The Complete Short Fiction by Peter Watts

Author:Peter Watts [Watts, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Dipnet has arrived.

The perimeter is all around them: a float-line demarcated by warning buoys, a limited-entry circle a kilometer across. Scientists are only sometimes permitted here. Tourists are forbidden. But the gate swings open for Dipnet.

Now she chugs towards the center of the Communion Zone.

The fog has partially lifted—the perimeter gate fades astern, while a tiny white dot resolves in the distance ahead. Dipnet’s escort remains close on either side. They’ve said nothing since that one brief message in the Strait, although the telepaths say the orcas are brimming with goodwill and harmony.

The floating dock is close enough to see clearly now, anchored in the center of the Zone, a white disk about twenty meters across.

It seems featureless, beyond a few cleats for tying up. This is the way the orcas like things. This is their place, and they don’t want it cluttered with nonessentials. A place to land, a space to stand, and Race Rocks looming out of the fog in the middle distance.

Beyond that, only orcas and ocean.

“Is there a bathroom?” someone asks. The captain of the Dipnet shakes his head, more in resignation than answer. He pulls back on the throttle while the mate, waiting on the foredeck with a coil of nylon rope, jumps onto the platform and reels Dipnet in to dock.

“This is it, folks,” the captain announces. “Everybody off.”

The engine is still idling. “Aren’t you going to tie up?”

Periwinkle asks.

The captain shakes his head. “You’re the ambassadors. We’re just the taxi. They don’t want us in the zone while you commune.”

Periwinkle smiles patiently. She hears the resentment in the captain’s voice, but she understands. It must be hard, seeing the Chosen Few going to make history while he just drives the boat.

She feels sorry for him. She resolves to chant with him when he comes back to pick them up.

The captain grunts and waves her away. He sniffs and wonders, not for the first time, if this woman remembered to clean the snails out of those shells before incorporating them into her own personal fashion statement. Or maybe it’s one of those natural fragrances they’re advertising these days

The passengers file onto the platform. The first mate, still holding Dipnet’s leash, leaps back onto the foredeck. The boat growls backwards, changes gear, and wallows off into the haze.

The sound of her engine fades with distance.

Eventually all is quiet again. The Chosen look about eagerly, not wanting to speak in this holy place. The orcas that guided them here have disappeared. Swells lap against the floats. The Race Rocks Lighthouse complains about the fog.

“Hey, you guys.” It’s the heretic again. He’s watching the boat recede “When exactly are they supposed to be coming back for us?”

The others don’t answer. This is a quiet moment, a sacred moment. It’s no time to chatter about logistics. This guy doesn’t know the first thing about reverence. Really, sometimes they wonder how he ever made the cut.

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