Once in open water, Hacker tried to keep up by swimming alongside his dolphin rescuer. But it was hard to do, with his body battered and bruised from that harsh landing and narrowly evading death on a coral reef.
Also, the survival suit-advertised as “good for everything from deep space to Everest to the bottom of the sea”-took some getting used to. But Hacker’s brain still wouldn’t focus. His hands felt like sausages, fumbling as he pulled tabs, releasing extra gill fronds from a recess along the helmet rim, in order to draw more oxygen from the water.
Worse, the darned dolphin kept getting impatient. When Hacker tried to deploy extension fins on each bootie, for better swimming, the creature gave out a frustrated bleat and chuttering complaint. Then it resumed shoving Hacker along, with its bottle-shaped nose.
Like an exasperated relative, forced to push along an invalid, Hacker thought, resentfully. I don’t have to put up with this!
Though he still couldn’t hear with his clamped eardrums, the sonic sensor in his jaw indicated that they were heading farther out to sea, leaving the pounding reef behind. And with it, the shattered remnants of his expensive suborbital capsule.
I should have tried to salvage more. At least grabbed the radio console.
Or that little survival raft, under the seat! Why didn’t I think of that before? I have to go back for it!
The nosy dolphin chose that moment to poke his back again.
Enough! Hacker started to whirl on the creature, aiming to give it a good smack. Then it might take a hint. Leave him alone…
Only, before he could fully rotate, two more gray forms converged from the left, followed by another pair zooming in from the right. The newcomers circled around, scanning Hacker and his rescuer with ratcheting sonar clicks and squeals that resonated through the crystal waters, making his jaw throb.
Hacker finally managed to turn, making as if to return the way he came. But three of the big, gray creatures swam around to interpose themselves. Clearly, they would have none of that.
For a while-it was unclear how long-Hacker screamed at them. Though he could not hear the curses, his faceplate filled with spittle and fog. Then, all of a sudden, the bitter anger evaporated, as if discharged into the surrounding sea. Rage seemed to float away, replaced by resignation.
“All… right… then,” he willed coherent words, gradually regaining his breath as the all-purpose helmet wicked away fumes from his tirade, while pulling in more oxygen. It would also project his voice, if he remembered to do it right.
“All right, we’ll do it your way. But this means you’re responsible. You’ve got to take care of me. At least till I can flag down the damn recovery team.”
Of course the dolphins didn’t understand words. Still, when he turned to swim the other way, they seemed to nod and agree, darting to the surface for air, then swimming alongside slowly enough for him to keep up.
At intervals, just to move things along, one of them would offer its dorsal fin and let Hacker hang on for a brief ride, hurtling through the crystal water much faster than he could ever manage himself. Sometimes, when his bearer climbed to breathe, his own face would emerge and the fronds engorged themselves like balloons, while he scanned the horizon quickly. But there was never any sign of land.
They settled into a routine… a rhythm… part underwater excursion and part extravagant leaping. After a while, though still bruised, dazed, and numb from painkillers, Hacker finally had to admit, almost grudgingly…
… that it was pretty fun.
* Another ice dam is crumbling in Greenland, threatening a massive freshwater spill, just when the North Atlantic Salinity Cycle seemed about to restart. Desperate for the Gulf Stream to flow again, Poland and Russia are threatening to use nukes, without making clear how that might help. (*blink* and UR there)
* Inside the mélange of North America, farm state collectives raised the specter of a food boycott, after the Metropolitan League declared plans to form a “poop-cartel,” selling urban sewage at a fixed price. (*blink* & UR there)
* Veterans of the last Great Awakening are back, holding another prophecy conclave in Colorado Springs. Unapologetic over their failed forecasts of the 2030s’ cruci-millennium, they are calling for a new wave of tent meetings from pinnacle to prairie. “Because,” according to spokesrevelator Iain Tserff, “this time, for sure!” (*blink* & UR there)
In response, the nearby Blue-Republic of Boulder responded by conscripting a fresh platoon of lawyers to pursue collection on the Big Wager of 2036. Referring to the ongoing tiff between trog and agog enclaves, Professor Mayor Eileen Gaypurse-Fitzpatrick said: “Before these dingbats spread more panic, they owe us a new sports stadium! And an apology for betting-and-praying our city would be swallowed by hell. Pay up! And, this time, no whining ‘double-or-nothing.’” (*blink* & UR there)
22.
Of course, the speech was ruined. All chance of a high-note ending was now gone, along with any useful footage. Even fifty years from now, the lead memory-image from this event would be that of Hamish himself, staring like a poleaxed calf, muttering some reflex platitudes about how everyone should remain dubious and calm.
“Perhaps this is a hoax,” he suggested. “Or something much less than it seems. But even if it isn’t… even if the cosmos has suddenly come calling… and everything changes…” He swallowed hard, eager only to get away. “In the end, we’ll need caution, rather than arrogant pride, to get across the days and years ahead.
“What worked for so many individuals, groups, nations, and races who came before us? Amid doubt, worry, and a myriad shocks, we should remember our limitations. Admit the boundaries of our wisdom, and turn to others, wiser than ourselves.”
Was that a sufficiently lofty and ambiguous note to finish on? Many would assume that he was speaking of God. Or preaching humility. Some-a few-would know that he referred to the pyramid’s eye. The Prophet and the Movement.
No matter. It was time to leave. While more people stood and pressed forward with questions or arguments, Hamish turned away with a farewell wave of one hand, to a mere smattering of applause.
Worst speech, ever, he growled, not even shaking hands with the conference organizers, who waited backstage. A sick feeling inside, made him wish he could teleport away. Not to a lonely mountain or beach, or to some place drenched in the latest news, but his private study. To his old-fashioned keyboard and the kind of work he once did happily, if obsessively, for days on end. Like things were before Carolyn left. Before great men discovered his other uses.
But escape was far away. Wriggles spoke from his earring, whispering a reminder. You have that meeting. With Betsby.
Stifling a sigh, Hamish turned to the middle-aged man who had been assigned to take care of him. Erik somebody-big-boned, but painfully thin. Apparently one of those caloric restriction types. But if he nursed any miffed feelings after Hamish’s speech, it didn’t show.
“You promised me a secure meeting room,” Hamish said. “One with two entrances, and no cam views of either.”
“This way, sir. I swept both corridors myself, just a few minutes ago. Of course, no one can guarantee-”
“It’s okay.” Hamish waved away any concern. “My meeting isn’t secret, or even important. I just-”
He let it go with a shrug. There are precautions you can take, nowadays, to keep an encounter vague, ambiguous. Rumored, inferred, but not proved. Deniable, even if folks swear they saw Jill go in one door and Jack go in the other. The trick is not to draw attention.