The Farpool: Union

By Philip Bosshardt

Six thousand light years from Earth, the star-sun Sigma Albeth B has gone supernova, the result of a Coethi weapon called a starball. Five worlds were destroyed, including Seome. Millions died but twenty thousand survived, escaping through the Farpool to the oceans of Earth. Chase and Angie find themselves in the midst of unending conflict, between the water clans themselves and between the emigrants and their unwilling hosts on Earth. A few want to return to their home, through the Farpool to a time before the End Time. They prevail on Chase to help them.
Chase leads an operation called Temporal Hammer back to Seome, using the Farpool as a time machine, to try and assist the humans of that time in defeating the Coethi and preventing Seome from being destroyed. But he and Angie end up trapped in a civil war among the kels and a war of succession inside one of them. The Seomish have disabled the Time Twister that the human forces are using to defend their sector of space, unwittingly laying their home world wide open to destruction. Captured and charged as a spy in this civil war, Chase finds that the only way he can undo what has been done is to engage the Seomish on their level, fighting for his life in a blood-sport called tuk. If he wins, the Seomish will let him go and help him re-build the Time Twister, allowing the humans to defend their sector of space, saving the world from obliteration. But if he loses, the time stream will play out as before and millions will die.
Fifth and final title in The Farpool Stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Bosshardt
• Release date: Nov 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463159774

Philip Bosshardt

Philip Bosshardt is a native of Atlanta, Georgia. He works for a large company that makes products everyone uses...just check out the drinks aisle at your grocery store. He’s been happily married for over 20 years. He’s also a Georgia Tech graduate in Industrial Engineering. He loves water sports in any form and swims 3-4 miles a week in anything resembling water. He and his wife have no children. They do, however, have one terribly spoiled Keeshond dog named Kelsey.For details on his series Tales of the Quantum Corps, visit his blog at qcorpstimes.blogspot.com or his website at http://philbosshardt.wix.com/philip-bosshardt.

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The Farpool: Union

Published by Philip Bosshardt at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 Philip Bosshardt

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

"I have to see a thing a thousand times before I see it once."

Thomas Wolfe

Muir City

Central Atlantic, near Bermuda

September 2, 2178

The small roam of Ponkti approached the city of Keenomsh’pont from the south, across the crumpled badlands of the Bermuda Platform, having come a very long way, days in transit, all the way from Ponkel’te in the far seas. The Humans called it the South China Sea. There were ten in all. One of them was an aging Tulcheah, now Metah of the Ponkti on Earth/Urku. She was accompanied by the half-breed Skeleemah and by others.

They had come to Keenomsh’pont to meet with the old academician Likteek of the Omtorish Academy. And with the eekoti Chase, a desire communicated by long-range repeater from many beats away.

A formal assembly and roam had been requested. Formalities had been observed. Protocols and traditions had been followed exactly. The petition could not be refused, not without losing face, not without disturbing Ke’shoo and Ke’lee. No self-respecting Seomish would ever do that.

Likteek had contacted Chase, who was a Sea Council delegate and had been in Muir City for several days on official business and put the Ponkti petition to him. Chase, replying on signaler, agreed to come down to Keenomsh’pont and meet the old scientist at the Academy’s warren of caves.

There he encountered Tulcheah and Skeleemah.

Tulcheah nuzzled Chase in the Seomish way, while Skeleemah circled him and pulsed what he was all about.

"Many mah, Tulcheah was saying. A long time we have not pulsed you, eekoti Chase."

Chase agreed. It has been a long time. What brings you to the city?

Tulcheah had never been very good at hiding her feelings, not that introspection was common among Seomish people anyway. Not when they could pulse everything inside of you.

Sadness, she admitted. She darted off around the cave, her tail flukes brushing against beatscopes and flasks of things that drifted off after she passed by, much to Likteek’s annoyance. "Skeleemah and I have come to ask a favor. Something only you can grant, eekoti Chase."

Chase didn’t like the sound of that. He couldn’t pulse them back; his amphib modifications had never given him the same sense, the soundbulb that all Seomish possessed. Still there was something in the way his echobulb translated all her chirps and clicks and whistles and squeaks…something melancholy, perhaps. A sense of loss, maybe.

"Let’s roam…all of us. I think better in vish’tu."

Chase tried to protest. I have duties topside, Tulcheah…I leave for New York tomorrow and—

But Tulcheah always got her way and this time would be no different.

They left the small grotto, the four of them, and scooted off into the vast cloud of roamers that orbited the seamount in constant motion, for the Seomish were ever a restless people.

The official vish’tu roam was a custom as old as the world…at least, the original world of Seome. Its origins were lost in the murky currents of the past, unclear and shrouded by the mythical tales of the ancient cave-dwellers. It was very much in the traditions of Ke’shoo and Ke’lee and Shoo’kel, and typically involved two roamers, although custom did not dictate any set number. Entire em’kels, or even whole kels, were known to conduct their business in vish’tu, on roams that might last from a few hours to a few days, and range over thousands of beats. The Seomish had never lost their love for it and the custom was surely one of the most important practices they had brought from Seome in the Exodus.

The beauty of the vish’tu was that it encouraged great physical exertion. That was good in itself but it also helped unblock other channels of communication like scent and gave them a chance to work. Sharp disputes often arose on roams but the vish’tu seemed to blunt them. Something happened to kelke who roamed in vish’tu; they were more congenial and flexible. It was the physical beauty of the landscape, in the opinion of many, that accounted for this. Others insisted that it was the muscular exertion involved—the body and the mind were one and sustained effort was needed to ease the roamer into a trance where he could merge his personality with his fellow roamers. More likely, the magic of vish’tu was due simply to what was called t’shoo, a feeling of sliding through the water, brushed by currents and tingling from beak to tail, spiritual orgasm it might be called. Vish’tu was all these things.

Tulcheah led the way and Chase found it expedient to affix a pair of aquagenic jet feet to his shins to keep up, for the Ponkti females were strong swimmers. They had already made a trip of thousands of beats from the Ponkti settlement Ponkel’te, in the South China Sea. Their tails and flukes were honed to perfection and even with jet feet, Chase…and Likteek, found it hard to keep up.

Chase was sure this was exactly what Tulcheah had in mind.

It was customary for roams to begin with little or no talk, just the physical exertion of stroke after stroke, beating against the currents, sliding up and down the ravines and steep canyons that encircled the Muir seamount like so many concentric rings.

They headed southwest, toward the Bermuda Platform, through schools of darting fish, corkscrewing columns of hydrothermal vents and badlands dotted with twisted pancakes of lava hillocks, silent and tortured sentinels to the forces that had once shaped the seabed. The last of the tourist roamers fell behind and the quartet was alone, silently speeding cross-current into a broad fan-shaped valley.

Tulcheah spoke then what was on her mind.

"Eekoti Chase, I have a favor to ask. A proposal for you."

Somehow, I knew you would, Tulcheah. You’ve been leading up to some kind of big announcement.

Here, Tulcheah slowed down and let the currents carry her forward. She didn’t look back but her words were heavy with a sort of glum resignation.

Since we came to Urku— Chase knew that the Seomish usually referred to Earth as ‘Urku’---our lives have been hard. We struggle and the waters are still unfamiliar to us.

Chase had been hearing rumbles of this same sentiment around Keenomsh’pont for months now. Something was brewing. Some force was growing among the older Sea People; he didn’t understand it completely, but it was palpable. And getting stronger.

At first, you struggled, he tried to sound optimistic. But now the midlings—your children—they’re adapting to life here okay. And many of them become amphibs…they can live here and in the Notwater.

That’s our point, Skeleemah said. "You know this, eekoti Chase. Amphibs and Umans dominate this world. It’s their world."

Tulcheah picked up the argument. In another generation, all that is good and true about our way of life will be gone.

Chase knew there was truth in what the Metah said. After the Exodus, adjusting to life in unfamiliar waters had been difficult. Many Seomish, from every kel, longed for the old ways, longed to go back.

But that was no longer possible, wasn’t it? Or so Chase thought, until Tulcheah brought up the real reason for her visit.

"Eekoti Chase, help us go back."

Chase thought he had mis-heard Tulcheah. Maybe it was the echopod; sometimes, the translator needed tuning, or fixing. That had to be it.

Go back? How do you mean? You can’t go back.

Skeleemah came right to the heart of the matter. "Eekoti Chase, nobody knows pul’kel…the Farpool…as you do. Every day, here and in our seas, people travel through the Farpool. It is a common thing, no?’

Tulcheah went on. Help us return through the Farpool…back to Seome.

Your world was destroyed, Chase reminded them. The sun detonated…the Coethi destroyed everything. You know that.

"But the Farpool can take travelers to different times, can it not? I am asking…we are pleading with you, eekoti Chase. Help us go back to Seome, in a different time, to the time before the End Time."

Chase’s head was dizzy at the idea. But the Coethi…we don’t know how to defeat them. We don’t have the means, or the weapons. Even the Umans of that time couldn’t defeat them. They abandoned Seome, remember?

Now Tulcheah and Skeleemah brought the roam to a complete stop. She circled them like a predator sizing up her catch. Help us save Seome from destruction, Chase. Help us preserve it for all the kelke to come. There are so many…tu’kel’ke who wish to return to their home waters and build a new life in the traditional seas…to feel the P’omtor Current, hear the volcanoes, the ice floes scraping in the northern seas, taste scapet and tong’pod. Help us, Chase…before it’s too late. Before we perish and the Seomish way is no more.

By the time the roam had resumed and the four of them turned about and headed back to Keenomsh’pont, Chase wished he were anywhere but here. To go back through the Farpool, to an earlier time, and confront the Coethi and somehow prevent the star-sun Sigma-Albeth B from its ultimate fate, this was beyond insane.

But even as he told himself that, Chase knew that Tulcheah would never let the matter drop.

They roamed about the city for a time, with Tulcheah and Skeleemah chattering away at knots of Ponkti midlings getting ready for their Circling, for the ke’tuvish’tek was still done, though in different ways from the waters of old Seome. There were more challenges now, with the Umans and their fishing fleets, their seabed mining and drilling, their submarines and the strange life that populated the waters of Urku. Midlings had to be careful; there had always been an element of risk in the Circling but now….

Tulcheah offered the teenagers some unwanted advice and warnings.

There were five of them, three male and two female. The males were supple and muscular, their armfins and flukes bristling with energy. As they drifted closer, the Metah’s prodsmen escorts intervened with a protective screen, brandishing their prods. One male snarled and earned an electric tap on his beak. He winced and backed off.

Tulcheah ignored the lack of respect; she had come to expect it from this generation, imbued with strange ideas about midlings and elders, ideas they had picked up from Urku people, humans and Amphibs.

"The Ke’tuvish’tek is important, she told them. It’s our history. It’s our tradition. In these strange waters, we have to hold on to something. Stay in your roam…stay true to the path the elders outlined for your circling. Don’t veer off and go exploring. Urku waters are dangerous and not fully explored by our people."

The boisterous male, still smarting over his sting, barked out, Affectionate Metah— he said it with a sneer— we know the path. The Kel’em made us memorize it.

We just want to get on with it, added one of the females.

I like your enthusiasm, Tulcheah admitted. "But sometimes enthusiasm can lead to trouble. Stay away from the humans. Eekoti can’t always be trusted—"

Here, Chase smiled inside. He figured her observation was true enough, if only part of the story.

Tulcheah went on. "Just get your samples and specimens and move on. The object of Ke’tuvish’tek is to complete the circling and return to homewaters…wiser and more experienced—"

And in one piece, said Skeleemah.

The midlings just clicked and buzzed back. They seemed to Tulcheah a headstrong, brash group and she feared for them. She was just about to add one final warning, when the waters were rent by a high wavering wail…hoots and clicks in quick succession. It came from…everywhere, all around them.

A repeater song, an alarm beat.

"Muh’pul’te," said Skeleemah. She felt her heart beat faster.

The plague song, Tulcheah agreed. She sniffed and listened. The locus seemed to be many beats away, outside Keenomsh’pont, halfway to Bermuda. "Prodsmen, find the source. Pulse for it. I haven’t heard that in many mah…we need to find it."

Chase listened. He couldn’t pulse like the Seomish but he could listen. "It sounds like it’s coming from southwest…toward Bermuda.’

Let’s go, Tulcheah ordered.

The convoy set off, passing through growing knots and groups of Seomish of all kels—Omtorish, Ponkti, Eep’kostic—gathering and assembling in worried, agitated bands.

Thirty kilometers southwest of Keenomsh’pont, the Benthic Queen silently maneuvered to get a better read on the loose sedimentary soil that Big Tooth was about to drill into. The survey sub, pride of Nereus Corporation’s little fleet, was manned by the twins, Jackie and Julie Merrick. Jackie twisted her joysticks and pulsed BQ’s side thrusters to position the sub over a lumpy hillock of volcanic tuff, scant meters from the business end of the seismic drill head of Big Tooth.

On the other side of the drill head, two divers floated nearby, ready to make final positioning of Big Tooth before the sampling run began. Gus LaFleur and Jose Maricopa had been exchanging snide comments and insults with the twins for several minutes as they prepared to begin drilling core samples from the hillock, in preparation for foundation work that was already weeks behind schedule. Nereus had exclusive drilling rights to this little province of seabed, to core the soil and start building concrete forms for what the Corporation was already billing as The Most Luxurious and Exclusive Seabed Resort in the Entire Atlantic Basin.

It was called Tridentia and when it was completed, it would cover several hundred hectares of rolling seabed, smack dab in the bosom of two picturesque seamounts and only a few dozen kilometers from the pink sand beaches of northern Bermuda itself. An underwater bullet train was even planned that would give resort-goers a thrill ride not to be beaten anywhere.

The attack came without warning and Benthic Queen and her divers were caught completely by surprise.

Hey, Gus…what’s that--?

LaFleur had seen the disturbance out of the corner of his eye. Before either of them could react, the seamothers were on them. Materializing out of a maelstrom of foam and froth and bubbles, three Seomish puk’lek had bolted from their Ponkti handlers a kilometer away and, enraged by the intermittent whir and whine of Big Tooth, had streaked for the site and fallen on the divers and the survey sub.

My God…what the hell—

"Get out of here!" yelled Maricopa. The divers both dove for a small embankment on the other side of the drill point, just as one seamother slammed into the drill rig at full speed. Her bony head buckled the rig and sent pieces drifting off in an explosion of metal and pipe and cabling, while the other seamothers streaked for Maricopa and LaFleur. The divers tried to burrow themselves deeper into the scarp of the embankment but it was no use.

Jackie Merrick saw what was happening. Instinctively, she joysticked Queen left and ran up her props to max, bearing down on the beast, planning on butting her away from the divers. But before Queen could reach them, the third seamother had changed course, enraged at the small sub and nosed her way in between.

Benthic Queen and the seamother collided in a rending, shrieking, grating impact that buckled her hull plates and pierced the pressure hull, sending a high-pitched squeal of water right into the cockpit.

"Back off!" yelled Julie. Fall back…we’ve got problems!

Jackie immediately put Queen into all-back full, but it was too late. Her ‘front porch’ for drill samples torn off, two manipulator arms bent, and her pressure enclosure leaking fast, Jackie tried to steer away but the beast came at them again, this time from head on. Both women dove to the floor of the cockpit as the massive crested and horned head of the serpent slammed into their cockpit and the outer seams of the enclosure gave way in a deafening explosion of water.

Queen began sinking immediately, careened on her side, kicked and swatted for good measure by the seamother’s spiked tail, littering the seabed with pieces of hull, a hatch flange, a prop housing, furious columns of bubbles and a thickening stream of hydraulic fluid.

Beyond Big Tooth, LaFleur and Maricopa were already dead and two seamothers ripped angrily at their entrails and bloody viscera. The water was soon stained red and black, thick with hands, feet, heads and unrecognizable things.

Seconds after the seamothers had bolted, their Ponkti handlers had let fly the muh’pulte’ke cry, which was immediately picked up by repeaters orbiting Keenomsh’pont, the traditional Seomish long-range communication net. The repeaters heard the Ponkti distress calls and immediately let fly their mournful, wavering and wailing notes, notes not heard among the Seomish for a very long time.

Now when Tulcheah and Skeleemah and Chase arrived at the drill site, their prodsmen escorts hustling to keep a protective screen around the Metah, they came across a grisly scene of devastation.

Two seamothers were still nosing about the detritus of the dead divers. One seamother circled the wounded Benthic Queen, butting the wreckage cautiously, turning the sub end over end, trying to find anything worth attacking…or eating.

It was Chase who first saw movement inside the cockpit.

"Look! Two people…still alive…we’ve got to—"

Tulcheah had already sized up the situation. To her lead prodsmen: "Move those puk’lek back…stun them…kill them if you have to…but get them away from that ship!"

Four prodsmen raced ahead, prods ready. They took up positions at one seamother’s head and tail, and with practiced determination, stung and zapped the serpent until she shrieked and bellowed and moved off, licking her wounds. One prodsman followed, brandishing his weapon, just to keep her moving, herding her back toward her frantic Ponkti handlers.

While the other prodsmen occupied the remaining seamothers, Chase and Skeleemah dove for the sub and approached the smashed bubble of the pressure enclosure. Peering into the portholes, Chase could see two humans, female drivers, panicked as freezing water had nearly filled the cockpit. Their heads were barely above the surface, heaving in air as fast as they could, their faces washed and drowning in the rising water. They kicked and screamed and clawed at the portholes when they saw Chase’s face.

It’s going to buckle…any second now! Chase said. The pressure hull’s giving way--!

Skeleemah checked over the outer fittings, found where the hull had been staved in by the seamother and tried to cover the seam with sediment from the seabed but it was hopeless.

I can’t stop it! she cried.

They’ll die in there…we’ve got to get them up…to the surface. To the Notwater. Help me—here, pull on this stanchion--

The two of them strained and shoved and banged the hull, but they couldn’t budge Benthic Queen from her perch. Tons of dense, cold water filled the cockpit faster than they could counter.

If we don’t get them to the surface fast—

Soon, though, they had help. Three prodsmen had returned and seen what was happening. The Ponkti handlers arrived too. While one Ponkti took hold of the nearby seamother, tranquilizing her with k’orpuh from a small vial, the other Ponkti came in with an idea.

"Puk’lek seek Notwater when they’re hurt…see?…this one wants to go now. It’s instinct. The serpent was already growing more manageable as the sedative worked its way through her bloodstream. Help me lash this craft to her tail…she’s got enough bulk to pull her up."

Chase had no better idea. The prodsmen helped, producing a string of tchinting fiber from the handler’s nets, and securing the aft props of Benthic Queen to the seamother’s spiked tail. The beast kicked and bucked a bit, but the Ponkti crooned and sang to her and she soon began a rhythmic stroke upwards. The lashings grew taut and took the weight. Bit by bit, slowly at first, the very same serpent that had nearly crushed the sub into wreckage, began stroking and pulling and twisting her way toward the surface, driven by her handler and by an inner primal instinct for Notwater.

Chase hovered nearby, rising with the pressure cockpit, keeping an eye on the two women inside. With the Queen now in motion, they seemed less panicked though water continued to flow in at a high rate. A few centimeters of air remained at the top and it was into this gap that both women had stuck their noses, breathing hard, crying and coughing, trying to stay in the narrow pocket of air that remained. Looking closely, Chase saw how contorted and anguished their faces were and he wondered about the bends. He didn’t know what kind of mixture they were breathing but whatever it was, it was all bollixed up now with the leaks and the water and their own frantic gulps for air.

We got to get them up fast. Chase well knew how painful, even deadly the nitrogen bubbles could be if pressure were lost and their mixture was wrong.

Skeleemah and Tulcheah rose with the sub and the seamother but halfway up, Skeleemah grabbed Chase by the arm and pulled him away from the sub.

"The Metah and I can’t go any further, eekoti Chase. We’re not human. We’re not Amphib. We can’t breathe notwater.

Chase had forgotten all about that. Even the Ponkti handler was having difficulty now and the Metah’s prodsmen were already backing off, peeling away from the rising submarine and hovering dozens of meters below the surface.

He had to make a quick decision. "Everyone get away. Get back. Stay here…I’ll handle puk’lek."

Even as he said it, Chase could hear Angie’s voice in the back of his mind. And just what do you think you know about handling serpents, Chase Meyer?

He sniffed. That’s what people said when they knew you as a beach bum selling T-shirts and boogie boards in his Dad’s surf shack on Shelley Beach.

It didn’t matter. It had to be done. Reluctantly but with grim determination, Chase took the vial of k’orpuh and the reins that the Ponkti handler had been using to guide the seamother. He waved the rest of them away and went to work, coaxing, crooning as best he could, nudging and shoving and humming old Croc Boys tunes, all the while trying to keep the beast on course.

Only a little further. A few more meters.

They breached the surface into strong sunlight and gusty winds, waves washing over them as Chase struggled and cursed to release the seamother from her lashings. Once free, she bellowed forlornly, honked and splashed and was gone, diving into the waves somewhere south of them.

Meters away, bobbing like a smashed and bent cork, what was left of Benthic Queen lolled on her side. Chase stroked over and wrestled with the top hatch, fearful of what he might find inside. He was straining and tugging with every ounce of strength of he had when a loud siren and sharp bleats from a marine horn startled him. He looked up and saw a huge ship rapidly bearing down on them, crewmen waving and gesturing at him from the rails. Some were armed and, in that moment, Chase felt the water peppered with small arms fire, as gunmen took aim, trying to drive him away.

Her forecastle said Amazonia.

With one last heave, the hatch squealed and opened and instantly, one of the women inside burst her head up, heaving in great gulps of salt air.

Their eyes met but Chase could do no more. More shots rang out. Rounds hissed and zinged through the water. Chase gestured at the woman—she needs help fast, he yelled but no one was listening—then he dove headfirst into the waves and went below. He stroked down and was soon well below range of the guns.

He watched Amazonia approach the wreckage and hoped the sub crew was getting the help it needed. Chase was about to surface one last time when an odd whumping noise beating the water caught his attention.

Then he heard the voice, nasal, distorted, barely audible over Amazonia’s prop beat. In the murk ahead, Chase saw the bulbous nose of the submarine just gliding into view, maybe two hundred meters away.

"Back away from that ship…move away…or we will fire on you."

An underwater telephone, Chase realized. It seemed that Amazonia had a submerged companion. It sounded like a Navy UQC, heterodyned to a high pitch for better transmission through the water.

Chase froze where he was, then let the local current carry him a little closer to the dark gray vessel. Maybe it was a U.S. Navy boat…he knew they could often be found in the waters around Bermuda, entering or leaving port at the old Royal Navy dockyard west of Hamilton.

I was just trying to help out…there are two women inside—

But whoever was on the other end of the underwater telephone wasn’t interested in explanations.

"This is Commander Wade McCloskey, U.S.S. Albany…you are instructed to leave the area at once…I am charging my acoustic pulser…."

The voice sounded like someone talking with a pinched nose. Chase thought it might have been funny but for the approaching bulk of the submarine, already positioning herself between the wreckage of the drill on the seabed and Chase. Her bow planes angled downward and the Albany nosed forward, her bow maneuvering right at him.

The crew was hurt…we have to get them to— But Chase stopped when it became apparent that the submarine meant business. He flippered away from the area and descended through some small schools of fish to Tulcheah and Skeleemah below, still hovering just outside the perimeter of the drill site. Wreckage and pieces of pipe and cable drifted about like a slow-motion rain. The Ponkti handlers were still there, though one was still trying to corral a balky seamother in the distance.

Chase was disturbed by what had happened, more than he cared to admit. Not so much by the seamother attack, bad as that was but by the human response topside. I was just trying to help, he told Tulcheah. The crew in that little sub would have died.

Tulcheah nuzzled him in the Ponkti way, beak to face, until Chase shoved her away. He’d never gotten used to being kissed by a fish, amphib or not. They don’t like us, she said simply. They care nothing for the kelke. We’re pets to them. Or worse.

Let’s go back to the City, Skeleemah suggested.

And Chase had to admit she was probably right. It was more disturbing than he let on. Not for the first time did he feel alone, not accepted by humans in the world above, not fully accepted by Seomish kelke below. Reluctantly, deep in thought, even feeling a bit sorry for himself, he joined the convoy and they headed back to Keenomsh’pont.

Chase begged off a small feast Tulcheah was scheduled to attend, celebrating the start of this season’s Ke’tuvish’tek. All the midlings would be there, dozens of them anxious to get going, nervous, talkative and full of energy. The Kel’em would be there too, all the elders of the kels, to give boring speeches and endless toasts. There would be songs, roams in every direction, contests, probably a few fights and scuffles, much drinking and many games.

Chase tried to be polite when he told Tulcheah and her privy councilor Lokeenah that he had family business in Muir City, above Keenomsh’pont. Relatives are coming, he lied. You know how it is…we have to entertain them, make them feel welcome. Ke’shoo and Ke’lee, as you say.

Tulcheah pulsed him and knew the truth in an instant. "Eekoti Chase, you’ve never gotten the hang of hiding your insides, like true Seomish. The bubbles tell all, the echoes don’t lie. Anybody can pulse you…you’re just like a child."

Chase shrugged. "I know. But I do have to go home. Angie’s expecting me and Erika and her husband will be there. Plus Oostannah…she’s my real love."

Tulcheah pulsed that and laughed. At least, that is truthful…your bubbles say it. This child Oostannah…she gives you happy bubbles?

Very happy.

Now Tulcheah circled him with a few quick strokes. She had always been a strong swimmer. "I pulse something else, eekoti Chase. Echoes of disappointment, perhaps. There is a melancholy tone there. You think of those who died…when puk’lek attacked?"

Chase figured it was useless to try and hide it. Some of that, yes… he admitted, but also something else, Tulcheah.

"Speak this echo that persists, eekoti Chase."

I think you’re right, he said carefully. I was trying to help the crew of that little sub, but the humans drove me away. Seomish and amphib and human…we really don’t get along too well, do we? We don’t trust each other.

Tulcheah stopped circling abruptly. She faced Chase. He could see she was serious. Kelke don’t belong here anymore. Urku isn’t home. Seome…our homewaters are there. We have to go back…and face whatever Shooki has in store for us. It’s the only way.

And in that moment, Chase could almost believe he could actually pulse the Metah himself, like a real Seomish male should.

He left the Metah’s convoy, darted through boisterous crowds even now roaming toward the Ke’tuvish’tek celebrations and found the public moonpool twenty stories above the seabed. Drying off and avoiding all others, he took a lift to his apartment, on an upper floor of Muir City.

Angie had made a sea bass fillet with extra garnishes from the Eep’kostic market in the Orkn’tel quarter of Keenomsh’pont, where she knew the growers particularly well and knew Chase loved the spicy tong’pod clams and shells. Chase set the table. When the door chimes rang, he opened the door and saw the broad mischievous smile of little Oostannah grinning right at him, buried shyly in her mother Erika’s arms.

Well, hello there, little girl, Chase took his granddaughter from Erika, gave Erika a quick peck and proceeded to pinch Oostannah’s nose until her face wrinkled in disgust. She was all of eight years old now and disgusted with such acts.

"Grandy, stop! My nose’ll come off!"

Oh, I hardly think that, Oozie…so what if it does? I’ll buy you a new one…

Erika let her squirming daughter go and Oostannah darted off to Angie’s waiting arms.

Chase shook hands with Kentrak, Erika’s husband. They were all amphibs, and Kentrak’s gill sacs flexed with pride and a little embarrassment as Oostannah cavorted about the apartment, picking up and discarding everything she could reach.

Oostannah, stop— Erika called after her. But Angie waved her off.

It’s okay…we child-proofed the place when she was much younger.

Moments later, they sat down to dinner. Oostannah looked fetching with her hair ribbons and scrunchie, her armfins gaily decorated with all manner of washable tattoos, which she proudly showed off to everybody.

Her Majesty’s new fashions, Erika offered. Just got them today at a tattoo parlor down on the promenade deck. Little One likes the dolphin look today.

Very nice, agreed Angie.

She’ll be the Queen before long, Chase decided.

"Will be? Kentrak laughed. I think we’ve already got a little royalty right here—"he reached over and flicked her pert little nose again.

Oostannah beamed at all of them. "I want to be the Metah…of everything. When I get back from the Circling, I mean."

They all laughed at that. Erika gave her daughter a serious look. "Oostannah, you are not going on a Circling. Amphibs don’t do that. It’s just for the Sea People…get that out of your head. I don’t want to hear any more about it."

"But Pakto…he wants me to go…he invited me!"

Erika’s eyes went to the ceiling in exasperation. Pakto’s her boyfriend…today. Ponkti kid. Honey, I said no…got it?

They all dove into their meals, ignoring the stern little pout that had formed on Oostannah’s face.

Erika was now approaching fifty years of age. She’d been a supervisor in the City’s Department of Planning and Surveys for a long time.

I don’t mind telling you, she said, between mouthfuls of her kelp and civacado salad, that this project the Nereus people are planning is giving us fits.

"You mean Tridentia…the resort?" Chase asked.

Exactly. I mean, they bought the seabed rights and everything. We’re working with Bermuda on all the permits and clearances. But they’re so damned arrogant…like they own the whole ocean. Just build what they want wherever they want and to hell—excuse me, to heck, with everybody else. They treat amphibs, sea people like animals.

Angie sipped at some wine. So, what’s unusual about that? No airbreather likes amphibs. And as for the Sea People themselves, the true Seomish, well—

Chase described what had happened at the Benthic Queen drill site that morning. Two were killed by the seamothers. Somehow, they got loose from their handlers. I worked with Skeleemah and some Ponkti to get their survey sub to the surface…I think the crew’ll be okay…but I couldn’t stay with them. Ships drove me off. Chase put down his fork, re-arranged clam shells on his plate. Honestly, it’s getting worse. And it’s not just little things either, you know? The looks, the snide remarks…that’s been going on a long time. You heard about those gangs in New York? What they did…. Chase just shook his head.

Erika didn’t want to talk about it. A week before, marauding gangs of toughs had swarmed a marine terminal near the Battery and injured dozens of ferry passengers arriving from a tour ship…most had been Amphibs, though there were a few Sea People in motorized lifesuits…mobilitors they were called.

Kentrak tore off some fish pieces and chewed angrily. Thugs, all of them. They don’t like anybody different from them.

Erika held up a hand. Guys…not while Oostannah’s here. Let me send Little Princess off to bed.

I’ll help, Angie offered.

Oostannah protested. "It’s too early, Mama! I don’t want to go to bed. I am eight years old, you know."

Come on, Your Majesty— Erika pulled her firmly out of her chair and she and Angie trooped off to get their daughter washed up and tucked in.

They came back ten minutes later, both giving a big sigh.

Angie sat down and finished off her own wine. "I’ll glad that’s over."

Kentrak said, Chase here was just telling me about what that Metah—what’s her name?

Tulcheah, Chase said.

Right…that she and a lot of Seomish wish they could go back to their home world…Seome, I guess. Wasn’t it destroyed?

"It was. Supernova. Thousands emigrated through the Farpool here…but millions didn’t make it. Now, with what we understand about Farpool operations, there’s a growing movement to go back to Seome, before the supernova, before the Emigration. Try to stop their sun from dying and make a life in their own