As on a Darkling Plain Read online

  Starting to hear rumbles from the lightning storm. Bolts getting bright enough to blank out my eyes for a split second.

  MODERATE TURBULENCE TEN MINUTES AHEAD.

  Noted.... Hey, there’s a blast! Single lightning tree zapping from the clouds above all the way down to the second deck.

  SEVERE TURBULENCE THIRTY SECONDS AHEAD.

  “Grab onto something quick!” I holler into the intercom.

  Turn off the outside mikes. Oof! Like getting hit with a hammer. Stabilizer cuts in. Okay.

  Inside camera. “Everybody all right?”

  They’re grumbling and swearing. Nobody hurt.

  “Get back to your own couches and strap in. Strong turbulence coming up.”

  How come you gave only a thirty-second warning?

  ELECTRICAL STORM GROWING RAPIDLY. GROWTH PARAMETERS INSUFFICIENTLY UNDERSTOOD FOR DETAILED TURBULENCE PREDICTION.

  Thanks for admitting it... after the fact. Storm’s spreading and we’re heading right into it. Carpenter’s not much on maneuvering; more like a dirigible than a rocket craft.

  Here’s Captain Voronov. Chunky Russian. Used to be blond and jovial. Looks worried now. Buckles himself into the pilot’s couch and fits the connectors to face and cranium.

  Now there are two of us. He’s sharing the ship with me. He slips his hands and feet into the control connectors. We’re linked.

  “Don’t think we can get around it, Andy.”

  I can sense him nodding. My eyes are watching the flickering lightning, closer than ever now. The computer’s superimposing numbers over the outside view: storm’s extent, our course and speed, turbulence levels.

  “I would not care to try going through it,” Andrei says. His English comes out slow and careful, in a deep baritone. This saline we live in makes everybody’s speech a bit slower and deeper than normal.

  The scientists are all battened down, like good little boys. They’re watching their display screens, looking at the storm.

  “Would it be possible,” Ling asks softly, “to get close enough to the storm to observe the effect of the lightning on the biological particles?”

  “Lord, I should hope not,” says Bromley.

  “Too much turbulence,” Andrei says firmly.

  He’s checking the mission plan and our performance limits. I get it. He wants to dive under the storm, through the second cloud deck! I run a systems check and start the computer plotting an optimum maneuver.

  “Good, Robert,” Andrei says as the course plot flashes before our eyes. “The descent rate is steep, but within tolerable limits. Execute.”

  It is steep! My stomach doesn’t like it. Displays are flashing like a movie show now: engine thrust, temperatures, hull pressures, strain, descent rate...

  Listen to them wail!

  “What are we doing?” Ludongo calls. “We’re going down?”

  Andrei answers, “The only way to avoid the storm is by penetrating the second cloud layer.”

  “But we’re not supposed to go down for another two days! I have two days of experiments to do at this level!”

  Bromley, “You can’t arbitrarily juggle the mission plan like this without consulting us first. After all—”

  “No time for discussion,” Andrei cuts in. “We go down.”

  They’re sore. And scared. Me too. Below the second cloud deck is the real unknown. Only a couple probes ever got back. Those sonar pictures. Big as mountains. And alive?

  We’re really bouncing now. I can feel liquid gurgling in my ears. Outside view a blank; we’re in the clouds. Damned couch feels like it’s got rocks in the padding. Straps cutting into me. Ship feels okay, though: engines strong. Bright boys in back are clammed up. Woop... was that Bromley’s yell? Don’t blame him. Another drop like that and I’ll yell too.

  Starting to ease off, I think. Maybe we... ow! What was that?

  YELLOW ALERT. SUBSYSTEM MALFUNCTION. GENERATOR OUTPUT DOWN TEN PERCENT.

  “Check it,” Andrei says to me.

  Performance graph doesn’t look too bad. No real danger. Look into the generator bay. Everything seems normal... wait. A bubble just drifted up from back behind the... get a close-up. Yep, a leak in the coolant line. Nothing serious. Not yet.

  “I see it,” Andrei says.

  Ship’s riding smoother now. Long, slow-rolling movement, with a bit of choppy pitch, still, but now it’s more regular. Not too bad.

  “I’d better fix that coolant leak,” I tell Andrei.

  “Yes. And then take your rest period. We’re out of the turbulence now. I can handle it alone.”

  UNPLUG.

  PLUG IN.

  Didn’t sleep too well. Dreamed about Marlene, just like she was still alive.

  Ship’s riding along easily now, inside the ocean, more like a submarine than a dirigible. Andrei’s lolling in his couch. The scientists are happy as kids in a cave, with a whole new world to explore. Every instrument we’ve got is going full bore. Visions of Nobel Prizes floating out there.

  Can’t see much else. Really black now. Even the infrared’s just about useless. It’s sonar or nothing. No more snowflakes. Maybe they’re still out there, but they don’t register on the sonar.

  “Did you have a good sleep?” Andrei asks.

  “So-so. Kind of tense, excited. I feel more relaxed when I’m up here, plugged in. Got something to do, somebody to talk to. It’s alone back there in the cocoon. Unplugged, unconnected. Nothing to do but think and worry.”

  Andrei says nothing. The connectors hide most of his face; all I can see is his mouth and chin. But I get the feeling that what I’ve said somehow disturbs him.

  Bromley braced me back there. I was on my way back from the generator bay, heading for the cocoon. He floated out of his own compartment and blocked the passageway.

  “Could we speak to you for a moment, in private?”

  That’s a laugh: in private.

  “Who’s we?” I asked him.

  Bromley nodded toward Ludongo’s cubby and drifted toward the hatch to it. I pushed a foot against the passageway bulkhead and followed him. Ludongo was sitting on his couch. His instruments were all on automatic, and he reached over to snap off his intercom screen when I hunched in. That’s what they meant by private.

  “We want to talk with you,” he rumbled in his pressure-deepened bass.

  “In strict confidence,” Bromley added. “If you feel that you can’t keep what we say confidential, then...” He let the idea dangle.

  “I’ll listen,” I said. “If you’re starting to say things I can’t keep quiet about, I’ll tell you.”

  “Fair enough,” said Ludongo. He looked up at Bromley, who was bobbing nervously in front of the workbench.

  “Em... we’re worried about Captain Voronov,” Bromley said.

  “Worried about him?”

  Ludongo said, “We don’t like the arbitrary way he decided to plunge into the ocean. That was not only a dangerous decision, but an unfair one.”

  “Who’s we?” I asked again.

  “We scientists, of course,” Bromley said.

  “All four of you?”

  “Speer feels exactly as we do. Ling is naturally more reticent about his feelings, but he’s upset also.”

  I looked at Bromley. Inside that rubbery face was a born troublemaker; the kind that starts fights and then stands off at the sidelines holding the coats and watching the blood flow.

  “He’s the captain,” I said. “He had to make a fast decision. There wasn’t any time for a conference or a vote.”

  Bromley countered. “There were a number of other things he could have done. He could have reversed our course, or gone up over the storm....”

  I shook my head. “Costs too much energy. He’s got to consider the whole mission. You wouldn’t want to get caught down here in a week or so without power, would you?”

  “Of course not,” said Ludongo. “Maybe the captain made the best decision. We’re not arguing that point. It’s merely the ma
nner in which it was made. We should have been consulted.”

  “No time for it.”

  “Nonsense!” Bromley slashed. “It’s his attitude, that’s all. He’s acting as if this is a warship, and we’re nothing but crew members under his command.”

  “That’s right. This is a military mission. That’s why military men are in charge.”

  “You two are in charge,” Bromley shook a finger at me stirring a tiny trail of bubbles, “because you’re experienced in ship handling. The purpose of this mission is scientific. There isn’t the faintest military reason for this expedition.”

  I felt myself starting to simmer. “Come on now. If there weren’t those damned machines on Titan we wouldn’t be here, and you know it.”

  “Yes,” Ludongo answered, smiling a political smile, “that’s true. But you don’t actually expect to find the builders down here, do you?”

  “You’re the scientists. You tell me.”

  “What makes you so certain that those buildings represent a military threat to man?” Bromley asked.

  How could he be so blind? “Any race that can set up machinery that runs unattended for God-only-knows how many centuries has a technology that’s capable of crushing us. You know that!”

  “But what makes you think they’d be hostile?”

  “Why are the machines still running?”

  With a look of disgust, Bromley told me, “The machines could be completely benign toward us. More likely, they’re absolutely indifferent—their builders probably never gave a damn about us one way or the other.”

  “I have my own idea,” said Ludongo. “I have been on Mars. I have seen the artifacts there. They were created by human hands, built to human scale for human uses.”

  “Yes, I know,” Bromley muttered.

  “There was a human civilization before the Ice Age. A civilization that reached Mars, perhaps even Titan. Those buildings and the machinery inside them could have been put up by our own ancestors.”

  I asked, “What happened to that civilization?”

  Shrugging, Ludongo answered, “War. Natural catastrophe.”

  “The Ice Age could have easily wiped it out,” Bromley suggested.

  “On Earth,” I said. “What happened on Mars, on the Moon? And why are the buildings on Titan still standing? What are the machines doing?”

  No answers.

  “Okay, you could be right,” I said. “Maybe there’s nothing to be worried about. But there’s still a good chance that the works on Titan were built by another race. We can’t just assume they’re friendly, or even neutral.”

  “They’re probably dead and gone by now,” Bromley said.

  “At least they’re gone,” Ludongo added.

  They still didn’t get it. “Look. From a military point of view, we’ve got to assume that those buildings represent a possible threat. We’ve got to be ready for that threat. If it never materializes, fine. But if it does come and we’re not ready for it... good-bye to the whole human race. For keeps!”

  “How could you possibly expect to be ready....”

  “We’ve drifted away from the original subject,” Ludongo said uneasily.

  “No, this is exactly on the subject,” I insisted. “This is a military mission. The captain’s job is to seek out any alien life forms that we can find, and get enough data about them to decide whether or not they might have built the machines on Titan.”

  “That’s arrant nonsense! No creatures who live in this black gravity pit could even realize that there are other worlds, let alone build interplanetary ships!”

  “Maybe so, but we’re here to find out for sure. You scientists are supposed to provide the information. The captain and I are here to run the ship and see that the mission objectives are carried out.”

  Bromley’s face seemed to puff out even more with anger. He looked past me, to Ludongo. “I told you it’d do no good to talk to him. Bloody fools all think alike. Military mission!” He turned on me. “You’re here to ferry us about and see to it that we’re safe and comfortable. This is a scientific expedition and there’s not a damned jot of military necessity behind it... except what you gold-braided barbarians make up out of thin air!”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” I snapped. “You can think whatever you like, but the truth is you’re on a military ride and you’ll take orders from the captain just like any crewman on a military ship. Period.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer. I pushed through the hatch and swam up the passageway to the flight deck.

  Sitting here thinking about it, it’s almost funny. Bromley’s weird. He really thinks we’d be risking our butts in this soup just to give him a chance to satisfy his scientific curiosity.

  SONAR CONTACT.

  Six faint white blips in the middle of the gray, grainy sonar view. Nothing else visible. Computer’s flashing data: course, current vector, range, closing speed.

  Andrei mumbles, “Fifty kilometers away and closing on us at better than fifty kilometers per hour.”

  “Look at that current vector. Unless the computer’s blown a circuit, they’re moving against the current.”

  Andrei goes to the intercom. “Sonar has detected six large objects approaching us. They are moving upstream, against the prevailing current.”

  Ling’s the first one to answer. “Is this the maximum enlargement you can provide?” He’s got the sonar display on his main screen.

  “Yessir,” I answer. “It’s on max. When they get into closer range we can switch to other sensors.”

  Ludongo, “Can the computer make the size estimate?”

  TWO POINT FIVE TO THREE POINT FIVE KILOMETERS PLUS OR MINUS TWENTY PERCENT.

  Kilometers! Not a word from the scientists now. They’re all watching the sonar display. Ling’s trying to view them on infrared, as well. About all you can tell at the range is that they’re slightly warmer than the sea itself.

  They’ve disappeared!

  “My screen’s gone blank!”

  “What happened?”

  “Hold on, hold on,” I yell at them. Check the screens. Get a wide-angle view. Yeah, there they are... look at ‘em go!

  “They’re running away from us!”

  “They sure are,” I say.

  Andrei’s watching them dwindle in the distance on the wide-angle sonar view. “I thought we had lost them entirely when they jumped out of sight on the close-up. Give me a speed estimate.”

  ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY KILOMETERS PER HOUR PLUS OR MINUS FIVE PERCENT.

  “I don’t believe it,” I mutter.

  CONFIRMED.

  “We certainly won’t be able to catch up with them,” Andrei says. Very practical thought.

  “They are alive,” Ling says, awed. Looking in on his compartment, I see that he’s knocked the empty sonar display off his main screen and is rerunning the tape showing the animals.

  “Alive,” Speer echoes. “And so huge.”

  “Like whales,” Andrei says. “Jovian whales. Have any of you hunted whales?”

  No answers.

  “Well, I have. When I was much younger. Whales can be very intelligent beasts... extremely intelligent.”

  Bromley chimes in, “Do they build machinery, Captain?”

  “No. But they learn to run at the sight of danger. Those Jovian whales ran away from something. They sensed us, probably, and bolted. Why should they do that?”

  I flick a peek at Andrei. His mouth’s set in a tight line.

  “Are you suggesting that these animals are accustomed to being hunted?” Bromley asks. His voice is dripping disbelief.

  “They certainly acted frightened.”

  “Nonsense!” Bromley snorts.

  Ludongo says, “But there’s the infall of biological snow from the clouds above. This ocean is like a constantly replenished biological soup....”

  Bromley, “More like a biological vichyssoise, considering the temperatures out there.”

  “The point is,” Ludongo resumes, “that t
he whales have a steady food supply. Why should there be predators when there’s a plentiful supply of free food?”

  I can sense Andrei shrugging. “Terrestrial baleen whales eat plankton... also free. Yet they are preyed upon by orcas, sharks—and submarines carrying men.”

  “You’re not suggesting that these whales are hunted by intelligent creatures?” Bromley looks really upset. He doesn’t want to believe a word of it, but his face shows absolute fear.

  “I am suggesting only that those whales were frightened by us, and they couldn’t be frightened unless they are accustomed to being hunted.”

  Ling gives a little cough. “Excuse my interruption, please. But it seems that these arguments cannot be resolved until we learn more about the creatures themselves. Can anyone suggest a technique by which we can study them at close range?”

  “Not if they run when they see us,” Bromley says.

  Speer adds, “And they detected us at fifty kilometers, didn’t they?”

  “Then how can we get close to them?” Ludongo asks.

  Andrei knows, I’m sure. But he’s hesitating. Probably used the technique hunting whales in the Antarctic. Russian subs have done it to our patrols. And vice versa. They’re supposed to work together on whaling hunts, but sometimes they play games. What the hell, I’ll break the ice.

  “We can try to spoof the whales’ sonar,” I tell them.

  “What’s that?”

  I peek at Andrei again. He’s broken into a broad grin.

  “Check the sonar tapes,” I say, “to find the frequency that the whales used to detect us. Then amplify our return signal on that same frequency. It’ll make the whales think we’re one of them. Instead of running, they might let us get close.”

  “Exactly,” Andrei agrees. “The trick works against terrestrial whales.... Even against other submarine crews, when you’re trying to lead them away from the real whales.”

  We laugh together. For once everybody’s in agreement. The computer has a record of the sonar frequency the whales put out. It’s lower than anything we can do. So Andrei goes aft to jury-rig one of the transmitters so it’ll match the whales’ frequency.