The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) (34 page)

‘Hop on my back and we’ll take a look at the old ruins.’

Only two vine-covered towers remained, enclosing a heap of silted rubble. ‘That swamp is perfectly round; probably was a reservoir once.’ She tightened her grip with her knees as he waded into the shallow water and pulled a stalk of mace, peeling away the outer green rind and chewing on the inner, white core.

He splashed around, eating and offering her stalks and roots of cattails (
Typhia latifolia
). His hooves slid across a slick, glassy surface under an inch of mud. He struggled and fell, dumping her. She stood up draped with wet leaves.

‘Appreciate the ride!’ she laughed.

He walked around the object, outlining a segment of the fuselage. After taking another look at the circular, water-filled depression he decided it must have been a quarry – and a grave for the Quarry Meck.

The courteous centaur helped White Belly remount. The sun dried her skin as they circled the island, gathering dill and shallot. ‘Makes a good pickle,’ she said, holding up the wild onion.

The Captain’s dinghy returned to the ship at dusk, sacks bulging with crisp, pungent spices.

‘The soup and salad should be strong tonight,’ commented Larry on his way down to the tool room for hoof repair.

‘I’ve got some bad news about the Ambassador,’ said ARNOLD. ‘The White Team isn’t going to be able to disarm him.’

‘Why?’

‘We duplicated the circuit. The charges are self-arming. If the stepladder circuitry is cut anywhere – they blow!’

Larry studied the diagrams. ‘How does this work?’

ARNOLD pointed to the rows of charges. ‘The nitro shell surrounds a core circuit. It is in the armed, or open position now. The lead-silver batteries in his legs do not supply the trigger current; they are just a sensor current. If he dies and his circulation stops, the lead and silver electrodes lose their free-flowing electrolyte – his blood. They plate and the potential drops, closing the core circuit – and bang!’

Larry nodded. ‘The current from the leg batteries keeps him from blowing up?’

‘Yes. And if we go in and cut the wires anywhere – well, the current stops, and bang again.’

‘What do we do?’

‘First they took him off the Blood Scrubber. The ions must be present and circulating to keep the battery functioning.’

‘But those are heavy metals! Poisons!’

ARNOLD slumped down on a toolbox, a beaten giant. ‘Dammit! I know,’ he said softly. ‘Either way the poor old bastard dies. The Eye Teck says the Hive sensor in his vitreous humour is leaking ions too. The rods and cones are being leaded – blinded.’

‘There’s nothing we can do?’

ARNOLD shook his head. ‘
Rorqual
simulated it. Once the Hive closed the circuit the charges armed themselves. If we break it anywhere . . .’

Larry put his hoof up on the table and absently removed its traction plate while he studied the X-rays. ‘Eight charges . . . optic pick-up in his eye . . . trigger wire down jugular vein to abdomen . . . Trilobite cut that. Two sensor circuits: the ladder anchoring to the spine, and the physiological battery in his legs. If we touch it, he blows. If we don’t he dies slowly of the electron-flow poisons. It’s a neat job, but no Hive booby trap can be that foolproof. I’d like to try to disarm him on remote. He’s got nothing to lose.’

ARNOLD shook his head. ‘He won’t let us risk it. He says he is too old to stand the surgery. He’s mad. If he blows up out here among his friends he’d be helping Furlong.’

‘But we can’t let him just wander off and die. It might take weeks or months, and it’s a terrible way to go – the pains and delirium.’

The giant took out another diagram and smiled wryly as he showed it to the centaur. ‘He has chosen the way he wants to go. Look at this.’

Larry’s fist shook as he held the wiring diagram. ‘The blasted Hive is so damned insecure that it can’t allow anything or anyone to leave without a “loyalty bomb” inside. Look at poor Drum: from grains to prostate he’s explosive! Remember Pursuit One? Old Grandmaster Ode? All those Killer Mecks? They were all wired too. How can the Hive be so insecure . . . and so childish?’

ARNOLD just shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t call them “childish”. “Ruthless” is a better word. They won’t give an inch. Look at me – and all the Lesser Arnolds – we’re all carrying our “loyalty bomb” in our genes: the dependence on Hive bread.’

‘What I really hate about this whole thing is the absence of a Hive Leader – someone I could blame for all this evil.’ Larry shook his head slowly as he saw the meaning behind the new wires added to the circuitry. ‘I can’t hate Chairman Drum, here. He was trapped in the system, just as you were for a time. But I’ve got to hand it to the poor old Nebish: he’s got guts! I don’t know if I could do what he’s going to do. I just don’t know . . .’

ARNOLD spat. ‘I could! The Hive deserves worse! I just hope he takes that Chairman Furlong with him. That would be some consolation.’

The dinghy rode low in the water. Extra satchel charges were packed under the seats and in the forward storage area. Baskets of fruit, Jonah crabs, and iced beer were being loaded by crane. A tear marked the old Nebish’s face as he pulled on his helmet.

‘Now you have the rings in both pockets?’

Drum nodded.

‘Remember, when you pull out those wire sutures it breaks off the electrodes to your leg batteries. That should set you off instantly. You’ll be vaporized in the blast – and if you’re close to that dinghy it will go too – making quite a hole in something.’

The anonymous helmet nodded again. The visor suddenly opened. ‘I almost forgot – the chromatography sequence: LIP TV TM AG TAS GLH. I see that ARNOLD must be getting plenty of fifteen-amino-acid bread, but I had the sequence memorized to be sure. Leucine is the fastest and histidine is the slowest.’

Larry smiled. ‘Thank you, Drum. That will be a big help. We’ve been using a cumbersome method with eletrophoretic spreading. This will be easier.’

The thick-suited Nebish stood silently, unable to think of anything else to say. Wives waved from the poopdeck. The crane lowered him into the small boat and he started for the sump outlet on the distant shore.

‘Go back,’ said the voice at the mouth of the sewer. ‘Do not enter.’

The little boat listened only to its passenger. Its antenna remained back in
Rorqual
’s tool room. The darkness of the sump swallowed them up.

‘I’m coming,’ said Drum. A small voice echoed up the three-hundred-foot-diameter pipe.

‘Go back, loyal Citizen. You don’t want to damage the Hive. You have such a perfect record up to—’

Drum’s anger grew: ‘My record!’ he shouted. ‘I put a molecular time bomb in my son and sent my friend to his death. That is my record. And for my reward you put a time bomb in me. Well, I’m returning to the Hive to die. I’ll take my enemies!’

‘But we are your friends. That bomb that you carry was designed to avenge your death in the event that the Benthic killed you. It will explode after you die.’

Drum laughed. ‘You never give up, do you? This is Drum you are talking to – spinner of genes and souls. “Avenge my death” – indeed! Ha! Is that why I was equipped with an optic pickup and a remote trigger? Well, my friends cut the trigger. I won’t blow until I get deep into the Hive.’

Furlong stammered: ‘But you gave me carte blanche.’

‘True,’ said CO. ‘But you failed, and now there is danger to the Hive. The Megajury found you guilty of what they consider a heinous crime.’

‘You told them?’

‘I cannot protect failure. Your Aries reign has been called tyranny by the Citizens. Your sentence is—’

‘What? What?’

‘You are to take a White Team and try to stop the bomb – er – Drum. If you succeed, lives will be saved. I will be grateful,’ said CO.

‘Success can be rewarded. I know. Call the Medimeck/Mediteck team. I am ready.’

‘Here is the dinghy’s last position. It seems to be heading towards the docks. The Shipyards and my energy organs are down there. The dinghy rides heavy with a load of food – fruit, crabs, ice, and something else.’

‘Keep me informed. I’ll try to intercept him.’

Furlong dashed out on to the docks, sweat beading on his temple. The wharf appeared deserted except for an occasional workman. The foggy sewer was littered with derelict shells and girder skeletons. A motor barge was tied near the Shipyards; a rusty crane off-loaded.

‘What is it, sir?’ asked a workman.

Furlong wiped his face and tried to smile.

‘Have you seen a small boat with a single man on board?’

‘No, sir.’

‘The boat also carries some fruit, crabs, and ice?’

‘Sorry, sir. But the mists are pretty bad in the sump tonight. Our peripheral port scanners are down again. A boat could easily have landed without my seeing it.’

Furlong glanced back to see that the White Team was following. He found a small heap of melting ice chips. ‘How did this get here?’ he shouted.

‘The ice barge,’ answered a voice in the fog.

He saw fruit scattered near the City’s energy organ. Running over, he picked up an orange and tore it open. ‘How did this fruit get here?’

‘The fruit barge.’

Furlong saw seeds. His throat tightened. A Jonah crab fell over on its back in the dark. Its legs made frantic scratching sounds. He darted his light beam around, searching.

‘How did these crabs get here?’ he gasped.

‘The Captain’s dinghy!’ said Drum, stepping out of the darkness. Both hands were in his pockets, thumbs on the electrode rings. His helmet was off. Hatred glinted in his eyes.

Furlong froze. ‘There you are.’ He forced a smile. ‘I brought the White Team. We have the clinic’s amphitheatre on standby. Don’t worry. We’ll get those bombs out of your belly.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ said Drum calmly. It was clear he had no intention of cooperating.

‘Come along,’ said Furlong. ‘It won’t do you any good to be bitter and try to escape. You’ll only weaken and pass out in a few days. We’ll find you eventually.’

‘Oh, I have no intention of running . . .’ He turned his wrists to show the thumb rings.

‘No!!’

The hands pulled up and out, trailing wet red wire sutures. Triumph glowed from the old Nebish face. The City’s organ cracked in the blast – spilling sixteen hundred kiloamperes of torodial plasma, at fifty million degrees Kelvin. For a moment a bit of the sun existed in the sewers as fusion fuel spilled, spreading ionic gas in a yellow glow.

A sacrifice to a lesser deity
may bring reward

A sacrifice to the Greater Deity
is its own reward.

–
Rorqual
’s Acolyte

Nine Fingers felt uncomfortable in his father’s crown. Too heavy and large it was, being wrought from yellow nuggets. The signs were bad. His Ring Island kingdom was barren: the lagoon, the Gardens, and now his young wife, Iris. Half his subjects had migrated north to the archipelago, five days away. The remaining men were old and tired. They feared to fish in the deep waters outside the reef since the arrival of
Carcharoden carcharias
. This twenty-one-foot, seven-thousand-pound Great White Shark had taken his father and six other men. Their boats only ventured into the safety of the lagoon, where fish were scanty and small. Iris failed to conceive; food lofts were empty. Monsoons were coming. It was time to pray to the Godwhale.

Nine Fingers gathered the elders, three women and two men, the grey-haired grandparents. They drank the last of the heady pulque and listened to their young chief.

‘All is barren – our women, our soil, and the sea. We must ask the Godwhale for help.’

‘We are a poor people. What sacrifice can we offer in exchange?’ asked Grandmother Turtle.

‘Our village is dying. We will give what is asked.’

They walked to the shrine at the high point on the atoll. A thick, glassy tower rose twenty body lengths into the air. As thick as a ceremonial canoe at the base, it gradually narrowed to a swaying pole. Its skin bristled with protruding rungs and rings. Vines festooned the lower effigy from its niche at the base of the tower. Thick, soft hemp ropes were tied to the idol’s back. Nine Fingers and three elders looped their ropes over their shoulders and began to climb. The whale weighed as much as a man. It grated noisily against the tower until the elder standing below took the slack out of his rope. The fifth elder climbed on ahead, chopping and clearing the greenery.

Then body lengths up, they found the hook and pulled away a tangle of tendrils. The lifters climbed above the hook, manoeuvring the swinging whale over the point. The hook, set deep, creaked down under the weight of the idol. Nine Fingers glanced up the pole and smiled. Small lights began to blink and swivel. They dropped their ropes and climbed down.

‘May the Godwhale be bountiful,’ they prayed.

The nights became windy and starless, warning the islands of the coming storm season. Five days later a trimaran made a brief visit. The villagers reached the beach in time to see the square sail running before the wind. Nine Fingers stood waving at a small pile of supplies at his side.

‘Is this the miracle we prayed for?’ asked Grandma Turtle.

‘No. The Acolyte was just delivering the request flags.’

They lifted the tarpaulin and divided the baskets of bread sticks and dried fruit. A dozen small beer casks were also present. The yard-long flags were colour-coded, and bore symbols of water, food, tools, and medicine.

‘You told them our needs?’

‘Yes. The Godwhale will pass this way after the storm. We are to hoist whichever flags match our problems,’ explained Nine Fingers. He sorted through the bright banners, studying their designs. ‘This dry food should be stable enough to get us through.’

‘And the beer?’ asked Grandma Turtle, nudging a cask with her toe. ‘We’ll have all the rainwater we’ll need for drinking . . .’

‘It’ll help keep our spirits up,’ said a young buck with a grin.

‘We’ll be needing that,’ mumbled their Chief.

The island throne room doubled as Nine Fingers’ living quarters – bamboo and thatch, forty feet on the side. It was not quite square because living trees formed the four corners. Six other trunks arched up through the room, supporting the ceiling beams and attic storage. His young bride, Iris, prepared a porridge of legumes boiled in goat’s milk. Two small, pan-fried fish and a freshly punctured coconut completed the royal menu.