Vikram Sen shook his head from side to side. “I am very sorry to hear that. Perhaps you should go away and resolve your internal differences in privacy.”
“I fear we cannot,” said Gishora. “Tell me if you remain determined to resist.”
“We cannot prevent your people from doing what you want to do, but we will not help you in any way—unless you choose to leave. I am sure everyone would help you most energetically with that. No, Gishora, if you really wish to make us leave you must carry us bodily to the elevator.”
“Please explain to me why you choose this course of action,” said Gishora. “You cannot prevent us from removing you. Already a lander full of Guardians sits on the surface. I lack understanding of what you hope to accomplish.”
The human expelled air from his nostrils audibly. “We are protesting the use of force to compel our obedience. By refusing to cooperate we are demonstrating that physical force can only control our bodies. It cannot control our thoughts. You can physically remove me from this station, but you cannot make me agree with you. Do you see?”
“I see only a faction resisting consensus. You place your individual goals above the greater good.”
“If we are going to defer to the opinion of the majority, let me remind you that the Earth has a population of more than eight billion, while there are less than one billion Sholen on your homeworld. It would seem that your people are the willful minority,” said Dr. Sen mildly.
Gishora hesitated, his body posture communicating a certain unease. Tizhos jumped into the opening. “We have greater wisdom,” she said. “Sometimes a small group can show the larger community the proper course of action.”
Vikram Sen widened his mouth. “That is what we are attempting to do here. Now if you will excuse me, I would like to get some sleep.”
That same night, Rob suited up and swam out to the sub with Dickie and Josef to discuss matters in private. The sub was officially known as the Ilmatar Aquatic Rover, and had been built by a team of Russian and American engineers and hauled to Ilmatar in one piece.
Josef had taken advantage of his position as chief pilot and de facto captain of the sub to name it the Mishka, which was now proudly inscribed over the control station in big Cyrillic letters.
The Mishka was not a graceful ship—the main hull was a fat round-ended cylinder twenty meters long, with tiny viewports at the front, a hatch on the underside, and two impeller pods on each side. It could only putter along at five knots—but its nuclear-thermal generator was rated for a decade of use, and the sub could make its own oxygen out of seawater for life support. With enough food aboard, it could sail clear around Ilmatar.
The Mishka had another feature, which wasn’t mentioned in any of the press releases. The designers at Sevmash and Electric Boat had made her as stealthy as any front-line attack sub in Earth’s oceans. Her ungainly hull was shaped to avoid any flat surfaces, and was coated in rubbery anechoic material that was supposed to make it invisible to the Ilmatarans. Rob suspected it would work as well as Henri’s stealth suit.
He climbed in through the bottom hatch and took one of the seats behind the control station. Josef deliberately kept the internal temperature just above freezing so that passengers could stay suited up without boiling themselves.
“I think maybe we should quit for a while,” said Rob. “I get the feeling Dr. Sen knows what’s going on.”
“He is very wise man,” said Josef.
“Sen?” Dickie snorted. “He’s like a pappadum. All hollow inside. He isn’t capable of anything but bluster. I reckon this means the Sholen are worried and have been complaining to him. That’s a good sign for us. We need to increase the pressure now.”
“You think so?” asked Rob.
“Absolutely. A few more little ‘safety lapses’ and they’ll suddenly discover an excuse to return to their ship.”
“Or strike back,” said Josef.
“Let them! That puts them in the wrong.”
“Dickie,” said Rob, “I want you to tone it down, okay? We don’t want to really hurt the Sholen.”
“We don’t? All right, we don’t, then. Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty of ideas that won’t harm one downy epithelial derivative on their heads. But no letting up now! Keep turning the crank!”
“What’s that?” asked Rob. The sonar imaging display over Josef’s shoulder came on, displaying six large targets about two hundred meters up, descending slowly in a neat hexagonal array.
Josef turned and squinted at the screen, then gave them an active ping. “Metal objects. I hear little motor noises, too—like thrusters.”
“What the bloody hell are they? Bombs?” For once Dickie Graves looked genuinely worried.
“Not bombs,” said Josef. “Pods. I have seen something similar to drop underwater commandos from planes. Pressurize pod in advance and drop from high altitude. The pod opens in deep water and troops can go to work without wasting time equalizing. Ours have sonar-damping exterior.”
A hundred meters up the six objects showed clearly on video as streamlined cylinders with fins, very much like oldfashioned bombs. “Are you sure those aren’t going to blow us to bits?” Rob asked.
“We find out.”
Just then the six pods came apart in a flurry of bubbles. When the video and sonar images cleared up, Rob could see abandoned casing sections dropping rather more rapidly to the sea bottom, and six Sholen in smartsuits making for the station with powerful tail strokes.
“What the hell is going on?” asked Dickie.
“I think the Sholen just decided to turn the crank,” said Rob.
Six
Broadtail wakes to find himself being towed. There’s a rope around him just behind his headshield, and someone is pulling him along through cold water. He listens. Whoever’s pulling him is alone, and is having a hard time of it.
He pings. The person towing him is a large adult with no left pincer, a male by the taste of the water. He has a number of bundles and packages slung on his body, which explains why he’s struggling along so slowly. They’re about half a cable above a silty bottom.
“You’re awake!” The large male stops swimming and turns back toward Broadtail. “I remember thinking you a corpse. My name is Oneclaw 12 Schoolmaster.”
“I am called Broadtail.”
“No more than that? No good number? Or is your full name a secret? Do I rescue someone best left behind? A bandit? A fugitive?”
“An exile. I am Broadtail 38.”
“That is a good number, 38. It signifies ‘Warm Water,’ of course, but it is also 2 times 19, or ‘Child’ times ‘Place.’ A good number for a teacher, though not as good as 82. But 38 is also 4 plus 34, ‘Food’ plus ‘Harvesting’; and it is ‘Property’ plus ‘The World’ signifying greatness and rulership; all in all a very good number. I congratulate your teachers.”
“Where am I? I do not remember.”
“I am not surprised. I do recall finding you, drifting and asleep in cold water. I remember being amazed to hear any life at all in you. Have some food.” Oneclaw gives Broadtail a bag full of pressed fronds. “As to where you are, you are about a hundred cables from my camp, and at least a thousand cables from anyplace worth visiting.”
While he eats, trying not to gobble the tough fronds too fast, Broadtail asks, “You are a schoolteacher?”
“Yes. I catch the hardy young of the cold expanses, break them, train them, and give them new lives in the vent towns. A hard life, but a noble one. Besides, my number suits me for it: 12 is 2 times 6, and I carve children like stones. It is also 2 plus 10, and I bind children with cords.”