29 Sabra They called themselves Sabras, after the pioneers who, a millennium and a half before, had tamed an almost equally hostile wilderness on Earth. The Martian Sabras had been lucky in one respect; they had no human enemies to oppose them – only the fierce climate, the barely perceptible atmosphere, the planet-wide sandstorms. All these handicaps they had conquered; they were fond of saying that they had not merely survived, they had prevailed. That quotation was only one of countless borrowings from Earth, which their fierce independence would seldom allow them to acknowledge. For more than a thousand years, they had lived in the shadow of an illusion – almost a religion. And, like any religion, it had -performed an essential role in their society; it had given them goals beyond themselves, and a purpose to their lives. Until the calculations proved otherwise, they had believed – or at least hoped – that Mars might escape the doom of Earth. It would be a close thing, of course; the extra distance would merely reduce the radiation by fifty per cent – but that might be sufficient. Protected by the kilometres of ancient ice at the Poles, perhaps Martians could survive when Men could not. There had even been a fantasy – though only a few romantics had really believed it – that the melting of the polar caps would restore the planet’s lost oceans. And then, perhaps, the atmosphere might become dense enough for men to move freely in the open with simple breathing equipment and thermal insulation … These hopes died hard, killed at last by implacable equations. No amount of skill or effort would allow the Sabras to save themselves. They, too, would perish with the mother world whose softness they often affected to despise. Yet now, spread beneath Magellan, was a planet that epitomized all the hopes and dreams of the last generations of Martian colonists. As Owen Fletcher looked down at the endless oceans of Thalassa, one thought kept hammering in his brain. According to the star-probes, Sagan Two was much like Mars – which was the very reason he and his compatriots had been selected for this voyage. But why resume a battle, three hundred years hence and seventy-five light-years away, when Victory was already here and now? Fletcher was no longer thinking merely of desertion; that would mean leaving far too much behind. It would be easy enough to hide on Thalassa; but how would he feel, when Magellan left, with the last friends and colleagues of his youth? Twelve Sabras were still in hibernation. Of the five awake, he had already cautiously sounded out two and had received a favourable response. And if the other two also agreed with him, he knew that they could speak for the sleeping dozen. Magellan must end its starfaring, here at Thalassa.
30 Child of Krakan There was little conversation aboard as Calypso headed back towards Tarna at a modest twenty klicks; her passengers were lost in their thoughts, brooding over the implications of those images from the seabed. And Loren was still cut off from the outside world; he had kept on the full-view goggles and was playing back yet again the underwater sledge’s exploration of the submarine forest. Spinning out its cable like a mechanical spider, the robot had moved slowly through the great trunks, which looked slender because of their enormous length but were actually thicker than a man’s body. It was now obvious that they were ranged in regular columns and rows, so no one was really surprised when they came to a clearly defined end. And there, going about their business in their jungle encampment, were the scorps. It had been wise not to switch on the floodlights; the creatures were completely unaware of the silent observer floating in the near-darkness only metres overhead. Loren had seen videos of ants, bees, and termites, and the way in which the scorps were functioning reminded him of these. At first sight, it was impossible to believe that such intricate organization could exist without a controlling intelligence – yet their behaviour might be entirely automatic, as in the case of Earth’s social insects. Some scorps were tending the great trunks that soared up towards the surface to harvest the rays of the invisible sun; others were scuttling along the seabed carrying rocks, leaves – and yes, crude but unmistakable nets and baskets. So the scorps were tool-makers; but even that did not prove intelligence. Some bird’s nests were much more carefully fashioned than these rather clumsy artifacts, apparently constructed from stems and fronds of the omnipresent kelp. I felt like a visitor from space, Loren thought, poised above a Stone Age village on Earth, just when Man was discovering agriculture. Could he – or it – have correctly assessed human intelligence from such a survey? Or would the verdict have been: pure instinctive behaviour? The probe had now gone so far into the clearing that the surrounding forest was no longer visible, though the nearest trunks could not have been more than fifty metres away. It was then that some wit among the Northers uttered the name that was thereafter unavoidable, even in the scientific reports: ‘Downtown Scorpville”. It seemed to be, for want of better terms, both a residential and a business area. An outcropping of rock, about five metres high, meandered across the opening, and its face was pierced by numerous dark holes just wide enough to admit a scorp. Although these little caves were irregularly spaced, they were of such uniform size that they could hardly be natural, and the whole effect was that of an apartment building designed by an eccentric architect. Scorps were coming and going through the entrances – like office workers in one of the old cities before the age of telecommunications, Loren thought. Their activities seemed as meaningless to him as, probably, the commerce of humans would have been to them. ‘Hello,’ one of Calypso’s other watchers called, ‘What’s that? Extreme right – can you move closer?’ The interruption from outside his sphere of consciousness was jolting; it dragged Loren momentarily from the seabed back to the world of the surface. His panoramic view tilted abruptly with the probe’s change of attitude. Now it was level again and drifting slowly towards an isolated pyramid of rock, which was about ten metres high -judging by the two scorps at its base – and pierced by a single cave entrance. Loren could see nothing unusual about it; then, slowly, he became aware of certain anomalies – jarring elements that did not quite fit into the now-familiar Scorpville scene. All the other scorps had been busily scurrying about. These two were motionless except for the continual swinging of their heads, back and forth. And there was something else – These scorps were big. It was hard to judge scale here, and not until several more of the animals had scurried past was Loren quite sure that this pair was almost fifty per cent larger than average. ‘What are they doing?’ somebody whispered. ‘I’ll tell you,’ another voice answered. ‘They’re guards -sentries.’ Once stated, the conclusion was so obvious that no one doubted it. ‘But what are they guarding?’ ‘The queen, if they have one? The First Bank of Scorpville?’ ‘How can we find out? The sled’s much too big to go inside -even if they’d let us try.’ It was at this point that the discussion became academic. The robot probe had now drifted down to within less than ten metres of the pyramid’s summit, and the operator gave a brief burst from one of the control jets to stop it descending farther. The sound, or the vibration, must have alerted the sentries. Both of them reared up simultaneously, and Loren had a sudden nightmare vision of clustered eyes, waving palps, and giant claws. I’m glad I’m not really here, even though it seems like it, he told himself. And it’s lucky they can’t swim. But if they could not swim, they could climb. With astonishing speed, the scorps scrambled up the side of the pyramid and within seconds were on its summit, only a few metres below the sled. ‘Gotta get out of here before they jump,’ the operator said. ‘Those pinchers could snap our cable like a piece of cotton.’ He was too late. A scorp launched itself off the rock, and seconds later its claws grabbed one of the skis of the sled’s undercarriage. The operator’s human reflexes were equally swift and in control of a superior technology. At the same instant, he went into full reverse and swung the robot arm downward to the attack. And what was perhaps more decisive, he switched on the floodlights. The scorp must have been completely blinded. Its claws opened in an almost human gesture of astonishment, and it dropped back to the seabed before the robot’s mechanical hand could engage it in combat. For a fraction of a second, Loren was also blind, as his goggles blacked out. Then the camera’s automatic circuits corrected for the increased light level, and he had one startlingly clear close-up of the baffled scorp just before it dropped out of the field of view. Somehow he was not in the least surprised to see that it was wearing two bands of metal below its right claw. He was reviewing this final scene as Calypso headed back for Tarna, and his senses were still so concentrated on the underwater world that he never felt the mild shockwave as it raced past the boat. But then he became aware of the shouts and confusion around him and felt the deck heel as Calypso suddenly changed course. He tore off the goggles and stood blinking in the brilliant sunlight. For a moment he was totally blind; then, as his eyes adjusted to the glare, he saw that they were only a few hundred metres from South Island’s palm-fringed coast. We’ve hit a reef, he thought. Brant will never hear the last of this… And then he saw, climbing up over the eastern horizon, something he had never dreamed of witnessing on peaceful Thalassa. It was the mushroom cloud that had haunted men’s nightmares for two thousand years. What was Brant doing? Surely he should be heading for land; instead, he was swinging Calypso around in the tightest possible turning circle, heading out to sea. But he seemed to have taken charge, while everyone else on deck was staring slack-mouthed towards the east. ‘Krakan!’ one of the Norther scientists whispered, and for a moment Loren thought he was merely using the overworked Lassan expletive. Then he understood, and a vast feeling of relief swept over him. It was very short-lived. ‘No,’ Kumar said, looking more alarmed than Loren would have thought possible. ‘Not Krakan – much closer. Child of Krakan.’ The boat radio was now emitting continuous beeps of alarm, interspersed with solemn warning messages. Loren had no time to absorb any of them when he saw that something very strange was happening to the horizon. It was not where it should have been. This was all very confusing; half of his mind was still down there with the scorps, and even now he had to keep blinking against the glare from sea and sky. Perhaps there was something wrong with his vision. Although he was quite certain that Calypso was now on an even keel, his eyes told him that it was plunging steeply downward. No; it was the sea that was rising, with a roar that now obliterated all other sounds. He dared not judge the height of the wave that was bearing down upon them; now he understood why Brant was heading out into deep water, away from the deadly shallows against which the tsunami was about to expend its fury. A giant hand gripped Calypso and lifted her bow up, up towards the zenith. Loren started to slide helplessly along the deck; he tried to grasp a stanchion, missed it, then found himself in the water. Remember your emergency training, he told himself fiercely. In sea or in space, the principle is always the same. The greatest danger is panic, so keep your head… There was no risk of drowning; his life-jacket would see to that. But where was the inflation lever? His fingers scrabbled wildly around the webbing at his waist, and despite all his resolve, he felt a brief, icy chill before he found the metal bar. It moved easily, and to his great relief he felt the jacket expand around him, gripping him in a welcome embrace. Now the only real danger would be from Calypso herself if she crashed back upon his head. Where was she? Much too close for comfort, in this raging water, and with part of her deck-housing hanging into the sea. Incredibly, most of the crew still seemed on board. Now they were pointing at him, and someone was preparing to throw a life-belt. The water was full of floating debris – chairs, boxes, pieces of equipment – and there went the sled, slowly sinking as it blew bubbles from a damaged buoyancy tank. I hope they can salvage it, Loren thought. If not, this will be a very expensive trip, and it may be a long time before we can study the scorps again. He felt rather proud of himself for so calm an appraisal of the situation, considering the circumstances. Something brushed against his right leg; with an automatic reflex, he tried to kick it away. Though it bit uncomfortably into the flesh, he was more annoyed than alarmed. He was safely afloat, the giant wave had passed, and nothing could harm him now. He kicked again, more cautiously. Even as he did so, he felt the same entanglement on the other leg. And now this was no longer a neutral caress; despite the buoyancy of his life-jacket, something was pulling him underwater. That was when Loren Lorenson felt the first moment of real panic, for he suddenly remembered the questing tentacles of the great polyp. Yet those must be soft and fleshy – this was obviously some wire or cable. Of course – it was the umbilical cord from the sinking sled. He might still have been able to disentangle himself had he not swallowed a mouthful of water from an unexpected wave. Choking and coughing, he tried to clear his lungs, kicking at the cable at the same time. And then the vital boundary between air and water – between life and death – was less than a metre overhead; but there was no way that he could reach it. At such a moment, a man thinks of nothing but his own survival. There were no flashbacks, no regrets for his past life – not even a fleeting glimpse of Mirissa. When he realized it was all over, he felt no fear. His last conscious thought was pure anger that he had travelled fifty light-years, only to meet so trivial and unheroic an end. So Loren Lorenson died for the second time, in the warm shallows of the Thalassan sea. He had not learned from experience; the first death had been much easier, two hundred years ago.