Tizhos found Gishora in the dive room, getting into a suit. “Tell me if you intend to go out again.”
“Yes,” Gishora answered. “I have little to do within the station. You perform your tasks extremely well.” With the suit covering Gishora and the strong smell of the Ilmataran water, the words of praise had little effect.
“You know of the potential for danger outside. I urge you to take along Guardians.”
“The Guardians know little of proper scientific technique. I find it difficult to gather specimens with them around. Each time I go out I must teach them again not to make noise or stir up the silt.”
“They did not come here to do science.”
“Exactly.” Gishora was entirely suited but for his hood. “I feel no fear outside alone. The humans remain in hiding.”
Tizhos lowered her voice. “Irona contacted me privately. He expressed concern about how slowly the evacuation proceeds.”
“No doubt time seems to pass more slowly aboard the ship in orbit. Here I can barely find time for all the things I wish to do.”
“He said his Guardians complain that you spend more time doing science than hunting for the humans.”
“His Guardians? I did not know Sholen have become things one can own, or that our mission has become Irona’s personal property, rather than a working group assembled for a task.”
“The Guardians, then. Instead of critiquing my speech you should worry that they complain about you to Irona.”
“When I hear something which causes me worry, I will worry about it. The fact that some of the Guardians complain does not bother me.”
“I feel that you should pay more attention to Irona’s concerns. I think most of the others aboard the ship agree with him about the humans.”
Gishora stationed himself on the edge of the pool. “I know—but the faster we send up the humans, the less time remains to study this world. We have lost, Tizhos. Irona’s faction wish to end exploration here, for both Sholen and humans. Now that both sides have used violence, I see no way to salvage the situation.”
Tizhos cringed a little at that.
Gishora didn’t sound angry, though, and continued speaking. “Therefore I must gather as much information as I can while we remain here. We may never get the chance again. You might consider doing the same.” With that he sealed up his hood, then rolled into the water and disappeared.
Broadtail and Oneclaw take turns staying awake and on guard while the bandits are camped by the school. They don’t get much teaching done, although Broadtail does keep up the language lessons while feeding the students.
He’s trying to get Holdhard to say “Give me that food,” when he hears Strongpincer approaching. He turns, keeping his spear ready.
“A good class of young ones,” says Strongpincer. “Any of them ready to sell? I could use a few apprentices.”
“They’re still just learning proper speech. We still have much to teach them.”
“How much do they sell for? I’ve never bought one.”
“I remember buying one for a thousand beads at Continuous Abundance.”
“Do you remember doing something else before teaching?”
“I do. I recall being a landowner, and being exiled for murder.” He hopes that makes him sound more formidable.
“I must be wary around such a dangerous adult, then,” says Strongpincer, then turns and starts to swim away. As he does, something tied to his harness rattles oddly, and Broadtail gives a little ping to find out what it is. It’s some kind of box, carved of stone.
“What is that?”
“What? This thing?” Strongpincer taps it with a leg.
“Yes. Where do you remember finding it?”
“In some ruins. Hiding out from militia. Why do you ask?”
“I’m interested in objects like that. May I feel it?”
Strongpincer hesitates, then hands it to Broadtail. The lid of the box fits very closely, and inside is an object unlike anything Broadtail can remember. He sets down his spear and takes a reel of cord from his harness to make some notes.
“Please tell me everything you can about its origin,” he asks.
“What’s it worth to you?”
“You can have all my wealth,” says Broadtail. “Which is nothing. I am alive only because of Oneclaw’s charity.”
“Then give it back.”
For a moment Broadtail wants to fight Strongpincer for it, but then he realizes he has put down his spear. He passes the box back. “Do you have anything else like it?”
“What do I gain by letting you handle my things? You admit you have nothing.”
“You are a guest here. I am certain Oneclaw is also interested in strange things.”
Strongpincer turns to go. “We camp by the boundary, and one of you always stands guard. That is not how one treats a guest. I owe you nothing.”
“What do you want for it, then?”
Strongpincer stops and turns back to Broadtail. “I need some apprentices. Trade me four of the young ones here for the box.”
“They are not mine to trade.”
“Tell Oneclaw, then. Or—”
“What?”
“You sound like a good fighter. As he sleeps, gather the young ones and come with me.”
“I owe Oneclaw my life. I remember almost dying but for him.”
“And now you are no better than an apprentice here. You have nothing that is not his. I can show you where I recall finding the box. Others may be there. Leave the schoolmaster.”
Broadtail is tempted. He doesn’t even like Oneclaw very much. But… “No. It is wrong to even suggest it.”
“Calm yourself. Think about it. Consider my offer carefully—and consider what you can expect by staying here. I must go.” He turns again and strolls off. The students clamor for food as he passes.
Dickie Graves let the current push him toward Hitode, kicking occasionally to keep himself oriented and maintain depth. He took shallow breaths, trying to stay irregular. There was a plastic bag over the hydrogen vent on his backpack, and from time to time he emptied it. Presumably the Sholen would be listening for the regular bubble-bubble-bubble of an unmodified APOS.
According to the inertial compass he was less than a kilometer from Hitode. Which meant he’d be coming up on the outer line of hydrophones soon.
The raid was his own idea: a trip by impeller to the jumbled rocks at Maury Epsilon, then an easy two-klick swim, sabotage one of the hydrophones and swim away before the Sholen could react. Over time he could make the station deaf, or force the Sholen to send out patrols—which could be ambushed.
It was all just like Von Lettow in Africa: keep the enemy uncertain and force him to guard all possible targets. Classic guerrilla strategy. The Sholen might have advanced nanotech and stuff like that, but their society had forgotten how to make war. They were making themselves into sheep while humans were still wolves. Dickie Graves thought he was a particularly fearsome wolf.
According to the inertial compass he was just a hundred meters from hydrophone six. He let himself drop to the sea bottom and began to crawl, moving from rock to rock. This was familiar territory; he’d helped set up the hydrophone net. Number six was just ahead, perched atop a boulder to keep it from getting covered with silt. He’d come at it from the side and cut the data cable, then grab the phone and swim like hell.
He had covered sixty meters creeping along the bottom when he heard someone swimming. His helmet sonar pinpointed the source: a single individual coming out from Hitode. For a moment Dickie was afraid he’d been heard, but then the swimmer veered off to the west, heading for one of the nets. Dickie toggled up the sound volume and listened. It didn’t sound like a human swimming. It sounded like a Sholen.