Distress

bioengineered sea monster? The distinctions blurred into meaninglessness.

I caught up with the truck at the harbor; the two workers loading it glanced at me curiously, but didn't ask what I was doing here. My idleness made me feel like a trespasser; everyone else in sight was shifting crates or sorting seafood. There was machinery, but most of it was very low-tech: electric forklifts, but no giant cranes, no vast conveyor belts feeding processing plants; the reef-rock was probably too soft to support anything heavy. They could have built a floating platform out on the harbor to take the weight of a crane, but apparently no one felt it was worth the investment. Or maybe the farmers simply preferred it this way.

There was still no sign of Kuwale. I moved away from the loading bay and wandered closer to the water's edge. Biochemical signals diffusing out from the rock kept the harbor free of coral, and plankton transported sediment to the reefs where it was needed; the water here looked bottomless, deep blue-green. Amidst the froth of the gently breaking swell, I thought I could discern an unnatural effervescence; bubbles were rising up everywhere. The outgassing from the pressurized rock, which I'd seen—second hand—on the underside of Stateless, was escaping here to the surface.

Out on the harbor, farmers were winching aboard what might have been a fishing net bursting with produce. Gelatinous tendrils embracing the bounty glistened in the sun. One worker stretched up and touched the top of the 'net' with something on the end of a long pole, and the contents abruptly spilled onto the deck, leaving the slack tendrils quivering; within seconds, when the last scraps had fallen, the translucent creature was almost invisible. I had to strain my eyes to follow it, as they lowered it back into the ocean.

Kuwale said, 'Do you know what non-renegades pay Ocean Logic for a harvester like that? All its genes were taken straight from existing species—all the company ever did was patent them, and rearrange them.'

I turned. 'Spare me the propaganda. I'm on your side—if you'll give me some straight answers.'

Kuwale looked troubled, but said nothing. I spread my arms in a gesture of frustration. 'What do I have to do to convince you to trust me as much as you trusted Sarah Knight? Do I have to die for the cause first?'

'I'm sorry you were infected. The wild type's bad enough; I know, I've had it.' Ve was wearing the same black T-shirt I'd seen ver in at the airport, flickering with random points of brightness. It suddenly struck me again just how young ve was: little more than half my age—and in at the deep end.

I said, begrudgingly, 'That wasn't your fault. And I'm grateful for what you did.' Even if saving my life wasn't the point.

Kuwale looked distinctly uncomfortable, as if I'd just showered ver with undeserved praise. I hesitated. 'It wasn't your fault, was it?'

'Not directly.'

'What's that supposed to mean? The weapon was yours?'

'No!' Ve looked away, and said bitterly, 'But I still have to take some responsibility for everything they do.'

'Why! Because they're not working for the biotech companies? Because they're technoliberateurs, like you?' Ve wouldn't meet my eyes; I felt a small surge of triumph. I'd finally got something right.

Kuwale replied impatiently, 'Of course they're technoliberateurs.' As if to say: isn't everyone? 'But that's not why they're trying to kill Mosala.'

A man was walking toward us with a crate on his shoulder. As I glanced in his direction, red lines flashed up across my vision. He kept his face half-turned away from us, and a wide-brimmed hat concealed half of the rest, but Witness—reconstructing the hidden parts by symmetry and anatomical extrapolation rules—saw enough to be convinced.

I fell silent. Kuwale waited until the man was out of earshot, then said urgently, 'Who was it?'

'Don't ask me. You wouldn't give me any names to go with the faces, remember?' But I relented, and checked with the software. 'Number seven in your list, if that means anything to you.'

'What kind of swimmer are you?'

'Very mediocre. Why?'

Kuwale turned and dived into the harbor. I crouched by the edge of the water, and waited for ver to surface.

I called out, 'What are you doing, you lunatic? He's gone.'

'Don't follow me in yet.'

'I have no intention—'

Kuwale swam toward me. 'Wait until it's clear which one of us is doing better.' Ve held up vis right hand; I reached down and took it, and began to haul ver up; ve shook vis head impatiently. 'Leave me in, unless I start to falter.' Ve trod water. 'Immediate irrigation is the best way to remove some transdermal toxins—but for others, it's the worst thing you can do: it can drive the hydrophobic spearheads into the skin much faster.' Ve submerged completely, dragging me in up to the elbow, almost dislocating my shoulder.

When ve surfaced again, I said, 'What if it's a mixture of both?'

'Then we're fucked.'

I glanced toward the loading bay. 'I could go and get help.' In spite of everything I'd just been through—no doubt thanks to a passing stranger with an aerosol—part of me still flatly refused to believe in invisible weapons. Or maybe I just imagined that some principle of double jeopardy meant that the molecular world had no more power over me, no right to a second attempt to claim me. Our presumed assailant was walking calmly off into the distance; it was impossible to feel threatened.

Kuwale watched me anxiously. 'How are you feeling?'

'Fine. Except you're breaking my arm. This is insane.' My skin began to tingle. Kuwale groaned, a worst- expectations-come-true sound. 'You're turning blue. Get in.'

My face was growing numb, my limbs felt heavy. 'And drown? I don't think so.' My speech sounded slurred; I'd lost all feeling in my tongue.

'I'll hold you up.'

'No. Climb out and get help.'

'You don't have time.' Ve yelled toward the loading bay; vis cry sounded weak to me—either my hearing was fading, or ve'd inhaled enough of the toxin to affect vis voice. I tried turning my head to see if there was any response; I couldn't.

Cursing my stubborness, Kuwale raised verself up and dragged me over the edge.

I sank. I was paralyzed and numb, unsure if we were still connected. The water would have been transparent if not for the air bubbles; it was like falling through flawed crystal. I desperately hoped that I wasn't inhaling—it seemed impossible to tell.

Bubbles drifted past my face in contradictory wavering streams, refusing to define the vertical. I tried to orient myself by the gradient of light, but the cues were ambiguous. All I could hear was my heart pounding— slowly, as if the toxin was blocking the pathways that should have had it racing in agitation. I had a weird sense of deja vu; with no feeling in my skin, I felt no wetter than when I'd stood on dry land watching the image from the tunnel diver's camera. I was having a vicarious experience of my own body.

The bubbles suddenly blurred, accelerated. The turbulence around me grew brighter, then without warning my face emerged into the air, and all I could see was blue sky.

Kuwale shouted in my ear, 'Are you okay? I've got you now. Try to relax.' Ve sounded distant; all I could manage was an indignant grunt. 'A couple of minutes, and we should be safe. My lungs are affected, but I think that's passing.' I stared up into the unfathomable sky, drowning in reverse.

Kuwale splashed water over my face. I was improving; at least I could tell that I was swallowing most of it. I coughed angrily. My teeth started chattering; the water was colder than I'd imagined. 'Your friends are pathetic. One amateur burglar, caught out by a backup alarm. Cholera that gets confused by a melatonin patch. Toxins that wash off in seawater. Violet Mosala has nothing to fear.'

Someone grabbed my foot and dragged me under.

I counted five figures in wetsuits and scuba gear; they were all clad in polymer from ankles to wrists, and all wore gloves and hoods as well. No skin exposed. Why? I struggled weakly, but two divers held me tight, trying to thrust some kind of metal device into my face. I pushed it away.

The harvester emerged from the translucent distance, barely visible against the sunlit water, and I felt my first real shock of visceral fear. If they'd poisoned the tentacles—restored the natural gene to the engineered