David Brin - Existence

More dolphins arrived, lifting their heads to look around, emitting low chutters that his jaw implant conveyed into audible impulses. From experience, he interpreted the meaning as sadness. Disappointment.

But over what?

One big male-Hacker called him Michael, because he was a master with the net-patiently rolled in circles while a couple of others unwound the fishing mesh from his body. Hacker moved over to help them string it onto a rack, ready for re-use, later. He also noticed other objects in that corner of the pool. Rings and hoops and balls and such. Only he didn’t hang around to learn their purpose. Hacker now had a clear and different destination in mind.

Kicking over to the stairs, he touched their rough surface with a gloved hand… which abruptly grabbed one of the steps, with a sudden intensity that surprised him, clutching it, unwilling to let go… as if in fear that the textured aluminum might be an illusion. Tremors passed up and down his body and a sigh escaped, that might have been a moan. A couple of minutes passed while he was in that state. Fog in his helmet-or tears in his eyes-made it hard to see.

Evidently, if part of him felt reluctance to return to civilization, there were other portions that really, really wanted to go back! To the world of men and women and solid ground and soft beds and lovely, artificial things.

Prying his fingers free, at last, he pulled on the stair with both arms, swiveled onto his back, and managed to haul his body’s bulk upward, onto one of the steps, to sit up for the first time in… a long time. It felt strange not to have to work hard, just to keep his head and shoulders out of the water.

With a moist splat, his draidlocks-the gill fronds surrounding his helmet-collapsed, no longer supported by seawater. Of course, that also meant they weren’t supplying oxygen, anymore. Quickly his rapid breathing started turning the air stuffy inside his helmet.

Cautiously, Hacker fumbled at the faceplate seal, managed to crack it open, and sniffed… then opened it wide. There was a slightly stale-musty aroma and faint metallic tang inside the habitat, but he’d lived through much worse. At least, now he could really look around.

No people. That was the most obvious fact. No humans anywhere in sight. Given how cheap it was to set up a sensor-Mesh, wouldn’t someone have been alerted, by now, that an unexpected visitor was here, and come to investigate?

Unless they think I’m just another dolphin.

Then there was the absence of human-generated noise-no jabber of speech or purposeful mechanical rhythms. But of course, Hacker reminded himself, he wouldn’t hear any. All of a sudden he felt acutely the lack of normal, aural sound. Below the waterline, his jaw implant had seemed appropriate and fitting-it had been key to unlocking dolphin speech, in fact. Only now, in open air, he kept trying to yawn and shake his head, as if doing so might clear the deafness of his eardrums, which had been clamped so long ago, before the ill-fated rocket launch.

That’s got to be fixed right away, if they have facilities here. Even before a bath.

Suddenly, a hundred aches started shouting at him, sores and twinges and awful itches that he must have somehow managed to ignore, till this very moment, for the simple reason that he could do nothing about them. Now, they began shouting for attention. Especially a tightness around his head that suddenly felt like a vice. Pawing desperately at clasps and vrippers, Hacker tore away the seals that held his trusty helmet-the apparatus that had saved his life-detaching it from the rest of his survival suit. When it came free, he hurled the headgear away, like something loathsome. Then the gloves. And, for a few moments, he luxuriated in the simple act of touching, rubbing, scratching, even caressing his own, stubble-ridden face.

Okay, get up. Get moving. Find the owners of this place. Get help… and remember to try to be nice. That last part was in order to be sure that old, nasty habits would not surge to the surface-the impatience of a spoiled brat. Perhaps this new, mature perspective was only a temporary thing. An artifact of his time spent with the Tribe. It did seem, somehow, to be long overdue. Or, at least, a novelty worth trying out.

Standing was too much to ask of his body. So, he scooted backward and up the next stair, bracing both arms to slide up the next one, and so on, till at last he sat on the deck surrounding the entry pool, and only his flippered feet remained immersed. For a couple of minutes he just sat, breathing heavily from just that much exertion.

Okay, let’s find… he stopped.

Upon turning halfway around, Hacker found himself facing a large, hand-scrawled sign that had been propped up in front of the pool, sure to confront any new arrivals.

Project Uplift Suspended!

Court costs ate everything.

This structure is deeded to our finned friends.

May they someday join us as equals.

There followed, in smaller print, a WorldNet access number, and a legal-looking letter. Hacker had to squint and blink away drying salt to read a few lines. But it seemed to verify that queer statement-the little dolphin clan actually owned this building-which they now used to store their nets, some toys, and a few tools.

Hacker now understood the meaning of their plaintive calls, when they arrived to find no one home. The real reason they kept coming back. Each time, they hoped to find that their “hand-friends” had returned.

Project Uplift? He pondered, while laboring to pull off the body-hugging suit, wincing as it dragged past sores and chafed spots. The name is familiar. I… heard something about it.

One of the dolphins-old Yellowbelly-came over to eye Hacker, emitting a burst whose meaning seemed much less clear to Hacker, now that his jaw was out of the water.

“I’ll be back,” he assured the old-timer, holding up one hand in promise.

It took great effort to rise up to his knees. Then, leaning on the stair rail, he managed to rise onto both feet. It wasn’t so much lack of strength-he had been working his legs hard for quite some time and his thigh muscles bulged-as a problem of balance. No other species on Earth demanded such fine motor control as humans required, just to keep from toppling over. He would need some time to get the hang of it again.

Unsteady on rubbery legs, Hacker clung close to the walls and cabinets as he shuffled away from the pool, into a long corridor, stopping to look into each chamber along the way. They were laboratories, mostly. The first time he found a sink with a freshwater tap, he turned it on full blast and immersed his head, then drank greedily until he felt bloated. It took an act of forceful will to stop… to move away and resume exploring.

In the third room, he recognized a gene-splicing apparatus made by one of his own companies. And, all at once, his mind connected the dots.

Project Uplift. Oh yes. I remember.

A year or two ago-both professional and amateur media swarmed over a small cabal whose secret goal had been to alter several animal species, with the ultimate aim of giving them human-level intelligence.

Foes of all kinds had attacked the endeavor. Churches called it sacrilegious. Eco-zealots decried meddling in nature’s wisdom. Tolerance fetishists demanded that native “dolphin culture” be left alone, without cramming parochial human values down their throats, while others rifkined the proposal, predicting mutants would escape the labs to endanger humanity.

One problem with diversity in an age of amateurs was that your hobby might attract ire from a myriad others, especially from those with a particular passion of their own-indignant disapproval. And a bent for litigation.