Glancing at the smokey plume, Crat knew what Remi would have said. “Hey, you got priorities, I got priorities. All the world’s got priorities.” Getting rid of land-stored toxic wastes rated higher to most than worrying about one more carbon source. Protecting onshore water supplies outweighed a few trace molecules escaping the incinerators’ searing flames, especially when those molecules wouldn’t waft over populated areas.

Hey, Crat thought as he heaved in time with the others. Ain’t I population? Soon, however, he hadn’t a thought to spare except on doing his job… on keeping jibes about clumsy dumb-ass Yankees to a minimum, and keeping the others from trampling him.

Because Crat was concentrating so hard, he never noticed the captain come out on deck to test the brush of the wind, his brow furrowed in concern. Poor as it was, Sea State owed its very existence to computers and to other nations’ weather satellites. Regular forecasts meant life or death, enabling rusty fleets and floating towns to seek safety well in advance of approaching storms.

Still, weather models could not predict the smaller vagaries… mists and pinprick squalls, microbursts and sudden shifts in the wind. While Crat strained on the line, wearily aware they were still only half done, the captain’s eyes narrowed, noticing subtle cues. He turned to call his comm officer.

While his back was turned a pocket cyclone of clear air turbulence descended on the little fleet. The micropressure zone gave few warnings. Two hundred meters to the east, it flattened the sea to a brief, glassy perfection. Men’s ears popped aboard the Dacca, and blond seamen on the Pikeman’s starboard quarter briefly had to turn away, blinking from a needle spray of salt foam.

The zone’s tangent happened to brush against Congo then, sending the wind gauge whining. Gusts struck the feathered wing-sail, catching the vertical airfoil and slewing it sharply. The brakeman, who had been picking his teeth, leapt for his lever too late as the sail swung hard into the gang of straining laborers, knocking several down and cutting the taut cable like a slanting knife.

Tension released in a snapping jolt, hurling sailors over the railing amid a tangle of fibrous webbing. One moment Crat was leaning back, struggling to do his job despite his aching blisters. The next instant, he was flying through the air! His quivering muscles spasmed at the sudden recoil, and yet for a moment it seemed almost pleasant to soar bemusedly above the water like a gull. His forebrain, always the last to know, took some time to fathom why all the other men were screaming. Then he hit the sea.

Abruptly, all the shrill tones were deadened. Low-pitched sounds seemed to resonate from all directions… the thrashing of struggling creatures, the glub of air from panicked, convulsing lungs, the pings and moans of Congo’s joints as she slowly aged toward oblivion. A destination that loomed much more rapidly for Crat himself, apparently. His legs and arms were caught in the writhing net, and while the float buoys were gradually asserting themselves, that wouldn’t help men who were snared like him, only a meter below.

Strange, he pondered. He’d always had dreams about water… one reason why, when all other emigration states had spurned his applications, he finally decided to go to sea. Still, until now the possibility of drowning had never occurred to him. Wasn’t it supposed to be a good way to go, anyway? So long as you didn’t let panic ruin it? judging from the sounds the others were making, they were going to have the experience thoroughly spoilt for them.

Something about the quality of the sound felt terribly familiar. Maybe he was remembering the womb…

Sluggishly, with a glacial slowness, he started working on escape. Not that he had any illusions. It was just something to do. Guess I’ll be seein’ you guys soon, after all, he told Remi and Roland silently.

His left arm was free by the time one of the thrashing forms nearby went limp and still. He didn’t spare the time or energy to look then. Nor even when a gray figure flicked by, beyond the other side of the net. But as he worked calmly, methodically, on the complex task of freeing his other arm, a face suddenly appeared, right in front of him. A large eye blinked.

No… winked at him. The eye was set above a long, narrow grin featuring white, pointy teeth. The bottle jaw and high, curved forehead turned to aim at him, and Crat abruptly felt his inner ears go crazy in a crackling of penetrating static. With a start, he realized the thing was scanning him… inspecting him with its own sophisticated sonar. Checking out this curiosity of a man caught in a net designed to snare creatures of the sea.

This dolphin was much larger than the little spinners the fleet had been killing only hours ago. It must be one of the big, brainy breeds. Certainly it looked amused by this satiric turnabout.

Damn, Crat cursed inwardly as his right arm came free at last. No dumpit privacy anywhere. Not even when I’m dying.

Accompanying that resentment came a dissolving of the peaceful, time-stretched resignation. With a crash, his will to live suddenly returned. Panic threatened as his diaphragm clenched, causing a few bubbles to escape. He must have been underwater only a minute or two, but abruptly his lungs were in agony.

Ironically, it was the dolphin — the fact of having an audience — that made Crat hold on. Damn if he’d give it the same show as the others! Now that his mind was working again — such as it was — Crat began recalling important things.

Like the fact that he had a knife! Sheathed at his ankle, it was one of the few items ship rules wouldn’t let you hock. Bending, grabbing, unfolding, Crat came up with the gleaming blade and started sawing at the strands clasping his legs.

Funny thing about the way water carried sound — it seemed to amplify his heartbeat, returning multiple echoes from all sides. Counterpoint seemed to come from the spectator, his dolphin voyeur… though Crat avoided looking at the creature as he worked.

One leg free! Crat dodged a loop of netting sent his way by the rolling currents — and in the process almost lost the knife. Clutching it convulsively, he also squeezed out more stale, precious air.

His fingers were numb sausages as he resumed sawing. The sea began filling with speckles as each second passed. Infinite schools of blobby purple fishes encroached across his failing vision, heralding unconsciousness. They began to blur and the feeling spread throughout his limbs as his body began quaking. Any second now it would overcome his will with a spasmodic drive to inhale.

The last coil parted! Crat tried to launch himself toward the surface, but all his remaining strength had to go into not breathing.

An assist from a surprising quarter saved him… a push from below that sent him soaring upward, breaching the surface with a shuddering gasp. Somehow, he floundered over a cluster of float buoys, keeping his mouth barely above water as he sucked sweet air. I’m alive, he realized in amazement. I’m alive.

The roaring in his ears masked the clamor of men watching from the Congo, only now beginning to rush to the rescue. Dimly, Crat knew that even those now bravely diving into the water would never be able to cross the jumbled net in time to reach some still-thrashing forms nearby.

As soon as his arms and legs would move again, Crat blearily turned to the nearest struggling survivor, a stricken sailor only a couple of meters away, churning the water feebly, desperately. The fellow was thoroughly trapped, his head bobbing intermittently just at the surface. As Crat neared, he spewed and coughed and managed to catch a thin whistle of breath before being dragged under again.