Cythera Chronicles: Collusion Chap. 7-8

Chapter 7

Marchal awoke in the warm caress of a good bed. He smelled the salty odor of frying gum-whale bacon. Overhead, an open skylight let in the morning equatorial sun.

He seemed to be in the small infirmary of a whaling ship. A nearby table held a small basin of fresh water and various small bottles and bandages.

Marchal was still tired, he’d thank his rescuers later. Now was a time for some introspection, he thought as he laid back down into bed. Marchal began to consider the tragic events of the last week.

Would he ever see his wife again?
Would Cythera be overrun by the Shroomish?
Could he have done anything to save Horgan?

He ended up having little time to wonder, a sharp rap on the room’s door snapped him back to reality.
A second later, the door swung open, revealing the figure of a plump, middle-aged nurse.

"I see you’re awake, more or less..." she stated.

Marchal gave a tired reply. He was feeling better already, but he still felt he needed rest.

"Well, the chef has something excellent cooked up for breakfast - gum-whale bacon!" she said, a hint of excitement in her voice.

Marchal was hungry, so he obliged to extract himself from bed. The nurse escorted Marchal into the open-air galley of the whaling ship, where ten or so rough-looking whalers sat. They were digging into simple meals of whale and kelp, getting ready for a hard day’s work.

The air smelled - or stank, depending on one’s point of view - of the sea, and, to a greater extent, whale. Marchal surveyed the seen. Barrels filled with whale oil, tubs of steaming whale gum being rendered, whalers clothed in gum-whale leather smocks eating form plates steeped in whale bacon, at a table constructed almost entirely of broad whale bones. Such a pleasant sight.

Marchal wedged himself in the only available (and then only partly) seat, between two rather large whalers.
By his appraisal, both of them could stand to cut back on the whale bacon. "Can’t beat whale bacon, eh?" the larger of the two grunted in Marchal’s direction.

Marchal felt he was not qualified to respond to the question, having not eaten whale since his childhood. His memories were mostly of the distinctive smell, and less of the taste. Thankfully.

The worn wooden spoon of the ship’s chef poured a slurry of whale bacon and greasy kelp onto his plate. With some effort, Marchal began to eat the dubious food.

Halfway through, a cry cut through the air. "Whale! Whale off the port side!"

Suddenly, Marchal was caught in a virtual stampede of whalers hurriedly exiting the table.

Now more curious than hungry, Marchal went with them. Sure enough, a pod of gum whales had surfaced not far from the ship, and the massive beasts were happily grazing on the floating kelp islets. Marchal watched with fascination as the silhouette of one of the juvenile whales spun through the water and took in a healthy bite of kelp. The gum-whales’ means of propulsion were a study in uniqueness themselves, they pushed forward through the ocean by rhythmically moving the namesake gum sacks than lined their Herculean bodies.

Some commotion directed Marchal’s attention away from the whales themselves and onto a recently launched small boat carrying a small group of whalers bearing sharp, laceration harpoons attached to flaxen ropes.

The tiny boat cut the crest of one wave after another until it was directly above one of the larger whales, which was engaged in the consumption of one of the larger kelp islets.

Then with a splash, one of the whalers cast the harpoon through the water, where it lancinated the fleshy back of the whale.

The imperiled creature lurched forward spasmodically, filling the shallow waters with gore and blood as the tear made by the harpoon tore down the back of the whale. Marchal turned away, afraid of losing his breakfast. As he heard the crew on deck cheer at a second harpoon hit on the quarry, he noticed another person who seemed inordinately interested in the proceedings.

Over about two meters away from him stood a pale blue-skinned woman taking notes on the proceedings in a large white tablet. She was not dressed in the same clothes as the whalers, but rather in a clean gray tunic with a wide assortment of pockets.

Marchal was about to enquire what she was doing when the evident leader of the whalers approached her. Marchal looked on as they exchanged brief conversation and the captain directed her attention to the crew, who were preparing to help their comrades in the small boat to hoist the whale corpse aboard.

It was a interesting spectacle, Marchal had to admit - the major effort extended by the whalers to lug the massive beast onto the ship’s long deck using an assortment of pulleys, tackle, and raw force.

The woman with the note pad was also chronicling the event in earnest, as the captain narrated the procedure to her.

Marchal caught intermittent bits of the monologue. "And so, once the whale is on deck and secured, we can begin gutting..."

The key word there was ’gutting’. Marchal decided he’d prefer not to behold that part of the operation, as he’d seen more parts of a gum-whale in one day than he’d ever have preferred to.

Marchal decided that it would be in the best interests to find out where exactly this whaling ship was headed, or, for that matter, where it was now.

Chapter 8

Below decks, Marchal entered the utilitarian kitchen of the vessel. Standing in front of a cast-iron stove was a short, black haired man, stirring a tall pot on the stove. Judging from the smell, whatever was brewing involved a whale. Didn’t the crew ever get tired of eating their work?

"Um, hello!" Marchal greeted the man.

The man turned from the oversized pot, and replied in a congenial voice. "What can I do for you?" Before he could reply, the cook continued. "Hey, you're the fellow we pulled out of the drink yesterday! What’s your name?"

Marchal didn’t remember much of the ensuing moments after he landed in the water, but all things considered, it was pretty well certain he was the person the cook referred too.

"My name’s Marchal," Marchal responded.

"Well, I’m glad you seem all right."

"Can I ask where exactly we are?"

"Yer on the whaling ship Kira Tolten, owned and operated by captain Yesh Pynos. We’re presently a day’s voyage out from Felbar, headed back to Tatrinas."

"Which island?" Asked Marchal.

"Tramel, ‘tis our home port, but we’ll be stopping in Mevren to drop off a passenger."

"Passenger?"

"Yeah, a scientist from Mevren. We picked ‘er up there, she was sent by the institute to document our method whale hunting," the cook said.

"Why on earth did they want to do that?" asked Marchal.

"They’re trying to figure out if there are enough whales to sustain the need for them. They have some theories on it, that if we only take certain whales that ain’t breeding, and leave the females, then the whale population will expand. We’ll have more whales, and we won’t have to worry about runnin’ out of ‘em."

"Makes sense." Marchal agreed, seeing as how much the economy of Tatrinas, and to a extent, the entire Coastal Empire, depended on whale products.

"So, do you know the name of the scientist? I’m headed to Mevren, as well..."

"Talaris. I think..."

"Really? That’s great! I was headed over here on that zeppelin to see her, so I guess it works out all right..." Marchal said, fading out.

"Why?"

"Oh? Umm... some unusual creatures have appeared in Cythera. I was traveling to Mevren to see if they could shed some light on it."

The cook nodded.

Just then, Talaris walked into the kitchen.

"Oh, Talaris. This fellow needs to talk to you." The chef announced, gesturing to Marchal.

"Can I do something for you?" She asked.

"Uh... yes, it’s rather important."

"Do tell."

"Are you acquainted with the creatures called ‘Shroomish’?"

Talaris searched for a moment, and then replied.

"Yes, I’ve heard of them. Terrible creatures."

"They were on Cythera."

Talaris was momentarily shocked.

"On Cythera? Impossible. Cythera is far too hot for Shroomish, they’d perish from the heat on all but the coldest Cytherian days!"

"No, they were there. I don’t know how, but I accidentally stumbled onto some kind of collusion between them and a political rebellion against the Confederation."

"But the Shroomish are strictly xenophobic, they attack all non-shroomish. It seems highly unlikely that they’d ally with a humanoid group."

"I know it seems very improbable, but it’s true. I’ve been attacked by them practically nonstop! The zeppelin I came here on was sabotaged by them! They killed one of my best friends! Frankly, I don’t know if Cythera hasn’t already been overrun by them!"

Marchal inhaled deeply after his speech.

"If what you say is true, and the Shroomish have become more tolerant to heat than previously known, then they represent a significant danger. Given their ability to take over other creatures, they would be perfect allies for a rebellion. Simply take over a few leaders, and you have an almost bloodless coup. But the thing is, the Shroomish have never been ones for diplomacy. In all ten documented encounters, all they did was proclaim that the people encountering them were either about to be taken over by them, or were going to be eliminated. The notion of them having the intelligence to forge an alliance is borderline impossible..."

Marchal interrupted. "Well, whatever is going on, I’ve seen them murder dozens of people in the last few days, and It’s a good guess that they’ll stop at nothing to prevent news of their plan from reaching the public."

"What did the Shroomish say to you when they attacked? Something like ‘We are Shroomish, prepare to be eliminated?’ or ‘We are Shroomish, prepare to integrate us?’?"

"More like ‘We are Shroomish, we Act for the Overmind.’"

"Overmind?" Talaris wondered out loud.

"I have no idea what it means. They mentioned it frequently, though."

"Perhaps this is the key - we’ve known for some time that the Shroomish maintain a hive mind high in the mountains, and it’s function as always baffled biologists, myself included. Obviously, no one has been able to make a close examination of the monstrosity, due to the Shroomish that guard it..."

"Where are you going with this?" inquired a slightly impatient Marchal.

"Maybe something changed that Hive mind - the Shroomish went from near-brainless xenophobic moving fungus, to creatures that exhibit higher order intelligence - making alliances, plotting and coordinating a plan to kill you, and so on. Now they refer to an ‘Overmind’, and to themselves as extensions of it. Now, this is strictly speculation, but I think it may be that the Shroomish Hive Mind has achieved self-awareness, and is coordinating the entire Shroomish race to it’s own ends. It could have indeed decided that it was best of it made an alliance with someone trying of take over the Confederation, if doing do matched with it’s own goals. What they are, who knows..."

"So, this ‘Overmind’, in whose name they’ve been trying to kill me, is a real thing? A localized ‘brain’?" Marchal asked.

"I think so. This explanation seems to fit the known facts."

Talaris spoke again, "When did you first discover the Shroomish?"

"About two days ago."

"Good, we’ve been without contact with others for three days, so we can be almost assured that no Shroomish are aboard - until last night, they had no idea that their Zeppelin ploy would fail, let alone that you would be picked up by this vessel. I think we’re safe."

Marchal nodded, relived.

"We have to talk to the captain, though, and keep him from putting into port at Mevren!"

The two headed off, leaving the cook, who’d been silently listening, in a combination of fear and wonder.

----------

After hearing the seemingly implausible explanation, Captain Pynos conceded to keep the ship out of port.

The Captain, Marchal, and Talaris continued in discussion.

"We have to think this out logically, and form and plan of action," Talaris suggested.

Captain Pynos nodded. "If we can’t land, how are we going to reach this ‘Overmind’, and destroy it?"

"We’ll have to travel by air, obviously. The problem lies in getting an airship without putting into port or otherwise coming into contact with people or things that could have Shroomish ‘guests’," Talaris replied.

The situation looked bleak indeed to Marchal. "There’s nothing on board with which we can construct a small Zeppelin?"

"No," stated the captain, plainly.

"Well, what do we do?" Asked Marchal.

Talaris began telling of her newly formulated plan. "We go to Mevren - it’s dangerous, but there is no other option, with no materials to build a airship here. Mevren doesn’t get much traffic, only one or two ships from the mainland a week. Most of the visiting boats are form Tatrinas, and they don’t have much contact with the people, just loading and unloading cargo. The few mainland ships that come normally hail from major coastal cities in the west, so they’d have been traveling for at least a day. If we move quickly, are chances for not encountering any Shroomish on Mevren."

Captain Pynos gave his approval, and they set sail for Mevren.

(to be continued)

[This message has been edited by moderator (edited 05-28-2002).]

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