“You’ve seemed nervous all day about something,” he said.
Terrel lowered his voice so that Cale could barely hear him. “I have something special going after we make our regular deliveries. Need your help—if you’re willing.”
Cale closed his eyes. Terrel’s last “something special” got them beaten and robbed and pissed on before they managed to crawl through a window of the Serpent Club and get out onto the street. This time it almost certainly involved the layer of thermoplast crates hidden under the false floor of the cargo hold. He had no idea what was in them. But Terrel had done too much for him—gave him work, found a room for him, taught him how to make his way in this city, as much as Feegan had—so Cale couldn’t refuse him. He opened his eyes and nodded in resignation.
Terrel grinned and wrapped an arm around Cale’s shoulders. “Knew you would,” he said. “I’m going to go check on Mikki, make sure she doesn’t run us aground.” He released Cale and started forward, then stopped and turned back. “Mikki says you were asking about the Resurrectionists.”
Cale shrugged and nodded. “Someone’s got to know how to find them.”
Terrel shook his head. “You don’t want to find them. They’re crazy people, and you’re crazy looking for them. Sometimes I don’t understand you at all.” Then he grinned again and said, “Well, I guess we all have our own kind of crazy.” He turned and hurried forward, ducking into the tiny pilothouse.
As they pulled into Delany Wharf, the canal swarmed with boats of all sizes, the water illuminated by white and yellow running lights, the docks by silver-blue halo lamps, and the streets by long chains of red and green dragon-lanterns. Dock workers waited for them at Pier 18, and Mikki maneuvered the Skyute into the slip, reversed the engines, and cut back on the throttle, narrowly missing a water taxi and a mosquito boat. Cale and Terrel threw ropes onto the dock and the stevies quickly tied up the boat.
Mikki, Cale, and the three other crew members began unloading the star-labeled crates and bundles from the hold—boxes of cold-packed fish, fruits, and tubers from towns along the river; baskets of dried seed pods collected and transported on foot by recluses who lived deep in the jungle far upstream above a series of impassable cataracts; long garlands of shiny brown and orange riverweed especially prized by the Leungtchi communities in the southern districts of Morningstar; and carefully packed glass vessels of rare and highly desirable live mollusks some mad woman who lived in a hut by the sea always managed to supply Terrel.
A cargo jit waited at the end of the dock, its long wide bed now empty. The stevies set up a loading track between the deck and dock, started the motor, and the track began moving as Mikki swung the first crate onto it. As the packages reached the other end of the track, the stevies began carefully stacking them on the jit. Terrel jumped onto the dock and shook hands with his broker Manca, then the two of them huddled a few paces away. Terrel had a contract with the man—so many crates of fish, so many beds of riverweed, and so on—but the cargo hold was now filled with far more than the contract quantities, and he wanted to sell as much of the excess to Manca as he could; the prices would be better here than at most of the docks farther in.
A woman pedaling a cart-bike pulled up beside the Skyute and offered cold bottles of Monkeypaw beer for sale. Terrel broke off his conversation for a moment and bought beer for the crew and all the stevies, as well as one each for himself and Manca. The crew took a break long enough to pop open the bottles and take a long drink or two, then returned to work.
As he helped unload the cargo, Cale watched the negotiations and wondered if they were discussing the hidden cargo. Manca shook his head more than nodded, but Terrel kept at it, gesturing with his hands and laughing. Finally they reached agreement, shook hands, then walked over to the bursar’s terminal, where they completed the transaction, the two of them punching codes and instructions into terminal panels. Part of the payment was apparently in cash, and Cale saw Manca pass a thick packet of currency to Terrel.
By the time Terrel had finished up and returned to the boat, all of the star-labeled cargo was packed onto the jit bed. Terrel pointed out the extra crates and packages that Manca was taking—the excess riverweed and live mollusks, as Cale had expected, as well as some of the fish and other foods—and helped them load it into the jit. The stevies broke down the loading track, swung it back into and under the dock, and untied the Skyute. Terrel waved to Manca, who was snapping instructions to the jit driver; Manca waved halfheartedly without pausing. Mikki started the engines, and they eased away from the docks.
Not long afterward they approached Belladonna Canal, which opened up to a clear and striking view of The Island. Ablaze with lights, the towering skyscrapers of The Island rose into the night sky like beacons of the world. Terrel maintained the Skyute’s speed as they passed the Belladonna’s big commercial docks, and Cale looked at him.
“I won’t deal with them anymore,” Terrel said, answering Cale’s unspoken question.
“You won’t deal with them, or they won’t deal with you anymore?” Cale asked.
Terrel grinned and shrugged. “Ah, it amounts to the same thing.”
Cale nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
They left the Grand Canal and motored along Gibson Channel, a smaller waterway that was still bright and noisy, though it was nearing midnight. Cale recognized the lights of Cutter’s Station, a small but busy commercial wharf that supplied a lot of smaller shops and restaurants and cafés in the Basilisk District. Cale lived just a few blocks away, and he thought he could see a corner window of Junko’s building, where he rented a room. Mikki slowed the boat and angled in toward the main dock, which was crowded with people; a woman stood in the lamplight waving at Terrel, gesturing at a gap between boats.
“She’ll take the rest,” Terrel said. “Everything we’ve got left.”
Not everything, Cale thought.
They tied up and went to work. There was no loading track here, and no stevies, so they did everything themselves, hauling the cargo across the gangway and loading it onto stationary pallets at the woman’s direction. Terrel and the woman went into the pilothouse, and when they reemerged a few minutes later, Terrel’s eyes were wide and bright, the pupils dilated so that he blinked spasmodically when he looked at the dock lights.
After offloading the last of the packed fish and leaving the cargo hold apparently empty, Terrel paid off Mikki and the others in cash, then went belowdecks once they’d disembarked. When he emerged ten minutes later, he was wearing his stasi boots and handed another pair to Cale; now Cale knew there would be trouble. The boots were calf-length and armor-plated, with a charged lava knife tucked into each, camouflaged but easily accessible.
“Don’t worry,” Terrel said. “I just want to be prepared. We motor in, make a nice, quick and quiet delivery, then leave. In and out in less than an hour. Ice.” He patted Cale’s shoulder, then helped untie the boat before he retreated into the pilothouse to guide the boat away from Cutter’s Station.
By now it was well after midnight, and the Skyute motored slowly and almost silently along a dark narrow canal in the far western reaches of Morningstar. The moon had set, leaving behind an added shade of darkness. Cale had never been in this part of the city before, and everything about it was unfamiliar. Pale lights hung in loops from tall, flexible rods that dipped and swung about in some intermittent breeze or other mysterious force, radiating dark aquamarine hues that seemed somehow different from other lights in Morningstar. Buildings were low and sparse, most surrounded by dense vegetation, and from what little Cale could see of them appeared to have been designed and built by people from some other world, some other era—the walls and corners were all sharp, jagged edges of metal and glass webbed by sparkling sheets of wire mesh. Pained animal growls floated across the water, and the air felt and smelled heavy with the odor of smoke from distant or unseen fires.
Cale stood silently beside Terrel as he guided the Skyute into a channel so tigh
t that there would be barely enough room to turn the boat around. On both sides, the banks were dark, with only an occasional lamp or sheltered fire casting faint illumination and shadows, just enough to hint at shanties and hulks of abandoned machinery, rotting personal docks and half-sunken boats; wavering lights flickered behind smoky windows. The air was still and quiet.
Ahead of them a stone quay had been built into the left bank. Two cool white lanterns burned at the end of the deserted quay. Cale turned to ask Terrel if that was their destination, but seeing the man’s intense concentration, he remained silent. Terrel had one hand on the throttle, the other on the wheel, grip tense, muscles standing out on his forearms.
Terrel shifted the engines to idle, and the Skyute drifted slowly toward the quay. His skin was tight and shiny with sweat.
“Where is he?” Terrel whispered with clenched teeth. He glanced up at the ship’s clock, nervously kicking one boot against the wheel housing.
Cale searched the shadows along the bank, but detected no figures, no signs of movement. The Island’s lights in the distance seemed incredibly far away, hovering above solid blocks of darkness, so the buildings appeared to literally float in the sky.
“Shit,” Terrel said. “Got to get out of here.” He put the engines into reverse, increased the throttle, and began to turn the wheel.
The loud buzzing whine of motors exploded behind them, bursting in all directions as brilliant spotlights flooded the Skyute with painfully bright illumination. Cale spun around to see half a dozen small jetboats zigzagging around them, two or three crouching figures in each; the boats then slowed as they formed a ring around the bigger boat.
Terrel had already cut the throttle, idling the boat once again, but kept his hands on the wheel and throttle as he glanced anxiously in all directions, taking in the boats and lights that had so quickly appeared.
“Fucking pirates,” he said, voice harsh and pissed. “Fucker sold me out, I’m gonna rip his hole wide open when I catch up to him, goddamn . . .” His cursing continued, but low and unintelligible.
A man’s voice called out from one of the jetboats. “Don’t need to see anyone hurt or killed. You let us take the stash, everyone leaves in one piece. All right in there?”
“Not a chance,” Terrel muttered.
“Terrel . . .” Cale started.
Terrel snapped his head around and glared at Cale. “You don’t know anything about this, so don’t say a fucking word. Sorry, but it’s too late now, so just shut it.” He reached surreptitiously under the wheel housing, something snapped, then he pulled out two guns, Spitzer jim-jim automatics, and thrust one at Cale with a grin. Cale reluctantly took it from him, then Terrel stuck the other gun in his belt behind his back.
Terrel stepped to the side, where he stood in full illumination, and raised both hands. “All right!” he shouted, blinking against the glare. One of the jetboats moved forward and bumped against the stern of the Skyute. A man reached out to pull himself aboard, and Terrel made his move.
He stepped back to the wheel, jammed the engines into full reverse, and cranked the wheel hard to the right. The boat bucked and swerved with the sudden backward acceleration and Cale went sprawling across the deck, somehow hanging on to the Spitzer, then scrambled to his hands and knees. Glancing out through the cabin’s open doorway, he could see the jetboat rising and twisting up out of the water as the Skyute overran it; there was no sign of the man who had been trying to board.
Engines revved up again, more lights appeared from somewhere, and gunshots cracked. Terrel crouched at the wheel, jerking it from side to side as they picked up speed. Cale stayed on his hands and knees, gripping the doorframe for support. The cabin windows cracked and splintered, projectiles ricocheted from the ship’s hull, and a muffled explosion sounded from up near the bow. The boat shuddered as they scraped against the bank, and Terrel twisted the wheel once more, freeing them.
The jetboats were quicker than the Skyute, and Cale watched two of the boats pass them, swinging around to cut them off. Terrel stayed focused and kept the boat in full reverse, constantly zigzagging while trying to get out to the wider canal, where they might have a chance. Flashes and popping sounds came from the jetboats, followed by a couple of small explosions and splintering wood and plastic across the Skyute decks. A shattered piece of railing hit Cale in the head and he flattened himself out on the deck; when he touched his forehead, his fingers came away wet with blood.
He stayed down now, face pressed hard against the gritty surface of the deck, no longer trying to follow what was happening. The boat miraculously continued to swerve backward along the channel, occasionally scraping against the banks, or possibly into one or more of the jetboats—it was impossible to tell. The gunshots and cracks from other weapons increased, along with shouts and cries from the pirates. Cale turned his head and looked back at Terrel, who bobbed up and down trying to catch glimpses of their position, the throttle locked full, one hand on the wheel and jerking it back and forth, the other firing his Spitzer, swearing nonstop all the while.
Suddenly they were out of the narrow channel and in the canal. Terrel swung the boat in a wider, sweeping turn, overrunning another of the jetboats. He cut the throttle as he took the engines out of reverse, then engaged them full forward.
Cale rose to his hands and knees and nearly fell back again as the boat accelerated, then pulled himself up to his feet. He could see four or five jetboats still giving chase, two already pacing them. Then the boat surged forward, as if Terrel suddenly found more power in the engines, and they began to slowly pull away.
A flare of light appeared from the nearest jetboat, then another, and Cale heard bursts of shattering wood and glass, but couldn’t see the hits. The Skyute continued to slowly but steadily put more distance between it and the jetboats. More shots, but no major hits.
For several long moments nothing changed. They appeared to be heading farther from the heart of the city, into a deeper darkness, when suddenly Terrel slowed the boat, swung the wheel hard right, and they veered into another channel. Cale watched the jetboats follow them, gaining ground for a few moments. Terrel accelerated once more as a series of brighter flares and screeching thumps burst around them.
The Skyute was rocked by a violent explosion that nearly knocked Cale from his feet once again. A terrible grinding roar erupted and the deck shuddered beneath them; then the boat slowed precipitously as the engines sputtered twice, caught twice, then died altogether.
“Fuck me!” Terrel shouted. He had his own gun in hand now and he turned to Cale, his face shiny with sweat and glowing with the flashing lights around them. “Shoot as many as you can,” he told Cale.
“Just give it to them!” Cale shouted back. “They’re going to get it anyway.”
Terrel shook his head and gave him a crazed smile. “No, they won’t. I’ll burn the shit up first.” Then he ducked out of the pilothouse, swung around, and dropped down into the cargo hold.
Everything became strangely quiet, no sounds other than the jetboat engines idling as they surrounded the now motionless Skyute. Cale saw figures standing along the banks on both sides of the canal, men and women holding wavering lanterns and watching the boats out on the water. The eyes of some animal glowed red in the reflected light. Then he looked at the pirates in the jetboats, most of them armed and wary now as their own craft idled and drifted slowly toward the Skyute. He dropped the gun and held out his arms, hands open and facing outward, and cautiously emerged from the pilothouse.
Surprisingly no one shot at him. The pirates seemed far more concerned with the figures on the banks than they were with him or Terrel. He took a few more steps, and still nothing happened; it was only just now sinking in that he had been, and might still be, in real danger of being killed.
No one moved, no one spoke. The idling jetboats rocked gently on the dark water, and the pirates paid Cale no attention. Instead, they warily eyed the figures on either bank, who in turn watched the pirate
s and the Skyute. Then the pirates slowly, carefully engaged their engines, turned the jetboats around, and headed away.
Terrel’s face appeared at the entrance to the cargo hold, grinning. He started to pull himself up when a muffled explosion shook the deck. He lost his grip and fell back into the hold; a few moments later flames appeared from one of the vents. Cale ran to the cargo hold entrance and peered into the darkness now being sliced with wavering orange and red light. Heat rushed up into his face and he put up his hand in a futile gesture.
“Terrel!”
Another explosion knocked Cale onto his side. He tried to get to his feet, but slipped and fell to the deck. He heard a cry, and he sensed the heat in the deck, heat from a fire that must now be raging below.
Somehow mustering the necessary energy and will, Cale struggled to his feet once again, and searched for some means of escape. Flames licked up through all the vents as well as the main hold entrance. Cale heard a splash, then a scream and another splash, but the sounds told him nothing about what was really happening. All he knew was that he had to get off the boat.
He stumbled toward the stern; confused by the smoke in his eyes and lungs and the spitting and popping of burning wood, he somehow got turned around and found himself inside the pilothouse again. Reorienting himself, he pushed his way back out. Get off the damn boat! he shouted to himself.
The deck erupted before him in an explosion of flames and wood, oil splattering his face and blinding him. He screamed once, tried to cover his eyes with his hands, but it was too late. His eyes burned and watered and he staggered back, legs shaky and unsure beneath him. Suddenly he was falling and he threw out his hands. But he kept falling, for far longer than seemed possible.
He hit the surface of the canal, and the fetid water engulfed him. It cooled his burning face, but when he opened his eyes as he slowly sank, he couldn’t see a thing. Remembering it was night didn’t reassure him.
The Rosetta Codex Page 10
