“Here they come. I love you.”
Broadtail and Longpincer confer just inside the net barrier.
“You are certain?”
“Builder 1’s silent sense detects them. They approach.”
“All is ready here. I need only sound the signal.” Longpincer pats the signaling device. It resembles an ordinary snapper, but the stick in it is nearly as thick as one of Broadtail’s minor limbs. When it snaps, he imagines the sound carrying as far as Continuous Abundance.
“I suggest waiting until they reach the nets,” says Broadtail, and then immediately regrets it.
“I remember doing this many times before,” Longpincer points out. “Please do not lecture me like an apprentice on my own land.”
“I mean no offense.”
“Of course not. All of us are poised with pincers ready. Are you hungry? There is a pile of food back by the house flow channel. All must be full and strong to fight.”
“I am full.”
“Then let us listen.”
They wait in silence. Broadtail can hear the nets waving in the current, the rumble of the vent, and a persis tent hiss from a leaking flow conduit nearby. As he relaxes he picks up more distant sounds: one of Longpincer’s apprentices fidgeting as he waits near the net, the irritating high-pitched buzz Builders sometimes make, the faint clicking of scavengers crawling over Longpincer’s house, and, far away but all-pervasive, the creak of the ice above the world.
And now he hears the invaders. They are about three cables distant. The bandit adults ping one another carelessly. The devices of the Squatters make a steady hum. The Squatters themselves swim noisily. He remembers a truism: the weak are silent when the strong make noise. Well, that is true enough now. But there is another old saying; he remembers tying it into a reel when first learning to write: a noisy swimmer is soon silenced.
Though he knows the Bitterwater vent is Longpincer’s, Broadtail cannot rid himself of the feeling that he is the one defending his own property. The Builders are his discovery, and these Squatters and their bandit servants wish to take them away from him. He will not allow it. Broadtail takes up his spear and waits for something to stab with it.
Tizhos was miserable. The journey seemed to last forever: a two-day push through endless black water, sealed up in her suit with the smell of her own anger and fear, struggling to keep up with the Ilmatarans and Irona’s Guardians. Her suit’s foodmaker could never create enough broth to satisfy her, and the flavorings seemed particularly artificial today.
From time to time, Irona switched on the laser link to make leader-like noises. “The humans endanger this entire planet,” he said. “We must drive them away and leave it once again pure and undefiled! All our efforts lead to this moment. We cannot fail!”
Tizhos noted wryly that not even the Guardians cheered Irona’s harangues anymore. But neither did any of them question the consensus. Since Irona had selected all of them personally, they shared his devotion to the ideal of Tracelessness.
The war party moved past a jumble of ancient stones, rounded by the water but obviously carved by Ilmataran tools. It felt oddly comforting, Tizhos thought, to live in a world where somebody made everything, even the rocks. Back on Shalina so much effort went into erasing traces of the past, coaxing the planet into a carefully maintained imitation of wildness.
She looked back at the two great native animals being guided by their Ilmataran allies. They were beautiful creatures, shaped almost like aircraft, with rippling delta wings and a gaping mouth like a jet intake. One was towing a net filled with food for the Ilmataran troops, but the second had a mysterious payload that Irona refused to let Tizhos get close to.
According to the navigation display, they were only seven or eight hundred meters from the Ilmataran settlement where the humans were hiding. Irona called a halt as they reached a low ridge that gave some visual cover.
“Tizhos,” he said over the private link. “Tell the Ilmataran troops to get ready. When I give the order, have them move forward to attack the complex.”
“What about me? Where do you want me to go?”
“Stay close to me. I need you to translate for the Ilmatarans.”
“Irona, I believe we should give them one last chance to surrender. Perhaps when they see how many we have brought they will give up.”
“I consider the situation too far gone for that. The humans did not take the opportunity to surrender before. I do not believe they will do so now. It seems foolish to alert them to our presence.”
“So you actually intend to just plunge in and begin attacking?”
“Of course. All moral beings find fighting a terrible thing, yet we must do it to preserve this world. Now I want you to remain quiet, Tizhos.”
Tizhos could smell her suit flooding with aggression pheromones, and kept herself rigidly quiet and still until the air cleaners could scrub them away. Isolated from each other in their suits, both she and Irona were limited to sound communication only, forcing them to be as emotionless and hierarchical as humans.
Two of the Ilmataran teamsters guided the second towfin to a position on the other side of Irona and began untying their mysterious payload. Tizhos sidled over to get a look while Irona and the other Sholen Guardians were getting ready. The objects the creature had hauled all the way from Hitode were a pair of big streamlined cylinders with propellers and guidance fins at the back. Irona had kept them secret ever since they had come down from the surface with a supply drop.
Were they giant impellers? But they had no controls or handles. Camera drones? Perhaps the first camera drones in Shalina’s oceans had been that large; not even the humans used anything so bulky. Maybe they were some kind of long-range drone with lots of batteries on board. But why have them towed, then?
Then Tizhos realized what the things were. She called up the reference on her helmet computer to be sure. During the age of warfare, ships and submarines in Shalina’s oceans had used self-propelled explosive carriers that looked very much like these objects. They were torpedoes.
She searched frantically through her computer files, looking for anything about the effects of such weapons. She finally located something in, ironically enough, a description of human military technology. Tizhos did a little calculating, let out a noise of terror, and did the math again just to be sure. Her suit reeked of fear.
“Irona!” Tizhos scrambled across the sea bottom to where the other Sholen were gathered in a last-minute tactical conference. “Irona, I must make an objection! Those explosive devices—you must not use them!”
Irona activated the private link and Tizhos could hear irritation in his voice. “Do not broadcast every detail of our tactical plan. The humans have drones and, thanks to your carelessness, may have heard you.”
“Tell me the explosive power of these devices.”
“First explain why I should tell you anything. I lead this expedition.”
“Irona, I fear you do not understand the power of these weapons! The shock from an underwater explosion may kill or injure individuals up to a hundred meters away.”
“I understand that perfectly, Tizhos. I had them made and brought them for just that reason. Now please stop interfering.” Irona switched off the link and resumed his conversation with the others.
Tizhos was shaken. Was Irona willing to use torpedoes capable of sinking an oceangoing ship just to kill three humans? It seemed impossible. Didn’t he realize how many Ilmatarans would be killed?
And then Tizhos understood. Of course Irona knew how many of the natives would die. He had planned on it. They were in contact with the humans. Tainted and corrupted, in Irona’s mind. Infected with the knowledge of the universe beyond the ice. Irona wished to kill them all and return Ilmatar to its pristine innocence.