Superluminal by Vonda N. McIntyre Read Free Book Online Page A

access ladder or a fishing pier’s elevator.
    The afternoon breeze slapped small waves against the sides
of the port and dried the droplets of water clinging to the fine hair on
Orca’s arms and legs. She stretched, spreading her webbed hands to the
sun.
    She was well clear of the ramp by the time the ferry eased
away. Naked and barefoot she padded into the blockhouse and pushed the button
for the elevator. It was midafternoon, so quite a few people were around. Port
workers and other crew members found the sight of an unclothed diver
unremarkable, but some of the tourists stopped and stared. Orca ignored them.
The only way to get from the surface of the port to divers’ quarters was
to use the elevator, and the only way to get to the elevator was to cross areas
frequented by the public. Orca was not about to wear a wet suit, or anything
else, on a long-distance swim. For a diver, the idea was ridiculous.
    Sometimes a tourist complained to the port authority, and the
port authority complained to the divers’ council. The council considered
the objection gravely — and renewed the application for the underwater
entrance. By this time, the sequence was practically a game.
    Public nudity never bothered Orca. She knew some people
objected, but she found their reasons absurd. She had worn nothing more
concealing than a knife belt until she was thirteen years old and taking her
first trip into the human world. It had taken her years to get used to
clothing. Even now she wore clothes more as decoration than as covering.
    The elevator arrived and Orca entered the cage. She was
anxious to get to divers’ quarters. She was famished. She wanted half a
kilo of broiled salmon and some French pastries. Coming across from the
mainland, the fishing had been terrible. She had heard reports of several
shoals of fish, but they were all well off a direct course to the port.
    Now that her metabolism had slowed to surface normal, Orca
felt chilly in the air conditioning. Gooseflesh hardened her nipples. She
folded her arms across her small breasts.
    Ever since she had left the water, her message signal had
been glowing, a pinpoint of light just behind her eyes. Granting acceptance,
she received the messages through her internal communicator. They scrolled
across a screen she imagined in her mind, and she scanned each one quickly.
    A note from a friend pleased her; junk announcements
broadcast to everyone on the port irritated her. She killed each one as soon as
she had read far enough to identify it. The people who wrote them got cleverer
and cleverer. Orca’s message bank contained a strong filter that was
meant to discard most advertising and other solicitations. Some of the
circulars had confused the program enough to make it let them through. Orca would
have to rewrite it and strengthen its criteria. The escalation never ended.
    One message made her angry: “The pilot selection
committee has scheduled an appointment… ”
    Oh, leave me alone, she thought without transmitting. She
signaled the message bank to kill that note, too. The administrators thought
she would make a good pilot. She was tired of declining their invitations; now
she simply ignored them. She wished she could filter them, but refusing
messages from one’s employer was not the most politic thing to do.
    She was tired of being tempted. And she was tempted, she
never denied that.
    Orca could be on the crew and remain a diver. She doubted,
though, that a pilot would still be capable of withstanding the physical stress
a diver needed to take. Since no diver had ever become a pilot, the
administrators could only offer Orca guesses and simulations about whether a
mechanical heart would tolerate deep dives. Their guess was that it would fail,
and Orca’s guess was that they were right. She chose to remain as she
was, and she wished they would stop trying to change her mind for her.
    The elevator stopped at the divers’ floor, the doors
opened, and Orca stepped out into