Timothy Zahn - Manta's Gift

Mr. Milligan, get Probe Four down there."

"On its way."

Faraday looked at Four's video display as the probe drove downward through the atmosphere. So far nothing but swirling air and the long black tether line...

And then, right at the edge of the display, there it was. The nuke, the now half-cut tether line—

And Manta, the rogue Probe Seven gripped in his mouth like a dolphin holding a prize salmon.

Using one of the probe's propellers to cut away at the tether line.

"Manta, stop!" he shouted. "Manta? Damn it. Milligan, get that probe into hearing range."

"He can hear you," McCollum said with a sigh. "He's just not listening."

"Get it down there anyway." Faraday gritted his teeth. With almost half the tether cut away, the nuke was being held up by little more now than a wing and a prayer. Any extra jostling, and they would lose it completely. "Sprenkle, what's the wind situation?"

"Holding steady," Sprenkle said. "And for whatever it's worth, I've got that conversation now. I think I've found the part we were all thinking of."

Faraday nodded grimly. "Go."

There was a soft click, and the computer's translation of Manta's voice came on the speaker.

"Strength is important," the voice said thoughtfully. "But it's mostly only a matter of size. With enough extra weight, even a Breeder could probably get through."

"That was it," McCollum said quietly. " 'With enough weight, even a Breeder could get through.'

We'd been talking about Level Eight and the Wise. Why mention Breeders at all?"

"Unless he was thinking about himself," Sprenkle murmured.

"Wait a second," Milligan said slowly. "Are you saying he's thinking about taking the nuke down himself?"

"Not thinking about it," Beach corrected, his voice dark. "By cutting the tether that way, he's pretty much committed himself to it. It'll never make it through the turbulence layers now. Not without some protection."

"But how does he think he's going to carry it?" Milligan demanded. "He can't just—oh, hell."

"You got it," McCollum said, her voice dark with dread. "He'll carry it the only way a Qanska can carry something that big."

"But why?" Milligan demanded, sounding bewildered. "Why is he doing this?"

"Because of Liadof," Faraday said. Now, too late, the whole thing was obvious. "Liadof, and the underhanded way she threatened to back out of the agreement so as to squeeze out the stargate's location. Manta's making sure she can't do it again."

On Probe Four's display, Manta had shifted his grip on the probe in his mouth, working it around so that the propeller end lay over the intersection of his body and his right fin. From looking like a prize salmon, the thought flicked through Faraday's mind, to becoming a giant back scratcher. "And there's no way for you to shut down the propellers?" he asked Milligan, just to make sure.

Milligan shook his head. "I've been trying for the last two minutes," he said. "He must have taken out the control lines when he wrecked the rudder. They'll keep spinning till they run out of fuel."

Faraday nodded heavily. "Then there's nothing we can do." On the display, Manta jerked suddenly; and with a splash of bright yellow blood, the exposed propeller dug into the skin on his back. "He's ready," McCollum murmured. "All he has to do now—"

She broke off as, without warning, a dark shape cut suddenly across the view from Probe Four's camera.

And as they watched, dropped straight toward Manta.

Manta winced in pain as the propeller blades sliced into his skin. An unpleasant but very necessary part of his plan. By making sure that Liadof couldn't suddenly pull the weapon back above the clouds, he had at the same time also doomed it to failure. With its tether damaged, it would never make it through the turbulence below without snapping the rest of the line, including the core signal wire necessary for setting it off.

Which meant that the only way for the mission to succeed would be if the weapon could be guided through to its target as a protected part of a Qanskan body.

He let go of the probe; and as it spun away, droplets of blood flying off its propeller, he thought back to the Qanskan Wise who had done the same thing for Chippawa and Faraday in their Skydiver over two suncycles ago. He had covered them with his own skin to protect them from the pressure and turbulence before returning them to the upper levels.

What had happened to that Wise afterward? Had he returned to Level Eight safely? Or had the huge bleeding wound left by the Skydiver's departure drawn too many Vuuka for him to fight off? With a flush of shame, Manta realized he'd never asked about that. For that matter, he'd never even bothered to learn the Qanska's name.

Maybe generations to come would better remember Manta's name. Then again, maybe they wouldn't. Feeling the blood trickling along his fin, he maneuvered himself beneath the descending weapon—

And with a suddenness that made him gasp, something large and heavy slammed into his back.

He reacted instantly, twisting over and shoving back with his fins as hard as he could, trying to force his attacker away. But the other apparently knew that trick. He stayed right with Manta, pressing even harder against his back and the open wound there. Manta slashed his tails up, trying to startle or distract the other—

"Ow!" Pranlo's voice grunted in his ear. "Take it easy, will you?"

Sheer surprise froze Manta's muscles. "Pranlo? What are you doing here?"

"At this particular pulse, trying to keep your blood from spreading all the way to Level Six," Pranlo said shortly. "Hold still, will you?"

"That's not what I meant," Manta growled. "Come on, get off. I've got a job to do."

Pranlo didn't budge. "What, you mean the job of getting yourself killed?" he asked. "Sorry, but we're not letting you do that."

Manta winced. We? "Drusni's here, too?"

"Of course I am," Drusni answered, swimming around into Manta's line of sight. "Manta, how could you even think of doing something like this?"

Manta sighed. "I have to," he told her, his heart aching as he looked at her. "If I don't, the machine will never make it where it needs to go. And our world will continue to die."

"But it doesn't have to be you, does it?" Drusni asked, her voice pleading. "Why does it have to be you?"

"Because I'm the one who's here," Manta said. "Please, Drusni; Pranlo. This was hard enough before, when no one knew about it. All you're doing is making it worse. Please just leave and let me do it."

"No," Pranlo said firmly. "If it has to be done, then it has to be done. But Drusni's right. You're not the one who's going to do it."

A sudden suspicion sliced into Manta like a pack of Sivra. Was Pranlo suggesting—? "No," he insisted. "You're not going to do this."

"No, he's not," a new voice rumbled from the side. "I am."

Drusni gave a startled little gasp, twisting around to look. Manta jerked with surprise of his own, rotating under Pranlo's weight to turn toward the voice. Another Qanska was swimming toward them, a big Protector.

And from his markings...

"Who are you?" Drusni demanded, her voice quavering.

"Oh, come now," the Protector said mildly. "I know it's been a long time, Breeder Druskani; but don't tell me you don't remember me?"

"It has indeed been a long time," Manta murmured. "Hello, Protector Virtamco."

"I greet you in turn, Breeder Manta," Virtamco said gravely. "I've come to do what has to be done."

"And I wouldn't argue with him if I were you, Manta," Pranlo advised. "I've already tried, and he's bigger than both of us."

"I don't care how big he is," Manta growled. What in the Deep was going on here, anyway? Was the whole world lining up to pile across his back? "What gives you the right to take this job?"