“As pod leader you will have a lot on your mind. But there are some things you must pay special attention to.”
How did he know? Ensign wondered. How did he know I’d take leadership of the pod? He realized he had missed part of the message and he ordered the remora to go back. The little symbiote buzzed irritation but it complied.
“First, you have the leader’s songs to learn. You will need the tools so they are important. But remember the tools are guides, not commands. Compose your own song as you go.”
Like the shark attack, Ensign thought, remembering the time—how long ago?—when the second shark had not behaved the way the song had said.
“One other thing,” the voice of the dead teacher continued. “Listen to Simon. He mumbles but he is a master navigator. And take special care of Simon’s remoras. They hold the songs of prediction of the Newcomb Pod.”
Even through the remora Teacher’s voice sounded as warm and rich as ever. “Goodbye Ensign. And thank you. Go well.”
“Goodbye,” Ensign murmured. “Goodbye and thank you.” The remora nestled on his earmouth buzzed a reply, as if the thanks had been meant for it. Which it was in a way, Ensign realized.
At dawn Ensign gathered the small group and started north again. They slowed when they found a sparse plankton field and all of them fed eagerly. They were still feeding when they felt, more than heard, the low rumble of a shock wave filtered by the wall of the band edge, many day-tenths after the actual impact. Ensign began to believe they would escape the holocaust described in the original Skyfall song.
The Geek floated close to him. “I’ve been thinking,” he began in his geekly way. But he said it in an unusually serious manner.
“What’s the problem?”
“Not a problem yet. But it could become one. If we lose any more members there won’t be any choir.” Ensign forced himself to think about things he had been avoiding. “Then we’d just be remora carriers.”
“Worse than that. Where once we were twelve, now there are only five—Melody and Yearling are strong but we have Simon—not exactly renowned as a voice. Have you taken pod inventory?”
Ensign bobbed negation.
“We’re all just about maxed out now,” The Geek said quietly. “None of us can carry many more remoras and the ones we’ve got are nearly full. If we lose very many of them we won’t have enough memories to form a coherent body of information. All we’ll have will be fragments.”
“No more choir.”
“Maybe no more pod.”
Killer was right, Ensign thought as The Geek floated away. He hated the idea but he knew The Geek told the truth. The reason he hadn’t taken pod inventory, he admitted, was because he’d been afraid of what he would find.
He had barely begun to ponder the implications when Simon descended and moved up beside him.
The Old One appeared in awful shape. He held his body oddly and his mouth worked convulsively. He had never looked healthy and from a distance he didn’t look any worse. But up close the changes were obvious. Ensign flew closer and said privately, “Simon?” The huge ancient didn’t respond. “Simon, are you all right?”
Simon wallowed, almost unable to control his attitude. “A choice,” his voice rasped on Ensign’s damaged hearing. With effort he continued. “I have seen and I have sung the predicting songs.” The oldster quirked his trailing edge in a ghastly attempt at a smile. “The outcome is both good and bad.”
“Start with the good.”
“Skyfall ends. One, two more days no more.”
Ensign relaxed from a fleeing posture he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“But before then you must choose.”
Ensign tensed again.
“The next skyfall will be close, much closer. We can run west and put many more thousands of wing-spans between us and skyfall.”
“The other choice?”
“Run north for the boundary and try to cross before skyfall. The boundary will protect, a little.”
Ensign did a quick estimate. They were fairly close to the band edge and its protection. “What’s wrong with that?”
Again Simon quirked his trailing edge. “Impact between us and the boundary. If we move quickly we reach the boundary before skyfall.” There was no need to ask what would happen if they didn’t.
“Can we compromise? Run north and west?”
Simon snorted. “Worst of both. All downdrafts and no protection from the boundary.”
“Well, what do you recommend?”
“Pod-leader’s choice,” Simon replied. “Not mine… bzzhmmshshhs.”
Ensign left Simon buzzing and mumbling and flew on ahead. In spite of the closeness of his pod mates and his heavy load of remoras the sky became suddenly a very lonely place.
Ask the others, he thought. That was the way Bach Choir had always decided things, by discussion. He remembered warmly those long discussions and the slow forging of consensus. That was one of the things that made the Bach Choir so special. Almost, he turned to call the Choir together. Then he stopped. He also remembered how many day-tenths had been spent in argument and decisionmaking. Even if the process resulted in a better decision they didn’t have time for it now. A fast, not-so-good decision was better than a slow, nearly perfect one. Pod-leader’s choice, he thought sourly. Teacher must have felt like this when he let us stop and feed before the first skyfall.
Hunger played a part in his choice. The zone they crossed was sparse. Going west wouldn’t help that. North through the danger zone at least led to plankton.
“We’re going north,” he told the pod after he called them together and explained. “We’re going to try to beat skyfall.”
He had expected some argument, or at least grumbling, but the others accepted his decision without comment. Things had changed among the members of the pod, Ensign saw. He wasn’t their pod mate any more, he was their leader. He wasn’t sure he liked the change.
Ensign set the pace as fast as he dared. Not fast enough for his liking but he had to consider the others. If they held this speed they would be across the boundary and into the South Equatorial Belt before time of skyfall. Not far enough across to suit Ensign, and Simon could only give a range of times for the next skyfall, but across.
If we hold this speed, he thought as he flapped along in the lead, alert for downdrafts.
That was the problem. They were all tired from their struggle against the new Red Spot and this speed would exhaust them. If the boundary were unusually turbulent they could be in trouble even if they reached it well before skyfall.
No good choices—again. There were the new worries as well. As leader he had to keep the pod together, make sure they traded off pathfinders often enough not to wear down prematurely, encourage stragglers and watch for shark-bait situations. When he could, he reviewed the pod leader’s songs for advice.
But mostly he just forged ahead, wing stroke by laboring wing stroke. Ensign could not see the comet streaking in above them in the light of day but he could imagine it.
They flew day and night, dodging downdrafts when they saw them in time and fighting through them when they did not. The trip became an endless, aching nightmare as they raced north.
As they flew, Simon fell farther and farther behind. Ensign dropped back under the excuse of asking Simon how soon the comet would strike but the doddering old observer could only answer, “Soon!”
Ensign surveyed the oldster critically. He looked even worse than he had when they started their dash. His wings beat slowly and occasionally he lost rhythm. Clearly he approached the end of his strength.