Chapter 6

It was four months since the girls left: Sira Walsh and Leah Bekin, those young forest girls who had been rescued from slavery by the legendary Anna Petrova.

It all seemed so long ago...

Daran Gholla tried to push the memory from his mind. Twelve months. The girls had lived in his house beneath the waves for twelve months. And Leah had shared a bed with him and his wife, and Sira with his teenage daughter. Unconventional. Awkward. Thrilling. Destined to fail.

Humans were meant to be paired, not tripled.

But that was not the only reason. It was the danger in relationships and revolutions, when the two occur together. The young Leah, barely as high as his shoulder--did he love the person, or the cause that had united them? Those twelve months stood out in his memory, but the weeks that came before were even more potent. And that was a memory without pain.

Freedom. Romance. Risking death to truly know life!

Moments of heated battle, knife and spear put to the test. Men lined side by side and the air thick with arrows overhead. The high of adrenaline, the battle-shout of a commander, the battle-cries of soldiers. The death-cries of the dying. Well... those memories carried pain also.

The return home had been trying. With it a return to daily routine--a job. Soldier became mechanic once more, and went to work repairing machinery that made the cities run. And then after twelve months, the girls left--if a tripod was unstable, removing the third leg would only make it fall faster.

Daran gave a great sigh, masses of tiny bubbles escaping his mask on their way to the surface. Memory would not be forced aside, only pushed back enough to function for now.

The Menadin Sea was a crystal blue from top to bottom, shallow, with slight currents. Cities away in the distance went about their business; people swam here and there along the seabed, lines of bubbles rising above each of them; from time to time a boat would glide by like a large fish; the dull throbbing of a geothermal belt-drive in the background quivered as sound waves bent and bent again through the water. And by the labor of an army of mechanics, the undersea civilization drew its collective breath and lived its collective life.

Lately, the schedules were brutal. At the top of the list was the cyclic patching of gili-membrane surrounding the villages and cities. Twelve weeks used to be the minimum requirement. Then ten weeks, then eight. Now it was four weeks--just one month between patches. Daran found with this constant rotation he barely had time for anything else. Yet there was always more work to be done.

Yesterday, he had patched the membrane around a small village called Yaiman, and he would have to apply more patches there in four days. Today it was his own village that needed patches; tomorrow it would be the city of Namitan. And in all of that, he had to find time to replace another generator turbine, and one of the long drive belts connecting power grids had snapped.

There was the question: why is the maintenance more strict now? There was never any good answer. Someone, somewhere, was busy writing and rewriting regulations for all the mechanics to follow. One rumor was that the gili-membrane was not as strong as it once was--it was supposed to be virtually indestructible in water. Of course, that weakness was just a rumor, and Daran had never seen any evidence to support that claim. The membranes he patched showed no sign of wear or weakness. All the extra work was unnecessary. Damned Regulation!

"Alright, let's hang this one and be done," said Daran to his repair crew, speaking through the mask. He spoke loudly and clearly; sound through the water was distorted, even with the use of gili-masks and matching earplugs.

"This the last one, boss?"

"Yeah, for today."

The men dropped to the sandy seabed for a moment, their feet sending small explosions of sand swirling about. They lifted the last patch and unrolled it--it was wrapped and sealed between protective sheets made from seaweed fibers. Then into position alongside the village dome. Each man took a corner and held the patch taught.

Daran struggled to pull a repair chart from his belt with one hand; he studied the dome for a moment. "Yeah this is good here," he said, putting the chart away.

Then the men peeled the sheets away from the patch, and pressed the newly exposed material to the substance of the dome. They smoothed wrinkles with their hands, though it was not really necessary; the bond would be permanent within a minute. The new patch was a bright silver-blue rectangle, already fading into a dull transparency to match the rest of the dome.

"Good," said Daran. "We're done. Let's get everything cleaned up."

It was an early end to the day. The celebration of Honalad would begin an hour before nightfall, and all the villagers would soon gather in the church. Already the sea to the West was dimming to black. Already the scattering of kelp farmers dotted along the sand were putting away their equipment. Already the shark and squid hunters were returning with their spears and boats. Already the ranks of women harvesting coral along the reefs were closing their baskets.

Secretly, Daran would have continued working if he could. He was not overly religious; he respected all the ceremonies and rites. He was not one to stay away during Honalad, but lately he could hardly bear to look at his wife. Every time he did, there was a look in her eyes...

There was no way to avoid it. The mechanic swam along the dome toward the village entrance, then stepped through the gili-pasa covering, onto the dry sand floor inside. He avoided home as much as he could these days, but there was no excuse for skipping the coming ceremony. His schedule normally kept him busy and happily occupied; but not today.

Daran shook his hair and brushed his baka-tunic--only slightly damp. He removed his mask, wrapped it to keep it from drying. He breathed deeply: air drawn from the water through the dome overhead. The smell was stale, as if exhaled gasses were not being properly vented. Nothing to worry about; now that he thought about it, the air had been that way for some time.

He slung his tool bag over his shoulder, heavy now that it was no longer buoyant. The streets were filled with foot traffic that normally came after sundown, after the torches had been lighted and the cool stillness of night set in. But it was still light as the shops closed and people returned to their homes. He joined them, smiling as he passed groups of children who played in the sand.

Through the village square, around a corner. The tree--the only tree--was receiving its daily watering. There were other imported bushes and grasses struggling in the sand, but everyone took special care of that tree. Strange, all those plants that needed water, but chose to live out of water. It made them seem so delicate. There was a thing called rain. Daran had seen it once himself, a year ago. Water that fell in drops from the sky! But there was no rain beneath the sea, and the tree had to be watered. It looked a little brown...

Daran arrived at home, walked through the doorway. His home: cut corral, blocky, painted in bright colors with a white sand floor. It was quiet now, though repeated tracks through the sand revealed activity from before. Probably just moments before.

"Honey?" he called out. "Kaly?" He set his bag down with a plop.

"Daddy?" A burst of yellow-blonde, a pretty face peeking out from the hallway. "Done with work?"

"Yeah. Where's mom?"

"She's getting ready. Me too." And the face disappeared.

Daran sighed. No point delaying. He rounded a bend in the hall and walked into the bed chamber. A wardrobe chest was thrown open, and clothing was strewn across the bed. Casual, formal, ceremonial. There was Kristin, bent over the side of the chest, her top half somewhere inside as she rummaged through. Then she stood up, some new piece of cloth in her hand.

"Hi," said Daran.

"Hi," Kristin answered, fingering the cloth--it turned out to be a ceremonial robe, one of Daran's. "Are you ready?"

"I just need to change."

Kristin thrust the robe forward, then began scooping all the other clothing back into the chest. She was already dressed: blue robe with white trim, flat bottom sandals, hair pinned up behind her head. She straightened her sash while Daran dressed himself.

The dome was growing darker, the Western edge tinted red with the slanting rays of sunset through the water. Shadows inside the village grew longer and deeper. Foot traffic left the streets for a short time, then returned as the villagers made their way to the church. Night would fall soon.

Daran, with his wife and daughter, stepped out onto the street. Hoods covered their faces, and they walked with their heads bowed, hands clasped. In solemn reverence, they moved with the procession, only shuffling sandals making a sound. The torches along the walls burned brighter now as light from overhead diminished. Red, then green, then gold, then black, and only torchlight remained.

The church was a dark flickering shadow, torches over the doorway lighting the traditional rajj etched in the coral wall. They each made the sign of Rajj as they entered. Honalad celebrated one of the lesser gods, the guardian of ocean currents, but they always gave their first praise to the Father of Fathers.

It was a large building, a large open space big enough for the entire village. Pews cut from coral surrounded the raised altar, where the reverend already stood dressed in his ceremonial giashi. He was a shadow in silence as the villagers took their places one by one.

Hands still clasped, Daran looked through the darkness as he waited, only his eyes raised beneath the drooping hood. At least he did not have to speak with his wife during the ceremony. He could tell she wanted to say something, standing there beside him. She had wanted to say something for a long time, but had not. How long would she wait? Then there was his daughter on the other side: she had been torn apart when Sira left, and it still showed.

Then the last of the footsteps stopped, the last of the villagers in place. The church doors swung closed, and a flame leapt up in the altar torch. The reverend was thrown into stark contrast as he stood unmoving. Acolytes lit candles, then moved up and down the rows, passing the flame. Daran took a candle from his robe when the time came, and held it lighted in correct posture. Robes and hoods all around the room glowed blue, but the shadows between the candles seemed even darker than before.