Drowning World (19 page)

Grudgingly, Hasa felt compelled to ask, “How you feelin'?”

“Exhausted. Embarrassed. Most highly mortified.” A strip of gold and blue wound itself around his upper body, over one shoulder, and down his back. Though intricate in execution, the mannered procedure of Deyzara dressing was only interesting the first time it was observed. “My entire back feels as if it has been flayed by flies.”

“The itching will pass,” Jemunu-jah assured him. “Better to laugh at such things than scream in pain.”

“One reaches a point where it becomes exceedingly difficult to tell the difference.” Right arm quivering, he used the two wide, strong digits to fasten a length of wrapping beneath his other arm as he turned his gaze on Hasa. “I appreciate your not shooting at me in a misguided attempt to rid me of the damnable affliction.”

“Don't mention it,” Hasa replied without breaking a smile. “You sure you're okay?”

“There will be some small marks,” Jemunu-jah commented. “In a few days, they all faded away. Next time, be more carefuling where you put down your backside.”

Masurathoo's reply was, for an instant, the coldest thing in that part of the Viisiiviisii. “Thank you for that most small admonition. And now, if you don't mind, I find myself entirely too open to the elements.” Bending, he moved to recover the rain cape that the ministering Jemunu-jah had set aside. In so doing, his foot crashed through a narrow place in the moss bed, promptly sending him headfirst into the shallow depths of the soft green pad.

As they worked together to pull him out, Jemunu-jah and Hasa found that even without the presence of any hitchhiking, tickling kaema on their bodies, it was their turn to laugh.

Another river. Wider than the one they had been forced to swim previously. Wider and this time boasting a significant current.

Recovered from his humiliating encounter with the kaema, Masurathoo contemplated the broad waterway that stretched out before them with understandable trepidation. Though there was nothing to suggest the presence of another giimatasa, or something even worse, he had no doubt that the river's unseen depths were home to other kinds of predators as resourceful as they were voracious.

“Raft,” he declared curtly.

“No time.” Though his tone was unchanged, even Hasa was a bit discouraged by the width of the watercourse. “If we wanted to spend a lot of time in one place, we would've stayed with the skimmers.”

“I tell you right here and now, sir, that I am not swimming that. Our last aqueous excursion provided more than enough excitement for me. I have no desire to repeat the experience.”

Nearby, Jemunu-jah was scrutinizing the trees that grew right to the edge of the open water. “Not much here good for making raft anyway.” He looked back at the Deyzara. “Since we also cannot make a skimmer out of leaves and vines, we have to swim. Deyzara are good swimmers. You show that before.”

“Not as good as the local flesh eaters.”

Hasa was willing to concede the Deyzara's point. “Maybe we don't have time to build a boat, but we might look around for some kind of natural protection. Thorns, poisons we could dump in the water around us. That sort of thing.” He focused on Jemunu-jah. “I don't recognize anything useful here. You got any ideas?”

The Sakuntala paused, then gestured approvingly with his tongue. “Maybe something we passed a little while ago. I think it will do what is needed. But it will be difficult make work.”

Hasa frowned. “Difficult how?”

Turning, Jemunu-jah beckoned for them to follow. “Easier to show than explain.”

Back within the trees five minutes later, they stood on branches looking down at a cluster of blossoms floating on the water. They were undoubtedly the most beautiful flowers Shadrach Hasselemoga had ever seen in his life, on any world. Without question, collectors of rare and exotic flora would pay a fortune for their seeds, seedlings, cuttings, or samples. While he had no idea what Jemunu-jah had in mind, he did know that the Sakuntala had unintentionally led him to a new source of income.

“Where are the thorns, or are the leaves toxic?” He found himself enthralled by the beauty floating on the water at his feet.

“Vatulalilu has no thorns, no poisons.” After making a quick scan of the surrounding waters for lurking predators and finding none, Jemunu-jah started down. His companions followed.

Up close, the individual blooms were even more spectacular. From a cream white center individual metallic blue petals as long as Hasa's arm thrust outward in all directions. They shaded from a pale turquoise, to a deep royal blue, to, in a few isolated instances, dark purple. Gold flecks danced within the anthers. Each time a raindrop landed on one of the leaves, the spot where it struck seemed to explode with golden fire. From the center, crimson stamens curved up and out in graceful arcs, to terminate in pistils tipped with black the color of obsidian. The breathtakingly beautiful blooms were, without question, the most stunning single life-form Hasa had yet encountered in his exploratory forays through the Viisiiviisii.

Yet . . . he had spent too much time on too many treacherous worlds to accept the alluring display of floral beauty unquestioningly. True to Jemunu-jah's words, no thorns or other protective adaptations were visible. That did not mean they did not exist. Needing sunlight, the vatulalilu had put down its long roots where its spectacular blossoms were not blocked by spreading branches or overhanging fungi. It stood open to the rain and the intermittent sun. This also exposed the staggering display of color to any wandering herbivores who might hop, swim, or fly past. Yet insofar as he could tell, the closely packed water plants had not suffered a single tear or bite mark. Despite advertising its presence with an unsurpassed burst of color, the vatulalilu pushed its blossoms toward the sky unscathed.

“I know.” He spoke aloud in reply to his own unasked question. “The flowers have a bad taste. Probably concentrates ammonia or something in the leaves.”

“Not bitter.” Standing in the rain to one side of the eruption of efflorescence, Jemunu-jah once more wielded the small flare tool he had employed earlier to remove the tickling kaema from Masurathoo's back. Stretching out his arm, he drew the blue light of the versatile cutting tool across one huge bloom, leaving several cuts in half a dozen petals.

Human and Deyzara both tensed, but nothing happened. After a respectful pause, a mystified Hasa stepped forward to inspect the damage. A pale liquid the color and consistency of honey oozed from the multiple cuts. It was thick enough to maintain its texture in the rain.

He leaned closer. Jemunu-jah had assured them nothing about the vatulalilu was toxic. Could it be corrosive? Extending one tentative finger toward the thick goo, he half expected the Sakuntala to warn him off. Instead, Jemunu-jah continued to stand off to one side, watching silently. A suspicious Hasa drew his hand back anyway. At that point, he caught his first full whiff of the golden ooze.

He retched so violently that he fell backward. Only reflexes honed from years of exploring the most inhospitable reaches of alien worlds allowed him to grab onto a couple of branches and keep from falling into the water below. Eyes wide, he continued to vomit with such vehemence that he felt like his stomach was going to rise right up through his throat and burst out his mouth.

Observing this, the always alert Masurathoo took a couple of prudent steps backward along the branch on which he was standing. “What ails our unhappy colleague?”

Ignoring the heaving human, Jemunu-jah walked back to the plant and began making measured slices on every blossom. Honey-hued fluid promptly began to flow from each successive cut. When he was satisfied with his destructive but measured handiwork, the Sakuntala put away the flare tool. Using his long fingers, he began to scoop up the thick, sticky liquid and smear it strategically on his body. Every now and then, with a look of resigned expectation, he would pause to throw up. Each time one of these startling episodes of strenuous but measured upchucking concluded, he would resume the work.

Eventually, Hasa's digestive system had nothing more to give. Too weak to be really angry, the prospector rose to his feet to confront the Sakuntala.

“You scrawny, underhanded excuse for an alien monkey-rat! You could have
told
me the plant was protected by an olfactory defense!”

Methodically applying daubs of golden goo to his fur, the Sakuntala regarded him out of double-lidded eyes. “If I had described in detail what going to happen, would you still have been willing undergo the experience?”

Hasa started to respond, hesitated, then replied in a low murmur of grudging acceptance, “Not likely.”

“You see?” Having exhausted the supply of glistening golden stink from one flower, Jemunu-jah moved on to the next. “You need not put it on you bodies. The vatulalilu sap will stick plenty enough to your clothing.”

Masurathoo's speaking trunk hardly moved. “Plenty enough for what purpose, my dear Jemunu-jah?”

“The scent of vatulalilu flower holds its strength even in water. Well covered in it, we can safe swim the river that blocks our way. Water dwellers may come close to us, but nothing will bite.”

“I can believe it. With that stench smeared all over, I wouldn't want to come too close to me, either.” Swallowing hard while fighting to steady what remained of his stomach, Hasa clenched his lips and advanced on the nearest spray of blindingly beautiful blossoms. Turning off his rain cape, he removed it, folded it neatly for a second time, and stuffed it into its vacant pouch. Reaching down, he scooped up a fingerload of the shimmering liquid and began to spread it across his chest. He promptly gagged, fought down the automatic reaction, and continued to battle the retching reflex as he treated first his torso, then his limbs.

Masurathoo watched until his companions were almost finished. Then he sighed softly through his breathing trunk, moved forward to join them, and began to emulate their actions. Hasa paused in his work, his expression one of grim expectancy. Jemunu-jah did likewise.

Manifesting supreme indifference to the vatulalilu flowers' ferocious fragrance, the Deyzara blithely smeared large fingerfuls of the potent syrupy extrusion all over his body. After several minutes, he finally noticed the dumbfounded stares of his companions.

“What? Oh, I understand. You're wondering why I am not regurgitating the remnants of my last several meals all over the forest.”

“You could say that.” As familiarity with the golden fluid did not breed acceptance, Hasa was still having to fight down a constant and all but overwhelming urge to puke.

Masurathoo returned to the work at hand. “That is easily explained. We Deyzara have a well-known tolerance for strong odors.” He held a double-digited handful of the goo up to the end of his breathing trunk, a gesture sufficiently profound in its implications that it very nearly did make the queasy Hasa throw up all over again. “To me, this substance smells only slightly sweetish.”

“And yet,” Jemunu-jah observed, “there is an internal scientific logic to this. Deyzara smell so bad naturally it not surprising they would not be bothered by essence of vatulalilu. Petal perfume would be hard to detect over own body odor.”

Masurathoo was suitably indifferent to the implied insult. “Spoken as by one with no experience or knowledge of the subtleties of fine fragrances.” Having sufficiently smeared his rapidly shredding body wrappings with the pungent plant extract, he strode serenely between them, exuding confidence (and much more) as he headed for the suddenly no longer terrifying river.

Both wobbly from the effects of repeated upchucking, his companions followed rather more shakily. They did not exchange a word but, upon reaching the river's edge, conspired simultaneously to pick up, swing, and throw the wildly protesting Deyzara headfirst into the waiting water.

13

M
atthias did not want to go back to the skimmer port. Swamped with requests for authorizations, statistics that had to be evaluated, decisions that had to be approved, subordinates who had to be coddled, and delegations of Deyzara desperately in need of reassurance, she barely had time to leave her office long enough to say hello to her family before collapsing into the cooled, dehumidified airbed alongside her husband. But the call had been both cryptic and urgent.

This time she took no chances. It was all very well and good to put on a brave front, to pretend that the official Commonwealth contingent on Fluva was neutral and favored neither side in the ongoing fight. Unfortunately, reality conflicted. She had no desire to be surrounded again by an angry mob of hungry, dispossessed Deyzara.

This time when she arrived at the port, she was accompanied by a pair of armed peaceforcers. Instead of landing some distance from her intended destination, her skimmer touched down directly opposite the main service facilities. Flanked by her guards, she moved quickly through the rain and into the building, hardly glancing at the milling crowd outside. Actually, she noted, things appeared to have settled down somewhat since her last visit. Bedara and his team seemed to be getting things under control. She chose to believe that was the case as she moved deeper into the arched structure.

Tarik Bergovoy was waiting for her. Unusual for a Commonwealth resident of Fluva, he sported a neatly trimmed white beard. The longer they stayed on Fluva, the more inclined resident humans were to engage in general depilation, since body hair offered an inviting mobile nesting site for all manner of tiny opportunistic creatures. Not Bergovoy. In addition to his beard, he flourished a full head of curly gray-black hair in hirsute defiance of potential infestation.

“Administrator.” They shook hands. His fingers were thick and rough, though the ambient humidity that softened everything made them feel more creased than calloused.

They spoke while strolling toward the rear of the main hangar. At present, several large skimmers were undergoing servicing. Flashes of actinic light like miniature thunderbolts sparked from the undersides and flanks of various craft. Half-hidden by the open panels behind which they were working, painters were laying down new circuitry. Mechanicals scurried to and fro across the bare, dry floor, ferrying equipment and supplies to preoccupied workers. More sophisticated mechs carried out automated, less sensitive repairs on their own, without human supervision. At the far end of the hangar, a solitary thranx was tuning some particularly delicate and expensive piece of apparatus recently arrived from Amropolous.

“Things going okay here, Tarik?”

He shrugged diffidently. “Every now and then we have to bring in a couple of peaceforcers to evict some shelter-seeking refugees from one corner of the facility or another. That's supposed to be Sanderson's job, not ours. Interrupts our work here.”

Wim Sanderson was head of port authority. “I'll have a word with him,” she assured the chief mechanic. “That's not why you got me out of bed to come down here. Why didn't you just message what you had to tell me?”

Bergovoy glanced around. His manner was casual, but his eyes were not. “Didn't trust the system. I know it's supposed to be secure, but you never know.” He returned his attention to his guest. “In response to your requests, I had the service records on the two missing vehicles compiled. They were more interesting for what wasn't there than for what was.”

She eyed him intently. “You want to elaborate on that?”

Bergovoy absently stroked his beard. He did not look at all, she reflected, like Saint Nick. More like one of the red-suited fat man's assistants: the one who did the dirty work in some dim, windowless basement of the toy workshop.

“It was cleverly done, but not so perfectly that someone who knows how to read maintenance records couldn't spot the anomalies. Of course, you'd have to be looking for something like that or you'd just gloss over them. That's what happened until I went digging for specifics. Certain details had been altered. Others—not many, but of significance—were missing altogether. It was a good job, but not perfect. Suggests that whoever was involved was knowledgeable, but no expert.”

She took a moment to scan their surroundings herself. Satisfied that they were not being watched, she looked back up at the chief mechanic. “It follows that whoever went to the trouble of manipulating official records might also have gone to the greater trouble of manipulating the related skimmer instrumentation.”

Bergovoy nodded solemnly. “Instrumentation, onboard equipment, explicit vehicular functions—that I wasn't able to determine.” His expression darkened. “I pride myself on running a good shop here, even under Fluvan conditions. We service all Authority vehicles here as well as a goodly number of private craft. People depend on us, on the quality and reliability of our work.” Turning slightly, he gestured toward the rain-swept forest.

“No way would I let one of my people send a suspect vehicle into town, much less out into the Viisiiviisii. Nothing leaves here unless it's had all its systems, even the noncritical ones, double–checked out. Whoever altered those service records knew they were sending people in harm's way. I don't know exactly what was done to those two missing skimmers, but the consequences speak for themselves.” Holding up a fist, he slowly clenched and released his powerful fingers. “When we find out who it was, I'd like to request the pleasure of a face-to-face conversation with them.”

She ignored the appeal. “Any idea who might be responsible?”

He shook his head sharply. “I'd hate to think it was any of my people. But only qualified users and technicians have access to hangared craft.”

“
Authorized
access,” she corrected him.

He nodded. “I always thought we had adequate security here. But this isn't Brisbane, or Chitteranx. Of course, port security's been stepped up since this crisis with the Deyzara and the Sakuntala, but both of the skimmers in question set out and went down before all this got really cranked up.”

He went silent then. In lieu of further questions, she waited for additional comments. When he looked up at her again, he appeared uncertain.

“Come on, Tarik,” she encouraged him. “Whatever it is you're thinking, even if it's no more than pure speculation, I need to know. I'm working in the dark here.”

“It's nothing conclusive,” he muttered. “Just a possibility. There's no proof of anything.”

She smiled up at him. “I'm a professional bureaucrat, Tarik. I'm used to separating suspicion from fact. I don't jump to conclusions.”

Pursing his lips, he nodded understandingly. “All right, then: here it is. Personnel records show that among those who worked on not one, but both, of the stray skimmers were a service specialist name of Charukande and a parts tech named Dalindidretha.”

The names were sufficient identification. “I didn't know you had Deyzara technicians working here.”

“Sure. They're good, too. Although I don't work directly with any of them, I made sure to check the performance stats on both of these. Nothing but good reports, high-grade evaluations. I haven't spoken to them about this, or about anything else related to the disappearances. I figured that was your department.” His voice dropped slightly. “Or Security's.”

As powerfully as the chief mechanic's words resonated, she knew she had to move slowly on his observations. If word got out among the refugees that two of their own kind were being investigated for sabotage, it would only add one more layer of disruption to an already unruly state of affairs.

“Do you have any definite reason to suspect them?”

Bergovoy didn't hesitate. “None whatsoever. Like I said, their records are clean.” His expression changed. “Changing the subject a little, I want you to know that I can understand why someone might want to get rid of this Hasselemoga person.”

Her brow furrowed. “You do? Why?”

“Never met him myself, but from what I've been told, he's a pretty disagreeable character. There's also apparently quite a bit of professional jealousy where he's involved. Apparently, he's as good at bioprospecting as he is at pissing people off.” The chief mechanic's eyes bored into her own. “Two reasons someone, or several someones, might have for seeing to it that he has to try to walk out of the Viisiiviisii.”

“Nobody walks out of the Viisiiviisii,” she commented absently.

“If you follow that line of reasoning,” Bergovoy was continuing, “it makes sense that whoever wanted to see the last of this guy would do their best to make sure nobody finds him.”

She pondered the speculations. Somehow, it didn't quite jell. Something was missing, something that lay somewhere between motive and manipulation.

“I can see the envious wanting to get rid of the competition or somebody they dislike. That's one thing. But eliminating a rescue team means taking on the Commonwealth Authority. The first is personal; the second implies much greater concerns.”

Bergovoy was clearly interested. “What greater concerns?”

She sighed heavily. “If I knew that, we'd have a pretty good idea who's responsible. Thank you for your help, Tarik.” She started past him.

“One more thing, Administrator.” The mechanic was smiling humorlessly. “If you do find out who's responsible, you will at least let me know, won't you?”

Her expression was grim. “If I find out, Tarik, everyone will know.”

Though she spent much of the rest of the day dealing with those administrative matters that absolutely, positively required her personal attention and could not possibly be put off, she was no nearer clearing her work backlog than when she had started. New data arrived faster than it could be processed. It kept her hard at work after dark. No one wanted to travel home in the dark. Under cover of the rain-swept night the stealthy inhabitants of the Viisiiviisii crept inside the town limits, only to melt away again at the first sign of cloud-masked daylight. In the dark and rain, even modern safeguard technology sometimes failed to offer sufficient protection to those who had the nerve to venture outside their cosseted homes and places of work.

Nocturnal travel was safer for her than for others. Her skimmer's programming transported her to the residency compound without any need for human input or guidance. Like those of the other Commonwealth residents, her home was suspended from strong strilk cables attached to an intricate support network of composite pylons. In addition to windows in the roof and walls, there were two in the floor: one in the living room and another in Andrea's. Standing on one of the transparencies, one could look straight down at other residences or to the water far below. A terrestrial spider would have felt right at home with the layout.

Jack was waiting for her. She reflected on how things had changed. When they had first settled in on Fluva, she had often arrived home before him, since he'd needed to spend a lot of overtime familiarizing himself with the lab. Now she was the one trundling home after dark.

Though perfunctory, their kiss was enough to lift her spirits, if not her energy level.

“I've made you some supper. You haven't eaten?”

She shook her head, mustered a weary smile. “Are you kidding?” In the small combination kitchen/dining room, she settled in behind the table and dug into the meal he had prepared. She was almost too tired to eat. Skimmers and supervisors, she reminded herself: all need fuel.

Sitting down across the table, he watched her for a while, leaving her alone until she'd downed some of the food. “Another bad day?”

“Here, lately, they're all bad.” While it might be an odd shade of indigo, faux pasta made from a local fungus slid easily down her welcoming throat. “Today was
special,
though.”

“Uh-oh.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked sympathetic. He was very good at that, she realized gratefully. “What now?”

“Those two skimmers that went down in the south? The bioprospector nobody seems to like and the rescue team that was sent after him? Bergovoy, the chief mechanic out at the port, says their maintenance records were tampered with. More than a hint of funny business there.”

Her husband's expression turned solemn. “That's not good.”

“There's more.” She gestured with a utensil. “Two of the last techs to work on both craft are Deyzara.”

He let out a soft whistle. “Bergovoy implicated them?”

“Only by inference.” She took a long swallow of cold fruit juice. She could never pronounce the Sakuntala name for the fruit from which it came, but the juice was delectable. “I can envision why somebody might want this bioprospector out of the way and, to a certain extent, anyone who might try to rescue him. What I can't imagine is why this might involve the Deyzara.”

Slumping in his chair, one foot fiddling idly with her right leg under the table, he contemplated the ceiling. “Maybe it's not so different from trying to ascribe cause and effect to predator and prey in the lab. A xerexl wants a puorot dead so it can have it for lunch. Okay. Why would the Deyzara want a bioprospector dead? Furthermore, why would they not want him found and brought back alive?” He lowered his gaze. “To the xerexl, food is the most important thing. What's the most important thing to the Deyzara?”