Manta's Gift

  "It might be good for you," Tigrallo suggested, just loud enough for Raimey to hear. "Tagabuck's a useful game for learning how to run and dodge. Things you need to know."

  Raimey blinked. Tigrallo had never offered a suggestion like that before. He'd hardly even spoken to Raimey, for that matter, except to offer brief tips about how to do something Raimey was struggling with. Mostly he'd just hung around in the background, chased away or killed the occasional small predator, and otherwise left Raimey to his own devices.

  Was this just another tip to help Raimey learn how to become a Qanska? Or had he noticed Raimey's mood, understood the cause for it, and was giving him an excuse to get some badly needed socialization?

  He'd heard a lot of speculation during his training as to what kind of intellectual and emotional makeup the Qanska had, and whether human beings would ever be able to understand them. The lectures had been one hundred percent bull-manufactured guesswork, because in twenty years of talking with the Qanska no one had a clue about what went on behind those dark eyes.

  Yet, here was at least a hint that the Qanska had picked up a lot more understanding of human nature than they'd let slip about themselves. And it didn't take a marketing genius to realize what kind of potential bargaining advantage that put them in.

  Was that what this whole project was ultimately about? Humanity's attempt to even those odds?

  Maybe. In which case, who the hell cared how silly he might look back on Prime? He had a job to do.

  "Why not?" he said. "Sure, Pranlo, let's get a group together. I don't know how to play, though."

  "We'll teach you," Pranlo said, doing another excited flip. "Come on, let's go meet everyone."

  The Contact Room was quiet as Faraday walked through the security door, its lights lowered to the same "nighttime" level as the rest of the station. The four people on evening duty were being quiet, too, lounging comfortably at their stations as they kept watch on Raimey and his Qanskan friends.

  Faraday peered around the room, floundering a little as he tried to put names to the faces. He'd been introduced to all three shifts when he'd first come aboard the station, of course. But in the ten and a half months since then their paths had seldom crossed, and he'd never been good with names and faces anyway. Two of the faces were complete blanks; the third he had a vague recollection of.

  The fourth, in contrast, was almost painfully familiar.

  "Mr. Milligan," he greeted the young man, stepping over to the sensor tech's chair. "You're up late."

  "Pandre called in sick this evening," Milligan said. "I volunteered to sit Beta Shift for him."

  "Um," Faraday said, pulling his chair over from his usual place by the command board and sitting down beside him. "Did Mr. Hesse approve?"

  Milligan shrugged slightly. "Mr. Hesse mostly watches things with an eye toward politics. How Earth and the Five Hundred are affected. I didn't think this qualified."

  "Mr. Hesse has a good eye for detail," Faraday pointed out, casting around for some way to stick up for the man. Hesse was Milligan's boss, after all. He deserved at least a surface layer of respect. "That's very valuable in a manager. He also brings a strong enthusiasm for the project."

  "He brings a strong enthusiasm for you, you mean," Milligan countered. "The project I'm not so sure about."

  Faraday grimaced. He'd hoped it wasn't quite that obvious to everyone else. "One and the same, really."

  "It is now," Milligan countered. "But what happens to us when you leave? More to the point, what happens to Raimey?"

  Faraday had wondered about that himself. Often. "So what's the big secret?" he asked, running an eye across the sensor displays. "Things seem quiet enough."

  "They're in sleep cycle," Milligan said. "Things were hopping pretty good an hour ago."

  Faraday nodded. The Qanskan pattern seemed to be just under seven hours of wakefulness followed by just under three hours of sleep as they drifted along with the winds. It all synched perfectly with Jupiter's nine-point-eight-hour rotation.

  Though why anyone down there should care about the planet's rotation in the first place was a mystery. Below the clouds, where all the Qanska lived, they got more heat and radiation from Jupiter's core than they did from the distant sun.

  Still, experiments with Raimey had demonstrated that Qanskan eyes could easily pick out the sun's location, even through all that muck above them. Perhaps it was built into all living creatures to match their rhythms to their local star, no matter how great or minor its influence on their environment. "More reindeer games?" he asked.

  Milligan blinked. "More what?"

  " 'They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games,' " Faraday quoted. "Didn't you ever watch the classics?"

  "I liked taking TV sets apart more than I did watching them," Milligan said. "But, yeah, they were playing for a while. Raimey's definitely getting his act together, swimming-wise. Oh, and Tigrallo also had to chase away some more troublemakers."

  "Vuuka?"

  "No, those smaller ones. The whatcha-call-'em—"

  "Sivra?" Faraday asked, frowning. Sivra usually weren't strong enough to swim their way up to Level One.

  "No, the other ones," Milligan said. "Pakra. The scavengers who sometimes get delusions of predatorhood."

  "Ah," Faraday said. "He didn't have any trouble with them, I presume?"

  Milligan shook his head. "Not a bit."

  "Good," Faraday said. "So I repeat: Why am I here?"

  "I was playing around with the sensor data this afternoon," Milligan said, swiveling half around to tap some keys on his board. "Found something I wanted to show you."

  One of the displays showing sleeping Qanska shifted to an overall view of the equatorial region of Jupiter the station was currently flying over. "Here's Raimey's herd, sitting smack dab on Jupiter's equator," Milligan said. "Here's the group of Protectors, running a little deeper but staying basically right below them. Here's the herd ahead of them; here's the herd behind them. Almost every Qanska we've ever seen has been running within a couple thousand kilometers of the equator."

  "Right," Faraday said, cultivating his patience. They knew all this. "So?"

  "So why?" Milligan asked. "They've got the whole creaking Jovian atmosphere to play around in. Why do they all hug the equator that way?"

  "Maybe they're just gregarious," Faraday said. "Or maybe it's more comfortable for them. They get more sunlight there than they would closer to the poles."

  "Negligible," Milligan said flatly.

  "Negligible to us," Faraday countered. "Maybe not to them."

  "But a thousand kilometers?" Milligan said. "That's an incredibly narrow band, especially considering Jupiter's size. We sure went out and populated our whole world, and the sunlight makes a lot more difference to us than to them."

  Faraday rubbed his eyes. "Mr. Milligan, why are we having this conversation right now?"

  "Because I think this is something worth checking out," Milligan said. "I think we ought to send a couple of our deep probes into the higher latitudes to see what's out there."

  Faraday glanced around the control board. None of the other three techs were looking at them, but they were obviously listening closely to the quiet conversation. "Why don't you bring this up tomorrow morning?" he suggested. "That way Mr. Hesse and I could hear it together."

  Milligan's lips tightened. "Mr. Hesse has already made it clear that he wants to save as many probes as possible for when Raimey gets bigger and starts going deeper in the atmosphere."

  Faraday nodded cynically. "In other words, you've already tried this pitch on him," he said. "And having struck out, you naturally came to me."

  "Well, no, not really," Milligan hedged. "I haven't exactly suggested it. But from things he's said, its clear he's hell-bent on sticking to whatever grand scheme the Five Hundred have hatched. According to him, we're not in the pure-research business."

  "He's right, we're not," Faraday murmured. "And those deep-probes cost nearly half
a billion dollars each."

  "Yeah, he's mentioned that, too," Milligan said sourly. "But this isn't just pure research, and it sure isn't just for the fun of it. We don't have any idea what's out there, except that the Qanska seem to be avoiding those areas. There could be masses of predators or other dangers, things that could directly impact the whole project."

  "Nice speech," Faraday complimented him. "You've been practicing."

  "It's something we need to know," Milligan insisted. He paused, just for a second—"Besides," he added, dropping his voice still lower, "it could be that the Qanska are hiding it out there."

  Faraday looked up at the display. It. The Holy Grail, as Hesse liked to refer to it. The whole point of Project Changeling. "Or it could be that the Qanska simply cluster their young together for protection," he said. "Maybe once they're older and larger, they spread out more evenly over the planet."

  "Maybe," Milligan said. "But we won't know until we take a look, will we?"

  "Or until we let Raimey take a look," Faraday pointed out. "Let's give it a little longer, shall we?"

  Milligan made a face. "In other words, no."

  "In other words, not yet," Faraday corrected. "We can always take another look at our options after Raimey reaches adulthood and is out on his own."

  "Which is at least two years away," Milligan muttered. "Longer if he gets picked for Protector duty."

  "That's all right," Faraday soothed him. "We've got time. This is why Raimey's here, after all. Give him time, and he'll be able to do a far more efficient search than we ever can. Even with all this expensive hardware."

  "Or at least he will once you tell him about it." Milligan looked sideways up at him. "When are you planning to tell him, by the way?"

  "When the time is right," Faraday said. "And it'll be my problem, not yours. Was there anything else?"

  Milligan glowered at his board. "No. Sir."

  "I'll see you in the morning, then," Faraday said, standing up and returning his chair to its usual place. "And keep a sharp eye out for that Vuukan hunting pack Chang spotted last night. They may not have given up."

  "I'll watch for them," Milligan promised. "After all, we can't risk losing our secret agent, can we?"

  "Exactly," Faraday said, glancing around the room. "Good night, all."

  And that was precisely the point, he thought darkly to himself as he walked down the dimly lit corridor toward his quarters. If Milligan was allowed to launch his probes—if by some miracle he was actually able to find Hesse's precious Holy Grail—then what use would the Five Hundred have anymore for Project Changeling?

  The answer was as cold as an accountant's bottom line: none. And Faraday had had more than enough experience with government to know that when the interest dried up, so did the money. An hour after Raimey lost his value to Earth, Faraday and the rest of the Changeling team would be packed and on their way back to civilization.

  And there was no way in hell he would do that to Raimey. Not after he'd been the one to talk the boy into this in the first place.

  So Milligan wouldn't get his survey probes. Not yet. Not until Raimey was old enough to take care of himself.

  They owed him that much.

  SIX

  "Hey, Manta! Wait up, will you?"

  Raimey rolled over onto his side and looked back. Pranlo was swimming rapidly up behind him, with that slightly wavering stroke that meant he was getting tired. "Vuuk-mook, but you're fast. What's the hurry?"

  "Hurry?" Raimey countered innocently. "What hurry? And by the way, what are you lazing around for?"

  "Funny," Pranlo grunted. "What are we doing out here, anyway?"

  "I want to show you something," Raimey said, doing a slow spin to look around them. No one was nearby, with the usual exception of Tigrallo treading air watchfully below them.

  Always there. Except when it really mattered.

  He shook the thoughts away. "Come on," he said, turning his back on Tigrallo.

  "Where?" Pranlo asked.

  "Straight down." Rolling over and flipping himself up to vertical, Raimey started down.

  He had come a long way, he thought distantly, since his arrival on Jupiter and that first botched attempt at a swim. He could vividly remember his terrified awkwardness as he'd tried frantically to elude that Vuuka that had been zeroing in on him.

  Now, in contrast, his movements were smooth and fluid. His fin muscles pushed effortlessly against the swirling wind, his stomach and buttock muscles contracted his internal buoyancy sacs instinctively, without need of conscious thought or effort.

  How long had it been since then, anyway? He didn't know, exactly. Somewhere around two hundred ninedays, he guessed; just over two of the ninety-nineday groupings that the Qanska quaintly called dayherds. He could always ask if he were really curious about it; there were Qanska back in the herd whose job was to keep track of the days.

  But time didn't matter that much to him here. Besides, he didn't interact with the rest of the herd very much any more. At least not with the adults. Not since that terrible day...

  "Pranlo?" a girl's voice called faintly from above him. "Hey, Manta. Wait up, you guys."

  "Manta?" Pranlo called. "Wait up, huh? It's Drusni."

  "I know it's Drusni," Raimey called back, snapping out of his hovering depression into full-swimming annoyance. Of course it was Drusni. Every time he turned around, it seemed, there was Drusni. Floating around chattering about nothing, or pushing her way uninvited into the run of food he was going for, or bugging him with questions even a newborn should know the answers to. She was like his kid sister, plus all his kid sister's friends, all rolled into a single bubble-pack.

  "Oh, come on, Manta," Pranlo cajoled. "She's okay."

  "So are Pakra when they keep their mouths shut," Raimey muttered. Still, reluctantly, he eased back on his dive.

  "Whew!" Drusni said as she caught up. "Where are you guys going?"

  "It's a secret," Pranlo said. "Okay, Manta, we're ready. Let's go."

  "And I mean secret," Raimey warned. "Really secret."

  "Yeah, I know," Pranlo assured him.

  "I wasn't talking to you," Raimey said, flipping sideways to pin Drusni with a glare.

  "Oh, sure," she said with an annoying combination of innocence and earnestness. "You can count on me."

  "Yeah," Raimey muttered, rolling over onto his back again. "Okay, come on."

  They headed down together, Pranlo and Drusni chatting cheerfully together as they swam. A couple of kids, Raimey thought sourly, without a single care in the world.

  But then, why shouldn't they be cheerful? Why shouldn't they both be cheerful?

  After all, they still had mothers.

  An extra-fast layer of wind brushed across his stomach. Almost there. "Okay, we're coming up on it," he told the others. "Get ready." The wind eased off...

  And there it was, directly below them: a thick run of green prupsis and red-speckled morchay, with more of the deliciously purple kachtis mixed in with it than Raimey had ever seen before in his life.

  Obviously more than Pranlo and Drusni had seen before, either. "Wow!" Pranlo gasped.

  Drusni, for her part, let out an excited squeak. "How in the world did you find this?"

  "Native talent, of course," Raimey said modestly. Which wasn't entirely true, of course. Faraday and his helpers far above had done some kind of emscan analysis through one of the probes and suggested he might find a concentration of food plants trapped between layers of extra-fast wind.

  Raimey could remember one of the techs going on and on with very learned-sounding stuff about laminar flow and turbulence layers and such. But he hadn't paid much attention to that part. Faraday had said food, and he'd been right, and that was all that mattered.

  And for right now, at least, it was all theirs. Enough kachtis, he guessed, to fill even Drusni's big mouth.

  It was quickly clear that she intended to put that theory to the test. With another happy squeak, she dove in, sc
attering food around her like the water of a pool she was splashing in. Pranlo was right behind her.

  Midlings, Raimey thought with a condescending sniff as he carefully maneuvered through the slipstream to one edge of the floating smorgasbord. No sense splashing any of this good stuff out into the winds and letting the herd ahead of them get it. Flicking out his tongue, he began to delicately pull the slender purple vines into range of his teeth.

  There was a subtle change in the pattern of wind across his back, and he looked over to see Tigrallo sidle up beside him. "This is not wise, Manta," the big Protector warned. "Vuuka and Sivra know about these clusters, too. They often lurk nearby, waiting for unwary Qanska to appear." He flipped his tails emphatically. "And this one in particular is far too deep for Midlings of your age and size."

  "We're hardly Midlings anymore," Raimey countered. "We're nearly Youths, you know. Anyway, isn't that why you Protectors are here? To keep us all nice and safe?"

  For a moment Tigrallo was silent. "You blame me for Mirasni's death," he said at last.

  "It doesn't matter," Raimey muttered, turning back to the food. "Anyway, pointing heads doesn't do anyone any good."

  "It does matter," Tigrallo said. "It's been three ninedays now, and you still haven't spoken of it. Yet I know it's still a problem that lies undigested inside you."

  "What good would talking do?" Raimey demanded. "She's dead because you were too busy chasing off a couple of incompetent Vuuka to go help her. End of story."

  "Those incompetent Vuuka, as you call them, might have killed you," Tigrallo said.

  "Oh, come on," Raimey growled. "I was swimming tail loops around them. They were biting air the whole time, and that's all they would have bitten. I wasn't in any danger, and you know it."

  "No, I don't know it," Tigrallo said stiffly. "But whether you were or not doesn't matter. What matters is that you are the one the Counselors and the Leaders and the Wise have ordered me to protect. That's my responsibility, and I will fulfill it to the last of my ability."

  "Great," Raimey said contemptuously. "Turn off your brain and concentrate on following orders. You'd have made a terrific bureaucrat."