“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 stilclass="underline" 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.”