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  Fatu folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned against the wall. The moist stone was cool against his bare back. His lavalava clung in damp folds to his hips and thighs, and his oiled hair hung heavy over his shoulders. It was streaked with gray. I'll be as white as the snow trees soon, he mused. I'm getting old before my time.

  “Just get on with it,” Yoshida said. He was wearing a Company dress uniform, which, despite the several hours they had been inside the damp cave, was still spotless. Inspector's insignia glimmered on his sleeve cuffs. He removed a folded handkerchief from his chest pocket and patted it against his perspiring forehead.

  Klooney wiped a sweat-dampened sleeve across his own face and sneezed again. He scattered a handful of charred bone fragments across the stone ledge. “There's nothing in this one either,” he said. “I told you there wouldn't be.” A bone shard slipped through his long fingers and tumbled to the ground.

  Fatu straightened, but Toma motioned him back and bent to retrieve the relic. He picked it up carefully with the tips of his fingernails and placed it back among the others.

  “What's the matter, Toma?” Klooney asked. “You afraid of disturbin’ Fatu's ghosts?”

  “I prefer not putting them to the test,” Toma said. He dropped his gaze to Klooney's left hand, where the upper third of his index finger was missing. Klooney had lost it to an unexpectedly bold scissors worm in this very cave just a few weeks before. The reddened stump was just beginning to regenerate.

  Klooney glanced back at Fatu, narrowed his eyes, then growled and spat. Not, Fatu noted with some satisfaction, anywhere near the burial remains. His warnings about ghostly retributions had not stopped the man from following Company orders, but they had not been entirely without effect. Klooney scratched his arm again.

  “Enough,” Yoshida said. “I'm not interested in hearing about your stupid superstitions.” He frowned at his stained handkerchief, folded the cloth over on itself, and returned it to his pocket. “Continue the search.”

  “Where am I supposed to look?” Klooney asked. He snuffed and sneezed again. “This is the last of the burials. We've been over this cave a dozen times in the last five months, and I've opened these reef-sucking baskets of refuse every time. Your damn research records ain't in here.”

  “I've searched the cave as many times myself, Inspector,” Toma said, “both before and after your security teams went through it. Klooney's right. We're wasting our time in here. We should be out on the reef deciding what to do about the harvest.”

  “There is nothing to decide,” Yoshida said. “When the Company's ready to harvest the algae, you'll be informed.”

  Toma settled his hands on his hips. He, too, was wearing Company dress, but the uniform was faded and worn thin with use. The legs and sleeves had been cut short, revealing heavily muscled thighs and shoulders. Yoshida's cold look followed the motion of Toma's long-fingered hands, then lifted quickly to his face.

  “If the Earth-based algae isn't cleared from Pukui before the typhoon season starts,” Toma said, speaking with the calm reason that made him so effective in his job as liaison between the waterworlders and Earth, “we're going to lose the entire reef, and probably three or four others directly downcurrent.”

  Yoshida said, as if quoting from World Life's policy manual, “The preservation of the current algae crop and the recovery of the total-conversion research records have priority over all other aspects of Pukui management. The orders stand.”

  “This is the year of alignment, Inspector,” Toma said. “A month from now, our two moons will cross paths directly over Pukui. The tides will be at their peak, and that's just when the storms are due. The algae nets are full to straining right now; they're barely holding during ordinary squalls. If they get hit by typhoon winds and swells at extreme high tide, they're going to rip right open.”

  “I've heard this before, Doctor.”

  “Well, listen to it again,” Fatu said, stepping forward at last. “Try to comprehend it this time, and for god's sake repeat it to your idiot supervisors back on Earth. Pukui's Earth algae has already been allowed to grow too thick. Neither light nor nutrients are reaching the inner algal masses. They're full of rot. The coral beds underneath aren't getting enough oxygen, so the reef itself is beginning to die.”

  Fatu lifted a hand to stop Yoshida from interrupting. He saw Toma make the sign for caution, but he ignored it.

  “So far, the damage is restricted to the reef flats directly under the active algae pens,” he said. “But if that algae breaks loose, we won't stand a chance of saving this lagoon. It'll bloom over both the inner and outer reefs long before the storm season ends. You know what that means. You've seen what loose Earth algae can do to Lesaat's reefs.”

  Yoshida turned his skeptical look toward Klooney.

  Klooney shrugged and nodded. “It's true. There ain't enough squids on the planet to clean a major storm spill out of Pukui. Hell, the size of the inner reef alone is twice what we could handle. The barrier reef is three times that. Let that 410 Standard loose out there, Inspector, and it ain't gonna stop growin’ till the whole place is dead. You're pushin’ your luck already, holding the harvest off this long.”

  The Earther remained silent for a time. Think about it, Fatu urged. Think about who's going to take the fall if the most valuable reef on Lesaat is lost, whether the missing records are found or not.

  Pukui had been providing the Company with consistently high profits for twenty years, ever since Zed and Lehua Pukui began controlled farm operations there. Earlier settlers had misjudged the potential of Lesaat's nutrient-rich waters and allowed Earth-based algae to grow wild over unprotected reefs. It had bloomed and spread so rapidly that harvesting wasn't possible in time to save the underlying coral. Three prime atolls were fully destroyed before the Company halted operations and began seeking experts to do the job right.

  Zed was a phycologist and oceanographer, Lehua a geneticist. Both were eager to accept the land titles that came with offers of permanent resettlement on Lesaat. Within a year at Pukui, they had devised a safe containment system for the algae and designed the physical changes humans needed for efficient, long-term work on the waterfarms.

  Pukui continued as a key research center for the study and processing of the desperately needed protein-conversion enzyme. The atoll's loss would be catastrophic to more than just the waterworlders who lived and worked there.

  Inspector Yoshida rubbed his stubby fingers across his chin. He looked down at his hand and frowned, just as he had at the handkerchief earlier. He started to wipe his fingers on his trouser leg, but caught himself before they touched the clean gray fabric. He used the already soiled handkerchief to clean them instead.

  Klooney sneezed. He hacked and spat, then rubbed his eyes with the backs of his dust-laden hands, cursing when it made him cough and sneeze again.

  Time to get them out of here, Fatu decided, before Klooney starts wondering why today's “mildew” is so much more irritating than it's ever been before. He took another step forward. “You people have done enough damage for today. I want you to leave.”

  “We'll leave when we're ready,” Yoshida said.

  Toma stepped quickly between them. “Sorry, Inspector, but this is private property. We can only stay for as long as Fatu gives his consent.”

  “But I'm not—”

  “Both U.N. and Lesaat law give him the right to ask us to leave,” Toma said.

  “This is an official Company investigation,” Yoshida insisted.

  Toma nodded. “And I am the ranking Company official on Lesaat. If anyone could grant you the right to disregard Fatu's request, the planetary supervisor could. But without a U.N.-authorized search warrant I am unable to assist you. I am, in fact, required to enforce the law which states that you—” He glanced at Fatu. “—that we must leave.” He motioned toward the entrance.

  Yoshida glared at Fatu. “You won't get away with this much longer, Fatu.”

  “Bring my
niece back,” Fatu said, “and I'll give the Company free access to the entire atoll.”

  “She's not your niece,” Yoshida said. “Not by any civilized legal definition. She stays where she is.”

  Fatu folded his arms again. He arranged his long fingers in a gesture that caused Yoshida's eyes to darken. The Earther's thin lips tightened, and his shoulders tensed. Do it! Fatu urged. Give me the excuse I need to crush your tide-pissing skull right here in this cave.

  “Pump him full of penta,” Klooney said, unwittingly breaking the moment of tension, “and he'll tell us right now.” He lifted a quick hand toward Toma. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Free citizens can't be truth-drugged without their consent. How much longer you think it'll be before the Company finds a way around that law, Doc?”

  “I have no idea,” Toma replied coolly. “But for as long as Lesaat remains a U.N. protectorate under Company control, I have no choice but to see that the laws as they stand are obeyed. That's what World Life pays me for, Klooney—and they pay me very well—to keep the Company in strict compliance with the law. Now, leave that stuff as it is and get out.”

  Klooney's hands rolled into fists, but a sneeze erased any menace from his stance. “Reef-suckin’ moldhole,” he muttered. He eyed Fatu darkly as he picked up one of the lamps and crossed to the entrance. He dropped to his knees and crawled outside.

  Toma motioned for Fatu to follow.

  “I have work to do here,” Fatu said. He gestured toward the scattered burial remains.

  “You come with us,” Yoshida snapped.

  Fatu dropped his cool glance down the front of the Earther's clean gray suit, then brought it back to his face. He said nothing.

  Yoshida began, “I'll order an Earth waterguard unit out here if I have—”

  “If the inspector is going to take an accurate report on Pukui's current condition back to Earth,” Toma said with his perpetual, damnable reasonableness, “he needs to see the farm from below the surface. You know the reef better than I do, Fatu. I'd like you to pilot the sub.”

  “Is that an order, Doctor Haili?” Fatu asked softly.

  “Yes,” Yoshida said.

  Toma held Fatu's look for a moment. “A request,” he said finally. Yoshida cursed in frustration.

  Fatu smiled slightly. As he crouched to exit the cave, he trailed the tips of his long fingers along the cool, damp wall. The soft pop and hiss of another ill-fated nightcrawler followed him from the shadows.

  Chapter 3

  Angie woke to cool wetness. Viscous fluid slid slowly across her bare skin, crept over her chin, and covered her cheeks. She heard it bubbling in her ears. No! It slipped into her mouth and nose, and abruptly she was back in the mountain river, freezing cold, trapped in the speeding, dark current. She was suffocating! No! No!

  Something hot touched her veins. Fire! Angie thought, and the panic would have been total if all sensation had not abruptly ceased.

  Rhythmic chanting drew her back. The words were meaningless, but the cadence of the song was comforting. Angie fought her way back to consciousness. Something soft and dry caressed her forehead. A hand? The thought formed slowly. No. The touch was too delicate, the stroking tendrils too long. She thought about opening her eyes.

  I must be immersed in an EM field, she thought. The realization brought her tremendous relief. It meant that the great darkness she had just left had been a result of sensory deprivation, not a sign of her own insanity. The dep tank's electromagnetic stasis field must still be holding her immobile. She shivered mentally as she remembered the fire, the hatch—the reason why she was here.

  Cautiously she moved her eyelids. They lifted after a brief struggle. Not a full immersion, then. At least her facial muscles were under her own control. Staring straight up at the olive-drab ceiling, she was startled to see a spray of mildew. That has to be in my mind, she mused. Denver's too dry for mildew to grow on the walls.

  Something moved just at the edge of her vision.

  “Who's there?” she whispered. Her voice was low and hoarse. “Come closer, so I can see you.”

  “Turn your head.” It sounded like a child's voice, a girl.

  Angie started to comply, then stopped as a sliver of fear brushed her consciousness. “I—I can't.” Angie didn't understand the intensity of her aversion to moving. She wanted to move. Wanted it desperately, but she knew she must not.

  “You have to do it sometime.”

  Angie tried to mask her fear with anger. “I'll move when I'm fireloving ready. Who are you, anyway?” She blinked twice, and stared hard at the ceiling. It was mildew!

  “I'm Pualeiokekai noun Zedediah me Kalehuaokalae.”

  Angie shifted her gaze to the right.

  “It's okay to just call me Pua,” the girl said. She had moved to just within Angie's range of vision. Angie blinked back to standard focus. The child was older than Angie had guessed. Twelve, Angie thought, or maybe thirteen. Her golden brown skin had the silken smoothness of prepubescence. A faded yellow ribbon banded the girl's forehead, holding back long, thick, very black hair. Her equally dark eyes radiated challenge.

  “Let's see if you're as tough as everyone says you are,” Pua said. She lifted one dark brow and stepped back out of sight.

  Without thinking, Angie turned to follow.

  And was dropped into chaos—mental, visual. Her heart pounded, and the blood roared in her ears. The ceiling spun while the air slid without control from her lungs. She squeezed her eyes closed and gasped for a return breath that wouldn't come. Her mind screamed. She fell, tumbling, spinning...

  The girl laughed.

  ...and Angie caught herself in midfall. She clung to the laughter. It remained the only stable thing within her consciousness. A ragged breath finally brought oxygen back to her lungs. Cautiously she sucked in another breath. Then another. The laughter faded, and the spinning slowed.

  “What happened?” Angie forced out. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. You just moved your head.”

  Angie counted methodically to slow her heartbeat. Tentatively, she opened her eyes. The room spun for a moment more, then settled. The girl was standing about two meters away. She was short, with broad shoulders. She wore a white turtleneck with the words Think Wet! painted sloppily in yellow across the front. The sleeves and the lower edge of the shirt had been shredded and braided into intricately patterned fringe. At least it looked intricate—Angie's focus was still unsteady.

  The girl's mouth twitched as if she were restraining a smile. Angie took a slow, careful breath. “What happened?” she asked again.

  Pua came a step closer. “It's called hysterical paralysis. The drugs that make you sleep so long mess up your balance center, and that mixes up your stress system. You know, that fight-or-run-away thing? Anyway, you can't do either the whole time you're in the tank, so when you wake up, your mind kind of freezes. Some fish do it, and some animals, I think, but not because they've been in a deprivation tank.”

  The image of a mule deer frozen in her flitter's headlights crossed Angie's mind. Is that how the deer felt? She moved her head cautiously to the side again, and back. It left her slightly dizzy, but the intense dread it had generated earlier was gone.

  “Some people can't ever move on their own,” the girl went on. “The admin people hate it when that happens, ‘cause the drugs that make ’em move turn them into drones like my Auntie Kate.”

  Angie frowned.

  “Katie's nice, though,” Pua said quickly. “She just can't think very fast, and she talks kind of funny.”

  Angie wasn't frowning about anybody's Auntie Kate. She had never heard of such a reaction to simple healing tanks. The girl didn't appear to be deliberately lying, but ... Angie moved her head again; there was still no response from the rest of her body.

  “Pacific Islanders usually come out of the paralysis easiest,” Pua said. “Do you have Polynesian ancestors?”

  “Not that I know of,” Angie replied.

  The g
irl's gaze slid across Angie's body again. “You're big enough, but your skin got awful white before they gave you that last melanin treatment. Usually the darker skin colors are dominant when there's a mix.”

  Angie stared at her. “Are you a genetics expert, too?” she asked. She wondered why anyone would bother with her skin tone while she was still in recovery. She wondered who this strangely adult-sounding child was.

  Pua shrugged. “My mom was.”

  “Are you Polynesian?” Angie asked. Now that she was looking for it, she recognized the slight upward turn to Pua's eyes, the fullness of her face—and her skin tone.

  Pua nodded. “I'm Micronesian, too. My mom was Hawaiian, and my dad came from Chuuk.” Angie noted the past tense, but decided not to remark on it. The girl's chin had lifted as she spoke, a movement that stated conscious pride in her ancestry, but pain had touched her eyes for just an instant.

  Who are you? Angie wanted to ask. What are you doing wandering around in a critical-care unit?

  “Can you see my hands?” she asked instead.

  Pua glanced down. “They're still inside the recon gel baths. Dr. Waight took out the regrowth nets this morning.”

  A tremendous pressure lifted from Angie's mind. If they had used regrowth nets, it meant her hands had not been totally destroyed. They had been repairable. Or at least regrowable.

  “How do they look?”

  Pua brought her gaze back to Angie's face. Her expression was entirely neutral. “They look fine to me.”

  “Can you turn off the EM field?”

  Pua shook her head. “I'd get in too much trouble.”

  Angie sighed, and closed her eyes. She felt a feather touch on her brow. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Instantly the touch disappeared.

  “Don't stop. My face is the only place I have any feeling.”