My passengers sorted themselves out and came up for air. Everyone was okay. John came forward to the shotgun seat and strapped himself in. I tried to keep the rig trimmed out straight, but the current was carrying the trailer around into a jackknife that the servos couldn't handle. Countersteering did no good, so I said to hell with it and hit the antifishtail jets. Through the sideview I could dimly see the gas bubbling away into the water. We were inside another tube, this one bigger, with walls that looked more rigid.
"Where the hell are we?" Sam said.
"Don't know, but it's a good guess we're out of the digestive system," I said.
"How'd we manage that?"
"Fiona must have a way of sorting the stuff she does and doesn't want to digest. We don't rate as food, I guess."
"Not worth merte, are we?"
The current grew stronger. We floated from time to time, bounding along, washed forward like flotsam in a rain sewer. I settled back and kept the rig trimmed as best I could, not wanting to broach to and start tumbling. It wasn't easy, but I managed. We went along like that for a bit until the passage narrowed and the water pressure increased. I lost all control then, but the rig kept itself straight by rebounding off the sides of the tube. The tissue-material was darker here, and tougher-looking. The back end slammed against it, then me cab.
Soon, a rushing, rumbling sound grew, along with a low throbbing pulse-sound, and the water churned and grew bubbly. The turbulence shook us, but compared to the gastric action, it was nothing. The rushing sound increased gradually to a dull roar.
"Hull temperature's been increasing steadily," Sam informed me.
"Yeah? Well, now I think I know how Fiona propels herself. She must have a gill system that circulates water through her and shoots it out the back end. The system must carry off waste heat too." I looked out and saw a dark opening ahead.
"Sounds reasonable," Sam said. 'Trouble is, this rig is no submarine."
After a final surge and a burst of thunderous sound we left Fiona for calmer waters. The water outside was a blizzard of bubbles, gradually dissipating as we sank nose-first into the depths. I told Sam to keep up readings on the outside pressure, but it proved unnecessary. In the headbeams I could see a muddy sea bottom coming up fast. I groped around frantically for something to do to keep the nose up, but couldn't find anything. Fortunately the floor sloped downward and away, and the front rollers hit neatly. The cab slid forward and let the trailer fall in gently behind. We came to a stop.
"How far down are we, Sam?"
"About eighty meters."
"Well, that's not too bad."
"Sure, we'll just swim."
"Let's see if we can't do a little better than that."
I nursed the engine until the drive rollers were spinning slowly, then twisted the traction-control handles on the bars to maximum grab, and the rollers caught. We moved forward through a lake of sludge. The slope bottomed out into a trough and then the sea floor began to rise again, only to dip once more, continuing into a series of rolling hills.
"How's Lori?" I called back. A moment later Darla came forward.
"She's still out. Definitely a concussion, but her pupils are responding to light. But you can never―" Lori's scream interrupted her, and she rushed back.
"Sam, how did Winnie wind up with you?" I asked.
"I was going to ask the same question. There were a whole bunch of sailors snooping around me, and she must've sneaked through them somehow. I kept hearing a faint knock and I couldn't figure out what it was, and I couldn't locate anything on any of the monitors. So I took a chance and cracked a hatch open. And Winnie crawled through."
"Amazing." I said. Addressing the Teelies I said, "By the way, people, you all did fine ― many thanks. But how the hell did you know where to find me?"
"We didn't," John said. "But Darla told us about Wilkes and your predicament. She didn't tell us much, something about a dispute between your truckdriver guild and the other one. Anyway, when Darla vanished on us, we overtipped a few stewards and some of the other help to get some information. We didn't get much, but we did find out Wilkes' cabin number. We assumed the worst."
"Again, many thanks."
"Nothing, really. I only had a mild heart attack."
"Jake, unless I'm badly mistaken," Sam said, "we're going up."
The rolling hills continued for a while, then the sea bottom began to rise, turning from sludge to mud, then to packed sand. We were in a tidal area; no vegetation to speak of.
Lori stopped screaming and began crying. She had remembered the Rikkis. Darla and Susan comforted her.
It was another half hour before we made the beach. I drove through the breakers and up onto dry sand, pulled behind a dune, and parked. I had doused the lights as soon as we had broken water. Then I got out.
About ten kilometers offshore, the Laputa was burning, a smeared orange glow on the dark horizon. I sat in the sand and watched it bum.
Presently, a face took shape in my mind, the one that was a blank in my memory of someone bending over me in my cell at the Militia station. It was my face.
Me.
24
It was a brave dawn, the disk-edge of a molten sun just showing above the vanishing point of the Skyway. The land was flat, magnificently flat, the kind of terrain the Roadbuilders had favored. A film of low rust-colored grass covered everything from sky to sky, bisected by the black line of the road. A brave dawn, cloudless and clear.
We were taking a break before going on. We had spent all night finding the road, with Winnie's help, and now she was drawing her figures on some lading sheets with a pen that Roland taught her how to hold. He and the Teelies watched her draw, sitting with her in the grass by the road. The kid was inside the rig watching over Lori, who was less hysterical now. I told him to make sure she didn't fall asleep. It looked as if she would be all right.
It was quiet, no wind at all, and the land was empty all around. Before dawn, we had seen some lights off the road; farmhouses most likely, but they were few. This was virgin land.
I drew Darla aside.
"Make a short story long and tell me, Darla. Who are you? And what are you?"
"My name is Daria Vance," she said, then took a deep breath. "Surviving daughter of the late Dr. Van Wyck Vance."
"And the legal lifecompanion of Grigory Petrovsky. No?"
"Grigory Vasilyevich Petrovsky. Yes. Or his widow."
"Is that grief? Or hope, maybe?"
"Neither," she answered quietly.
"All right, so much for what I know. What I don't know is who has the Roadmap."
"You mean the real one, don't you?"
"I mean the one I brought back. It wasn't Winnie."
"No, it wasn't. That's why I was willing to give her to Wilkes in exchange for your life."
"But aren't Winnie's maps accurate?"
"I don't know that yet. They seem to be. Jake, you don't understand. Winnie was a total surprise to me, and when I made my contact with the dissident network on Goliath, nobody knew about her."
"The contact. That wasn't Petrovsky?"
A grunt of ironic laughter. "No."
"Why did you shoot at the flitter?"
"For the reasons I told you about." She turned to look at the sunrise. "And of course, I didn't want to be Grigory's prisoner."
"His prisoner?"
She looked at me intently, her small nostrils flaring. "At no time was I working for Grigory during this."
I settled myself in the grass. "Darla, why don't you start from the beginning? Tell me the story of your life."