Insistence of Vision (17 page)

“Still,” Panalina looked around and thumped the hull one last time. “He’s a sturdy little boat. You know, there was talk among the mothers about refusing to let you take him away from Tairee. The Smoths had to promise half a ton of crushed grapes in return, and to take in one of the Sadoul families. Still, I think it’s
you
they mostly want.”

Jonah had puzzled over that cryptic remark, after Panalina left, then all during the brew-swilled bachelor party, suffering crude jokes and ribbing from the married men, and later during a fretful sleep-shift, as he tossed and turned with pre-wedding jitters. During the ceremony itself, Mother had been gracious and warm – not her typical mien, but a side of her that Jonah felt he would surely miss. Though he knew that an underlying source of her cheerfulness was simple –
one less male mouth to feed.

It had made Jonah reflect, even during the wrist-binding part of the ceremony, on something old Scholar Wu said recently.

The balance of the sexes may change, if it really comes down to war. Breeders could start to seem less valuable than fighters.

In the docklock, Jonah found that his little truck had been decked with flowers, and all three of the spheres gleamed, where they had been polished above the water line. The gesture warmed Jonah’s heart. There was even a freshly painted name, arcing just above the propeller.

Bird of Tairee

Well. Mother had always loved stories about those prehistoric creatures of Old Earth, who flew through a sky that was immeasurably vast and sweet.

“I thought you were going to name it after me,” Petri commented in a low voice, without breaking her gracious smile.

“I shall do that, lady-love. Just after we dock in Laussane.”

“Well… perhaps not
just
after,” she commented, and Jonah’s right buttock took a sharp-nailed pinch. He managed not to jump or visibly react. But clearly, his new wife did not intend wasting time, once they were home.

Home. He would have to re-define the word, in his mind.

Still, as Jonah checked the final loading of luggage, gifts and passengers, he glanced at the fantail one last time, picturing there a name that he really wanted to give the little vessel.

Renewed Hope

4.

They were underway, having traveled more than half of the distance to Laussane Bubble, when a
thump
struck at the wrong time, shaking the little sub-truck like a rattle.

The blow came hard and late. So late that everyone at the wedding had simply written-off any chance of one today. Folks assumed that at least another work-and-sleep cycle would pass without a comet fall. Already this was the longest gap in memory. Perhaps (some murmured) the age of thumps had come to an end, as prophesied long ago. After the disaster that befell Aldrin and Bezo six months ago, it was a wish now shared by all.

Up until that very moment, the nuptial voyage had been placid, enjoyable, even for tense newlyweds.

Jonah was at the tiller up front, gazing ahead through a patch of hull-bubble that had been polished on both sides, making it clear enough to see through. Hoping that he looked like a stalwart, fierce-eyed seaman, he gripped the rudder ropes that steered
Bird of Tairee,
though the sub’s propeller lay still and powerless. For this voyage, the old truck was being hauled as a trailer behind a larger, sleeker and more modern Laussanite sub, where a team of twelve burly men sweated and tugged in perfect rhythm, turning their drive-shaft crank.

Petri stood beside her new husband, while passengers chattered in the second compartment behind them. As bubble colonies drifted past, she gestured at each of the gleaming domes and spoke of womanly matters, like the politics of trade and diplomacy, or the personalities and traditions of each settlement. Which goods and food items they excelled at producing, or needed. Their rates of mutation and successful child-raising. Or how well each habitat was managing its genetic diversity… and her tone changed a bit at that point, as if suddenly aware how the topic bore upon them both. For this marriage-match had been judged by the Laussane mothers on that basis, above all others.

“Of course I had final say, the final choice,” she told Jonah, and it warmed him that Petri felt a need to explain.

“Anyway, there is a project I’ve been working on,” she continued in a lower voice. “With a few others in Laussane and Landis bubbles. Younger folks, mostly. And we can use a good mechanic like you. “

Like me? So I was chosen for that reason?

Jonah felt put off, and tensed a bit when Petri put an arm around his waist. But she leaned up and whispered in his ear.

“I think you’ll like what we’re up to. It’s something just right for a
rascal.”

The word surprised him and he almost turned to stare. But her arm was tight and Petri’s breath was still in his ear. So Jonah chose to keep his features steady, unmoved. Perhaps sensing his stiff reaction, Petri let go. She slid around to face him with her back resting upon the transparent patch, leaning against the window.

Clever girl,
he thought. It was the direction he had to look, in order to watch the
Pride of Laussane’s
rudder
,
up ahead, matching his tiller to that of the larger sub. Now he could not avert his eyes from her, using boyish reticence as an excuse.

Petri’s oval face was a bit wide, as were her eyes. The classic Laussane chin cleft was barely noticeable, though her mutant-patch – the whorl of wild hair – was visible as a reflection behind her, on the bubble’s curved, inner surface. Her wedding garment, sleek and close-cut, revealed enough to prove her fitness to bear and nurse… plus a little more. And Jonah wondered –
when am I supposed to let the sight of her affect me? Arouse me?
Too soon and he might seem brutish, in need of tight reins. Too late or too little, and his bride might feel insulted.

And fretting over it will make me an impotent fool.
Deliberately, Jonah calmed himself, allowing some pleasure to creep in, at the sight of her. A seed of anticipation grew… as he knew she wanted.

“What
project
are you talking about? Something involving trucks?” He offered a guess. “Something the mothers may not care for? Something suited to a… to a…”

He glanced over his shoulder, past the open hatch leading to the middle bubble, containing a jumble of cargo – wedding gifts and Jonah’s hope chest, plus luggage for Laussane dignitaries who rode in comfort aboard the bigger submersible ahead. Here, a dozen lower caste passengers sat or lay atop the stacks and piles – some of Petri’s younger cousins, plus a family of evacuees from doomed Sadoul dome, sent to relieve Tairee’s overcrowded refugee encampment, as part of the complex marriage deal.

Perhaps it would be best to hold off this conversation until a time and place with fewer ears around, to pick up stray sonic reflections. Perhaps delaying it for wife-and-husband pillow talk – the one and only kind of privacy that could be relied upon, in the colonies. He looked forward again, raising one eyebrow and Petri clearly got his meaning. Still, in a lower voice, she finished Jonah’s sentence.

“To a
rascal,
yes. In fact, your reputation as a young fellow always coming up with bothersome questions helped me bargain well for you. Did you intend it that way, I wonder? For you to wind up
only
sought by one like me, who would
value
such attributes? If so, clever boy.”

Jonah decided to keep silent, letting Petri give him credit for cunning he never had. After a moment, she shrugged with a smile, then continued in a voice that was nearly inaudible.

“But in fact, our small bunch of conspirators and connivers were inspired by yet another
rascal.
The one we have foremost in our minds was a fellow named... Melvil.”

Jonah had been about to ask about the mysterious “we.” But mention of that particular name stopped him short. He blinked hard – two, three times – striving not to flinch or otherwise react. It took him several tries to speak, barely mouthing the words.

“You’re talking about…
Theodora Canyon?”

A place of legend. And Petri’s eyes now conveyed many things. Approval of his quickness… overlain upon an evident grimness of purpose. A willingness – even eagerness – to take risks and adapt in chaotic times, finding a path forward, even if it meant following a folktale. All of that was apparent in Petri’s visage. Though clearly, Jonah was expected to say more.

“I’ve heard… one hears rumors… that there was a
map
to what Melvil found… another canyon filled with Gift-of-Venus bubbles like those the Founders discovered here in Cleopatra Canyon. But the mothers forbade any discussion or return voyages, and –” Jonah slowed down when he realized he was babbling. “And so, after Melvil fled his punishment, they hid the map away….”

“I’ve been promised a copy,” Petri confided, evidently weighing his reaction. “once we’re ready to set out.”

Jonah couldn’t help himself. He turned around again to check the next compartment, where several smaller children were chasing each other up and down the luggage piles, making a ruckus and almost tipping over a crate of Panalina’s smithy tools, consigned for trans-shipment to Gollancz dome. Beyond, through a second hatchway to the final chamber, where sweating rowers would normally sit, lay stacked bags of exported Tairee rice. The refugee family and several of Petri’s sub-adult cousins lounged back there, talking idly, keeping apart from the raucous children.

Jonah looked back at his bride, still keeping his voice low.

“You’re kidding! So there truly
was
a boy named Melvil? Who stole a sub and vanished –”

“—for a month and a week and a day and an hour,” Petri finished for him. “Then returned with tales of a far-off canyon filled with gleaming bubbles of all sizes, a vast foam of hollow, volcanic globes, left over from this world’s creation, never touched by human hands. Bubbles just as raw and virginal as our ancestors found, when they first arrived down here beneath a newborn ocean, seeking refuge far below the poison sky.”

Much of what she said was from the Founders’ Catechism, retaining its rhythm and flowery tone. Clearly, it amused Petri to quote modified scripture while speaking admiringly of an infamous rebel; Jonah could tell as much from her wry expression. But poetry – and especially irony – had always escaped Jonah, and she might as well get used to that husbandly lack, right now.

“So… this is about… finding new homes?”

“Perhaps, if things keep getting worse here in Cleo Abyss, shouldn’t we have options? Oh, we’re selling it as an expedition to harvest fresh bubbles, all the sizes that have grown scarce hereabouts, useful for helmets and cooking and chemistry. But we’ll also check out any big ones. Maybe they’re holding up better in Theodora than they are here. Because, at the rate things are going –” Petri shook her head. And, looking downward, her expression
leaked
just a bit, losing some of its tough, determined veneer, giving way to plainly visible worry.

She knows things. Information that the mothers won’t tell mere men. And she’s afraid.

Strangely, that moment of vulnerability touched Jonah’s heart, thawing a patch that he had never realized was chill. For the first time, he felt drawn… compelled to reach out. Not sexually. But to comfort, to hold….

That was when the thump struck – harder than Jonah would have believed possible.

Concussion slammed the little submarine over, halfway onto its port side and set the ancient bubble hull ringing. Petri hurtled into him, tearing the rudder straps from his hands as they tumbled together backwards, caroming off the open hatch between compartments, then rolling forward again as
Bird of Tairee
heaved.

With the sliver of his brain that still functioned, Jonah wondered if there had been a collision. But the Laussanite ship was bobbing and rocking some distance ahead, still tethered to the
Bird,
and nothing else was closer than a bubble-habitat, at least two hundred meters away. Jonah caught sight of all this while landing against the window patch up-front, with Petri squished between. This time, as the
Bird
lurched again,
he managed to grab a stanchion and hold on, while gripping her waist with his other arm. Petri’s breath came in wheezing gasps, and now there was no attempt to mask her terror.

“What? What was…”

Jonah swallowed… bracing himself against another rocking sway that almost tore her from his grasp.

“A
thump!
Do you hear the low tone? But they’re never this late!”

He didn’t have breath to add –
I’ve never felt one outside a dome, before. No one ventures into water during late morning, when comets always used to fall.
And now Jonah knew why. His ears rang and hurt like crazy.

All this time he had been counting. Thump vibrations came in sequence. One tone passed through rock by
compression
,
arriving many seconds before the slower
transverse
waves. He had once even read one of Scholar Wu’s books about that, with partial understanding. And he recalled what the old teacher said. That you could tell from the difference in tremor arrivals how far away the impact was from Cleopatra Canyon.

…
twenty-one… twenty-two… twenty three…

Jonah hoped to reach sixty-two seconds, the normal separation, for generation after generation of grandmothers.

…twenty-four… twenty-f—

The transverse tone, higher pitched and much louder than ever, set the forward bubble of the
Bird
ringing like a bell, even as the tooth-jarring sways diminished, allowing Jonah and Petri to grab separate straps and find their feet.

Less than half the usual distance. That comet almost hit us!
He struggled with a numb brain.
Maybe just a couple of thousand kilometers away.

“The children!” Petri cried, and cast herself – stumbling – aft toward the middle compartment. Jonah followed, but just two steps in order to verify no seals were broken. No hatches had to be closed and dogged… not yet. And the crying kids back there looked shaken, not badly hurt. So okay, trust Petri to take care of things back there –