by Tom DeMarco
The fleet of white yawls was now in total disarray. There were two on starboard tack and two on port with the one remaining still stalled, possibly picking up survivors. Loren heard a slight popping sound overhead and something clattered down onto the deck, grazing his shoulder as it went. He looked down to see a short silver arrow with metal tip and colored feathers at the back of its shaft. It was an ugly looking thing. The arrow had bounced off the mainsail, so spent was its velocity by the time it arrived. Danny looked down at the arrow. Then he hurriedly took a reading on the lead yawl.
“Sixty five meters,” he said.
“Keep firing on the stalled one. We’re in no danger.”
One of the middle yawls had come up into the wind. Loren focused his glasses on her. He could see young men in uniform along the rail. They seemed to be throwing a lifeboat or some such thing over. He could see sailors similarly engaged on the opposite rail.
Homer was still in his private reverie. “But Mr. Whale Hero is a goat among the goats. Goats were tethered, just everywhere. Goats and burros. So when their humans died off, they had no water. They died of thirst, what a terrible end. I came across some of their bodies up above the village, their bellies swollen, their tongues hanging out. As they died, I think, they were full of hatred for Homer Layton.”
“Homer,” said Kelly angrily, still typing in coordinates as they were called in over her headphones, “this is too too stupid. You’re not responsible for the damned goats. You’re not responsible for their humans. Those people died of the gas.”
Loren screamed at her over the wind. “Kelly, for Christs sake, pay attention.”
“I am,” she snapped back at him, hammering her hand down on the Enter key as she did. The stalled yawl was split apart by her bolt.
“Again, Kelly, quick.”
She fired two more times in rapid succession, hitting her target both times. “You had nothing to do with any of the deaths on Cuba. They weren’t your fault, Homer.”
“Not my fault?”
She was typing again. “No. They were Rupert Paule’s fault.”
“Oh. I forget. So hard to keep track what with all the people dying off everywhere, which is who’s fault.”
“They were Rupert Paule’s fault. They are on his conscience.”
“Poor Rupert. He is probably feeling lousy too. Homer Layton and Rupert Paule, the two most hated names on earth. Hated among humans, that is. We are both pretty popular among raccoons.”
“Helmsman hold your course. Midships, give an ease on the jib. We’re going to drop back a little.” Loren could now see what it was that had been launched from the yawl: a pair of small catamarans with two sailors on each. They would be considerably faster than the yawls, even upwind. “Fleet maneuver, ready about. Continue on port tack now.”
“Loren, this is Edward. Do you see the cats?”
“Yes. They’re your target, Edward. We’ll continue firing on the yawls.
As Loren spoke, he saw one of the aftermost yawls split apart, raked with four successive direct hits. The wind had picked up even more. The distance to the lead yawl had closed further. She was tacking to keep after Columbia. He had to admire the cool of her crew, knowing what they were up against.
With a soft thunk, a silver crossbow arrow buried itself in the plastic console just in front of Homer’s arm. Homer stared at the arrow, disinterestedly, barely even pausing in his dialog: “Or maybe Rupert Paule never thinks about such things. That is the wonderful part of being a true believer. Evidence is irrelevant. There can be no guilt when you’re just doing what God tells you to do. Too bad no god never had a word for me. But then I never had much to say to him either. I held his non-existence against him as a serious character flaw.”
“Midships! Harden up that jib. Sail for speed. Columbia, commence firing on the lead yawl. He is too close for comfort.” A searing blue bolt suddenly erased one of the two catamarans. The second one tacked wildly to avoid the wreckage. Loren found himself leaning outboard to see. Something was crossing in front of his field of vision.
“Jesus, Loren,” Danny shouted, “Antigone’s in trouble.”
Loren put his glasses down. Antigone had passed between Columbia and the enemy fleet, her headsail in tatters.
“Antigone, tack again. Sail away from the battle on starboard.” He watched her go about, sluggish without a headsail. The white yawl covered her move. “Keep firing, Kelly. Take that yawl out, please.”
“No, Rupert sleeps fine at night, while I toss around wondering about the other universes. No chewing on C.U.D.D. for old Rupe’. But for Homer there is nothing but. It is the curse of the non-believer. The sure knowledge that whatever you do is your own lonely decision. And the hardest judgment you have to live with is the one handed down by your own conscience.”
“Look alive, midships. We’re going to jibe around to pass inside of Antigone. Jibing now, Homer.”
“Jibe ho, like he says.” Homer put the helm over hard.
“Palomar, you’re on your own. Palomar squadron will now take its orders from Edward. Columbia squadron, ready about. Tack now. Hold your course, Homer.”
“Oh sure. No changing direction now. Now the decision is made. In another universe, it’s different, but in this one the die is cast.”
“Antigone, hold your course. We passing under you.” He could see Antigone’s foredeck crew passing a storm jib up through the bow hatch. As she put her bow down momentarily, he caught the glint of green water passing over the white sail and down onto the below decks crew. There were shouted orders suddenly audible from Antigone’s cockpit, then a moment later, Columbia was past, and nothing could be heard but the roar of the wind.
“Come up Homer. Harden sail midships. Kelly keep firing. He heard Danny McCree calling directions for her. A blue bolt shot down on the far side of the yawl, impossible to say by how much.
“Come back fifty meters, Kelly. Wait, I mean feet.”
Another bolt came crashing down, this one not ten feet from Loren’s nose. He was blinded by its brightness. There was a cloud of spray and scalding steam washing over them. “Columbia hold firing! Jesus.” Kelly had said he should be prepared to risk hitting one of his fleet while firing, but he was not prepared to hit Columbia. Yet there was no built in defense against that. At this distance, the bolts they called down were as likely to hit themselves as the yawl. Loren pulled his binoculars off his neck and threw them into the cockpit. He caught a glimpse of the Proctor, cleaning his glasses on the fabric of his jumpsuit. The white boat was approaching on the opposite tack from Columbia, both beating as high into the wind as they could. “Pinch up, Homer. Cross in front of him. Make him tack.”
“OK, pinching up.”
He felt Columbia’s nose press up higher into the wind. The distance between them was some forty meters. He could see clearly the crew on the yawl now, straining over the midships winch to harden the jib even further. There was a glint of reflected sunlight on something silvery in the near side of the cockpit, a pair of bullet-like shapes reaching up from cylindrical bases. He knew that these would be the gas cylinders for the two gasses that together made up the binary. As he looked, he could see that the cockpit crew on the yawl was donning black gas masks.
There was an urgent tug on his sleeve. “Tack away from him Loren,” Kelly shouted. “Don’t close. Tack away so we can fire again.”
Loren looked back over the fleet. There was only one yawl left beside the one immediately on their beam. And the distant yawl was in irons. It was only a matter of time before Edward would take it out. The last catamaran seemed to have been hit too.
“Hold your course, Homer.” Turning away now would mean abandoning Antigone to the yawl, since she lacked the speed to escape. Once it clawed its way upwind of her, she would be a victim of its gas. And with the battle nearly won, Loren was not ready to sacrifice even one vessel. He felt a ripping at his pants leg, a sudden stinging. He looked down to see some blood on his left shin. The arrow had
passed through the fabric and buried itself in cushion behind, scratching him in its passage.
“Kelly, on the crossbow.” He pushed her with both hands toward the mounted weapon. “Kendra, quick, pass up the shield.” Putting Kelly at the crossbow on the transom would keep her safe behind its clear Lucite cowling. Kendra was passing up a sheet of flat Lucite with handles screwed into it to Dan McCree. He rushed aft with it and held the shield up in front of Loren and Homer. Proctor Pinkham held up its far side. Loren turned his attention back to the other boat. The wind was still howling. The two were closing fast, impossible to say which one had the gage. He could hear shouted instructions from the yawl. Behind him, Kelly was firing on the crossbow man high up on the yawls mast pulpit.
“Damn!” she said. The mount interfered with the weapon’s ability to point upward. Kelly wrenched the bow out of its socket and rushed forward with it to the base of the mast.
Beside him, Danny flinched suddenly and then went down in a tumble on the cockpit floor. Loren saw the arrow angling wickedly inward from his shoulder blade toward his lungs and heart. There was blood spouting from around its base. Loren lunged for the man’s shoulder, clasped his hand around the shaft. “Kendra. First aid! Stabilize the arrow. Get your hand on it.” Her face was white. She reached out hesitantly toward the arrow.
“I’ve got it Loren.” Proctor Pinkham’s voice was calm beside him. Loren released his hold. The Proctor placed his hand gently but firmly around the base of the arrow. Loren stood up, holding onto the shield. The Proctor bent down over Dan to cover his body. “Kendra, lots of sterile pads,” he said. “We won’t move him quite yet.”
Kelly was firing the crossbow from her position at the mast. After her second shot, Loren heard a scream overhead and saw a body tumbling down the yawl’s mast and onto the deck. Kelly whooped. Loren lifted his voice above the sound of the wind, “Hold your course, Homer. Make him tack.”
Suddenly a loud shout from Homer. He had cupped one hand to form a funnel, aiming his voice toward the other cockpit. “STARBOARD! We have right of way, you idiot. You’re a port tack vessel. Give way!”
There was a flutter in the yawl’s headsail as her helmsman hesitated. Then a yell from the other cockpit. “But we’re on starboard. We have the right of way.”
“Your barging!” Homer shouted back. “Rule 39. Give way. Columbia holds her course.”
The yawl’s big headsail quivered again. There were curses and shouts from the cockpit, then suddenly she came up into the wind. Loren could hear her winches rattling as the sail was taken in on the far side. The yawl bore off to build speed, opening up the wide expanse of her beam in front of them.
“There, Homer!” Loren, screamed. “Ram the fucker.”
“Oh, yes. Ram the fucker. As you say. Aye aye sir.” Homer put the helm down calmly, as though rounding a mark for home on a pleasant afternoon sail. Columbia heeled over, her sails suddenly squared off to the wind. They were doing nearly ten knots. “Brace! Everyone brace.” Loren’s voice was nearly cracking. There were shrieks from the midships crew of the yawl. Loren looked forward for Kelly. He saw she had thrown herself down with one arm around the mast. He braced himself against the companionway hatch cover. There was an explosive crash as Columbia’s bows made contact. He could feel the lift forward from her bow section riding up over the yawl’s midships. Homer gave out a soft ooof at the moment of contact. There was a second crashing sound from above as the yawl’s wooden mainmast gave way, burying her decks in a mass of sail and cable. Kelly was on her feet. There were four machetes stowed just behind of the mast. Kelly snatched one up, and started forward.
“No, Kelly…” Loren jumped up to hold her back. But she leapt over the rail onto the yawl. Loren ran after her, stopping to grab a machete on the way. There was a tortured scream of wood and metal as Columbia’s bows began to scrape down the side of the yawl. Loren launched himself over the rail, falling in a tumble in the confusion of fabric on the yawl’s midships deck. He could see forms moving madly under the white Dacron. Columbia was floating free, drifting rapidly down to windward. He rolled over and untangled himself from a coil of cable. Behind him, Kelly was hacking at a man by the side of the evil silver gas cylinders. One of the cylinders was open, pouring out a yellowish cloud. The man, in gas mask, was trying to get to the second cylinder. Each of the gasses, Loren knew, was relatively harmless until mixed, but when they came together, they were instant death. Kelly stood up on her toes and came down hard on the man’s back with her machete. There was blood everywhere. The wounded man lunged helplessly into her legs and she went down.
Loren heaved himself forward over the treacherous footing to her aid. Suddenly, there was another gasmasked figure in front of him. The man had an air pistol in his hand, firing directly into Loren’s face. One of the little darts hit Loren’s cheek and passed through to crash rattling against his teeth. He spit out the dart and a mouthful of blood, still running. He knew the man was shooting for his eyes. Loren swung upward with his machete from the hip with all his might. There was a scream, muffled by the mask. The gun and the hand that had held it went clattering onto the deck. The masked face was evil, hateful. Loren wanted to kill him. He raised the machete in both hands over his shoulder and sliced it through the stomach of the toppling man, splitting it wide. He leapt back, but slipped in the sudden muck of blood and entrails spread out on the white Dacron beneath him.
Where the hell was Kelly? He was all turned around, not even sure of which was fore and which was aft. As he rolled onto his knees, he caught a glimpse of blue, and focused on her, still on her back, kicking at the open gas cylinder. She had its base up over the rail. In elaborate slow motion, the cylinder balanced upright, then tottered over with another kick. Loren started aft to get beside her. There was another man in gas mask coming up from under the sail. Loren had lost his machete. He leapt onto the man from behind and sent him crashing onto the deck. Loren jumped to his feet. The man was lifting himself up onto his hands, his back for the moment to Loren. Loren propelled himself forward and hit the man with all his weight in the buttocks, sending him sprawling over the rail and into the sea. When he rolled over onto his back next to Kelly, there was another one approaching, again in gas mask. He had a sabre in his hand, glinting nastily in the suddenly bright sunlight.
There was a crash from the far rail. Another boat had collided beam to beam with the yawl. There was a shout as her crew poured over onto the decks of the yawl. The man looked back, startled. But the only expression visible on the mask was evil. Kelly swung her machete across his chest, carving a red horizontal stripe. Then she lifted the black blade high over her head and brought it down squarely on the man’s clavicle. Bright red arterial blood spouted from his neck, drenching her face, hair, and the front of her jumpsuit. She stumbled backward. Jared Williams was suddenly at her side. He scooped her up with a wrench, dragged her toward the opposite rail.
“This way, Loren!” There were four light blue jumpsuited figures hurrying to his aid, all armed with machetes. Loren pulled himself up, finally regaining his feet. He could hear the shrill scream as the two boats began to separate.
Williams shouted over the din. “Celestine! All hands back to Celestine.” He pushed Kelly up to the rail, lifted her and simply threw her across. Then he turned back toward the others, waving wildly to urge them on. Loren scrambled after them, stepping on a struggling figure still pinned beneath the sail. The jumpsuits leapt, one after the other. Williams was still waiting.
“Jump, Jared,” Loren screamed. He saw Williams spring across onto the deck of Celestine. Loren took two running steps and threw himself, face and arms first at Celestine’s light blue transom, now gathering speed and moving away from him. He landed with a crash on the reverse cut of the vessel’s stern. As he started to slide down into the water, he grabbed wildly at the backstay, cutting his hand. There was a splash of his own blood on the stay and dripping down onto his face. His feet were in the water. Then there was a stro
ng hand on his arm. He looked up to see Claymore above him. Claymore lifted and Loren shot up out of the water and into the cockpit. He hit his head hard against the coaming. When he sat up there were brilliant fireflies swimming around his head.
“Kelly…” he said.
The helmsman filled his field of vision. Or helmswoman. He could not tell which. He could see the two hands on the spokes of Celestine’s wheel, but no body or head behind them. There was a head and body there, but he couldn’t focus on it. Only on the hands. They had prettily painted pink nails and a wedding ring. He pulled himself over to the rail and vomited.
There was a sudden silence. The wind seemed to have abated all at once. Then the sound of a laser bolt cracking through a ship, once, twice, three times. Another long silence. This one was interrupted by a raucous cheer begun on Celestine’s foredeck, picked up now on the other vessels, louder and louder until it was a steady sound of shouts and stamping feet. Loren raised his head. There was considerable wreckage in the water, and not a single enemy vessel intact. He looked forward along the rail, and there was Kelly. She was covered with blood, and had been sick as he had over the side. She waved at him weakly, sitting up as she did. Someone was hammering a winch handle exuberantly against the spinnaker bell.
Celestine was moving smoothly through the water. There were still cheers from all sides. Loren felt himself relaxing. There was nothing more to do; he could just sit here. But Kelly’s eyes had fastened on something just off the bow, a frightened young face, barely held above water.
“One of ours,” she said calmly. She stood and dived neatly over the side. The helmsman must have seen. Loren could feel Celestine swing sharply up into the wind. He crawled under the steel cable rail to drop himself into the water. The green sea closed in for a moment over his head. He could see the sky above him through the tinted water. When he came up he struck out after Kelly. She had got to the man and around him to support his chin from behind. It was a young oriental man, barely more than a boy. Loren had never seen him before. He splashed up to Kelly. A line suddenly whistled over his head. Loren grabbed at it. He led part of it around behind Kelly’s shoulders, under her arms. She was holding the boy’s head up with one hand firmly under his chin, while with her other hand she was scrubbing at her face. It took him a moment to realize that she was scrubbing the blood away, barely keeping her own head above water. The sea around them was full of blood from her hair and clothing. Loren found the end of the line and made it up into a loop enclosing Kelly and the sputtering, choking boy. Williams was on the other end of the line. As he pulled Kelly and the boy in, Loren swam tiredly behind them.
