World of Water

by James Lovegrove

  Then a spike darted out from its mouth, pricking the fingertip. Dev snatched his hand back. Almost instantly, his finger went numb as far as the first knuckle joint.

  As if taking their cue, other fish from the shoal flashed forwards and jabbed their pointed tongues into him. He felt pinpricks everywhere – arms, chest, legs – and the pain in each instance was followed immediately by a brief tingling sensation, then numbness.

  He swept his arms wildly at the fish, who flickered out of his reach then swarmed back in around him. Now he was being stung from behind too, on his back, his calves, the nape of his neck.

  He thrashed and flailed, churning the water. The tiny fish had him completely surrounded, walled in, cocooned. Their tongues, half as long as their bodies, snaked out and nipped. He batted the creatures away more violently than ever, smashing them, snapping them in two, but always there were new ones to take the place of the ones he killed, an endless supply of the little nightmares.

  He stopped trying to fight them – it was futile – and focused his mind on escape instead. He struck out for the surface, clawing through the wriggling, writhing mass of fish, and as soon as he hit air he made for the nearest refuge, which was the dock. He could feel his limbs getting sluggish, his muscles weakening. The shoal stuck with him, still stinging him wherever they could even as he hauled himself out of the water onto dry land.

  He collapsed prone on the dock, panting hard. He was shuddering all over and his vision was blurred. He was aware of people assembling around him – legs, combat boots, sea pattern camo fabric. He heard dim, distant laughter, and then felt the burn of a hypodermic injection in his thigh.

  Slowly the shudders subsided and sensation returned to his skin. His breathing stabilised and his eyesight cleared.

  Handler was hunkered down on his haunches, looking concerned. The entire team of Marines were ranged in a semicircle, looking less concerned.

  “Harmer,” Handler said. “Dev. Look at me. How are you feeling? Are you back with us?”

  “Yes. Fuck. Yes, I think so.”

  “You were going into anaphylaxis. I gave you an epinephrine shot.”

  “I offered to urinate on you,” said Milgrom. “I would have if the lieutenant hadn’t stopped me. Just remember that. I was prepared to piss all over you. That’s the kind of girl I am.”

  “It wouldn’t have worked,” said Sigursdottir. “Urinating on stings to relieve the inflammation – that’s an old wives’ tale.”

  “Who said anything about inflammation? I just thought it’d be amusing.”

  “Your generosity is appreciated,” Dev said, struggling to sit up. “Urghh. Those little fuckers. They seemed to cute as well.”

  “Stickerfish?” said Handler. “They are cute – until they start stabbing you with their tongues.”

  “Once they’ve put enough neurotoxin into you that you’re paralysed and helpless,” said Milgrom, “they start snacking on you, nibbling off your skin, burrowing into your flesh. They’ve got sharp little teeth.” She grinned with relish. “It’s not pleasant.”

  “Really? Because it sounds like an absolute hoot.”

  “Well, the good news is the feeding frenzy only last about five minutes. Once they’ve filled their bellies, the stickerfish just go. The bad news is, by then there’s enough blood in the water to attract a big predator. Either way, you’re a goner.”

  “Is there anything in this stupid sea that doesn’t try to kill you?”

  “Nope. That’s one of the joys of Triton. It’s a wonder they don’t make this place a holiday resort.”

  Handler reached out and helped Dev to his feet. “Actually Triton isn’t as bad as all that. The corporal is exaggerating.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’ve just been desperately unlucky, that’s all.”

  “Unluckiness seems to be the defining characteristic of this mission so far,” Dev remarked. “But maybe that’s about to change. Maybe I’ve had my quota.”

  He wouldn’t have laid money on it, though.

  20

  GUNNERY SERGEANT JIANG remained with the boats, tasked with replenishing their fuel tanks. Triton was plentifully supplied with deep-sea deposits of methane which, in liquid form, drove almost every vessel on the ocean. A few kilometres north of Llyr lay a couple of the drilling rigs that tapped the gas from the seabed and condensed it. They were crowned with feathers of blue flame, burning off the over-pressure to protect the plant equipment.

  The refuelling would take a couple of hours, so in the meantime everyone else – Dev, Handler, the other Marines – headed for the centre of town to find a place to eat.

  On Sigursdottir’s orders, all weapons and body armour were removed and left behind on the boats. This was temporary shore leave, and standard etiquette applied.

  On an esplanade that skirted one of Llyr’s larger domes was an open-air food court. Cafés and restaurants served local staples, either fish-based or derived from homegrown algae crops. There were also stalls selling imported treats at eye-watering prices. A can of soda would set you back an average week’s wages; a bar of chocolate twice that.

  At a large communal table Sigursdottir ordered tapas for everybody. Dishes arrived in dribs and drabs, brought by a slender young waiter who seemed intimidated by the Marines, and with good reason.

  “Ohhh, yeah,” said Milgrom, watching him walk away to fetch more food. “Look at that tight butt. I’d grab myself two handfuls of that and just tear.”

  “Kind of skinny,” said Blunt. “I prefer a man with a bit of meat on him.”

  “Like Master Chief Reynolds, you mean?”

  “Will you shut the fuck up about Master Chief Reynolds?”

  “I would, but he’s just so dreamy,” Francis cooed, fluttering her eyelashes.

  Blunt clouted her round the head. Francis just giggled.

  “I like ’em skinny,” said Milgrom. “Less resistance with the skinny ones. You can really show ’em who’s in charge.” She wolf-whistled at the waiter. “Isn’t that right, gorgeous? I know what you want. You want me to slap you down on the ground and straddle you. Ride you ’til you’re worn to a nub. Am I right?”

  The waiter smiled wanly, no doubt thinking of his tip. So to speak.

  Dev sampled everything on offer. Battered lumps of fish. Fish in sauce. Fish roe. Greasy fish-tasting globs. Assorted types of shellfish and mollusc. Chunks of algae cut into shapes and cooked to resemble vegetables. Yet more fish.

  Fortunately there was beer, to rinse the fishiness out of your mouth. Fermented-seaweed beer, to be precise, but it was close enough to the real thing – and a great deal less hazardous than double moonshine.

  The drunker Milgrom got, the worse she behaved. She pawed the hapless waiter whenever he went by. She flirted crudely with a group of men at the adjacent table, who began by encouraging her but after a while got bored and started studiously ignoring her. She bellowed out dirty, but admittedly very funny, jokes. Stern looks from Sigursdottir would quieten her for a while, but then she would begin again.

  Blunt, Francis and the other privates weren’t much better. They took the corporal’s rowdiness as a licence to vamp it up themselves.

  Dev could see that Sigursdottir was cutting her troops some slack. They were on shore leave. They should be allowed to make the most of the down-time and fool around a little.

  He feared, however, that things were going to get out of hand, and that it might happen faster than Sigursdottir realised.

  He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was a mood hanging over Llyr. Something in the air. He sensed it without being able to put his finger on it. During the walk from the marina to the esplanade he had noticed furtive looks from the residents, a shiftiness in the presence of the Marines. People going about their daily business had stiffened as the team went by, relaxing when they were gone.

  It had occurred to him that this could be how the settlers normally reacted around the military. There was an inherent tension, a simme
ring mistrust. Servicemen often had that effect on civilians.

  What he was reminded of, however, was the way crooks acted whenever the police showed up. Even the most hardened criminals shied away from cops, doing their best to look innocent, which of course only served to make them look guilty. Dev had seen it a lot during his misspent youth. Law enforcers were like searchlights. You didn’t dare look at them directly. You lowered your gaze and turned away, waiting until their attention was no longer on you.

  As far as he knew, Llyr was an ordinary town. Law-abiding. Everything above board here. So why were the residents behaving as though it wasn’t?

  He could feel the tension deepening as the Marines got louder and more raucous. Sigursdottir finally detected it too, and began hissing orders to her subordinates, trying to keep them in line. Around their table, a hubbub of discontent was rising. Not just in the restaurant but across the esplanade, locals were turning their way, scowling. Wariness was mutating into resentment.

  “I think we should leave,” Dev said to her.

  “I think so too,” Sigursdottir said. “There’s a weird vibe here, and my men aren’t helping.”

  This statement was truer than ever of Milgrom, who now made a lunge for the beleaguered waiter, shunting her chair back and enfolding him in a bear hug.

  “Feel those tits, little boy?” she growled. His head came level with her chest. “How’d you like to get your paws around those bad mamas?” She buried his face in the deep valley of her cleavage. “What d’you say? You and me, having a dance together. And by dance I mean sex.”

  “Milgrom.” Sigursdottir got to her feet. “That’s enough. Let him go. You’ve had your jollies. Poor kid’s scared out of his wits. It’s time we got back to the boat.”

  “But sir, do you know how long it’s been since I had a man? A girl gets tired of her own hand, y’know.”

  “Corporal Milgrom.” Sigursdottir moved a step closer. “I have given you a direct order. You have to the count of three to obey. One. Two.”

  “All right, all right!” Milgrom shoved the waiter away, so hard he banged into a table, toppling glasses. “I was only playing. Can’t a girl have a little fun? He was into it, too.”

  “We’ll take our bill, please,” Sigursdottir said to the pale-faced waiter.

  Behind him, the diners whose drinks had been spilled grumbled in complaint. Sigursdottir offered to buy a round of refills. The gesture did not seem to placate them.

  “Keep your money, bitch,” one of them said.

  “Better still,” said another, “shove it up your snatch.”

  That was all the excuse Milgrom needed. With a cry of “Bastards!” she threw herself at the diners. There were five of them, fishermen with shaggy beards and outdoor-work physiques. As one, they rose to the challenge.

  Sigursdottir yelled at her to stand down, but it was too late. Milgrom had a fire of belligerence in her stomach and a commanding officer’s honour to defend. She was a ball of righteous, beer-fuelled fury.

  The fight did not last long. Five men, no matter how burly, were no match for a hulking, body-modded Marine.

  But then other settlers joined in. And so, accordingly, did the other Marines. Both sides piled in against one another, while Sigursdottir shouted to be heard above the fray, vainly attempting to restore calm.

  That was until someone swung a fist at her. Then she got embroiled in the whole fracas too.

  Dev, though not averse to a punch-up himself, decided he couldn’t afford to get involved in this one. His ailing host form was in sorry enough shape already. He had no wish to add bruises and possibly broken bones to its litany of woes.

  Handler was in a state of abject terror, cowering and cringing as furniture and crockery flew and the air resounded with yelps of pain and the thuds of blows. Dev seized him by the collar and dragged him through the milling throng, shunting people aside to clear a path.

  They made it out of the restaurant onto the edge of the esplanade.

  Then their way was blocked by a couple of locals.

  “You’re with those Marines, aren’t you?” snarled one of them.

  “No,” said Dev.

  “Yes, you are,” said the other. “We saw you sitting at their table.”

  “Okay, we are. But not with them with them, if you get my drift. We’re just sort of heading in the same direction as them. Fellow travellers.”

  One of the men drew a knife. The kind of knife you gutted fish with. Big fish. The blade was wickedly curved, its lower half serrated for sawing through bone.

  The other local brandished a short-handled gaff hook.

  “You two look sort of like fish,” he said. “Let’s see if you slit open just the same way.”

  21

  HANDLER WHIMPERED. DEV shoved him backwards, putting himself between the ISS liaison and the pair of locals.

  “I’ve got this,” he said. “Leave it to me.”

  But he wasn’t as confident as he sounded. This body was resilient, yes, with good reflexes and above-average strength, but he couldn’t rely on it. It might crap out on him at any moment.

  Best just to get the fight over and done with as quickly as possible, then.

  The man with the gutting knife shifted to the left. His friend with the gaff hook prowled to the right. Swiftly Dev sized them up, assessing which was the greater threat. Gutting Knife, he decided. He was the wirier of the two, and a wicked, jagged gash on his cheek suggested he was no stranger to violence. No stranger to pain and injury, at least.

  The gash looked relatively fresh, too, no more than a week old. Still inflamed at the edges, and Dev could make out the faint ladder mark of subdermal smart-stitches, there to tighten and draw the wound shut before dissolving when their job was done. A work accident, Dev assumed, although he couldn’t rule out it being the result of a fight.

  Dev feinted at Gaff Hook, causing him to take a step back, then rushed Gutting Knife. With a forearm block he batted aside the blade, accompanying the attack with a stiff-fingered strike to the throat.

  Gutting Knife jerked his head back just enough to dull the impact. It paused him in his tracks but wasn’t the crippling one-and-done hit Dev had been after.

  Gaff Hook came in from the side, weapon raised for a downward slash. Dev spun and rammed the heel of his palm into the man’s elbow as the hook descended. He heard and felt a crack, and Gaff Hook yelped. The elbow had been dislocated, that arm rendered useless.

  A warning cry from Handler, and Dev swivelled just in time to see Gutting Knife lunging at him from behind. He twisted out of the path of the blade and gave its wielder a rabbit punch to the kidneys as he stumbled past.

  Gutting Knife went down with a whooping, strangulated gasp, while Gaff Hook, having transferred the hook to his other hand, swiped at Dev sideways. Dev reared away from the weapon’s swing, butting up against the steel balustrade that bordered the esplanade’s waterside edge.

  Over Gaff Hook’s shoulder he saw at a glance that the brawl at the restaurant was losing steam. Most of the locals involved now lay unconscious or incapacitated on the floor, and Sigursdottir was marshalling her troops, coaxing them into a withdrawal before word spread and more opponents arrived. Corporal Milgrom alone was still fighting, overcome by a sort of berserker rage. She had just smashed a plastic chair over someone’s head and was brandishing one of its snapped-off legs like a cudgel, inviting anyone within earshot to come and have a go if they thought they were hard enough.

  That was all Dev had time to register before Gaff Hook renewed his assault. With one arm hanging limp and his weapon in his off hand, however, he was unbalanced and clumsy. Dev had only to pivot on the ball of one foot, and Gaff Hook lumbered headlong, helplessly, into the balustrade.

  It was too tempting and too easy just to pitch him over the top rail of the balustrade, but that was no reason not to do it. Dev grabbed him by the seat of the trousers and flipped him heels over head, sending him somersaulting into the sea. Gaff Hook surfaced immedi
ately, spluttering, and hauled himself one-handed through the water to grasp the balustrade for support. His hook was gone.

  Dev debated whether to stamp on Gaff Hook’s fingers so that he was forced to let go and keep swimming, or pretend to help him out onto dry land only to dunk him back under. Some further humiliation was in order, he felt. He wasn’t going to let the bastard off that lightly.

  “Dev?”

  Handler’s tone was querulous and frightened. Gutting Knife had recovered from the kidney punch sooner than Dev expected and, while Dev was busy dealing with Gaff Hook, had got back to his feet and seized Handler by the scruff of the neck. His blade hovered at the ISS liaison’s throat, and he looked more than ready to use it.

  “I’m sick of you people,” he growled. “I know you two aren’t sea monkeys, not exactly. Frankly I don’t know what the fuck you are. But you look enough like sea monkeys that it makes no difference in my mind. Those buggers are determined to screw things up for the rest of us, and I’ve had it up to here with that. Them. You.”

  “Put the knife down.” Dev darted another glance at Sigursdottir and the other Marines. They were all engaged in defusing Milgrom’s drunken battle frenzy, restraining her and trying to drag her away. They weren’t going to be any help to him in this situation right here. They had their hands full. Milgrom was bellowing and resisting, and not about to come quietly.

  “I don’t think so,” said Gutting Knife. He nodded at the blade and at Handler. “This is how sea monkeys should be treated. We’ve tried being all sympathetic and understanding and reasonable with them, and where has that bleeding-heart bullshit got us? Nowhere. They’ve just taken it for weakness and stepped up their campaign against us. Know how I came by this cut on my face?”

  “I didn’t think it was a shaving accident,” Dev said. He was playing for time. “Why not tell me about it?”