strait. There I
saw the first woman involved in this venture, and she owned
the boat. She watched with a sober, professional look as we
boarded.
"Some of you already know Lyss Mehtz," said Paul. "This is
her second time taking us out. Let me introduce you around,
Lyss."
I greeted her in turn, slightly mortified by a residual
squeak from my helium-bathed throat. Work had hardened her
body and hands, but her face, while weathered, was still
young.
We went below to stow our equipment. Some of us--I was
already counting myself part of the group--started talking
about the diving tomorrow. The experienced hands were much
more calm than the 'live bait'--with one exception.
"It's like the best sex in existence, and you're the
penis." Jim's bawdy assertion brought some whoops as we
climbed up to the deck. "All that flesh around you, pulsing,
throbbing, thrusting, and finally, in one last orgasmic
spasm--"
"You're shot out its butt."
Raucous jeers met Jeff Barton's capper. I saw Lyss Mehtz
forward of us. She very deliberately took no notice.
Paul waved the boisterousness down. "Before we get deeper
into, er, before we go on with this--quiet, Jim--let's pick a
place for dinner tonight."
I let them sort that out, but tapped Paul's shoulder. "I
have to check into my inn for tonight. Can you hold up dinner
for that?"
"Sure. We'll give you an hour." He named the restaurant,
and sent me off with his usual grin.
It took the desk clerk an hour to dig up my reservation,
mumbling some song to himself all the while. I had hoped to
get some crash studying done in my room before dinner, but I
barely had time to drop my bag onto the bed.
The gang was already talking up a storm when I arrived. I
got a seat next to Jim, naturally, who was in the middle of
recounting a jet-diving anecdote.
"--had a bowel movement, right in the middle of his dive.
Brendan came out covered, dripping--" He began breaking up.
"--and with an air bubble right around his--" Jim's hands
framed his head, as he burst out laughing.
The group emitted various groans. "I'm glad you got that
out of the way the food arrived," Paul said.
"Hear hear," Jeff said. "I guess that's why this Brendan
guy didn't come back for more."
Jim shrugged. "Hey, it's nature. If you can't take it, stay
home."
The conversation did turn more appetizing, a perfect
parallel to the seafood. My braised grayfluke was
indescribable. Soon Paul had the floor, and began
philosophizing about jet-diving, much less lewdly than his
brother.
"It's the birth experience. I'll always believe that.
Passing through living flesh, emerging into the world. Deep
down, that's what we're trying to recreate. It's central to
human experience, and with modern technology taking that away,
it's no surprise some people feel a need to rediscover it."
Silence came over the table, long and pensive. Mark Wentz,
on my left, spoke first. "I just wanted to dive through a
fish."
Nervous laughs dispelled the tension. "Okay, that's his
reason," Paul said. He waved a fork, encompassing the table.
"Let's hear why everyone else is here."
There was a range of motivations: breaking monotonous
routines, seeking the ultimate adrenaline surge, testing one's
own limits. I started realizing how young the group was. I
wasn't the oldest at fifty-eight, but some looked under forty,
in college or even earlier. Years are short enough on Niya
without having mounds of them pile up between yourself and
your peers.
"Well, Darragh?"
The question had come around to me. "Like I told everyone,
I'm just watching. I guess ... I wanted to see jet whales, up
close, not on a screen. Something huge and tangible and
alive." It sounded lame, but it was the best cover story I
could improvise.
"Just nature-loving?" one asked. "I didn't think those
types liked what we did."
I grimaced. "Maybe they don't. I don't know."
"It's not as simple as that," another said, pointing at my
hand. "If you're here alone, what about her?"
I drew back the hand with my ring. "She ... didn't want me
to come here. It created some friction. I'd rather not discuss
this, okay?"
Understanding murmurs rose, and the interrogation passed to
the next fellow. My impromptu performance had been
convincing--and less of a performance than it felt comfortable
to admit.
I finally got back to my inn room. I left messages on
Nguyen's office machine, and my home server. Either Moire
wasn't home, or her resentment had resurged in my absence. I
was almost relieved at not having to speak to her.
She had insisted on that vacation three years ago, to
explore the depths of the New Missouri with friends she knew.
I took the lessons, made the dives. Moire had the adventure
she wanted, without finding out how claustrophobic I found the
whole thing.
If not for her, Nguyen would never have fingered me, or
lectured me, and Moire and I wouldn't have had that argument.
She blamed it on me, but it came back to her. I couldn't tell
her so directly, but surely she could see it for herself.
I spent an hour hunched over a screen, studying jet whale
anatomy. The only specimen humans had studied had washed up on
a beach five years ago, yielding its knowledge readily to the
scientists who swarmed over it. A year later, the daredevils
had begun exploiting that knowledge with their stunts.
The esophagus and stomach lay below the main throat. I'd
want to hug the top wall if I went through--and I wouldn't. My
eyes blurred over the rest. Dorsal and ventral swim bladders,
with ears near both to exploit the resonance; the two hearts
at opposite ends of the creature; two stomachs, one to crush,
one to digest; the spiral intestine; the forward-mounted
reproductive organs ...
Moire. I hadn't even thought about the transplant. I called
our server back, checked the time indices, and sighed. She had
used it last a few hours ago, well after her appointment. No
complications, no worries.
Resentment is treacherous. Each step seems firm, but only
sinks you deeper into the quagmire. Eventually, there's no
solid ground within reach.
I doused the light, climbed into bed, and cleared my mind.
I could retrace my steps now. I hadn't gone too far.
The alarm woke me out of dreams of dark ocean, and great
creatures, and the sensation of sinking lower, ever lower.
Never before had I been glad to wake up at five.
I boarded the Mehtz-o-Soprano in pre-dawn darkness,
her engine already softly purring. I munched grain bars with
the others as we waited for stragglers. Finally we cast off,
the horizon's smudgy glow off our starboard bow, as drizzle
began falling.
Paul was with Lyss in the wheelhouse for an hour before
emerging to address us. "Good news from our friends off Wau
Bay. The leading edge of a pod just passed them. Good numbers.
They've also drawn a few Adaptionists and reporters with them,
so that's less interference for us, if we're lucky."
"Interference?"
I must have spoken aloud. "That's right. The reporters are
just snoops--airships, mostly. The Adaptionists will try to
drive the jet whales away from us, with subsonics and
chemicals.
"Speaking of which," he projected to the group, "time for
your jet-diving tutorial, or refresher for you veterans. Bring
your suits and tanks, and a bottle of Depropal out of the
storage locker, and meet back here."
I was the last back on deck, mostly from wool-gathering
over what the Adaptionists might pull. I hadn't forgotten my
mission, and knowing they were under unfriendly eyes might
change the divers' routine. I didn't want that.
Once I clanked back into place, Paul began running down
proper procedure for diving with jet whales. He concentrated
on the Depropal right away. The chemical inside that spray
bottle numbs the palatal fringes of jet whales. If it doesn't
taste you, it doesn't shunt you out of its throat, into its
stomachs.
"Coat yourself completely," Paul said. "especially all
exposed skin. Never stint with Depropal. Don't even
count on your suit to keep your chemical traces inside. In
over three hundred documented jet-dives, we've never lost
anyone. Let's keep it that way. Remember, Depropal is
your pal."
He moved on to proper jet-diving technique. I listened
closely, though I wouldn't need the information. I was glad to
find he recommended cleaving to the top, hands pressed to the
throat wall. "Always keep oriented," he said, leaving the
possible consequences of failure unspoken.
These were not happy-go-lucky pranksters. They took their
activity seriously. That didn't necessarily mean they weren't
doing harm, though. I hefted my Depropal bottle.
Paul had gone into which whales to avoid diving through
when one of Lyss's crewmen came back to us. "Captain says
boats are coming."
Paul grunted, and went to the wheelhouse. Jim took his
place in the lecture, finishing up just as the engines cut and
his brother returned.
"All right, some Adaptionists are trailing us." Moans and
curses. "I've decided now's the best time for our shake-out
dive. With any luck, they'll think it's the real thing, and
tip their hands as to how they'll disrupt us."
He assigned us buddies. I got Joe Weber, a veteran 'just
looking' participant. We spent twenty minutes planning our
dive, checklisting each other's equipment, and spraying
ourselves down. By the time I spotted two boats approaching
from the southwest, we were ready.
We followed Paul and Jim into the ocean. Weak,
cloud-filtered sunlight suffused the water. I felt it pressing
around me, but managed to hold off the sensation.
Visibility was moderate, and what I could see helped me
forget my claustrophobia. Whole shoals of fishes swam through
the sea, more distant ones seeming to appear and disappear as
their members turned this way and that. I spotted platefish,
puggies, weavers, grayflukes, without even trying.
Something squirmed past my arm. I turned to watch a red
gulper shoot past me, throbbing and squirting, water swirling
in its wake. Its much bigger cousins were nowhere in sight,
still off around Wau Bay.
I felt a vague headache coming on. I checked my depth, but
Joe and I were fine. Then I looked upward, and there were
three boat keels where there had been one. Two of them had
boxy nodes near the bow.
I remembered Paul's words: subsonics. They were trying to
ward away the jet whales. They sure did give me an itch to
surface, but I stuck it out. Joe didn't seem affected, that or
he was playing tough too.
Paul and Jim were close to one of the Adaptionists' boats
when a yellow spill came down almost on top of them. It
diffused into the water rapidly, but not before our hosts did
something with scoops on short poles that I couldn't make out.
I stayed down a while longer, but we had accomplished
Paul's goal. Back on the Mehtz-o-Soprano, I buttonholed
him to ask what those scoops had been.
"Sample collectors. We need to know what they're using,
though from the color, I'd guess chemoreceptor binders. Get
that on you, and no Depropal will be able to out-argue it."
My face collapsed. "You mean--"
"Yep, I mean. Jim and I'll have to change suits. You
weren't close, were you?" I shook my head hard. "Good." He
patted my suited shoulder. "You did well, first time out."
This was a kid, or close enough, giving me encouragement. I
still liked it. I didn't let myself enjoy it long, though.
I gave Lyss my used tanks in the utility room, for
refilling. Her look was casually neutral, yet it shot a quiver
through me. I was getting far too involved in this expedition.
Down below in the bunk space, I found my pad and jotted
down my observations, the practices, the chemicals--for both
sides--the overall sensation I had so far. Rummaging for my
phone, I linked the two and uploaded to Nguyen's office.
Then I scanned the directories for Nickells and Topa. I
felt like chewing them out, telling them to leave my work
alone. The work of finding their numbers gave me time to
overcome the temptation--and a swifter path to yielding to it
should it come again.
Hearing a step, I hid my pad under a pillow. It was Jim,
giving me a smirky look. "Interrupting something?"
"No. I was about to call home. My wife."
"Ohhh." His smirk turned derisively pitying. "Feeling the
tug of the chain."
I lowered the phone and raised my voice. "She's just--oh, I
don't have to explain anything to you. Kindly butt out."
"Fine." He backed away, unrepentant. I held the phone in my
hand a long, blurry moment, then stuffed it back into my bag.
Back on deck, the constant drizzle had intensified. I
ignored it: my clothes couldn't get much wetter. The other
boats hovered nearby, stern sentinels in the mist, while a
buzz overhead drew my eyes to a dirigible, a news logo
spanning its side. Suddenly my job-turned-vacation felt like a
siege.
I spotted Paul pacing under the wheelhouse's overhang,
glancing at a watch. "Counting surface time?" I guessed.
Safety demands a break between dives.
He nodded. "You might want to grab a little bite. We should
go down for real in--" Glance. "--forty-five minutes."
I looked over to the Adaptionists again. "If you say so."
Lunch was nondescript and short. I was back on deck in ten
minutes, only now Paul was in the wheelhouse with Lyss. "That
is an open channel," Lyss warned.
"Exactly. Thanks." He began calling someone named Star
of the East, which I gathered was the jet-divers' boat
from Wau Bay, and described the chemical he believed the
Adaptionists had dumped. "If there had been any whales about,"
he said at one point, "someone could have gotten eaten."
Precisely the reminder I needed.
Paul finished his call. "Move us away nice and easy until
we get a clear line north, then gun it. Darragh." I
straightened. "Spread the word. We're diving again in thirty
minutes. Find your buddy and suit up."
I delivered his message, as our boat began inching east.
The others moved to cut us off from a northward dash, but
found the news dirigible descending to cut them off. I watched
the cameras swivel from its underbelly, and heard indistinct
voices sound from forward speakers. I realized they were
interrogating the Adaptionists about their dumping.
When we sped north, one boat tried to follow, but the
airship kept between us, stubbornly recording each moment. The
confrontation must have gone on, but soon I was too busy
checking Joe's regulators and diving computer to follow its
progress. By the time our boat stopped, not even the airship
was visible on the horizon.
The rain had stopped, just in time for us to get ourselves
wetter still. Paul delivered last-minute reminders,
conscientious to the point of aggravation, and then we were
in.
Nothing seemed different at first. Indistinct shadows
flickered through the gloom, fish shoals playing along the
edges of my sight. Joe tugged my arm and pointed. I looked at
a fading patch of light the clouds let through, but saw
nothing in it.
When the sunlight came again, it moved my way like a rising
curtain. The waters cleared before me, then scintillated
around me. It seemed I could see to infinity, but my eyes
didn't care about such abstractions. They had fixed on them.
Jet whales filled the water. Joe and I watched one pass
twenty meters to our left, its fringed mouth lunging forward
and closing, lunging and closing. Muscular ripples ran the
length of its body, building to a final expulsive spasm at the
tail. I felt the whole ocean shudder at its passage.
Others were whooping into their suit mikes, and swimming
hard to get into position behind the schools of lesser fish.
Those fish were themselves moving, trying to avoid the
advancing maws. I made sure to steer clear of fish and whales
alike, adding my own variation to this three-way dance.
Paul was in first, hitting a jet whale two gulps past
tearing through a shoal of puggies. I followed the undulations
under its skin, and released an unconsciously held breath when
he emerged. His brother looked more excited at the feat than
he, and began maneuvering for his own run.
I glanced away from them, to find a whale bearing down on
me. I kicked myself out of its path, then just watched in awe.
It loomed over me, powerful and immense, pulsing like a
heart. It moved with the irresistible force of life, stronger
than nature, mightier than ambition, loftier than pride. One
of its tiny black eyes rolled toward me, then languidly turned
forward again. Mene, mene echoed in some cobwebbed nook
of my brain.
Then it was past. The wake of its passage, a good five
meters away, tugged and almost spun me. I righted my body, but
my mind still bucked and eddied.
In a moment of clarity, I could see why the Adaptionists
wanted our hands off them--and I could imagine why the
jet-divers offered themselves to its gorge. The moment faded,
leaving but the shadow of that knowledge, something that
defied words. I despaired of being able to tell others. They
had to see.
All that rescued me from rapture was the nagging mind-voice
of Paul Golba, the call of responsibility. I used depth
checks, tank checks, any routine to keep myself from fading
into that overwhelming wonder again.
My companions were immersed in joy of a different order.
Every few minutes, one would get just the right position, and
propel himself through. The chills of fear I felt subsided
gradually. Technique and science were on their side. They
could impose their will on the creatures--in the most
constricted, limited sense.
The professional in me watched for signs of abuse. If you
didn't count jet-diving itself, there seemed to be none. The
whales passed each diver without evidence that they even
noticed their presence. If the chemoreceptor chemicals had any
ill effects, they didn't show externally. The divers followed
all the other rules scrupulously, except the one that was
their reason for being here.
An hour passed in a flash. We could easily have stayed down
another two, but Paul's muffled, reedy voice told us
otherwise. From what I could gather, Adaptionists were finally
converging on our dive site, from north and south. The cool
ocean would soon be too hot to hold us.
Joe and I surfaced slowly, carefully, making our safety
stop at five meters. Ahead of us, Jim looked to be making one
last try. He had had no luck the whole dive, always finding
himself in front of calves or small cows, never in position
for one of the larger ones that self-preservation demanded. I
heard Paul's voice calling after him, but Jim either didn't
answer, or had turned off his intersuit system.
He spied the bull jet a quarter-kilometer off, bearing down
on some grayflukes. Jim kicked off toward it. Luck seemed to
desert him again, as the whale drifted off-line. Suddenly,
with a deft twist of its body, it curved Jim's way again. He
had caught Fortune's eye.
I watched the whale engulf him. Its rhythm caught, then
picked up again. For a second I wondered why it had done
that--until I remembered seeing those same hesitations as they
passed through shoals, gulping down fish.
"No!" I shouted, bubbles pouring out of my mouthpiece. I
began diving to intercept the whale, but Joe held me back. I
could only watch as it slipped beneath us, its rhythm again
regular, water and only water shooting from the outlet of its
great throat.
Paul was swimming frantically toward us, in a shallow
climb. Even in his moments of starkest horror, he still
remembered to avoid decompression sickness. He reached the
surface right at the boat, and we were seconds behind him.
"Sonar!" he was croaking before he had his mouthpiece out.
"Fifteen-meter bull, quarter-klick ahead! Is everyone on
board?"
"Wait!" someone shouted, as two last figures clambered
aboard. "Okay!"
Paul tore off his flippers and ran to the wheelhouse. "Do
you have it? Follow it. Go!"
The deck lurched, almost toppling me over. I squirmed out
of my gear, and joined the growing crowd at the doorway to the
wheelhouse. Some were just learning.
"Don't lose it," Paul snapped at Lyss. She bore his
vehemence quietly. "Get one of your crew into scuba gear, just
in case."
In case what? First stop down the esophagus was the
ruminative sphincter. The same crushing muscles, without the
insulating blubber. I blanched at the thought.
Joe advanced. "Paul--" Paul waved him away, but he wouldn't
go. "Paul, this won't do him any good."
"I know that!" His voice cracked, betraying him.
None of us made a sound. "But we have to recover him," he
said, turning back to the sonar. From his hopeless tone, we
all knew what he meant.
I stepped away, turned sternward, and saw the boat. It had
come to cut us off from the north; now it was trailing us. Off
our bow, the other two also matched our pace.
I went down to the bunks, to retrieve some things. When I
surfaced again, some of the divers were already arguing the
point I had just thought of.
"They weren't more than half a kilometer away," Jeff was
saying, "and the current was toward us, so sure, it could have
been them."
"That's too far. Besides--" Dave Christianson moved farther
from the wheelhouse, and dropped his already low voice. "--Jim
was so small, he could've just slipped down the wrong pipe."
"Oh, that's stupid," Joe said. "Don't kid yourself. We know
it was the Adaptionists."
"No, we don't," I said, turning all their heads, "but I
intend to find out. I need to know where those water samples
the Golbas took are; I need to see sonar records from the
moment Jim got swallowed--"
"Hey, we all want answers," Joe said, "but strutting around
playing detective won't get any of us anywhere."
"I don't need to play." I flipped out my ID holocard.
"Sakakawea Police Bureau, currently detached to the Colonial
Authority."
The silence was brief. "Police?" "What's he doing here?"
"Were you sent to infiltrate us or something?"
"That's irrelevant now," I said, putting my card away. "As
of now, I'm on a murder investigation."
"That is an outlandish allegation, Mister Quinn."
Professor Topa tautly held himself under control. Lyss
Mehtz had let me use the wheelhouse's visiphone. I had wanted
to see his reactions.
"Why is it outlandish, Professor? They claim Call to Adapt
is pouring these chemoreceptor binders into the ocean, and--"
"I doubt you have proof of that."
Interesting wording: "I doubt." "The victim and his brother
took samples earlier today, and they were also thorough enough
to bring a compact chemlab aboard for analysis. I can get
proof in a matter of hours, days at the outside if we send
them to a regular lab."
I had leaned into the screen, and now backed away. "It's
just easier if I get straight answers early on. Does Call to
Adapt use these chemicals?"
Topa scowled. "They do, Mister Quinn, but you show yourself
woefully ignorant about them. The binder in question is
naturally clear, but they add a dye before use. It's meant as
a warning and a deterrent."
"Really? I did see that dye. It wasn't exactly a
contrasting color, and it dispersed pretty quickly."
"You should expect no less from a group that preaches
minimal environmental interference. Have I answered all your
questions?"
"Not quite." My eye drifted to the boat tailing us, the one
not five hundred meters away when Jim Golba met his end. I had
traced Cassidy Nickells there, and she was refusing my calls.
"Do you know of anyone in Call to Adapt who might kill in
extremis, to achieve the group's ends?" I didn't call it 'your
group'. I had noticed how he had detached himself from them,
and didn't want him more defensive than he already was.
"No. Nothing extreme enough has happened for them to
contemplate such madness." His composure had begun to slip.
"And I begin to doubt again those jet-divers' words. How
convenient that those with the most to gain controlled the
samples and the means of analysis."
"Professor, you can't--"
"Sooner them than Call to Adapt. You've seen up-close how
cheaply they value their own well-being, or that of the jet
whales. Have you considered what would happen if one of Mister
Golba's air tanks lodged inside that creature's digestive
tract, Mister Quinn? Or ruptured there?"
I imagined it briefly, and graphically. "No. I've had other
concerns."
"Well, do recall it when composing your report. Good day."
He shut off. Mehtz was at the helm, pretending not to
notice, but she did. I walked out of the wheelhouse, into the
mockingly bright sunlight.
The worst of Topa's peroration was that he had a point. I
had been tough on him; I would have to be tough on everyone.
Even Paul.
I got to questioning Paul last. The others had taken him
below, to get him away from the newsblimps, three now,
blasting questions at anyone on deck. His skin was drained of
the little color it had, his body likewise sapped of its
energy.
I gently guided him through the minutes before Jim's
jet-dive, probing for every action, every word. He interrupted
me once with a blank, confused look. "You've been questioning
everyone else. Why me, too?"
I rested a hand on his trembling arm. "Eyewitness testimony
is notoriously imprecise. The more corroboration I get, the
less we have to worry about some court prodding for holes."
There was that, and my need to test his story against
everyone else's. Fortunately, it matched in most places. A
couple divergences I put down to wishful rewriting of the
past. I had seen that enough in survivors to recognize it as
an innocent defense mechanism.
He submitted to my locking away his portable chemlab and
the samples as evidence. "Whatever I can do," he repeated time
and again. He looked more and more like a kid, wounded and
alone. He made it tough to be detached.
After more futile calls to Nickells's boat, I phoned in to
Supervisor Nguyen on my machine. "What have you been doing?"
he growled. "This happens right in the group you're
investigating, and I have to learn about it from the news."
I tried not to think of the airships. "I've been
investigating, sir. Eight eyewitnesses plus sonar records,
ready to upload."
"Upload? Quinn, you have to get that boat back in port, so
proper authorities can take over."
Proper, as opposed to me? "That's going to be
difficult. We're following the whale that swallowed Jim Golba,
so ..." I glanced around. "So when he's ... passed, we can
recover the body. For his brother's sake."
"What? That is preposterous." His pate furrowed. "But it
would be forensic evidence. Fine, but I'm arranging for police
boats to join you."
"You'll get no argument here. Stand by for upload."
No sooner had I disconnected the upload pad than the phone
chirped. I answered, ready for whatever Nguyen threw at me
now.
"Darragh, why haven't you called? Why didn't you tell me?"
I paled. "Moire, I've had work, investigating a suspicious
death. I haven't had time."
"Suspicious? He threw himself into a whale's mouth, and he
got eaten. What's suspicious?"
Presented that way, it wasn't. "Someone has to gather the
facts. For now, that's me. I won't be away much longer."
"Don't go down, Darragh. If I mean anything to you, don't
go down."
How could I answer that? The lady or the tiger--make that
the jet whale. "I've been away too long already. How did the
transfer go yesterday?"
Moire nearly softened. "Thanks for asking. It went fine, no
complications. I even got to see the tiny little thing after
it was attached to the matrix."
"You'll have to show me when I get back."
"I will," she said, eyes dark and hard on me, "so get
home."
Nightfall came fast, mercifully closing an appalling day.
People ate alone or in small, staggered groups, eschewing an
affected mass catharsis for quieter, healing solitude.
I took time to run a small part of one water sample through
the Golbas' minilab. The unpronounceable name I had been told
to expect was there. I locked the machine back up without much
sense of accomplishment, just of time expended.
I watched the broad white wake we cut through dark ocean,
not acknowledging the two boats still matching our move. If
the newsblimps were still there, following our running lights
or tracking us by infrared, I couldn't hear the whir of their
engines. I let myself soak in that solitude, but it had no
healing balm for me.
Lyss was in the wheelhouse, unmoving but still chafing.
Paul stood intent on the sonar display, eyes locked on one
bright sausage shape dominating the display.
"Captain Mehtz can handle the pursuit, Paul," I told him
mildly. "Go below and get some sleep."
Paul looked up at me. He wasn't as guarded as others were
in the wake of my badge-flashing. His eyes flitted around, me
to Lyss to me to somewhere else. "It's ... no trouble ..."
"You'll be no use to anyone strung out and asleep on your
feet. Let Captain Mehtz do her job. If it helps, I'll take
over the sonar watch."
He blinked sightlessly. "Thank you." He stood, looked
around in confusion, then said "Thank you" again and left.
I eased myself into the sonar chair. "Poor kid," I said.
"Twenty-five Earth years is no kid," Lyss responded. "And
not even I go around calling myself Captain Mehtz."
"Paul needed the reassurance of authority. Otherwise, he
could have stayed here all night."
She cocked her head. "In that case, I'll accept the title.
Just this once." She smiled stiffly. "Any progress with the
investigation?"
"Some," I lied. I had no firm evidence to implicate the
Adaptionists, even if Topa had seemed anxious that one of them
had gone off half-cocked. There was less evidence pointing to
anyone else. "Maybe Moire was right, though. Maybe their luck
just ran out."
Lyss's mouth curled sadly. "It had to happen sooner or
later."
"I suppose so. When the police boats join us, they'll be
able to close this case." I rubbed my eyes, then grimaced.
"Sorry to be boring you."
"You're not boring," she said. "Today has been anything but
boring."
"Yeah." I stared off, into the water. "I wasn't prepared,
you know. For how ... primeval those creatures are. Immense
and transcendent and ... so much beyond the mundane."
I took her silence for receptivity. There was so much I
needed to express.
"I was young when I arrived on Niya--lots of us were. I was
so convinced that being among the first to live on this world
made me special somehow. I was certain I'd do something
extraordinary with my life, to fulfill that promise.
"Well, I haven't, but I kept thinking I could break free of
my mundane life, sometime, somehow. After today, though--after
seeing a jet whale surge past me so close I could nearly touch
it--I feel humbled in ways I cannot begin to explain. I feel
imbecilically arrogant; I feel like our whole race is
imbecilically arrogant. I guess I'll get over most of that
feeling in a day or two. Not all, I don't think. Not all."
As I listened to the motor, to the water cleaving from our
bow, I snickered. "I bet you hear overwrought soliloquies like
that all the time from your customers."
"Maybe not as eloquently. And this is only my second
charter for jet-divers. Could be the last, too."
I nodded at that. The divers would probably recover and
want to try again--most of them. With a death this dramatic,
and this publicized, the public might not let them. A wave of
emotion could easily sweep a ban into place. I wondered if the
Adaptionists would be satisfied to win the battle on grounds
not of their choosing.
Lyss and I were soon talking about lots of little things. I
needed the chance to interact, and to pretend to forget what
happened to Jim. Lyss seemed to have the same need.
My hindbrain kept telling me this was dangerous, that I had
a wife, and a child in the tanks so young it didn't have a sex
yet. I accepted the danger gladly. It was something I could
control, turn off before it really did become perilous. It was
my version of jet-diving, except that Lyss was no threat to
devour me alive.
After an ungodly long stretch of talking, I barely
remembered what had started us. Lyss broke the spell with a
reminder. "When are those police boats you mentioned due?"
"No idea. Maybe if I saw a chart, I could make a guess."
"Doesn't matter. We can try without them."
My head came up. "Try what?"
"A dive. Jet whales have a certain regularity to them.
There's a good chance ours will defecate before it really gets
underway for the day. If we're in at daybreak, we'll have a
chance of catching something."
"You make it sound so glamorous. But wait, you said this
was only your second charter."
"For jet-divers, yes, not jet-watchers. Besides, I pick
things up quickly, once I know what to look for."
"Less than twenty-four hours, though. Do they digest that
fast?"
"Nobody knows. We'll just have to see what passes." We both
groaned at her horrible joke. "If nobody else volunteers, I'll
join you on the dive."
"Thanks. I appreciate that." I looked at the sonar, at the
bright shadow dominating it.
She tapped my shoulder. "If you're diving early, getting
some sleep is a good idea."
"I'm not tired. Besides, I told Paul I'd watch things for
him."
"The nav computer can follow our beast as well as a human,
especially now."
The whales cruised at thirty kilometers an hour, and
sprinted to fifty, but they slowed almost to nothing at night,
enough to keep water flowing past their inner gills. She was
right, but I still felt a duty.
"Darragh, don't make me dust off my 'Captain Mehtz' hat."
I couldn't parry that neatly stolen thrust. "I wouldn't
dream of it," I said in retreat. "See you tomorrow."
"Early tomorrow," she said, giving me one last shoo out the
wheelhouse door.
I anticipated a dreadful lot of tossing and turning, but
once my head hit the pillow, not even the snores around me
could keep me awake.
I awoke before six, and stole out quietly to get my wetsuit
on. I must have bumped around more than I thought, because Joe
Weber came peeking in, sleep still hanging on his eyes.
"Whutzis?"
"Lyss says we might be able to recover something this
morning. Care to come along? I can always use another buddy."
Joe backed off a step. "I--after yesterday, I'm--not ready
to go down again. Not yet."
I couldn't blame him. Sadly, I couldn't emulate him,
either.
After a trip to the equipment locker, I met Lyss on deck.
We needed bulbs to see properly, as dawn was still some time
away. We traded off equipment for checks and double-checks,
tests and maintenance.
I hesitated once or twice while examining her tank
harnesses. I thought of our long talk, wondered whether I
should deny any guilty intentions. I might end up creating
concerns and discomforts that hadn't been there.
"Darragh?" Lyss dropped the swab she had used to wipe out
my mouthpiece exhaust into a wastebin. "Not quite awake, are
you?"
"Sorry. My brain took a vacation and left me behind." "I don't know. Separating diving buddies defeats
the purpose. Maybe we can get more--no, probably not. Guess
we've got no choice. So, wristcomp strap, check …"
By the time we finished off a bottle of Depropal between
us, the sun had peeked over a cloudless horizon. I gave my
mask a good antifogging spray, joined Lyss at the side of the
boat, and followed her in.
If I had been asleep before, the chill of the water woke me
up for good. The Mehtz-o-Soprano had moved ahead of our
quarry in the night, and I could see it a hundred meters
behind us, making little lurches.
Lyss kicked away to keep ahead of it, while I circled
around, net-caster ready, to try and snare anything that
looked like it might once have been Jim. I took in the other
familiar denizens of the ocean one by one: puggies and
weavers, broad yellowish clouds of brineleaf, and deep in the
distance, other whales starting to move.
I felt the water tremble. The whale before me yawed, its mouth
gaping. For an instant, I glimpsed inisde, saw gills and
rakers--and hundreds of tasting tendrils. I swam under its
guard, taking away its prospective angle of attack. It
abandoned any designs it had on me, and began pulsing forward.
I had to swim hard to match its still languid pace. I
watched its tail end for any sign of excreta, without result.
Far ahead I could see Lyss, turned back to watch me, or the
jet whale, as she swam.
So intent was I on this whale, I almost never noticed the
cow bearing down on me. I swam away hard, into my quarry's
wake. It couldn't possibly follow me there.
It did.
I plunged downward in desperation. A vortex of water
snatched at me, then the fringe of the cow's spreading mouth
grazed my foot. I tumbled away, bumped once more by its
passing flank.
When I stopped spinning, I barely knew where up was. A jab
at the keypad on my wrist gave me a mask display, but numbers
didn't help. I looked around for references--and found a
monster.
It was the largest jet whale I had yet seen, eighteen
meters long if the reach of its maw was any indication. Its
path took it below me--until it bowed itself upward, and
surged my way.
I knew that instant I couldn't avoid it, even as my legs
flailed to carry me away. I was doomed ... but how?
Possibilities flashed through my head--and I clutched at one.
No more plausible than any other, but only it gave me a
chance.
My chest strained with held breath. I spun around, driving
myself at the advancing behemoth, resisting the rising urge to
gasp out. My life might be worth that one breath.
The mouth opened like a blooming flower, lunged shut, then
opened again all around me. Suction bucked me, but I held
myself straight. I could see far down the throat before me,
revealing itself with its driving undulation.
Then all the light went out of the world.
I felt nothing for a second except the water moving with
me, and scrapes from the mesh of rakers I passed through. I
reached for the top of the throat, recalling Paul's training
by pure instinct. My fingers grazed something, but I lost it
as flesh closed around my legs.
In an instant blubber pressed all around, as the muscles
underneath kneaded me. I fought to hold my breath, fought the
whole force of the whale as it crushed down upon me.
I reemerged into a water pocket, my lungs screaming. Not
yet--but how much longer? I felt for the roof, found it, and
ran my hands flush along it. The instant I considered that
this might retard my progress as it made it notionally safer,
the throat closed around me again.
A wave of contraction broke my control. My breath came out,
spilling along my neck. I greedily drew fresh breath, even as
I despaired. So close ...
And with one last great squeeze, I reemerged. I took a
second to realize what had happened, but it was a lot of
realizing.
Everything they said about it was true. Sterbe und
Werde. Death and rebirth. Nature had me in its power, and
still I lived. It had been the most--I could only find one
large enough word--real moment of my life.
I almost whooped with exultation, but caught myself. My
breath was still dangerous. Worse, my would-be killer was
still out there.
The Mehtz-o-Soprano was ahead and above, with a
small figure swimming for it. She didn't see me. Hoping it
would stay that way, I shot off in a climb, straight for the
boat.
A warning voice sounded in my ear, and my buoyancy bladder
deflated rapidly. I jabbed at my wristcomp, turning off the
failsafe, and reinflated the chamber by hand. Decompression
wasn't my worst worry right then.
Mehtz never saw me, but she climbed out of the water with
incautious speed. Meters away from the boat, I saw water begin
to churn from the engine.
I grabbed the net ladder along the side, hanging on as the
boat throttled up hard. Half of me trailed along in the water,
bumping and jerking me, threatening to rip me away. I shouted,
spat out my mouthpiece and shouted again.
The engine noise rose into an unnatural roar. She was
overdriving, fleeing the scene of the crime. I reached for
another loop of netting, and almost fell away. Spasms of
decompression pain bored through my elbows, and my gut began
kinking.
I hung on, waiting for another chance. My hand went up
feebly, groping--and another hand clasped it hard. I almost
fought, fearing being cast off, until I saw Paul's drawn face
over me.
Together, we manhandled me up and over the side. My knees
screamed, my stomach rolled, but I made myself stand and shed
my flippers. We joined three others at the wheelhouse, as I
felt the boat's speed ebb away.
"You almost left him behind!" Paul shouted as he drove
through the others, right into Lyss's face. "How could you do
that?"
I caught her eyes. She tore away to look at Paul, before
her nerve failed. "I saw him be swallowed, and he didn't come
out. I--I wanted to follow the beast that got him, to--to--"
"You wanted to put on an act." I advanced on her, barely
steady. "A second act for your audience. You didn't intend to
look back, see whether I emerged. You expected me to be dead.
You had arranged for it."
There were exclamations. Lyss began losing color. "Darragh,
I panicked. I'm sorry, terribly sorry, but don't leap to
vindictive conclusions."
I suppressed a violent urge. "You're right," I said coldly.
"I should have proof before making accusations." I made a show
of detaching my mouthpiece regulator from its air hose. "Would
anyone have some cleaning swabs handy? I need to take a
sample."
Lyss threw herself at me, clawing for the mouthpiece. She
almost tore it from my grasp before three men, including one
of her crew, pulled her away.
I looked at her, straining against their holds. "Should I
consider that a confession?"
"You're setting me up!" she shrieked. "Don't think I don't
know. You could falsify whatever evidence you liked with that
toddler's chemlab. No court will accept it."
A harsh blare carried toward us from starboard aft. I
didn't need to look: I recognized the sound of a police boat
horn. "No problem. Someone more impartial will have their
crack at it. That should satisfy you."
I left the wheelhouse, but was pelted with questions.
"What's on the mouthpiece?" was asked over and over.
"My guess is, the same chemoreceptor binder the
Adaptionists dump to flush you out. My own breath dispersed it
into the ocean, and the jet whales could smell me a kilometer
away."
"Why in the mouthpiece?" Joe asked. "Why not sabotage your
Depropal instead?"
"Because that would be too obvious. It's the first thing
someone would check. She made sure we shared a bottle, to give
herself an alibi, but when she swabbed this--" I hefted my
mouthpiece. "--I'm guessing she was putting in more than
wiping out."
"But how can you know it's the mouthpiece?" Joe wondered.
I smirked. "Because I'm alive. Holding my breath before the
whale swallowed me was the only chance I could see of saving
my life. If it had been anything else luring it, I'd be dead."
Mark Wentz breathed a curse. "It could have been any of
us."
"No, she wanted me dead, to further discredit jet-diving,
and wreck the investigation. Maybe she did panic in that way.
As for Jim, choosing him had to be deliberate. His suit was
smaller than anyone else's. Presumably she swabbed his exhaust
beforehand, and he didn't clean it out enough to--"
I had said too much. Paul was there with us, finally seeing
the full truth he could deny before. He stalked back toward
the wheelhouse. "You killed him. My brother, you killed him!"
I got my arms around him, but a convulsion through my
abdomen broke my control. I crumpled, vomiting. In a
heartbeat, Paul was kneeling at my side. "He's got
decompression sickness. Quick, unsuit him and get him below."
He was right, but it was the last pang of a mild case. Some
time later, one of his colleagues accused me of faking the
seizure, to rouse his natural safety reactions and stop him
from making a murderous attack on Lyss Mehtz.
It would have been brilliant of me. I wish I were that
clever.
"I'm not sorry he's dead. I'm definitely not sorry that
liar Quinn almost died, either."
So went Mehtz's statement the next day, which I watched
remotely from the office in Sakakawea. Still protesting her
innocence, she could not resist declaiming her motive.
"It's primitivism, an indulgence in sheer male primitivism.
They exalt their physical bravery, and it's no surprise they
do it by violating a vulvar symbol. You can't listen to them
for one night without being revolted.
"And it's obvious where they see this taking us. It's given
them a sick fixation on the physical birth process. They play
psychologist, saying that ecto-gestation has somehow
diminished us. Those people, those Golbas especially, they
want women enslaved to their uteruses again.
"I almost wish I really had killed Jim. I would have been a
blow against subjugation. Maybe exposing them this way will do
as much good. I can hope--the same way I can hope the truth
comes out, and I'm found innocent."
She could hope for eight days. It took two for Jim's whale
to finally give up the evidence, and six for a robotic
submersible to retrieve it from the sea bottom, two kilometers
short of the plunge off the continental shelf. The mouthpiece
was mangled, but still carried a trace of chemoreceptor
binder. Even in the turbulent atmosphere Mehtz has stirred up,
a jury should have no problem.
The background check on her came up clear: no connection
with Call to Adapt. They barely broke stride, now contending
that jet-diving was too provocative an act to allow to
continue. They received a fresh infusion of members, most of
them championing Mehtz's agenda. Like an air tank in a jet
whale's stomach they so feared, it might blow Call to Adapt
apart any time.
But they aren't my concern any more.
Nguyen almost hit the roof when I told him. He almost hit
me. "What do you mean, recusing yourself? You can't
quit the assignment."
"I have to. I can't be impartial about it any longer."
Nguyen glowered down at me. I stayed calmly seated. "What
Mehtz tried to do has no connection to investigating cruelty
to native species."
"That isn't why I'm dropping the case. You've read my Mehtz
report. You know I ended up going through a jet whale." I
shuddered unwittingly.
"Don't tell me they've converted you."
"They haven't ... or maybe it did. What I mean is, after my
experience, I can't blame anyone who would want to try it. I
can't stand in their way. That's why I can't deliver an
unbiased report. You have to accept that."
"I do not, Dar. Get over your emotional fixations and do
your work, or I'll--"
"Fire me?" I said, standing to match him. "The hero of the
hour?"
"You got that right: the hour. Get out of my office, and
come back with a report I can send to the Plaza, or don't ever
come back."
I almost took his offer. Sometimes I wish I had. Instead, I
composed a succinct report that night, praising the divers'
conscientious precautions, and finding no cause to restrict or
ban their practices.
Nguyen accepted the report with a fierce grin. No matter
that my finding probably went against what the Plaza wanted to
hear, or that I might be thoroughly biased. I had done as he
demanded, and that sufficed for him.
It won't suffice forever. I have standing job offers from
the bureaus in Oahe Harbor and New Cheyenne. I'm preparing
Moire already. Once our child is decanted, Nguyen can smile at
my resignation letter all he wants.
She screamed at me for going into the water again, for
almost getting eaten. I expected it. It wasn't even about
losing me: it was about losing us. It had been all
along.
Moire's not going to lose us, the three of us. (I keep
telling her it's a boy, but she doesn't see it yet.) We'll
have a fresh start, in Oahe Harbor I think. I owe it to Paul
to be around for him, after what Mehtz did under my nose.
It won't hurt to be close to the migration route, either.
Not that I'm going jet-diving again. I'll be content to watch
from a safe distance. Once through is plenty for me.
For a while, at least.
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