Impossible Places (14 page)

Renssalear backed off, watching tensely as Daniel ascended the treacherously flapping rungs.

Long moments passed. The Coast Guard was screaming at him on three different frequencies. Renssalear ignored it, acknowledging his radio only when it crackled on a prearranged channel.

“I’m in the pilothouse, John.”

Renssalear murmured a silent prayer. “Nice going, Dan. What now?”

“I’m going to try and back her off the reef. I know it better than that Indonesian captain ever could. I know its bumps and ridges, where the hollows are and every twitch of the current. I know where the sand is deep and where the coral grows shallow. I can feel it, John! Its just something . . . I’ve got in me. Now, give me some space.”

Renssalear waited as the immense diesels rumbled to life within the belly of the tanker. Props bigger than his dive boat churned the water, sending bottom dwellers like rays and flounder flying.

At first nothing happened. Then a deeper groaning became audible. Not many people would have recognized that noise, but Renssalear did. It was the sound of a steel keel grinding against coral and stone.

Spewing smoke like a drunken volcano, the mortally wounded
Comco Sulawesi
slowly backed off the eastern horn of Molokini. Once safely behind the islet, above the dive site known to locals as the Edge of the World, with 350 feet of water under the hull, Dan Warren turned the injured vessel south and headed for the open Pacific.

“Put her on autopilot and get off there!” Renssalear shouted into the radio. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Sorry, John,” came the steady reply. “No can do. I’ve already tried that. The autopilot doesn’t respond. Maybe I can find something to lash the wheel.”

Time elapsed. Too much time. The
Comco Sulawesi
cleared the southern tip of Maui and then Kanahou Bay on Kahoolawe, passing through the Alalakeiki Channel on its way out to open ocean. Renssalear followed grimly, battling the rising seas in his small boat.

Finally, a response. “Got ’er!”

“What’d you use?” Renssalear shouted into his radio mike.

“Duct tape.” Renssalear could almost see his friend grinning. “Advanced technology can’t function without duct tape.”

“I’m going to tie you up in duct tape and mail you off on a forced vacation!” Renssalear wiped a tear from one eye. “I’ll come around and pull up to the ladder. The swells are pretty high. Find a life jacket or preserver and jump in if you have to. Don’t worry, I’ll get to you.”

“I know you will, John. I’m on my way!”

Two minutes later the
Comco Sulawesi
blew up in a spectacular shower of hot metal, burning wood, and flaming oil, bringing to mind for a few minutes the far greater but no more terrifying eruption of Mount Saint Helens. A cursing, screaming Renssalear fought with the wheel of his wildly bucking dive boat, angling it into the backwash and somehow keeping it upright and afloat. Crude drenched his skin, his deck, his equipment, but he didn’t care. He kept wiping it from his eyes as he fought his way to the place on the water where the bloated tanker had floated only moments before.

“Didn’t need to worry about the damn autopilot,” he muttered to himself as he searched the spreading sheet of burning debris for signs of life. “Should’ve got off when he had the chance. The brave, dumb son of a bitch should’ve got off.”

It was counted a minor miracle when they found Dan Warren clinging to a piece of shattered decking, badly burned and semiconscious. The Coast Guard cutter that had been monitoring the disaster threatened to burn out its own engines as it put on speed for Kahului Harbor, the medics on board doing their best to subdue the pain and keep their patient alive. But there wasn’t much they could do. They had not been trained to treat the likes of Dan Warren.

At the hospital they knew him better, but despite their best efforts he continued to lose ground. Or rather, water. While his parents and friends crowded the waiting room and spilled out into the halls and even the street, stricken physicians caucused outside the operating theater.

“There’s nothing we can do,” one mumbled. “The stuff is all through him. He just ingested too much of it.”

“His circulatory biomass is dying,” another declared sorrowfully. “He’s suffering from an internal oil spill. All the specialized organisms, the unique quasi-coraline structures—the oil’s killing them all. He needs a transfusion. Of blood.”

“We can’t do that.” The head of surgery eyed his colleagues, voicing what they all knew. “You know what his system is like. A normal transfusion would kill him as effectively as the petroleum.”

“I wonder why the solution didn’t work?” muttered another. They had tried replacing Daniel’s singular body fluid with a saline solution blended to duplicate that of seawater. Even the pH was correct to a dozen decimal points. But it hadn’t worked.

“It doesn’t matter.” Another doctor was insistent. “We have to try real blood. There’s no other way.”

“Maybe one.” Surprised, they all turned to the head nurse. “Wait for me.” Running outside, she dialed the emergency room. Everyone there knew what had happened. Everyone knew how Dan Warren had sacrificed himself in his desperate attempt to save the island’s underwater patrimony.

“Is Jimmy Wakamao there?” she asked. He was. “Jimmy, this is Gena Pukalani. I want you to go up to Point Waihee. There’s a little reef there. Take the ambulance and don’t let anybody or anything stop you. I want you to bring back five gallons of water off the reef, where the current is strong and the water is clear. Yes, you heard me right. Five gallons. Take Steve Portugas with you.”

While they waited, the doctors continued to do what they could for Dan Warren. They were arguing over whether to proceed with a transfusion of type AB when the ambulance driver and his assistant burst into the conference room. Between them they carried the plastic container of precious seawater.

“What’s this?” the chief of surgery asked. “We’ve already tried a saline substitute.”

“A
sterile
saline substitute,” the head nurse argued. “Dan Warren’s body fluid isn’t sterile. It’s full of life, of living things. It’s the sea in miniature. Only the sea can restore him.”

“Or kill him,” insisted the doctor who was in favor of trying real blood. He indicated the plastic jug. It smelled of open ocean. “Who knows what kind of toxic microorganisms are floating around in there?”

The head nurse looked back at him. She was a local, and had more confidence in the sea than did the good doctor only recently arrived from Philadelphia.

“Nothing more dangerous than has been living in him for his whole life, I’ll bet.”

Everyone looked to the head of surgery for a decision. If he decided wrongly, he would be accused of letting a state hero die. Finally, he said somberly to his head nurse, “Let’s try it.”

The clean seawater flushed out the oil. There was damage, but with time and therapy Dan Warren’s system gradually rehabilitated itself. The coraline structures that lined his veins and arteries slowly rebuilt themselves; the unique microspecies once more swam and thrived in the inlets and fjords of his legs and arms.

The state gave him a medal, and the locals threw the granddaddy of all luaus in his honor. After a while all the fuss died down. There were pineapples to be gathered, and protea to harvest, and golden macs to box and ship. Tourists needed looking after, and gods old and new required the usual propitiation.

Dan Warren is still there, working out of Lahaina. You can go diving with him if you like. You can’t miss him. He carries the aroma of the sea about him like a halo. His eyes are blue, of course.

But like no blue you’ve ever seen.

UNDYING IRON

When non-SF people ask me what got me started
reading SF, much less writing it, I have to tell them it
was the Sense of Wonder inherent in so many of the stories. Then I have to stop and explain Sense of Wonder to
them; what it is and why it’s always capitalized. Sometimes it’s easy. Other times, no matter how long I talk or
how many examples I give, they just don’t get it. It’s like
trying to explain Beethoven to somebody who only listens to country-western. The terms of reference simply
aren’t there.

Every once in a while I get tired of trying to give a contemporary spin to stories. I yearn for the innocent reading days of my youth, when every Asimov story widened
my eyes, when each new Sheckley I encountered made
me gasp with its sheer inventiveness, and when Leinster
left me so locked in one of his tales that I was afraid I’d
hurt my eyes if I looked
away
from the printed page.

But most of all I miss the ability of stories to make my
thoughts soar, to make my mind bear witness to wonders
no other form of literature can approach. To take me to
places and show me things beyond the bounds of this
tiny, familiar world we ethnocentrically call Earth.

Sometimes, I even try to do it myself.

Ory was frightened.

She’d been frightened like this only twice before: once when a silimac had torn its way through Corridor Eighty-Eight, barely missing her but killing twenty of the Flatt family, and once when Jonn Thunder had consumed something unwholesome and had gone into convulsions that had lasted nearly a whole week.

But this was different. Perceiving no threat to her person, she did not fear bodily harm. This new fear rose from the depths of herself, as if she were being poisoned by her own mind. It was new and incomprehensible, this irrational fear that something awful was about to happen.

She was terrified.

Drifting aimlessly down Twenty-Four Tunnel, she gazed vacuously at the pale haze that clung to the inner lining and wondered what to do next. Fear had given rise to a throbbing in her brain. Of that she was certain. Still, she had tried to ignore the persistent discomfort. Headaches were a corollary to her specialty. They came and went like feeding time.

But this one lingered, unresponsive to all the usual treatments. Refusing to dissipate, it impaired her ability to cogently cogitate, robbed her of relaxation time, and had started to affect her even when she slept. It was a dull, insistent pounding that refused to abate.

I can’t go on like this, she thought worriedly. I have to talk to somebody.

Selecting a Downtunnel chute, she boosted herself westward. Cousins, aunts, uncles, and nonrelatives waved greetings or shouted cheerily to her as they rushed past. Some were fellow Checkers, others bound on important business of their own. The Brights illuminating Twenty-Four Tunnel glowed softly all around, bathing her in their reassuring refulgence. Colors changed as the Brights tracked her position.

Ory ran an Alpha shift. More than half her routine checks remained to be made, but she contrived to schedule them so that they would bring her close to Tamrul’s cubicle. With luck, he might have some helpful suggestions to offer concerning headache treatment.

Used to be, Tamrul could always be counted on to provide satisfactory answers to her questions, but not anymore. The past ten years had exposed the onset of a creeping senility the Philosopher could no longer hide. Knowing of his gathering infirmities, he was still her first choice. Less lucid he might be than in earlier times, but he remained unfailingly kind and understanding. Unlike some of the others, he would not laugh at her, nor treat her with unbecoming brusqueness.

She slipped out of Twenty-Four Tunnel and headed north to Two Hundred Twelve Corridor. Several Dispatchers accelerated to pass her, barely observing minimum clearance. Full of self-importance, they wore their rudeness like combat medals.

“Hey, slide over!” she shouted at them.

“Do you hear something?” the one in the lead queried his companions.

“White noise,” a companion ventured.

“With twitchy probes,” another added for good measure.

They raced onward up the tunnel, chuckling nonstop and holding hands. Dispatchers were incorrigibly incestuous in their relationships, keeping to themselves as much as possible even though their jobs required frequent contact with others. Ory ignored their taunts. It was their way of dealing with individual insecurities. When it came to instigating original conversation, they were not very interesting anyway.

Two Hundred Twelve Corridor, Section Nine-One. Waving politely to a passing Inspector, she banked around a tight corner and buzzed Tamrul’s cubicle. In the old days he got out more often. Now if you wanted his advice, you had to go to him. No more house calls, he’d posted one day. That did not trouble Ory. A Checker had plenty of freedom. So long as she completed her shift schedule she could roam pretty much where she pleased.

The Corridor Brights stood down behind her as she buzzed a second time. She could sense him inside, whining to himself the way he often did when he was alone. It was sad to hear. She felt sorry for Tamrul. Not that he was any better or worse than any other Philosopher, but he had always regarded her with more than just a polite eye. She felt that he saw something special in her, though he was too formal to come out and say so. Just as well. It could never have worked out. As a Checker, she led much too active a lifestyle for him. They were reduced to delighting in the pleasure of one another’s conversation.

At last she was admitted. He greeted her with the informality that came from long acquaintance. “Good day, Ory. It’s nice to see you again. What brings you up into my neck of the woods?”

“Your beneficent face. What else?”

“You flatter my expression, which I am quite aware rarely expands beyond the mournful. No wonder I like you so much. Sweet Ory, always ready to take the extra step to make others feel better about themselves.”

Sounds of amusement rose from nearby. A couple of guys from Maintenance were streamlining a recalcitrant photon flow, their compressors humming. Clearly, they found the private conversation a source of unexpected mirth.

“Moderate your volume, Tamrul.” To show she was not upset with him, Ory offered one of her famous smiles. “Half the Family think you’re senile already. No need to add fuel to the rumors.”

“You’re right. I should render my verbalizations more circumspectly. I’m too direct for a Philosopher.”

“And get off this self-pity kick. When did you start with that? It doesn’t become you.”

“It is simply that I am bored, Ory. That’s all. Do not commit the error of others by mistaking ennui for senility. This old mind is as sharp as ever. But a brain is no different from any other tool. Gets rusty if it isn’t used. I miss the group discussions of the old days.” He made a visible effort to rouse himself from his self-induced stupor.

“Now then: You still haven’t told me what brings you here. What troubles you? What would you like to discuss? The nature of Existence? The secrets of the Universe? The reversal of entropy?”

“I have a headache.”

“Oh.” Tamrul was crestfallen. “Is that all? Then why come to me? It sounds like you need to pay a visit to Doc.”

“I thought I’d get your opinion first, Tamrul. The idea of going to see Doc doesn’t thrill me.”

“Perfectly normal reaction. Nobody does.”

“I wouldn’t mind if his reputation was better, but on my shift they’re saying he has a tendency these days to overprescribe. It’s only a headache.”

“Well then, why don’t you drop down to Twenty-Eight and see Marspice instead? Maybe his diagnosis will suit you better.”

“Come on, Tamrul. You know the physicians. They’d run a consult on me automatically, and I’d end up worse off than if I’d gone to see Doc in the first place. Marspice is out of my section.”

“Consultation is performed to ensure more accurate diagnosis—or so they say. Still, I suppose you’re right. Someone in Administration might raise hell if you purposely avoided Doc Welder in favor of Marspice. What is so remarkable about this particular headache that it brings you to me in the first place? You have them all the time.”

“I know. But this one is different.”

“Different how?”

“They usually fade away after a day or two, without ministration from Doc or anyone else. Not only isn’t this one going away, it keeps getting worse. It’s really bothering me, Tamrul. Bad enough to cause me to miss two checks: one in Underlying Physics and the other in Biosearch. Pyon covered for me both times, but she has her own schedule to keep. She can’t back me up forever. Pretty soon I’m liable to mess up on something important, and Admin will take notice.” She quivered slightly. “You know what that could mean.”

“No need to be so melodramatic. I swear, you have a particular flair for it, Ory. In your own words, this is only a lousy headache, albeit a persistent one.” He softened his tone. “Much as the idea displeases you, I don’t think you have any choice except to see Doc.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear from you.” Disappointment flashed across her face.

“Sorry. I provide honest opinion, not salving balm.” He was regretfully inflexible, as she had feared he might be.

“I know.” She sighed resignedly. “I guess I just needed confirmation from someone else. It makes a difficult decision a little easier, somehow.”

“At least I can commiserate.” He touched her gently. “You stop by again sometime, and we’ll have a nice debate on the nature of karma, okay? And remember that no matter how low you’re feeling, we’re still on course for undying iron.”

“I know we are, Tamrul. Thanks for your time. And for your personal concern.”

Reversing from the Philosopher’s cubicle, she let herself drift back out into the corridor. With an effort, she turned her thoughts to completing the rest of her shift. Neither the visit nor her determination did anything to alleviate the pain in her brain.

But she did not go to see Doc. Instead, when she had finished her shift, she returned to her rest cubicle. Other Checkers were heading out, speeding past her, intent on making good work of the Beta shift. Pyon was already in her own resting place, curled up tight in sleep position. She blinked when Ory, unable to turn her thoughts off, entered silently. From above and below came the soft whispers of other Alpha shifters discussing the events of the day.

“Lilido down in One Sixty-Five went crazy today,” Pyon quietly informed her visitor.

“Wonders! That’s the third in six months. What’s the matter with those people down there?”

“Don’t know.” Pyon shrugged. “Nobody else seems to, either. Apparently she was working normally when she just started spraying everyone and everything in sight. Finally turned the flow on herself and choked out. Nasty business, they say. Took a whole Maintenance crew the rest of the shift to get the mess under control. Routing had to shift traffic around the clogged Tunnel. Admin was pissed and didn’t try to hide it.”

“If everything you’re telling me is true, then you can’t blame them.” Ory snuggled close to her fellow Checker and tried to relax. “Personally, I never thought those Lilidos were all there upstairs anyway. Always sucking up that gunk they work with. That’d make anybody go crazy after a while.”

“Yeah, I guess.” The cubicle was silent for several moments before Pyon inquired, “How’s your headache tonight?”

It was hard to prevaricate while the back of her brain throbbed. Not that Ory felt any need to evade with Pyon. She was her best friend.

“It’s still there. Gets better, gets worse, but won’t go away. I went and told Tamrul about it today. He told me what I already knew and didn’t want to hear: that I ought to go see Doc.”

Pyon’s soft whistle echoed eerily in the enclosed space. “Sounds pretty serious, for a headache. I think Tamrul may be right. How long have you been trying to cope with this?”

“Longer than normal.”

“I have some medication. Want to try it?”

Ory hesitated only briefly. “No, thanks. I’d better not. I could get into real trouble if anyone else found out that I was using an unauthorized prescription. You can imagine the reaction from Admin.”

“I won’t tell.”

Ory smiled. “I know you wouldn’t, Pyon, but if there were persisting side effects or if it only made my head worse, it would come out during a deep-probe examination. It’s not worth the risk.”

“Up to you. You’re the one who’s suffering.”

By now the voices of the other Alpha shifters had stilled, and the resting chamber was suffused with the soft hum of sleep.

“Thanks for covering for me yesterday.”

“Forget it,” Pyon insisted. “What are friends for? Are you going to see Doc?”

“It doesn’t look like I’ve got much choice. I’m about out of ideas, and I have to do something. I can’t take much more of this. Sometimes the pressure gets so bad my whole brain feels like it’s going to explode. I’ve had headaches before, but never anything like this. This one is unprecedented.”

“You know what Doc will want to do.” Tension and unease had crept into Pyon’s voice. “He’ll suggest a purge of your system. They say that’s his remedy for everything these days. Diagnosis be damned, purge the system!”

“Not this Checker’s system, trouble blotter.” But beneath Ory’s bravado she feared that her friend was right. “It’s not
that
serious yet.”

Pyon turned reflective. “I know it sounds awful, but maybe a system purge wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Everyone says that you feel like a new person after a purge.”

“Everyone says that you
are
a new person after a purge. They also say it hurts like hell. No thanks.”

Pyon yawned. “Well, I’m glad it’s a decision I don’t have to make.
My
head feels fine. I hope you find some other way of treating the problem. I don’t mean to kick you out, but it was a long day and I’m feeling about half unconscious. Sleepwise we’re already significantly behind the others. Good rest to you, Ory. Go to the undying iron.”