“I… see.” Asael sounds deeply uneasy, as she should. Syen knows that it’s the job of any Fulcrum orogene to ease the fears of the stills, and here Syen has exacerbated Asael’s. But she’s begun to develop a nasty suspicion about who in Allia might want Alabaster dead, so it’s a good idea for her to dissuade Asael—or whoever Asael knows—from that plan. This pedantic minor bureaucrat has no idea how close her little city came to being flattened last night.
In the uncomfortable silence that falls, Syenite decides it’s time she asks some questions of her own. And maybe stirs the shit a little, to see what rises to the top. “I see that the governor wasn’t able to make it, today.”
“Yes.” Asael’s face goes gameswoman-blank, all polite smile and empty eyes. “I did convey your colleague’s request. Unfortunately, the governor was unable to make time in his schedule.”
“That’s a shame.” And then, because Syenite is beginning to understand why Alabaster is such an ass about this, she folds her hands. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t a request. Do you have a telegraph here? I’d like to send a message to the Fulcrum, let them know we’ll be delayed.”
Asael’s eyes narrow, because of course they have a telegraph, and of course Syenite meant that as another dig. “Delayed.”
“Well, yes.” Syen raises her eyebrows. She knows she’s not doing a good job of looking innocent, but she tries, at least. “How long do you think it will be before the governor is able to meet with us? The Fulcrum will want to know.” And she stands, as if to leave.
Asael tilts her head, but Syenite can see the tension in her shoulders. “I thought you were more reasonable than your colleague. You’re actually going to walk out of here, and not clear our harbor, in a fit of pique.”
“It isn’t a fit of pique.” Now Syen’s mad for real. Now she gets it. She looks down at Asael, who sits there, smug and secure in her big chair behind her big desk, and it’s an actual fight to keep her fists from clenching, her jaw muscles from flexing. “Would you tolerate this treatment, in our position?”
“Of course I would!” Asael straightens, surprised into an actual reaction for once. “The governor has no time for—”
“No, you wouldn’t tolerate it. Because if you were in my position, you’d be the representative of an independent and powerful organization, not some two-quartz backwater flunky. You would expect to be treated like a skilled expert who’s been learning her craft since childhood. Like someone who plies an important and difficult trade, and who’s come to perform a task that dictates your comm’s livelihood.”
Asael is staring at her. Syenite pauses, takes a deep breath. She must stay polite, and wield that politeness like a finely knapped glassknife. She must be cold and calm in her anger, lest a lack of self-control be dismissed as the mark of monstrosity. Once the heat behind her eyes has eased, she steps forward.
“And yet you haven’t shaken our hands, Asael Leader. You didn’t look us in the eye when we first met. You still haven’t offered that cup of safe that Alabaster suggested yesterday. Would you do that to a decreed ’mest from the Seventh University? Would you do it to a master geneer, come to repair the comm’s hydro? Would you do it to a representative of the Strongbacks’ Union for your own comm?”
Asael actually flinches as the analogies finally get through to her. Syenite waits in silence, letting it gather pressure. Finally Asael says, “I see.”
“Maybe you do.” She keeps waiting, and Asael sighs.
“What do you want? An apology? Then I apologize. You must remember, though, that most normal people have never seen an orogene, let alone had to do business with one, and—” She spreads her hands. “Isn’t it understandable that we might be… uncomfortable?”
“Discomfort is understandable. It’s the rudeness that isn’t.” Rust this. This woman doesn’t deserve the effort of her explanation. Syen decides to save that for someone who matters. “And that’s a really shitty apology. ‘I’m sorry you’re so abnormal that I can’t manage to treat you like a human being.’”
“You’re a rogga,” Asael snaps, and then has the gall to look surprised at herself.
“Well.” Syenite makes herself smile. “At least that’s out in the open.” She shakes her head and turns toward the door. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Maybe you’ll have had time to check the governor’s schedule by then.”
“You are under contract,” Asael says, her voice tight enough to quaver. “You are required to perform the service for which we have paid your organization.”
“And we will.” Syenite reaches the door and stops with her hand on the handle, shrugging. “But the contract doesn’t specify how long we have, upon arrival, to get it done.” She’s bluffing. She has no idea what’s in the contract. But she’s willing to bet Asael doesn’t, either; a deputy governor doesn’t sound important enough to know that sort of thing. “Thanks for the stay at the Season’s End, by the way. The beds are very comfortable. And the food’s delicious.”
That, of course, does it. Asael stands as well. “Stay here. I’ll go and speak with the governor.”
So Syen smiles pleasantly, and sits back down to wait. Asael leaves the room, and stays gone for long enough that Syen starts to doze off. She recovers when the door opens again, and another Coaster woman, elderly and portly, comes in with a chastened-looking Asael. The governor’s a man. Syenite sighs inwardly and braces herself for more weaponized politeness.
“Syenite Orogene,” the woman says, and despite her rising ire Syenite is impressed by the gravity of her presence. The “orogene” after Syen’s name isn’t necessary, of course, but it’s a nice bit of much-needed courtesy—so Syen rises, and the woman immediately steps forward and offers a hand for her to shake. Her skin is cool and dry and harder than Syenite expected. No calluses, just hands that have done their share of everyday labor. “My name is Heresmith Leadership Allia. I’m the lieutenant governor. The governor genuinely is too busy to meet with you today, but I’ve cleared enough time on my schedule, and I hope my greeting will be sufficient… especially as it comes with an apology for your poor treatment thus far. I can assure you that Asael will be censured for her behavior, to remind her that it’s always good leadership to treat others—all others—with courtesy.”
Well. The woman could be just playing a politician’s game, or she could be lying about being the lieutenant governor; maybe Asael’s found a very well-dressed janitor to play the part. Still, it’s an effort at compromise, and Syen will take it.
“Thank you,” she says, with genuine gratitude. “I’ll convey your apology to my colleague Alabaster.”
“Good. Please also tell him that Allia will pay your expenses, per our agreed-upon contract, for up to three days before and three after your clearing of the harbor.” And there’s an edge to her smile now, which Syenite knows she probably deserves. This woman, it seems, actually has read the contract.
Doesn’t matter, though. “I appreciate the clarification.”
“Is there anything else you need during your stay? Asael would be happy to provide a tour of the city, for example.”
Damn. Syen likes this woman. She stifles the urge to smile and glances at Asael, who’s managed to compose herself by this point; she gazes impassively back at Syenite. And Syen’s tempted to do what Alabaster probably would, and take Heresmith up on that tacit offer of Asael’s humiliation. But Syenite is tired, and this whole trip’s been hellish, and the sooner it’s over and she’s back home at the Fulcrum, the better.
“No need,” she says, and does Asael’s face twitch a little in suppressed relief? “I’d actually like to get a look at the harbor, if I may, so that I can assess the problem.”
“Of course. But surely you’d like refreshment first? At least a cup of safe.”
Syenite can’t help it now. Her lips twitch. “I don’t actually like safe, I should probably say.”
“No one does.” And there’s no mistaking the genuine smile on Heresmith’s face. “Anything else, then, bef
ore we go?”
Now it’s Syen’s turn to be surprised. “You’re coming with us?”
Heresmith’s expression grows wry. “Well, our comm’s livelihood is dependent on you, after all. It seems only proper.”
Oh, yeah. This one’s a keeper. “Then please proceed, Heresmith Leader.” Syenite gestures toward the door, and they all head out.
* * *
The harbor’s wrong.
They’re standing on a kind of boardwalk along the western curve of the harbor’s half circle. From there most of Allia can be seen, spreading up the caldera slopes that surround the waterfront. The city really is quite lovely. It’s a beautiful day, bright and warm, with a sky so deep and clear that Syenite thinks the stargazing at night should be amazing. Yet it’s what she can’t see—under the water, along the harbor bottom—that makes her skin crawl.
“That’s not coral,” she says.
Heresmith and Asael turn to her, both of them looking puzzled. “Pardon?” asks Heresmith.
Syenite moves away from them, going to the railing and extending her hands. She doesn’t need to gesture; she just wants them to know she’s doing something. A Fulcrum orogene always reassures clients of their awareness and understanding of the situation, even when those clients have no actual idea what’s going on. “The harbor floor. The top layer is coral.” She thinks. She’s never felt coral before, but it feels like what she expected: layers of wriggling bright life that she can pull from, if she needs to, to fuel her orogeny; and a solid core of ancient calcified death. But the coral heap sits atop a humped ridge in the floor of the harbor, and although it feels natural—there are usually folds like this in places where land meets sea, she’s read—Syenite can tell it’s not.
It’s absolutely straight, for one thing. And huge; the ridge spans the width of the harbor. But more importantly, it isn’t there.
The rock beneath the raised layers of silt and sand, that is: She can’t feel it. She should be able to, if it’s pushing up the seafloor like this. She can feel the weight of the water atop it, and the rock deformed by its weight and pressure underneath, and the strata around it, but not the actual obstruction itself. There might as well be a big empty hole on the bottom of the harbor… around which the entire harbor floor has shaped itself.
Syenite frowns. Her fingers spread and twitch, following the flow and curve of the sesuna. Soft slither of loose schist and sand and organic matter, cool press of solid bedrock, flow and dip. As she follows it, she belatedly remembers to narrate her explorations. “There’s something beneath the coral, buried in the ocean floor. Not far down. The rock underneath is compressed; it must be heavy…” But why can’t she feel it, if so? Why can she detect the obstruction only by its effect on everything nearby? “It’s strange.”
“Is it relevant?” That’s Asael, maybe trying to sound professional and intelligent in order to get back into Heresmith’s good graces. “All we need is for the coral blockage to be destroyed.”
“Yes, but the coral’s on top of it.” She searches for the coral and finds it all around the edges of the harbor; a theory forms. “That’s why this is the only place in the deep part of the harbor that’s blocked by coral. It’s growing on top of the thing, where the ocean floor has effectively been raised. Coral’s a thing of the shallows, but it can get plenty of sun-warmed water, along this ridge.”
“Rusting Earth. Does that mean the coral will just grow back?” That’s one of the men who came with Asael and Heresmith. They’re a bunch of clerks, as far as Syenite can tell, and she keeps forgetting they’re present until they speak. “The whole point of this is to clear the harbor for good.”
Syenite exhales and relaxes her sessapinae, opening her eyes so they’ll know she’s done. “Eventually, yes,” she says, turning to them. “Look, here’s what you’re dealing with. This is your harbor.” She cups her left hand in an approximate circle, two-thirds closed. Allia’s harbor is more irregular than this, but they get it, she sees as they step closer to her demonstration. So she lays the thumb of her right hand across the open part of the circle, almost but not quite closing it off. “This is the position of the thing. It’s slightly elevated at one end”—she wiggles the tip of her thumb—“because there’s a natural incline in the substrate. That’s where most of the coral is. The waters at the far end of the thing are deeper, and colder.” Awkwardly she waggles her hand to indicate the heel of her thumb. “That’s the open channel you’ve been using for port traffic. Unless this coral suddenly starts liking cold dark water, or another variety of coral shows up that does, then that part may never become occluded.”
But even as she says this, it occurs to her: Coral builds on itself. New creatures grow on the bones of their predecessors; in time, that will lift even the colder part of the harbor into the zone of optimal growth. And with perfect timing Asael frowns and says, “Except that channel has been closing, slowly but surely, over the years. We have accounts from a few decades ago that say we used to be able to accommodate boats across the middle of the harbor; we can’t, anymore.”
Underfires. When Syen gets back to the Fulcrum, she’s going to tell them to add rock-building marine life to the grit curriculum; ridiculous that it’s not something they learn already. “If this comm’s been around for many Seasons and you’re only just now having this problem, then obviously this isn’t the kind of coral that grows quickly.”
“Allia is only two Seasons old,” says Heresmith, with a pained smile at Syen. That’s a respectable achievement in and of itself. In the midlats and arctics, a lot of comms don’t last a single Season; the coasts are even more volatile. But of course, Heresmith thinks she’s talking to a born-and-bred Yumenescene.
Syenite tries to remember the stuff she didn’t sleep through in history creche. The Choking Season is the one that occurred most recently, a little over a hundred years ago; it was mild as Seasons have gone, killing mostly people in the Antarctic, near Mount Akok when it blew. Before that was the Acid Season? Or was it Boiling? She always gets those two mixed up. Whichever one it was, it was two or maybe three hundred years before Choking, and it was a bad one. Right—there were no seaside comms left after that one, so naturally Allia can only be a few decades younger, founded when the waters sweetened and receded and left the coastline habitable again.
“So that coral blocked the harbor over the course of four hundred years or so,” Syenite says, thinking aloud. “Maybe with a setback during Choking…” How does coral survive a Fifth Season? She has no idea, but it clearly needs warmth and light to thrive, so it must have died back during that one. “All right, let’s say it really grew into a blockage over a hundred years.”
“Fire-under-Earth,” says another woman, looking horrified. “You mean we might have to do this again in just a century?”
“We will still be paying the Fulcrum in a century,” says Heresmith, sighing, and the look she throws Syenite is not resentful, just resigned. “Your superiors charge dearly for your services, I’m afraid.”
Syenite resists the urge to shrug. It’s true.
They all look at each other, and then they look at her, and by this Syen knows: They’re about to ask her to do something stupid.
“That’s a very bad idea,” she says preemptively, holding up her hands. “Seriously. I’ve never shifted anything underwater before; that’s why I had a senior assigned to me.” Fat lot of good he’s been. “And more importantly, I don’t know what that thing is. It could be a massive gas or oil pocket that will poison your harbor waters for years.” It’s not. You know this because no oil or gas pocket is as perfectly straight and dense as this thing is, and because you can sess oil and gas. “It could even be the remnant of some especially stupid deadciv that seeded all its harbors with bombs.” Oh, that was brilliant. They’re staring at her now, horrified. She tries again.
“Commission a study,” she says. “Bring in some geomests who study marine floors, maybe some geneers who know something about…” She waggles a ha
nd, guesses wildly. “Ocean currents. Figure out all the positives and negatives. Then call in someone like me.” She hopes it won’t be her again, specifically. “Orogeny should always be your last resort, not your first.”
That’s better. They’re listening. Two of the ones she doesn’t know start murmuring quietly to each other, and Heresmith has a thoughtful look on her face. Asael looks resentful, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad. Asael’s not very smart.
“I’m afraid we have to consider it,” says Heresmith at last, looking so deeply frustrated that Syenite feels sorry for her. “We can’t afford another contract with the Fulcrum, and I’m not certain we can afford a study; the Seventh University and Geneer Licensure charge almost as much as the Fulcrum for their services. But most importantly, we can’t afford to have the harbor blocked any longer—as you’ve guessed, we’re already losing business to several other Coaster ports that can accommodate the heavier-riding freight vessels. If we lose accessibility altogether, there will be no reason for this comm to continue existing.”
“And I’m sympathetic,” Syen begins, but then one of the men who’ve been murmuring in the background scowls at her.
“You’re also an agent of the Fulcrum,” he says, “and we contracted you to do a job.”
Maybe he’s not a clerk, then. “I know that. And I’ll do it right now, if you want.” The coral is nothing, she knows, now that she’s sessed it out. She can probably do that without rocking the boats in their moorings too much. “Your harbor can be usable tomorrow, if I get rid of the coral today—”