He reached the cockpit and shoved Lyra aside. She didn’t protest.
“Emergency override?”
“I tried it already!”
He fumbled at the instrumentation. The stern screens were dark now and he could hear the echo of water rushing down a monstrous throat.
The familiar high whine of the jet filled the air. Lyra was thrown against a wall and the backrest of the pilot’s seat pressed hard into Etienne’s back. For an instant Etienne was sure he could see a thick black lip overhead as the boat slid down that endless throat. Then they were out in the light again and the stern screen showed the immense mouth receding behind them. It closed and the Lacoti sank like an island. A quick check of the scanner showed it was not pursuing, just as it revealed rocky outcrops, mudpoles, and vegetation growing atop the massive back. The thought that something the size of the Lacoti required camouflage was sobering. The sooner they reached shallower water the better he’d like it.
He rechecked the readouts before allowing himself a long, relieved sigh. “Go check our passengers.”
“Don’t give me orders,” she snapped as she pushed back her hair and adjusted one fallen halter strap. “I know what to do. I’m just not as mechanically inclined as you, that’s all.”
He spoke very carefully, conscious that she was treading a fine line between anger and hysteria. “When you tried the accelerator you forgot to disengage the secondary lock on the autopilot. That’s why the emergency override didn’t work either.”
“I know that,” she murmured. She was mad at herself, he saw, not at him. “I saw that thing in the screen and I got scared. I guess … I panicked a little.”
“It could have happened to anyone,” he said softly. He didn’t want to say that. What he wanted to do was let off tension by calling her a stupid, senseless little fool. But he didn’t. He was gentle and understanding. It was possibly the most intelligent thing he’d done since they’d stepped off the shuttle at Steamer Station many months ago.
What really confused him was that he didn’t know why he did it.
“I’m going to run a complete checkout,” he told her. “That thing coming up underneath our keel gave us a pretty good jolt. I want to make sure it didn’t bust something loose.”
She nodded. “I’ll have a look in the hold.”
She was gone for several minutes, returned sooner than expected. Her expression was grim.
“Etienne, we’ve suffered a fatality.”
“What?” He spun the seat around and stared at her in disbelief. “How? We made it clear in time.”
“One of the porters. Her name was Uon. When you hit the accelerator I was thrown against the wall. Everyone out back was knocked to the deck. But Uon was standing up top, near the mast. When we shot forward she lost her footing and fell. Cracked her skull, looks like. She’s dead.”
Fingers tightened on the back of the seat. “I didn’t have any choice,” he growled. “Another second’s delay and we’d have become a meal.”
“I already explained that to Tyl and the others. They understand completely. They’ve … made a request.”
He didn’t look up. “What do they want?”
“They’d appreciate it if we could stop hereabouts for the night so they can give Uon a proper sendoff. I didn’t get the details but apparently there’s a lot of ritual involved. They want to anchor somewhere inshore.”
“I suppose we can find a quiet place. Least we can do. I’m really sorry, Lyra.”
“It was my fault as much as anyone’s.” She smiled slightly. “They’ve accepted it with somber grace. They adjust to death very well.”
Now he looked up. “Maybe better than we? If that’s a sign of social maturity I’m willing to concede the point.”
But his concession didn’t make her feel any better.
They found a small cove, no more than an oversized pothole that the Skar’s swirls and eddies had etched into the riverbank. The night sky was a dull starless gray thanks to the solid cover of clouds that stretched like a fluffy awning from one rim of the Guntali to the other.
Lyra overcame her sorrow by burying herself in her studies, trying to record every slightest nuance of the Tsla funeral ceremony which was performed on the open rear deck of the hydrofoil. This involved the use of torches, some special powder carried by Tyl, and much chanting and singing. Having no desire to participate or watch, Homat had relinquished his bedmat for the privacy of the bow. He lay there murmuring spirit rhymes as he leaned over the side to watch the phosphorescent motocrullers, tiny, superfast clamlike bivalves that made whirlpools of light beneath the shade afforded by the ship.
Having considerably less interest in native rituals than his wife, Etienne had retired to the comfort of their cabin. The expression on her face when she burst in on him startled him out of his reading. She stumbled against him and he put both hands on her shoulders to steady her. She looked ill.
“What’s wrong, Lyra, what’s the matter?” She’d left the door open behind her and the steady chant of the Tsla filtered in to the bedchamber.
“Sendoff ritual,” she whispered, choking on the words. She pushed past him, toward the head. The recorder dangling from her neck bounced against her chest.
Curiosity overcame his apprehension as he left the cabin and headed astern. The rear deck was lit by the flicker of torchlight, illuminating the source of Lyra’s distress. His reaction was less violent than hers. Not that he was delighted by the sight, but since he held no high hopes for the Tsla he was far less disgusted and disappointed than his wife.
The Tsla were deeply engaged in the funeral ritual and only Tyl broke away long enough to greet him. He looked concerned. This was mitigated somewhat by the blood dripping from his mouth and snout.
“Lyra left us in a hurry. I hope we did not offend her.”
Etienne summoned unsuspected reserves of diplomacy. “My wife sees you and your people as being nobler than any of us have a right to be. It’s a failing many humans are heir to.”
Tyl’s nose twitched and those big soulful eyes turned toward the doorway. “I see. But you feel differently?”
“After a fashion. I don’t approve, but neither do I condemn. Neither would Lyra, if she hadn’t lost sight of her scientific training.”
“I am sorrowed,” Tyl continued. “It is part of the ritual. It must be done the same day, as soon after death as possible, because otherwise …”
Etienne cut him off. “The reasons are self-explanatory, Tyl.” He was unable to keep his eyes from the scene on the deck. “It’s only that the customs are very different among my own folk.”
“I can sympathize.” He gestured backward with a hand. “Uon was much loved by her friends. We could not think of sending her soul on to eternity without properly displaying that affection.”
“We feel likewise, only among our kind we choose to express such love for the departed in more metaphysical and less immediate terms.”
