Ty didn’t like to stare. But he couldn’t help it. Nothing was visible between their legs save a system of concentric folds within which, Ty assumed, a fairly normal set of genitalia must be hiding. Perhaps just awaiting a suitable invitation to present themselves.
They were drawing close enough now that their faces could be looked at. The underlying skulls probably looked the same as those of rootstock humans. But eyes, ears, and nostrils were guarded by systems of muscled flaps that were always in some amount of motion. Sonar Taxlaw’s earlier remark about breeding wolves into poodles had been a bit indelicate. But the analogy held up. These people were to more ordinary humans as bulldogs were to hounds. All the same stuff was there. You just had to look for it a little harder.
Ty turned back to look at Einstein and Sonar. Understandably, they had eyes only for the approaching Pingers. “Einstein,” he said. Then, louder: “Einstein!”
Startled, Einstein nearly fell into the water, then focused on Ty. “Do you want it?” he mouthed, nodding at the rectangle gripped in his hands.
“No,” Ty said, “it has to be a child of Ivy.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Einstein gripped the thing’s bottom corners in his hands and held it up above his head so that the approaching visitors could get a clear view of it.
It was a picture, blown up to about half a meter square. Any Spacer would recognize it as an iconic image from the Epic. It was the last photograph that Ivy’s fiancé, Cal Blankenship, had texted to her from the conning tower of his submarine, moments before closing the hatch and diving to escape from the opening salvo of the Hard Rain. The image was dominated by two concentric circles: in the middle distance, the aperture of the open hatch, framing a disk of sky already split in two by the fiery trace of a bolide. Surrounding that, much closer to the camera, the engagement ring that he had just removed from his finger.
The question was whether Cal’s descendants would recognize it. The lead Pinger’s face unfolded a little, his gray eyes seeming to become larger, his ears blooming from mere slits into something more resembling normal human ears, except smaller and sleeker. He stopped trudging in knee-deep water. The other two drew abreast of him. All three were gazing up at the picture held aloft by the shivering Ivyn. Ty’s ears were tickled by high-pitched vocalizations that were almost recognizable as English words. The Pingers were talking to one another, turning their heads to exchange remarks, pointing at the picture, gesticulating broadly. Of course, people who spent a lot of time underwater would become good at talking with their hands.
The female Pinger said something emphatic, getting the attention of the other two. Ty couldn’t understand the words, but the tone and the body language were emphatic: “Shut up. Listen. I know what this is.”
She held her left hand in front of her body. The palm was elongated. The fingers were stubby and, when she spread them apart, slightly webbed. With her right hand she enclosed the ring finger of the left and pantomimed sliding a ring off. She held the imaginary ring aloft, then brought her left hand up to her face and twitched her index finger once, pretending to take a picture.
KATHREE FELT HERSELF, AS SHE WATCHED ALL OF THIS, SLIDING down the slope on her ass in a semicontrolled manner, almost afraid that she might scare the Pingers away with a sudden movement. Bard had reached the lower camp quicker and laid Sergeant Major Yur out on a sleeping bag, where Hope was attending to him, already hooking up an intravenous tube. Kathree passed by Beled, who was straddling the helpless Red Neoander, putting huge plastic ties on his ankles and wrists.
She made it down to the beach, keeping well clear of Cantabrigia Five, who was speaking into a camera, and Arjun, who was just watching and mumbling into his varp.
Several more Pingers had waded up into the shallows. One of them — a male, strapped with more gear than the others — had approached Ty, and seemed to be trying to communicate with him. Ty was grinning, but he kept cupping a hand around his ear and shaking his head. The Pinger reached out, gently took Ty’s wrist, and plucked at the black stuff of his dry suit. Ty responded by mimicking the same gesture on the slick skin of the Pinger’s arm. Both of them laughed. The Pinger’s teeth were white and they were sharp.
The first three Pingers had come ashore on the islet and were inspecting the photograph, which Einstein was holding now in front of his chest, part invitation and part shield. Sonar Taxlaw, not so encumbered, faced off uncertainly against the female Pinger, who suddenly stepped forward and embraced her.
On the beach, Cantabrigia Five exchanged a satisfied look with Esa Arjun and glanced toward the sky.
Epilogue
“CAL SENT MORE THAN ONE PHOTO TO EVE IVY DURING THE WEEKS leading up to the Hard Rain,” said Esa Arjun. “A total of seventeen, including that one.” He nodded at the picture. Somewhat the worse for wear, it was leaning against the inner wall of Ark Darwin’s fuselage at the end of the table where he and Ty were eating lunch.
He and Ty and Deep. Deep was the Pinger who had approached Ty and befriended him with a nonverbal joke about his dry suit. He was seated a couple of chairs away at the same table. It wasn’t really clear whether he thought of himself as part of this conversation.
“Can he understand what I’m saying?” Arjun asked.
“He’s getting better. We sound like tuba music to them.”
“Is his name really what you say it is?”
“It’s the closest I can get to pronouncing it,” Ty said, “and he answers to it.”
Deep had been tearing into a raw fish filet, served on a platter with some seaweed garnishes. He seemed then to realize that he was being talked about, and tensed up in a way that seemed very human. At a loss for words, he grabbed his cup of cider and raised it to them. They raised theirs in return, and all drank.
“I think he’s some kind of technician or scientist,” Ty said. “All that stuff in his harness.”
“Yes,” Arjun said, eyeing the Pinger curiously. “Optics. Electronics. They preserved more technology than the Diggers were able to.”
“They had more space,” Ty pointed out, “and they could scavenge whatever sank to the bottom.” He turned his attention back to Arjun. “Anyway, you were saying about the seventeen photos?”
“Yes. Most of them were of a type referred to, in those days, as selfies. Now, technically, this was a criminal violation of military secrecy. Very strange given that Cal was otherwise so attentive to duty.”
“Yes,” said Ty, casting his mind back to scenes from the Epic. “I remember Eve Ivy agonizing about that when Eve Julia ordered Cal to nuke Venezuela.”
“That’s a perfect example. So, this lapse — if that’s what it was — has attracted some attention from scholars. All seventeen of the photos were eventually recovered from Ivy’s phone. An obscure sub-sub-sub-discipline of historical scholarship grew up around them.”
“The kind of thing only Ivyns would care about,” said Ty.