Dickie had been in the water in his suit for two days, so during the voyage back to Coq 2 he gobbled down a couple of emergency food bars while telling his story.
“The Sholies have gone utterly feral,” he said between bites. “They killed Isabel. Four or five of them came to drag us back to Hitode. We tried passive resistance—the old activist public theater script. Tied ourselves in with cable ties. Look what that bastard did to my wrists! Chanted at them. ‘We will not be moved! We will not be moved!’ ”
“What happened, Dickie?”
“I don’t know all of it. They stuffed me into a suit and tossed me down the hatch, then went for Isabel. I could hear a lot of fighting inside, and then screams. Then they called for a medic and one of the Sholies guarding me went inside. Then one of them sticks his head out and tells the guard ‘The female died.’ I know enough of their language to understand that, but I pretended I didn’t and waited until they started dragging Fouchard out. He was still alive. Then I swam away as quick as I could and hid in the ruins.”
“Could it have been an accident?”
“Don’t be a fool, Freeman. They murdered her. Bloody butchers. I got out because I’m a witness. I hope Fouchard’s all right.”
“What is the condition of Coquille 1?” asked Josef. “Usable?”
“No. Bastards took the power unit. I went in once or twice to spare my APOS and get some food, but I was afraid they might come back.”
Rob watched Dickie eat for a few minutes. “Dickie, this is important. What were you guys doing? Was it any kind of provocation—or something the Sholen might mistake for provocation?”
“Why am I suddenly on trial when they’re the ones who killed Isabel? No, we didn’t do anything. We resisted, of course—I kicked my legs like a four-year-old and tried my best to wear them out. It was all pretty standard protestor antics, though. No direct violence.”
“They don’t follow the same rules we do,” said Rob. “They’ve got that whole unanimous-vote government thing going. I guess active dissent is like some kind of a crime.”
“Back home we call that fascism, remember? The mask is off now.”
Strongpincer pulls his claw out of the youngster’s body and waits for the legs to stop twitching. “Any older ones hiding in the rocks?” he calls to Weaklegs.
“Nothing but hatchlings.”
Strongpincer begins cutting open the underside to get at the organ meat in the thorax. His plan is a failure. There are no older juveniles ready for training. Nothing but little ones, good only for food.
“Some dead ones here,” Shellcrusher pings. “Pretty big.”
Strongpincer breaks off the pincers to eat as he swims over. There are two dead ones, both torn and nibbled by scavengers, but each has a neat hole just behind the headshield, just the size of an adult’s pincer. He feels the bodies all over. One has defective pincers, the other’s head is small and misshapen. Failures.
He remembers his own time in a schooclass="underline" adults culling the weak and deformed, leaving the bodies for the survivors. He remembers his own gladness at realizing he is strong.
“There are schoolmasters nearby,” he says. “Taste the waters carefully and find out which way they went.”
Strongpincer hopes to salvage his plan. Schoolmasters can dominate the young, but they are often weak and cowardly when dealing with adults. He plans making a show of violence to overawe them. Isolated in coldwater among half-taught young, schoolmasters are often more than half wild themselves. Despite their blather about learning, they respect strength and cruelty. Strongpincer is strong and knows how to be cruel.
Back at Coquille 2, Dickie told his story again, at greater length and without as much chewing and swallowing. When he was done, Alicia was the first to speak.
“What do we do now?”
“We’ve got to fight them,” said Graves. “They’ve obviously taken the gloves off and the longer we wait the more harm they can do.”
“Can I talk to you alone for a second?” Rob asked Alicia.
“Where?”
“Just over here.” The two of them huddled by the rack of suits on the opposite side of the Coquille from the worktable. “I think you should turn yourself in,” he said.
“What?”
“Go back to Hitode and give yourself up. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“You are very noble, Robert, but I will not do that.”
“This is serious, Alicia.”
“I am serious, too.”
He looked into her eyes and came to a decision. “Okay, then. If you’re staying, then so am I.”
The two of them returned to the table, where Josef and Dickie pretended they hadn’t heard every whisper of their conversation.
“Okay,” said Rob. “We need to figure out how we’re going to defeat the Sholen.”
Broadtail is untangling some of Oneclaw’s books. The old teacher has some interesting works. Aside from standards like the Comprehensive List of Words by Roundbody 1 Midden or the Collection of Useful Arts by the Coldvent Company of Scholars, there’s a copy of The Anatomy of Communication by Flathead 67 Lowbasin, and the favorite of eccentrics everywhere, The Source of Flow by Longhead 52 Deepsand.
He’s running a copy of Sound-Pulses Directed Downward by Widehead 66 Coldruins through his feelers when Oneclaw comes to the entrance, pinging loudly.
“Quickly! A band of adults with a towfin are coming! Take up a weapon—they may be raiders.”
Broadtail grabs a bolt-launcher and hurries outside. There are two adults approaching the shelter, and he can hear another and a towfin about a cable away.
“Who are you?” calls Oneclaw as they approach.
“We are a horde of desperate killers,” says the leader. “Give us what we want or we attack.”
Broadtail pings them. He recognizes the speaker—it is the leader of the bandits he remembers plundering his expedition. Anger floods through him. Why can’t they leave him alone?
“Go away!” he shouts.
“Why so fierce?” Oneclaw taps quietly on Broadtail’s shell.
He answers aloud. “These are bandits. But not a desperate horde—cowardly ambushers and robbers.”
“I remember you,” says the leader. “And I remember attacking you in cold water. A fair fight, with no marker stones near. No law.”
“You are inside my boundaries,” says Oneclaw. “It is my law here, and I say peace. Agree, leave, or fight.”
“We are three, all strong and fit. You are two, with one missing a claw.”
“Then come and fight!” cried Broadtail. He quotes the epic The Conquest of The City of Three Vents. “ ‘Nothing is certain but your death.’ ”
For a moment nobody says anything.
“We ask your protection, then,” says the leader to Oneclaw. “My name is Strongpincer. My band and I wish to rest here.”
“Don’t trust them!” Broadtail taps out on Oneclaw’s shell.
“Of course not,” is the silent reply. “But I do not want fighting if I can avoid it.” Aloud, he says “I have a little fodder and some food, but little else to give you. You may rest and tether your beast by the boundary stones. I do not take you under my protection and you must leave when I ask.”
“Agreed.”
The newcomers set up camp just inside Oneclaw’s boundary, not far from the pens holding the students. By all law and custom they should lay aside their weapons, but Broadtail doubts Strongpincer cares much for law and custom.