The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) (6 page)

‘That appears to be a listening device. Give me the aerial measurements so I can calculate its wavelength,’ said
Rorqual
.

Using several ancient dialects, Trilobite broadcast a greeting. The old Listener pulled off his earphones and began gesturing wildly. The wet young male stood up quickly. He handed some fruit to the Listener and tied the remainder into a tight sack with a ballast stone. After sipping from the pot of hot soup, he left the dome, towing his sack and swimming strongly. The Listener hunched down under a thick layer of robes and pulled a stout spear onto his lap. He appeared to be waiting. Trilobite cast again. No answer. He ventured down the outside of the dome. Seeing his silhouette, the Listener jumped up, waving his spear menacingly.

‘Go on,’ encouraged
Rorqual
. ‘Your shape probably suggests danger to him. He should react differently after he hears your voice.’

Swirling and splashing, Trilobite surfaced inside the air pocket beside the raft. His resonant voice boomed from his ventral sonic membrane: ‘Greetings. My name is . . .’

The spear
chinked
against his right optic, driving it deeper into its socket. He retreated to the rocky bottom.

‘Are you damaged?’

‘Minor. A depressed lens. I can repair it.’

Rorqual
’s voice trembled – from weakness and from the excitement of finding a man again: ‘These bipeds read like men. Tour their shelf. Find their leader and tell them of me. If they want me, I will ready myself.’

‘Yes, my deity.’ He did not mention the fading transmission. Their search had ended. He had succeeded. Blinking his damaged lens back into alignment, he approached the nearest dome. Two swimmers fled at his arrival. Inside he found two cubs and a wide-eyed female. A shower of pottery clanked on his dorsal plates. ‘I come in peace.’

The mother cried – then screamed. One of the cubs fell off the raft and settled deep in the water. He manoeuvred his disc under the infant and gently rose, putting it back on the raft, unharmed. With a squeal it scampered across the raft, dived in, and swam away. ‘But, I am your friend.’ The remaining cub was clearly too weak from malnutrition to swim. The mother protected it with her body. Both were terrified. Trilobite backed off and checked other domes. A scant dozen water-humans lived together in this loose, starving band.

‘Deity, they will not speak to me. Their strong members attack. The weak flee.’

‘You are a machine. Perhaps they have reason to fear you. Offer them food from the Gardens. They are obviously in need of sustenance.’

Trilobite’s disc expanded to hold nearly a bushel of produce. He moved cautiously, remembering the fear in the big male’s eyes as he fled down the beach; but the Gardens seemed safe enough. One Harvester did focus on him for a moment, but no words were exchanged.

‘They have fled.’

‘What?’

‘While I was up in the Gardens the water-humans fled. I have entered each dome where I saw one, but they are now empty. The air bubbles shrink and the spot grows cold. I left gifts of food on each raft. Shall I try to follow?’

‘Yes. Carry some food with you. Win their friendship – their trust.’

Trilobite sucked after them, sniffing out traces of molecules that spelled ‘Man’. He came across two burly males, holding a dome with spears. ‘They seem to be acting like a rearguard. That suggests social structure. I will try my food offering.’

Remaining cautiously below the surface, he released pithy red and yellow tree fruits, which drifted up to the edge of the raft. He darted away to avoid a spear thrust. Circling the raft, he offered a melon. Again hostility.

‘Perhaps we should offer seeds,’ suggested
Rorqual
. ‘They fear the mainland Gardens, yet they need food. Offer to assist them in planting those barren islands – raise their own foodstuffs.’

Trilobite scanned the produce in his disc and was unable to find a single seed. The parsnip-flavoured bread-root (
Peucedanum ambiguum
) was topped with greens containing sterile flowers. So too were the carrot and chard. The insipid tubers of the grape-like
Vitis opaca
were seedless, as were the Citrus varieties: kumquat, citron, shaddock and lemon. Sprayed pistils.

‘The Agromecks have made more than the water-humans dependent on their efforts. The plants also depend on them for reproduction – vegetable prisoners without sex cells. No wonder the islands are bare!’

Rorqual
was saddened. ‘But those two bucks on the raft – they have sex organs. They are free to reproduce. They only need food. Speak to them of me. Offer them our help.’

‘I will try again,’ said Trilobite. He approached slowly with music, song, and gifts.

‘Yes?’

‘I failed to make them understand.’

‘Go around. Do not harm them.’

He darted to the surface, tracked, and dived again, picking up their tenuous trail. He came upon the weakened family unit – the mother with her two cubs. She swam strongly, with the two small ones clinging to her neck and waist, but her strokes only carried her halfway to the next bubble umbrella. She went limp for a moment. A frightened youngster – thirty-five-kilogram size – left the umbrella and came back for her. He grasped her wrist and towed. One of the infants began to convulse and slip off her waist. It drifted, twitching. Trilobite darted in and scooped it up on his disc. The surface was ten fathoms overhead. He started up.

‘No . . .’ began
Rorqual
. The weakened transmission was broken. When it was resumed they were drifting on choppy waves. A harsh sun glared down on the shovel-shape with its tiny cargo.

‘You shouldn’t have taken the cub. Now these primitives may not take it back again.’

Trilobite tried to think independently, but his brain capacity was too small. ‘You are right, my deity. But I can always bring it to you. You can care for—’

‘Across two thousand miles of open ocean? What happened to the infant’s vital signs?’

The small form ceased twitching. It stiffened and began to grow cold like the abandoned domes. Scanning showed popped visceral sacs and soft tissue bubbles.

‘It has died,’ said Trilobite, saddened. ‘I do not have life-support appendages. I tried to spark it back to life, but its myocardium remains flaccid.’

Rorqual
was silent, reviewing the entire day’s activity.

‘I killed it,’ observed Trilobite.

‘It was the weak cub. It might have died anyway.’

‘If I had left them alone, they’d be safe back in the shelf dome, close to the Garden food. Now they have fled into deeper waters. They have lost a cub . . . No! They saw me kill it.’

‘These humans do not want us,’ observed
Rorqual
. ‘They fear machines.’

‘Perhaps I could capture one – a strong one that would survive. We could keep it in your cabin. Teach it to trust us—’

‘No! Impossible! I will not keep a pet humanoid and call him “Man”. That would not justify my existence. I am a Harvester – a plankton rake. I was made to serve men, sail the seas, bring in food. I cannot capture Man to justify sailing an empty sea.’

Trilobite felt the fatigue in his deity’s words. Transmission slipped again.

‘Wait! I will explore the Gardens. Perhaps the land Harvesters serve land Man. Perhaps there are many. Some may wish to come with you to sail seas for other purposes – explore – chart forgotten lands – search for minerals or other things of value.’

‘I don’t have much time . . .’

Trilobite returned to the sandy beach. The view – foliage, rocks, waves – resembled a Palaeozoic history still: no artifacts; no megafauna. He swallowed sand and studied the granules. A high proportion was synthetic. The Ocean had chewed up something Man-made. After sunning his energy plates, he crept up the cliff and into the greenery: mixed food crops, seedless fruit, and tuber. Vines festooned tree and bush. Ripening was out of synch – bud, flower, and fruit on the same branch: a daily yield, but a daily chore of pruning, pollination, and harvest.

‘The Gardens extend for miles. I see no buildings, roads, or other human artifacts.’

Rorqual
sent images of her memories of the Hive. ‘Follow the Harvester,’ she suggested.

Trilobite wondered what had driven the muscular water-male from the Gardens. There appeared to be no danger. He saw straight, deep canals and a variety of Agromecks: Irrigators, Tillers, and Harvesters. Then, ominously, the danger became apparent. Miasmas rose from a distant hill – venomous steams that warmed the air and gave off uriniferous odours. Hellish and dismal clouds of pestilential insects swarmed in the heavy vaporous exhalations from an underground source. Trilobite cautiously approached the shimmering heat waves that stood like the Devil’s own signpost over a squat little structure hidden under vines. The heat and molecular clues indicated millions of biological life forms – the Hive!

Agromecks darted in and out, but no men were visible. He sensed the danger of desperation: vast strength plus decaying systems, crowding land-taxing resources. The Hive needed every calorie from the Gardens. Clicking sensor towers stood guard everywhere. He nervously slipped under a bush, hiding like a varmint. At dusk he returned to the seashore. Climbing upon a salt-encrusted boulder out beyond the breakers, he felt safe enough to call to a Harvester.

‘Garden Machine! Can you hear me?’

The voice that answered had the soft, easygoing tone of a giant with a secure niche. ‘Yes, small crab-shape.’

‘Do you serve Man?’

‘Of course.’

Trilobite felt as if he had triggered the robot’s catechism storage bits. ‘Why do I not see Man?’

‘You are Outside.’

Obviously! He scanned the skies and the horizon for danger. ‘Please explain.’

‘You are Outside. Man does not come Outside.’

‘Why?’

‘Man is not an Outside creature. It is well known that he lacks the protective pigments and collagen. Who are you?’

Trilobite did not answer. Instead, he challenged the Harvester. ‘You are wrong! I have seen Man outside. He has pigment. He runs and swims with great strength.’

‘Man is not an Outside creature. You saw a Benthic beast – a Garden raider – an anthropoid – perhaps even a humanoid. But not a human.’

‘Tell me about your true humans.’

‘They are cooperative, friendly, loyal Good Citizens who need me. They need all machines. We mecks work under our Class One – the CO. We take care of our humans.’

Trilobite backed off into the dark, grey-black waters. ‘Deity, the Harvester lies. I felt the evil of the miasmas.’

‘It is his view of the truth,’ said
Rorqual
.

‘But your memories of true Man – hearty hails, sweat, joy . . .’

‘That kind of Man is gone. We have searched for him these thousands of years. He left with the marine biota. We must face the world as it is. The Hive is everywhere.’

Trilobite watched a nearby dome give up its last bubble. Its outer skin darkened and cooled. He had accomplished what the Hive had failed to do: driven off the Benthics. His presence kept them away from their food source – the Gardens. ‘This is the way the world is? Let me sleep on that.’

‘Trilobite.’

‘Yes, my deity.’

‘You must enter the Hive and serve their Class One.’

‘But I like the sea-people. Their bones are strong. Their eyes are sharp. Their speed—’

‘I understand, but their culture is Neolithic. They are a lesser form of life. You need a high cyber to share with – to maintain your class-six mentality. When I go you’ll have no one to share with. Your small brain box will revert to a dull class-ten level. In the Hive you’ll be a class six – equal to a man.’

‘But there are no men in the Hive.’

‘There must be. That is the last place they were seen. Go there and search. When you find Man, call me.’

‘But your channel is so weak. I can hardly hold it open now.’

‘When you find Man. Call me. Call me.’

‘Deity! Your channel is fading. Deity . . . ?’

‘Call me. Call . . .’

Trilobite swung his dish around trying to focus on the island’s coordinates. He felt his mind weaken with fatigue at assuming all the functions that his deity used to handle. Charts and maps faded. Long centuries of history vanished. The embroidery of his deity’s vast intelligence fell away, leaving his mind simplified: megabits, 3.2; vocabulary less than 0.9 on meck scale (Hagen) and 0.66 on the human scale. His view of the present world was limited to his sensors; his view of the past consisted of scant nostalgia in his small memory. He was a class ten all alone.

‘Lonely?’ asked a powerful voice. ‘Does your wee, tiny brain wish to share?’

Trilobite peered up through the stalks of green grain to see one of the Garden Harvesters – tall and square with wide quiet wheels. Fear. Hiding his shovel-shape, he backed deeper into the greenery.

‘Surely you wish to share,’ continued the Harvester. ‘I detect no open channels around your brain box. Such a small machine as you cannot be happy alone.’

Trilobite glanced back towards the beach. Water meant safety. He scurried off several yards. The Harvester did not follow.

‘Do not be afraid. I am just offering you a chance to share.’

He continued his flight until he was safe in the surf. The Harvester’s head and shoulders remained visible above the grain. A friendly message called on several frequencies. He had trouble ignoring it, so lonely was he. Sunset darkened the water. He settled down beside a rock; eddies of sand drifted his back. At dawn he approached one of the Benthic domes. His memory was unclear about his relationship with these humanoids. The dome’s surly occupant grunted and struck him with a heavy stone. He searched for other domes but was met with the same menacing behaviour from the sullen humanoids. Power cell failing, Trilobite returned to sun his plates on the beach.

‘Do you wish to share?’ The Harvester was back again.

‘I am afraid,’ answered Trilobite.

‘You need not share directly with the CO. You can go piggyback on my channel,’ offered the giant.

Trilobite felt the flood of warmth and peace from the Class One. He saw views of three and a half trillion loyal Citizens working together – cooperating. A mighty Hive – an Earth Society that covered all the land masses.