Drowning World

  She would have sent Case, but he was out somewhere in the foothills of the Varaku mountains. Jillis Noufoetan was on leave at the orbiting station, and Nicolo Manatinga had been laid up with a fever and an infection that mutated as fast as the doctors tried to isolate it. All of which meant she would have to send out a search team consisting entirely of locals. It had been done before, successfully. Staff had presented her with several possibilities, from whom she had selected a couple on intuition and recommendation of past service.

  Outside, the downpour was becoming heavier, sealing off the view across the town and into the dense Viisiiviisii beyond. With a sigh and conflicting thoughts of Jack and a certain free-ranging explorer in her mind, she turned and resumed her seat behind the curving desk. Like everything else in the administration building, it was fashioned of resolutely nonbiodegradable materials.

  Everything else, that is, except the people.

  “Send him in.” The desk’s omnipickup identified her voice and relayed the request to Sanuel Pandusky, her administrative assistant. It took several tries before Pandusky responded. Pity it wasn’t Case, she thought. I’d have to get on his case.

  Stop that, she told herself firmly. Settling herself into the chair and letting it mold itself against her, she rested elbows on the desk and steepled fingers in front of her. They pressed against one another more tightly than was necessary.

  The doorway barrier dissolved to admit a Sakuntala of average height. As the portal had been designed to accommodate his kind, he did not have to bend in order to enter. His waist strappings and chest straps, she noted, were particularly stylish and well equipped. This was a prosperous local who stood before her. She knew that Personnel would not have sent her anything else.

  A couple of empty chairs reposed nearby. She didn’t offer him one. In the absence of the traditional suspended seat, the Sakuntala preferred to squat rather than sit. At a gesture from her, her visitor eased back onto his lean but powerful haunches.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met before. I am called Lauren Matthias.” She stuck out her tongue and braced herself. Though the traditional Sakuntala method of greeting had become second nature to her by now, that did not make the nature of it any less disconcerting.

  “I know your status.”

  His mouth opened and her visitor’s remarkable tongue shot out to curl once completely around her face before the end touched the tip of her own protruding organ. Although the raspy eating surface was turned away from her and only the smooth, wet back side made contact with her skin, she still found herself wincing slightly at the contact. That was a considerable improvement over the first time the gesture had been extended. No one had bothered to warn her, and her screaming, shocked reaction had been a source of considerable amusement to her coworkers. Not informing newcomers to Fluva of the nature of the habitual Sakuntala greeting was always a surefire laugh producer.

  As quickly as it had emerged, the tongue recoiled, zipping in reverse around her head to disappear back into the visitor’s bulging right cheek pouch. Pitiful as they were, Jemunu-jah reflected, at least the humans had tongues. When among the Deyzara, the Sakuntala had to content themselves with touching tongue tip to the end of the Deyzara’s eating trunk. It was a matter of some debate as to whether it would be more proper to touch tongue to speaking trunk or eating trunk. For their part, the Deyzara did not care. They tolerated the Sakuntala gesture only because they had to.

  “I am called Jemunu-jah.”

  “I know your status.” Matthias fought against the urge to pick up a dehydrating towelette and wipe her face. Most of the time, the Sakuntala tongue didn’t leave behind much moisture. But she squirmed internally all the same. “You come highly recommended.”

  Both flexible ears dipped briefly toward her. “I thank you for the mulat. I say openly to you I would prefer another go in my stead.”

  Well, it would be too much to expect enthusiasm, she knew. A lotl was bumping up against the back window, trying to get in. Looking for a nesting place, she suspected. Someone unaware and lumpish to lay its eggs within. Fortunately, the football-size lotl were almost comically slow-moving. If one flew too near, a single swipe with the back of a hand was usually enough to drive it away. If it persisted, a quick jab with any sharp object would puncture its air sac and send the parasite spinning helplessly into the water below. Unless it caught you when you were asleep. On Fluva, nobody slept unprotected, either inside a building or out in the Viisiiviisii. Not if they valued their bodily integrity.

  “You were the one recommended,” she reiterated. “We need the best for this, and you’ll be well paid.”

  “Why not send one of you own people?” As he crouched before the human chief, Jemunu-jah chewed idly on the lump of the khopo sap stored in his right cheek pouch. The activity did not unsettle humans, he knew, because some of them engaged in similar food-related behavior. A few had even tried khopo sap and liked it, especially when it came with added flavorings. When not being masticated or sucked, he had been told, it was excellent for making temporary repairs to all kinds of machinery.

  “Several reasons.” She leaned toward him. With the desk between them, it was not perceived as a hostile gesture. One had to be ever conscious of Sakuntala protocol, because they never traveled outside their homes without at least one weapon. Jemunu-jah’s was politely concealed, probably somewhere under his waist straps.

  “The human who has gone missing is called Shadrach Hasselemoga.” Seeing her visitor struggle with the syllables, she added, “I am informed that he is often called Hasa, for short. He’s an independent bioprospector working on a loan-and-consignment basis. I haven’t met him myself, but I’m told that he’s at least as competent as most of his kind. He arrived here only six months ago from one of our colony worlds. His documents are all in order.”

  Jemunu-jah bobbed his head. “Apparently, he’s not quite as competent as all his kind.”

  She nodded back, meeting the incredibly sharp, penetrating Sakuntala eyes without flinching. “There’s been no word from him since he went south nearly a seven-day ago. No communication, no emergency beacon transmission. Nothing. We know what course he took because he filed a flight plan, but he could have deviated in any direction at any time.”

  “What about satellite tracking? Does not that keep constant position of all your skimmers?”

  A well-educated Sakuntala indeed, she reflected. The report on this native had been correct. “Mr. Hasselemoga’s bounceback failed two days into his journey. We don’t know why. For a bounceback and an emergency beacon on a properly equipped and maintained skimmer to both fail simultaneously is very unusual. Six months is not a lot of time to learn about Fluva. Some of my staff speculate he may have gotten lazy, or overconfident, and turned off his avoidance system, or gone to sleep at an unpropitious moment.”

  “Or something hit him.” Jemunu-jah exhaled through pursed lips. “Viisiiviisii can do that.”

  She nodded knowingly, having seen vits of some of the varzea’s larger known inhabitants. As to the unknown ones, even the Sakuntala were themselves sometimes surprised by what came wandering out of the flooded forest.

  “That is why we need someone like you to go and look for him. You see things we cannot, and not just because your eyesight is so much better. You know the varzea. We are still learning about it. I’m told you’ve traveled in skimmers before.”

  “Heesa—yes. I very much like experience. But I not trained to pilot one.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re sending someone with you who is. Someone who has spent as much time in that part of the Viisiiviisii as anyone we could find.”

  “Another of your scout-kind-people?”

  “I’m afraid not. Those of our community who would qualify for a task like this are all busy with other assignments or for various reasons are presently unable to help with the necessary operation.” Looking past him, she spoke toward the doorway. “You might as well come in now, Masurathoo.”

  Des
pite his education, despite his comparative sophistication, Jemunu-jah tensed at the calling of the name. It was not a human designation. But he did recognize it.

  The Deyzara who entered was shorter than the administrator. Like the majority of his kind, alongside Jemunu-jah the mature male two-trunks would have appeared positively insignificant. The oval opening in the traditional body-swathing lightweight rain cape at the front of the head exposed the upper breathing trunk, the two wide eyes, and the eating trunk that dangled downward below that. The Sakuntala’s inherent and traditional preference for low-key dress, a natural consequence of trying to blend in with the teeming and dangerous Viisiiviisii, clashed wildly with the unabashed Deyzara fondness for bright colors and garish patterns. But Deyzara were far less fearful of being eaten by one of the varzea’s denizens than they were of being considered unfashionable. Defying the inimical realities of the Fluvan Viisiiviisii and the ongoing disapproval of their Sakuntala neighbors, they continued to adhere stubbornly to the customs of their original home world.

  At least this one’s facial makeup was less gaudy than the ostentatious splashes of color and lurid phosphorescence favored by some of his kind, Jemunu-jah decided. The Deyzara’s skin was a uniform pale pink that contrasted sharply with Jemunu-jah’s own strikingly mottled gray fur as well as with the human’s light brown epidermis and short mane. He had to remind himself that he was a civilized person and that he and the Deyzara had more in common than they did in difference. As usual, it wasn’t easy.

  The human gestured in the new arrival’s direction. “This one is called Masurathoo.”

  Advancing, the Deyzara extended one ropy, rubbery two-digited hand. Lacking a tongue, it preferred the human gesture of greeting to that of the Sakuntala. It was trying to avoid the substitute trunk-touch.

  Hiding his distaste, Jemunu-jah flicked his own tongue out and around the hairless head, making contact with the dangling eating trunk only briefly before executing an immediate retraction. He had often seen Deyzara shaking hands with humans or Sakuntala, a gesture they seemed able to manage effortlessly despite having only two digits to the human’s five or the Sakuntala’s six.

  “Ah, I am informed that we shall be working together. I hope you will not find it too disagreeable an experience, as I am prepared to do whatever is necessary to locate this unfortunate human who has gone missing.”

  Jemunu-jah took a care not to clench his pointed teeth, even though those sharp incisors were offset so as not to damage his own mouth. He could only envy the more galactically sophisticated Deyzara his perfect terranglo that in some ways sounded more polished than that of the administrator herself. That the newcomer was as soft-spoken as the rest of his kind did nothing to diminish his eloquence.

  Despite what Matthias had said, Jemunu-jah felt compelled to offer one more objection. “This the one I going into southern regions with?”

  Distressingly, the human nodded. “Masurathoo is an excellent skimmer pilot. You’ll decide where and how to look, and he will facilitate your efforts to the best of his ability.”

  “That I will do.” In spite of the Deyzara’s accommodating tone, Jemunu-jah could see that the newcomer was himself something less than overly enthusiastic about the assignment. No Deyzara would be keen on the idea of being forced to work in tight, isolated quarters for an indeterminate period of time with a surly Sakuntala warrior. On the other hand, when there was good money to be made, a Deyzara would endure almost anything.

  One last time, Jemunu-jah thought briefly about turning down the task. Since Kenkeru-jah had already promised his services, to refuse would be to insult his chief as well as bring shame on his clan. Accepting meant money and mula. When a difficult situation presents itself, he knew, it is sometimes useful to have no choice.

  “Since this an emergency, I can of course leave immediately.” He felt like a hypocrite, but mula was mula. If he was going to have to suffer, he was going to wring every bit of gain from the arrangement.

  “I have already seen to the provisioning of the assigned vehicle,” Masurathoo informed them both. “We can be on our way as soon as you wish.”

  The mournful eyes that humans seemed to find so—what was the word he had once heard used?—“winsome” stared up at him. When the pilot’s speaking trunk was not in use, compact muscles kept it coiled flat atop his head. The eating trunk swung lazily back and forth from the lower portion of the skull, its naked hairlessness a distasteful sight at best. He would have to get used to it, he knew, for as long as it took to locate the stupid missing human and bring him back. Or to admit defeat. Given the extent of the region to be searched, the latter was a very real possibility.

  “Leave now,” he muttered as politely as he could. A glance out the nearer of the two windows showed that the rain was likely to lessen for a little while. That would mean more local traffic but better visibility. “Better to leave town during clearing.”

  “Precisely what I would have suggested,” concurred the Deyzara knowledgeably. He looked back to the administrator. “We will file regular reports; you can be sure of that.”

  “I have every confidence in the two of you,” she lied. “You were the best team that could be assembled.” Given the exploration and rejection of every other possible alternative, she thought silently.

  Still, it was part of her job to give these kinds of orders and to look after the human contingent on Fluva. Both of the sentients standing before her seemed quite competent. Given that, there was always the slight chance they actually would find the misbegotten bioprospector alive somewhere in the unmeasured depths of the Viisiiviisii.

  Turning back to her desk’s readout as soon as they had departed, she could only hope they might manage to do so before they killed each other.

  2

  Shadrach Hasselemoga had come to Fluva hoping to make a killing—of the financial kind. He had sincere hopes of making a fortune—always a possibility where the discovery of useful, previously unknown botanicals was concerned. While others might find the combination of soldier of fortune and botanist (with a special interest in mycology) a peculiar melding of professions, to men and women engaged in Hasa’s line of work it was perfectly natural. People had indeed been known to kill one another over the discovery and possession of something small, green, and deceptively insignificant. They were willing to go to such occasional extremes because alien botanicals were frequently the key to the gengineering of everything from new pharmaceuticals to artificial flavorings, and much else besides.

  Too bad he hated his new posting.

  There wasn’t much about it he didn’t hate, from the constant rain to the molds and fungi that matured so fast you could watch them reproduce on your supposedly spore-resistant clothing. Or on your face, if you weren’t careful. One poor simick who had gone hunting for a celebrated lotion-oozing slime mold about a thousand kelegs to the north of Taulau Town had been found only a hundred meters from the safety of his skimmer. Apparently, he’d become disoriented in the varzea and had wandered around unaware that the mold he’d collected had enthusiastically transmuted in the warmth of his collection pack into an ambulatory amoeboid state. Its potential lotion-generating properties notwithstanding, it had invaded his body right through the allegedly impermeable material of both pack and clothes, whereupon it had then proceeded to bed itself down nice and comfy inside his vital organs. Harold Tsukakaza, yeah, that was his name. He’d been lotioned to death.

  Perambulating slime molds were the least of a person’s worries on lush, fascinating, deadly Fluva. There were fungi that put out toxic mycelia and actively hostile basidiocarps, rusts that gave new meaning to an old word (and class), and all manner of nasties that made their homes in the trees or in the waters of the flooded forest. The Viisiiviisii was no place to be marooned. Hard to walk out of the woods when the base of the tree in which you found yourself stranded was twenty meters or more underwater.

  Then there were the natives. The happy, smiling Sakuntala and the hardworkin
g, comparatively diminutive Deyzara. Except that the Sakuntala were as likely to cut your head off as offer you a cup of traditional katola and the Deyzara would bow enthusiastically and wave their trunks in their disarmingly disconcerting fashion while quietly picking your pocket. Not that his own kind were much better. Among the many different species of sentients Hasa had encountered in his travels (and there had been many), humans fell somewhere in the shifting middle of the sentient muddle. That they were not as obvious cheats and liars as the Deyzara or as blatant deceivers and cutthroats as the Sakuntala was only due to the fact that power and experience had rendered them a tad more restrained.

  Now, seemingly good and stuck in the middle of nowhere, and an unrelentingly hostile nowhere at that, he was going to have to rely on those same self-serving sons-of-bitches to extricate him from a bad fix not of his own making. Hasa was reasonably willing to take responsibility for his own mistakes. But he’d done nothing wrong this time, certainly nothing that should have led to his current imbroglio.

  He’d done everything right prior to setting out: had the skimmer thoroughly overhauled and checked out, paid any overdue bills, settled with that thieving Dararpatui who ran the Kus supply depot, notified the proper authorities of his tentative flight plan, and registered his intentions with Administration. All so he could find himself, a week out from town, locked in a frantic uncontrolled dive down into the yawning depths of the Viisiiviisii. When oral commands failed to effect the necessary adjustments to his craft’s plunge, he’d taken manual control, only to find that the relevant instrumentation was also locked and unresponsive. At the last possible moment, he’d thrown himself to the left and activated the craft’s emergency self-contained landing sequencer. It, at least, had worked, as evidenced by the fact that he was still alive, mobile, and bitching.