Stations of the Tide - Michael Swanwick [64]
She strolled over to the nearest projector. “My God,” she said. “They’re beautiful.”
Underhill looked up from his screen, flashed a smile. “This is the last sounding. When they’re done, our job is over.” His hands were delicate on the controls. The projector swiveled slightly, and the ghost net swung an arc forward. “Watch that group out there.” Into a microphone he said, “Point one.”
Cut to the other projector. Its operator swiveled in the opposite direction. “Point one.”
Far away black dots appeared and disappeared in the water. The ghost net crept closer, its progress traceable by the hissing line of bubbles along its length. The sounding changed direction, angling away. “Clever little babies,” Underhill muttered. “Don’t you run away from me.”
The two lines of white bubbles were slowly converging now, like a giant pair of scissors closing. The haunts caught between the ghost nets fled toward open sea. A few broke away from the main pack and doubled back through the ghost net.
“Oh!” Gogo cried. “They’re getting away.”
That confident grin again. Underhill brushed back his hair. “No, those are ones we caught earlier, with your chips telling them they can go through.”
Gogo was bouncing up and down on her toes in excitement. She looked very young, almost a child. “Oh! Are you sure? Yes, of course.”
“Relax. Even if we let a few get away—what would it hurt?”
“There are so few of them left,” Gogo said wistfully. “So very few. We should have chipped them while they were still ashore.”
Distractedly, staring down at his screens with perfect concentration, Underhill said, “It wasn’t possible to find them all while they were on land. They’re elusive, you know that.” Into the microphone he said, “Point three.”
“Point three.”
The lines of bubbles were closing. Gogo stared off at them. “Sometimes I wonder should we be doing this at all?”
He looked up at her with frank wonder. “Do you?”
“It hurts them!” Softly: “I hurt them.”
Underhill was perfectly intent on his screen. “It was not so long ago that the indigenes were almost extinct. It was all our own fault. Unwise policies, disease—people even hunted them in the early years. Do you know what put an end to all that?”
“What?”
“The first time an indigene was chipped into the net. The first time people could feel sensation with that purity and clean zest they feel. The first—”
“The first time people could run with them through the magical night, wind in hair, to hunt and mate,” Gogo breathed. She blushed prettily. “I know it’s kind of sick.”
“That’s what I say,” Goguette interpolated.
“Oh, poof!” Marivaud said. “If you’re not enjoying this, there are other shows for you to experience.”
“No, it’s not!” Underhill said firmly. “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a natural, healthful thing to be interested in the physical side of love. It shows you have a lively interest in life. Point five,” he said, “and locking.”
“Point five and locking.”
A third ghostnetter snapped on his projector, and a new line of bubbles capped the other two. The pack of haunts wheeled in confusion. Slowly the last ghost net began to draw them in. The crane operator began moving her scoop into position. “Your turn soon.”
“I’ll be ready,” she said. Then, “You’re easy to talk to.”
“Thank you.” He studied her. “What’s really bothering you?”
Her fingers closed on the grip of her gun, opened again. “I’m afraid it won’t be so good. I mean, with them in winter morph.”
“You mean you haven’t tried them?”
“I was afraid.”
Underhill smiled. “Try.”
She hesitated, then nodded. The image switched to the haunts again, fleeing through bubbles, diving to catch a passing crustacean and crunch it in small sharp teeth. Even on the screen, limited to sight and sound, the joy the creatures felt simply swimming along was obvious.
“Oh,” she said. Her eyes widened. “Oh!”
Goguette was washing dishes. A door banged open, and Marivaud came in with raindrops on her cloak and an armful of fresh-cut flowers. “You have so