The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) (26 page)

Returning to
Rorqual
’s skin, he spat out the mouthpiece and gingerly removed the harness from his bloodied shoulder. Several minutes of coughing foam cleared his throat. He laughed. An aide brought a bulky robe and snack tray. He stuffed his mouth with bread, blowing crumbs as he talked.

‘Now that’s what I call mating!’

‘White Belly was waiting for you?’ asked Larry.

The giant shook his head as he crumbled bread into a bowl of thick chowder. ‘Whoever she was, she needed me.’ He drained the bowl, wiping his chin on the back of his hand. His grin was wide.

‘Whoever? You don’t even know her?’

ARNOLD just laughed. ‘You know how hard it is to see clearly underwater. It could have been any one of a dozen young females. But you were right about their customs. The females are certainly aggressive.’

Larry was flustered. ‘But they are looking for a mate, not just a pleasuring.’

‘Can I help it if I enjoyed it?’

‘That isn’t the point,’ explained Larry. ‘What you should understand about these people is their strong family ties. Mates cling to each other and to their offspring with a ferocity that is unmatched by other people I have known.’

ARNOLD was puzzled. ‘What is your point?’

‘If this new girl has a child, she and the child will be your family in the eyes of their people.’

‘Fine.’ The giant grinned.

‘But what of White Belly?’

The grin broadened. ‘She will be ARNOLD’s family too,’ he said. ‘ARNOLD is King!’

Larry sighed. His captain could be difficult.

The Committee trembled under the CO’s cold analysis. Their warm status as Citizens of high CQB depended on their chairs around this table. If CO pulled their chair it meant TS – Temporary Suspension.

‘Your work on the ARNOLD problem has been ineffective. Slow decisions. Costly errors. I have made Furlong your Sovereign with full discretionary power. You are now his Cabinet, with advisory function only.’

The circle of faces relaxed. As long as Furlong needed them they’d remain warm. They stood as he entered and remained standing until he sat down. He had the smug overconfident air of a new dictator.

‘We have been given carte blanche,’ he said, smiling. ‘Anything is possible with the full resources of the Hive.’

The Cabinet nodded.

‘First, Security is replaced. The error of sending out Pursuit One without cranes rests on your shoulders. You are to report back to your department. They will send a younger representative – someone with more imagination.’

The tired Nebish stood up to leave. He aged perceptibly under the critical gaze of his peers.

Furlong continued: ‘Second. The playbacks of the battle will be studied and cranes designed that will be superior to
Rorqual
’s.’

He turned to the representative from the Shipyards. ‘How long before Pursuit Two is launched?’

‘We are progressing on schedule. Our new caste of workers has proved to be—’

‘No rhetoric. I would like a concise answer – something we count on for planning.’

‘Two years, sir!’

‘That’s better. Two years will allow time for crane design. I think the forecranes should be much stronger than
Rorqual
’s, capable of tearing open her hull. Other cranes should be longer, with a greater range for throwing weapons – explosives, grapples, pincers. The ship’s neural integration need not be concerned with these destructive devices. Each crane will have its own operator booths – above decks for clear weather and below deck for foul. Any questions?’

The Hunter stood and awaited recognition.

‘Yes?’ The Sovereign’s eyes were cool.

‘Sir. We should be able to put a line on
Rorqual
, especially if we have more than one ship. But our problem has been control of the ship’s brain. If ARNOLD is alive it will obey only him. How do we kill ARNOLD? Should we start a company of Lesser Arnolds through leptosoul conditioning?’

‘No. A crane on remote can squash a warrior no mater how well conditioned.’

‘But he stayed below deck. Our cranes won’t be able to reach him.’

‘Then design small motor units that can hunt him down. Send the Tinkers into our Recycling bins and see what sort of mecks they can come up with. Arm them and put them on remote control. Add a few booths to each ship for the purpose.’

‘A Killer Meck on remote.’

‘Yes. Perhaps we should place a Huntercraft on one of the pursuit vessels. What is their range?’

‘Four hours. About a hundred miles an hour. But I’m not sure what is available, sir.’

The CO interrupted the meeting. ‘In two years there should be a flying machine available. We will equip it to land on water.’

‘ARNOLD will be stopped!’ Furlong smiled.

ARNOLD buckled on his wings: a lecherous angel preparing to tickle anemones in the Benthic Mating Domes. He filled the air with a raw ballad as he secured a tuna to his tow-line.

Larry hand-walked up to the bawdy giant, giving the flopping fish plenty of room. The hemihuman disapproved of the warrior’s Paphian ways; ravishing virgins was a sign of debauchery in his eyes.

‘I’m taking the giant food fish to the old one in the Deep Cult,’ said ARNOLD.

‘Will you search for White Belly?’

‘I’ll visit anemone row again, if that is what you mean. She knows where to find me.’

‘But you’ve been accepting any shameless female that approaches.’

‘Can’t let it go to waste,’ chuckled the ribald giant. ‘There is a shortage of males down there. I’m just doing my duty.’

‘But what of White Belly? Your first love?’

The huge angel paused, his hand on the grapple. ‘I think her exact words were: “They can have him.” Well – they are.’

Upon touching the water, the tuna thrashed for a moment then followed the giant into the deep.

Later, another anemone rode the phallic conning tower.

An indignant Clam climbed on to
Rorqual
’s deck, accompanied by two wizened old angels from the Deep Cult. His bout with Clostridia had left him sullen and morose, but as strong as ever.

‘Greetings!’ called the hemihuman from his perch on the cabin roof. ‘What brings you on board?’

‘We’ll speak to your captain,’ seethed Clam.

The ship relayed the message to the cabins below the poopdeck. ARNOLD put down his tools, rode the elevator and approached the delegation with his right hand raised – grinning.

‘Your smile is out of place,’ flared Clam. ‘We have come on a sore matter.’

ARNOLD sobered. ‘Fine. Join us in my cabin. We have a special delicacy this day – urchin caviar, a golden roe with five consecutive flavours of its own. You must try it.’

Clam waved away the morsels and simmered until everyone was seated. ‘ARNOLD, your amoral mating habits are contrary to the teachings of the Deep Cult.’ The two angels nodded. ‘You demoralize our young maidens, teaching them sin – degeneracy – evil. You are being unfaithful to you first mate – White Belly.’

Larry saw colour rising in the face of the provoked warrior and spoke quickly. ‘I believe that she has already rejected ARNOLD.’

‘She grows with his child; therefore she is his mate – and he hers. It is our way.’

‘I knew she carried my child. All of the King’s embraces are fertile.’

‘You knew? And you care not?’ raved Clam.

Larry felt the table move as the two giants leaned towards each other, sinews taut. The little hemihuman waved them back. ‘I’m sure White Belly doesn’t want to lose either a brother or a mate. Let ARNOLD speak.’

‘I know all of your customs. Larry has been quite thorough. But your ways are not my ways—’

‘You depraved, synthetic warrior!’ interrupted Clam, shaking his good fist. ‘You call yourself “King”; but here in our waters you are just a foul, thieving vagrant – stealing our fish and our women!’

‘Calm down or I’ll turn on the overhead sprinklers,’ said the hemihuman. ‘Let him finish.’

‘I do want White Belly,’ said ARNOLD. ‘I wait at anchor in your waters until the day she learns of her pregnancy. Then she will come to me.’

‘But those other maids? Their waists grow too.’

‘I await them also.’

Clam stood up and went raving and striding around the room. ‘They can’t all come to you! There isn’t room in one of our domes for—’

‘Their rooms are on my ship. I am a surface-dweller.’

‘Surface-dweller?’ mumbled Clam. ‘But the Hive?’

‘I rule the sea,’ said the giant. His voice was steady, confident.

Clam studied the warrior’s face. There was no sign of sarcasm or deceit. ‘A surface-dweller with many wives?’ He sat down slowly.

‘How can you feed all of—?’

‘My ship can feed millions. I am King. I will conquer the world if necessary, but all of my family will have plenty to eat.’

Clam accepted a tangy hors d’oeuvre and munched thoughtfully. ‘Our young women would never accept such an offer! They are pure and innocent, raised in the finest tradition. They would rather die than listen—’

Larry interrupted. ‘Clam, why don’t you take a look at the wives’ quarters? You could tell the girls about the accommodations.’

‘I refuse to be a party to such a blatant—’

‘Let them decide for themselves,’ soothed Larry. ‘Times have changed. The sea gives us food now. The Hive is weaker. ARNOLD is King.’

Aides entered to assist the arthritic angels with wing-wetting and oxygen bottles. A reluctant Clam followed ARNOLD and Larry to the aft elevator.

‘It’s a lonely ship – practically empty. She can carry ten thousand humans and a hundred thousand tons of plankton. Now she has a crew of two hundred and twelve Citizens. They sailed with me and stay on for the triple CQB. Unfortunately, the Nebishes have a short lifespan. They follow orders well. The Servomecks enjoy having them around.’

Clam was fascinated by the size and luxury. He returned from the tour somewhat mollified, accepting a drink from ARNOLD’s table.

‘There certainly is ample nesting room,’ admitted the Benthic. ‘We must have walked through miles of cabins. The girls ought to enjoy the hot and cold Dispensers. They’ll eliminate all the work.’

‘Oh, there’ll be plenty of work on
Rorqual
,’ said Larry. ‘Few of our Citizen crew can tolerate deck exposure. Benthic women will be expected to draw their share of deck duty.’

‘Deck duty?’ said Clam. He eyed the hemihuman thoughtfully, then shrugged. ‘I’ll tell them what I’ve seen. The angels can discuss it with Deep Cult. Bucks are scarce among the domes. Many of our women never find a mate. Perhaps it would be good for a few to stay with ARNOLD.’

‘It will be good,’ said the giant warrior.

The ship extruded a light polymer canoe, a keeled cylinder with mast and outrigger. Delicacies were sacked and tied. ‘Travel the surface while ARNOLD rules the seas.’ The sail was raised. ‘Take our gifts with our words. Let the gravid females decide for themselves,’ said Larry. A grapple launched the little craft.

Seventeen of the Benthic females moved into cabins below the poopdeck. Twenty-eight children were born during the first year. Other Benthic families were enticed on board, while catamarans and maps were prepared. Loaded with seeds, hooks, and nets, they sailed west to settle on the scattered islands of an archipelago. One of these new island families was Har and Opal and six of their offspring. They found a granular super-structure in their lagoon and stunted pigs and chickens in the island’s forest.

The elderly members of the Deep Cult remained in the Ocean’s squeeze, enjoying the thicker air and buoyancy. Scattered Benthics clung to their domes on the continental shelf. Their nakedness and Neolithic culture limited them to the warmer Ocean currents. As Nature reclaimed its niches in the marine world, this new generation of Benthics met new hazards in the returning sea life – creatures with defensive poisons and carnivorous habits. But Man was in the sea to stay. His cyberdomes were clever. They identified each new threat and developed an alarm system for their guests.

Clam’s mate, Sunfish, wrapped their young Tad in his cradle and returned to her chore – cleaning a basket of Cancer borealis, the four-inch-wide, brown ‘Jonah crab’. Her cyberdome detected the approach of a poisonous conch – a purple-fringed, foot-long mollusc. Her ceiling pulsed three times, adopting the purple colour at the point on the rim closest to the danger.

‘Thanks, dome,’ she said, picking up her spear. She went to the edge of the raft nearest the colour and peered down into the greenish waters. The weedy bottom was thickly overgrown. She did not venture into the water until she saw the spiral shell clearly. It was foraging in the tall greens, using its deadly tentacle to bring down small Sebastodes – rock-fish. Slipping into the warm water, she approached the browsing conch. It ignored her. There were few natural enemies that could stand up to its deadly venom. She stabbed at it with her spear. The tentacle tapped the shaft, leaving (she knew) a microscopic lance plus an injection of toxin. She pressed harder. It began its violent rolling flight, extending its foot to the side and twisting its shell first one way and then the other. In a sequence of three rolls it threw itself six feet. Sunfish followed, catching the shell on her point. The tentacle groped in her direction. She was glad that the poison dart was limited in range to the length of the proboscis. Her sharp weapon followed the soft body into its spiral home; a twist and its simple mollusc haemoglobin darkened the waters, attracting a swarm of scavengers who fought over the exposed protein.

Sunfish returned to her dome to find that the pot of whelks had boiled over. She added more seawater to the three-inch snails, small relatives of the deadly creature she had just dispatched.

Clam joined her for the meal. His foraging sack bulged with abalone feet. She sorted through the rubbery, white ovals, rubbing away the peripheral pigments and tossing the fibrous ones to their pet
Stereolepis gigas
. The giant sea bass rose from the bottom, swallowed the morsel, and settled back down.

‘I noticed a couple of cottids fighting over something under the south leg,’ he commented.

‘Conch,’ she said. ‘I killed it about two hours ago.’