The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) (25 page)

The little shovel-shaped meck tracked down a trail of flotsam and bubbles. He paused when he met the two angels. They indicated that they wanted to go up to the surface. He led them back to
Rorqual
. After a brief exchange of explanations, Larry invited them on board. They seemed eager to meet ARNOLD.

‘So you killed a Hive ship, and now you search for a mate among our people?’

ARNOLD nodded. ‘Only – I weaken for the lack of a special bread which may be on that sunken ship.’

‘After a little practice with water-breathing you will be able to search the sunken ship yourself.’

ARNOLD shook his head, describing his prior diving mishap. ‘That’s not for me. When I came up the last time I had a lot of pain – a shower of emboli, the ship said. It almost killed me.’

‘Nitrogen emboli – the bends,’ explained the old angel. ‘You were breathing gases – nitrogen and oxygen – and the increased pressure allowed more gas molecules to enter your body fluids. When you decompress the gas leaves. If you come up too fast the nitrogen molecules come out of solution as bubbles instead of through the lungs. The bubbles block small capillaries – emboli that can kill small areas of your body. It is serious when the blocked capillaries are in the brain or heart.’

‘I know. I still have this limp.’

The angel offered him a brimming mouthpiece.

‘You don’t have to worry about the bends with these wings. You’ll breath liquids – not gas.’

Larry sloshed the wings around as he examined their membranes – a transparent sandwich of tubules. ‘I don’t think the surface area is anywhere near enough for him. There is only about ten square metres here. Our lungs have over a hundred – and we breathe air. Air has thirty times as much oxygen as water, so these wings should be much larger – about three hundred times larger.’

The angels glanced at each other and shrugged.

‘You are right, of course,’ said the angel. ‘We can’t get our oxygen out of seawater. We’d need a respiratory ratio over five hundred – impossible without a flow-through gill system. We carry our oxygen in liquid form.’ He offered Larry a light litre-sized container – a double-walled vacuum bottle. Each angel carried four bottles on their harness between the wings. Larry turned the valve slowly and felt icy gas on his finger. ‘We can get over ten hours on a bottle. It bubbles into the wing veins and we take in the bubbles when we breathe.’

Larry nodded, then appeared puzzled. ‘But why use the wings then?’

‘Eliminates carbon dioxide. It is quite soluble in water. Also, by using water-breathing we can ignore the depth-time diving tables. There is no danger of bends, nitrogen narcosis, or blow-up. Other hazards do exist, but by diving in pairs we’ve avoided most of them.’

Larry patted
Rorqual
’s console. ‘Getting all this?’

‘Yes. My information of the science of the deep has been scanty. Our efforts at netting a Benthic were very foolish.’

The angel nodded. ‘We considered it a hostile act.’

Rorqual
played out cables to mark the two larger fragments of the Hive ship. Using her pincer grapples, she attempted several lifts but only managed to tear up the wreckage a little more. With Larry’s coaching ARNOLD managed a successful test dive with the wings. He kept his oxygen bottle turned up for a while until the sensation of suffocation passed. They rigged a sensor-line so Larry could speak with the giant. Even with a larynx full of water ARNOLD could manage simple grunts for ‘yes’, ‘no’, and ‘help’.

Larry watched on the screen as ARNOLD descended with an angel, while the second angel toured
Rorqual
’s harvesting and digesting gear. The hundred-thousand-ton cargo area impressed him. The angel returned to the control cabin in the guides-two Electrotecks.

‘How deep are they?’

‘Ninety-five fathoms,’ said Larry. ‘And doing fine. ARNOLD certainly has it easy. It took me four years to get used to dives of twenty-five fathoms. Look at the way he climbs about that wreckage. How is it going, ARNOLD?’ he asked, putting his face close to the screen.

‘Mmmmm!’ The giant nodded. He pointed to a jumble of floating wreckage near the ceiling of the flooded cabin they were exploring. He plucked objects from the tangle and held them close to the optics. The ship recorded and printed copies.

‘Looks like personnel files. Try another area.’

‘Mmmmm.’

They placed a pincer on power machinery.
Rorqual
salvaged. Four hours later they surfaced for a hot meal. At dusk they returned to the bottom with bright lights and examined another section of the broken hull.

‘That looks like the machine shop,’ observed Larry. He hopped off the table and waddled across the floor on his hands. ‘Trilobite! Get down there with ARNOLD and see if there is anything we need. It looks as though the Hive was completing that Harvester while it was at sea. The machine shop is pretty well equipped.’

The little shovel meck joined the divers. Larry waddled out on the foredeck to watch the crane bringing up salvage. Deckhands swarmed over the bulkier items – mostly class-nine and-ten robots designed for milling and assembly operations.

‘Blast and water damage,’ said a teck, ‘but I think we can use these fellows if we’re going to make our repairs at sea.’

Electrotecks carried neural cables to each salvaged meck, allowing
Rorqual
to take in-depth interviews. Most were too damaged for simple vocal-auditory conversations.

‘Call back the divers,’ said the ship. ‘I think we have found what we were looking for.’

ARNOLD leaned weakly against a crane spool and sipped his stimulant cocktail. The squat brain box in the centre of the circle had been spliced into
Rorqual
’s deck sensors.

‘It is still a bit addle-brained from the scuttling, but we’re picking up some interesting memory tracks,’ said the ship. ‘Listen.’

‘Spray bonding . . . metal matrix composite . . .’

‘Wrong track. I’ll try again.’

‘Naturally occurring amino acid sugar . . .’

‘Now we’re getting closer. It has stored a lot of theory. Evidently it helped design a number of mecks – some of which worked in food processing. I’ll try to stimulate it towards our fifteen-amino-acid bread.’

The brain box sputtered: ‘Amino acids . . . UV absorption spectra . . . one hundred eighty-five ninhydrin reactive substances and their chromatographic positions . . .’

‘That’s it!’ shouted ARNOLD. ‘Print!’

ARNOLD waited restlessly as the tecks set up the new protein hydrolysis unit with a continuous-flow amino-acid chromatograph. Adjustable traps were set to isolate his essential fifteen amino acids. Plankton chowder was heated in a moving pH to fragment the proteins. This Medimeck took a drop of his serum to see which of the fifteen were lowest; those shuts were set wide. Fifteen needles traced their nutrient signatures on the crust of fresh bread. ARNOLD watched the long loaf. Several of the needle lines were darker. These would be the ones he needed most – amino acids lowest in his serum. He ate.

‘I don’t feel anything different.’

‘It takes time. Try to nap after you’ve eaten.’

The giant devoured his prescribed meal and slept. Larry and the two angels walked the deck. Repair crews were finishing up on the battle damage. Large sections of
Rorqual
’s skin were laid open as work progressed on her ancient, corroded circuits.

‘Thank you for staying on and helping with the chromatograph column design. I never could get the carrier phase and the stationary phase of the solvents straight in my mind,’ said the little hemihuman. He climbed up and sat on a rail.

‘Our motives are selfish. With the Hive taking a new interest in our seas, we need a strong warrior.’

Larry shifted his torso, listening.

‘
Rorqual
can be an important food source,’ continued the angel. ‘Benthics could flourish.’

‘If our fifteen-amino-acid bread works, we will have a mate for White Belly – and a warrior.’

ARNOLD’s serum amino acids gradually returned to normal. The bread brought back his strength. The two old members of the Deep Cult taught
Rorqual
how to extrude a set of wings – simple membrane sandwich over perfusion tubules, almost identical to those used by the Medimeck in its heart-lung machine. The ship learned how to fractionate liquid air, refilling their oxygen bottles.

‘Let’s fill the hold and search for the Benthics. I want to find my speckled hen,’ said ARNOLD.

Listener and White Belly sat alone on a dome raft. He was puzzled by her reactions to the news of a friendly ARNOLD.

‘Remember, child, the Hive warrior has turned his back on his creators and destroyed one of their ships. He rides the Leviathan, our deity, who brought back food to the seas. Your hatred of him is not sensible. You should at least agree to see him. He has brought gifts – an abundance of food: mackerel, dulse, edible kelp, lobster—’

White Belly bristled. ‘You’d sell me to that Hive creature for a few fish?’

Listener sighed. ‘Not a few fish – tons! And he is no longer a tool of the Hive. He is free. Larry and Trilobite were with him in battle. Deep Cult has studied his ship.’

‘I hate him!!’

‘It is your decision, of course; but I don’t have to remind you of the buck shortage. Other Benthic girls—’

‘They can have him!’

When Trilobite surfaced with the rejection, ARNOLD’s jaw muscles bulged. Fists tightened.

‘Don’t take it too hard,’ consoled Larry. ‘It is a big ocean. There are lots of—’

‘When did you become an expert?’ snarled ARNOLD.

‘I knew women before my accident. I’d be whole now if Suspension hadn’t thrown out my pelvis.’

‘Well, they must have thrown away the wrong half,’ said ARNOLD, checking his angel wings. ‘This is very important. I just can’t let her swim away.’

Larry paced the deck on his hands, trying to reason with the impetuous giant.

‘But these Benthics have very strict customs. Their females have been the sexual aggressors for generations. They have a sacred place for the first union – called Mating Domes.’

ARNOLD nodded. ‘OK, I’ll try it your way.’ He pulled on the harness. ‘Where are these special domes?’

‘But the male doesn’t wear wings! The mating ceremony is supposed to be a test of anaerobic ability – good genes . . .’

ARNOLD frowned. ‘A test of genes?! It’s a swimming test. I can’t swim that well.’

Larry scooted down the deck and climbed up on to the bench where ARNOLD was recharging his oxygen bottles. ‘You can learn to swim. I did. Why, even I can hold my breath for ten minutes at the depth of Mating Domes.’

‘And how long did it take to learn that?!’

Larry shrugged. ‘A couple of years. But you must remember that I have to be very careful about the nitrogen content of my diet. You can eat all the protein you want with your kidneys. Your myoglobin and haemoglobin will build up fast – increasing your oxygen storage ability. I’d be willing to bet you’d be good Benthic mating material in a couple of months – if you did a lot of deep diving.’

‘A couple of months! Larry, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid they did throw away the wrong half of your body. You don’t have a gonad in your skull!! I want to be with White Belly now! Today!’ The giant was shouting and waving his hands. The Nebish deck watch peered down from his post on the foredeck to see what was wrong. ‘Now hand me that other oxygen bottle and explain their mating customs again.’

Larry tried to repeat what Big Har had told him about passing between the domes like a submarine – zero buoyancy with nose up and arms out wide for stability. A female approaching from the top with negative buoyancy can use her teeth and feet for the embrace, leaving her hands free to aid penetration.

ARNOLD puckered his brow for a long moment, thinking. He shook his head sharply. ‘It won’t work.’

‘It works for the Benthics. They use it for natural selection, like the queen bee who mates with the male who flies the highest. A Benthic mates with the male who swims the deepest.’

‘A challenge,’ said the giant, ‘a contest of strength in the water—’

‘No. A test of anaerobic capacity. That is why you mustn’t wear the wings. Wings are for the Deep Cult – old men who need the high pressure oxygen below level ten because their brain vessels are narrow.’

ARNOLD made a fist and shouted: ‘I’m no senile angel. I am ARNOLD! Mighty Warrior!’ He primed his wing veins with oxygen and unlocked his mouthpiece. Fluids spilled.

‘But . . .’ objected Larry.

The giant sucked in the oxygen-rich foam and waved the little hemihuman to silence. He sucked again, expanding his chest and drooping his wings.
Rorqual
swung down a grapple and lifted him off into the choppy water. He fluttered on the surface like a drowning moth. The grapple returned with his belt and coveralls. The fluttering continued while he rebuckled his harness. It was several minutes before Larry lost sight of him.

‘A moth on his first mating flight . . .’ mumbled the hemihuman. He shook his head slowly. Trilobite returned to his niche to suck his energy socket. The mighty ship blinked out its On Duty Lights, folded cranes, and let the crew sleep. Her captain was away.

ARNOLD’s wings spilled his carbon dioxide and brought back memories of his fighting-cock leptosoul experiences. He was King again, on his way to find his love object, the spotted hen. He moved easily through the depths. There was no sensation of pressure after the small bubbles of gas were absorbed from his sinuses and gut.

His vision was no better than before. He had been limited by the rough opalescence of the air-filled globe; now he was limited by the refractive index between his cornea and water. Two pink-bodied Benthics passed, waving. He knew he was welcome among them this time. The view, although clouded, was pleasant enough when examined leisurely. Fifteen years had been long enough for the sessile marine organisms to reclaim the floor. All space available was crowded with tentacles, spines, tube feet, and a variety of pincers. Limpets, snails, clams, scallops, and urchins clung to dead domes. Living domes sparkled and offered their air bubbles.

The two rows of female domes were easy to locate at the deep end of the reef. He swam between them, flourishing his wings. No one appeared. The male dome was at the end of the row. He poked his head into its bubble. It was unoccupied, as usual. Larry had warned him about the taboo against invading a female dome, so he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t wasting his time. Rolling over on his back, he spread his wings and made a slow pass down the row. The hazy green waters obscured his identity, but the silhouette of a phallic conning tower brought out a Benthic female. He kept his nose pointed towards the surface, sixty-one metres overhead. The pink shape passed over. He was stimulated by unfamiliar breasts and hips, but she was not White Belly. Her eyes moved over his body, She retired to her dome. He turned up his oxygen bottle, fluttered his wings and made another pass. She reappeared, arms at her side, approaching with trunk undulations. Otter-like, her nose slid up his chest and her teeth attached to his left shoulder – a love bite. Heels hooked around his calf muscle. Her mons struck hard; a hungry anemone engulfed the conning tower. In a moment she was gone again, back in her air pocket. ARNOLD’s lungs pulled fluids from wings. He exhaled slowly. Her callous haste recalled the vigorous matings under wire – the broodcock had found another speckled hen.