Children of Zero

by Andrew Calhoun

  Gaemmil’s first act, according to her own testimony on the matter, had been to dispatch the two government sloops in her harbor to lend assistance to the stranded Lavics waiting for rescue. Of course, in Meshaltown, secrets were always difficult to keep under hat. By the time the sloops were getting underway, most of the town had sussed out what was happening and guessed that the phrase lend assistance was a euphemism.

  As isolated as the Sollian sometimes seemed to inhabitants and visitors alike, big news always had a tendency of traveling quickly. So it was that when the Epoch encountered upon a small merchant sloop in still water a week ago, Janx and Saeliko were informed of the events unfolding on Dyssal Main. Obviously, the governess in New Dagos had heard the news as well, hence the dispatch of the heavily armed albeit barely seaworthy Mynndah.

  And now, here they were. The quickspice had been retrieved, secured and sent merrily on its way to New Dagos. Saeliko didn’t need to take Gaemmil’s word for it; the townsfolk were corroborating her account of the Mynndah’s role in the whole affair. But of the ill-fated Lavics, the townsfolk weren’t so talkative.

  “There’s no mystery here,” Governess Gaemmil assured Janx. “When we found the Sarleff, most of her crew were already sick and dying. They had the patches.”

  Saeliko found that hard to believe.

  “The patches,” Janx repeated. “What a shame.” The harker’s voice seemed to convey genuine sadness, which Saeliko thought odd. The governess’ story was obviously false.

  “Aye, it was.”

  “And of the crewmembers that the loggers canoed to town?”

  “I believe they left with the Mynndah,” Gaemmil stated.

  “Ah, I see.” She used a cloth to wipe her hands and dab the chicken grease from the corners of her wide mouth. “Pity, that.” Putting down the cloth, Janx put her hands on the table, lifted herself from the chair, and then proceeded to one of the open windows at the rear of the cabin, making sure she didn’t catch herself on the chair’s outstretched limbs along the way.

  Standing with her hands clasped behind her back, the harker gazed out to sea. Even in this relaxed position, she struck an imposing figure. Like Saeliko, Janx was sleeveless, though her clothing was more ornate and less functional. Rather than ending at the waist as normal jerkins did, hers continued down almost to the floor. A great black leather belt held the jerkin tightly in place around the waist, causing the lower half to flow outward when she walked. Silver embroidery spread out in a spiraling pattern starting from the middle of her back, intricate flowers and vines tumbling over one another, the occasional butterfly or Maelian blossom bird swooping amidst the flora.

  Yet, the power that she exuded was tempered by subtle signs of an aging body. Her short, stark black hair was shot through with grey streaks, and periorbital lines stretched out from the corners of her eyes. The skin on the undersides of her arms hinted at flab. No one knew exactly how old Janx was, but her qarlden suspected that she had already passed the five decade mark.

  “I have a question,” Gaemmil stated.

  “I’m all ears.”

  Gaemmil shifted again and glanced over at a selection of weapons held in place by metal hooks fixed into the wall on the starboard side of the room. Rifles with bayonets, pistols big and small and a number of blades sat collectively as a silent testimony to Janx’s capabilities and aptitudes. The governess seemed to be focused on the firearm in the center of the collection, a menacing blunderbuss with a silver relief inlaid into the top of the polished wood. The mouth of the gun’s barrel promised a frightening amount of damage to the recipient. Saeliko had actually seen that blunderbuss used in a battle. It had cut a sailor in half at the waist.

  “Am I your guest or your prisoner?”

  At this, Janx finally broke free of the sea’s pull. She turned back to the governess and asked, “Whatever do you mean?” with a feigned look of innocence. It wasn’t clear if she was being sarcastic.

  “I am a representative of the empress’ government. You are . . . shall we say . . .”

  “A privateer,” Janx supplied.

  “Yes, exactly. You have submitted the services of yourself, your ship and your crew to the needs of the Concord of Mael. Am I not correct?”

  “You are correct.”

  “And so it follows that if you and your ship were to . . . let’s say . . . plunder a merchant frigate of a nation that had declared war on Mael, you would not be labeled a pirate.”

  “Pirate!” Janx exclaimed. “By the Five, no. Of course not. There are no pirates on board this ship.”

  “Precisely,” the governess continued quickly, sensing that she had struck a sensitive spot. “You have the billet of countenance from the empress, so you may, when necessary, commit violence upon our nation’s enemies in her name.”

  “And I then report the haul back to our government’s officials, whereupon I take a small percentage for myself and my crew. What’s your point?”

  Gaemmil’s eyes drifted to the blunderbuss again. “I am not a known enemy of Mael.”

  “Nor did I ever claim that you were.”

  “Yet your qarlden attacked me and my family in our home last night, and now you bring me aboard your ship rather than visit my town as per protocol.”

  “Attacked?” Janx shook her head. “You’ve misunderstood our intentions. If Saeliko had attacked you,” she said, pausing to cluck her tongue, “you would not be sitting here.”

  “Then let me put it another way,” Gaemmil went on, seeing that a switch of tactics was necessary. “You could have sailed into my harbor unimpeded. Yet you went to great lengths to make sure you wouldn’t be fired upon. If you are who you say you are, a privateer in the employ of our empress, your behavior thus far seems contradictory to your occupation.”

  “Speak plainly. Do me the courtesy of telling me who you think I am.”

  “I’d rather not.” Gaemmil hoisted her considerable bulk to her feet and glared at Janx. “You have me at a great disadvantage.”

  Janx waved her hands dismissively. “I give you my word you won’t be harmed on this ship.” She glided closer, her booted feet making almost no sound as the harker came in close to look down upon the governess. “Now tell me who you think I am.” Her eyes grew cold.

  “I must say that your reputation has preceded you, harker. I have heard stories of late that . . .”

  “I’ll ask you one more time,” Janx interrupted, her words iced steel. “I’ll not tolerate words that run about in circles like dogs chasing their tails. Speak plainly, and tell me who you think I am.”

  Gaemmil sighed. “Word is that you’ve contemplated piracy as a means of supplementing your income.”

  “Ah!” Janx whooped and slapped her hand on her thigh. Gaemmil nearly jumped out of her boots. “There it is!”

  The harker’s expression gradually shifted, the chill dissipating from her eyes. The wide slash of her mouth curled upward to expose white, slightly crooked teeth. Janx slapped her hand on the table and gave a hearty laugh. “There it is,” she repeated. “This is all a misunderstanding. And don’t you see? Now that you know it’s a misunderstanding, you can understand my approach.”

  “Your approach?”

  “Yes, my approach to your little piece of the Empire here on Dyssal Main. I am well aware of the unfortunate turn that my reputation has taken. And, well, given that I thought you were in possession of a very valuable commodity, I feared that you and some of the jittery members of your garrison might start firing upon the Epoch before letting us engage in a more civil discourse. So what you saw as an act of espionage and piracy was simply a careful measure on my part to ensure that we could meet face-to-face and reach an amicable understanding.”

  The governess paused and thought about this. She pointed to the wine on the table. “May I?” When the harker waved her hand as if to say by all means, Gaemmil reached across and poured the dark red liquid into one of the cups, brought it back to her lips and partook. She swished it back
and forth in her mouth before swallowing, and then took another gulp. “Lavic?” she asked, pointing at the bottle again.

  “You have a good tongue for wine.”

  “And the Lavics have good grapes. You know, when Mael was at war with Laventhene, this stuff was hard to come by. I guess good wine is one of the benefits of peace.”

  “You’re digressing.”

  “No, actually. I’m coming to another point.”

  Janx pointed a calloused finger at the governess. “I thought I had made it clear that I’m not fond of circulatory speech.”

  “All right. For the last half year, we’ve been at peace with the Lavics.”

  “And?”

  “And that casts doubt on your motives.”

  “My motives?”

  “Harker, I think you know my meaning. Are you playing me for a fool?”

  “On the contrary,” Janx shook her head slowly from side to side and then pointed her finger once more at Gaemmil. “I’m only trying to avoid any more misunderstandings.”

  “Fine.” Gaemmil swallowed the last dregs of wine in her cup and then reached for the bottle again. “From the first moment your qarlden met me, she admitted that you were after the quickspice. Thus, I can deduce that some time ago, you heard the tale of the Sarleff and saw an opportunity for easy plunder and quick profits. However, the facts are plain: Dyssal Main is Maelian and the rightful owners of the quickspice are our friends the Lavics. If your plan had actually succeeded and you had laid your hands upon that spice, it would have made you . . . well . . .”

  “Well?”

  “Pirates.”

  “I told you already, governess. There are no pirates onboard this fine vessel. I’ll not let it be said otherwise.”

  “Then I suffer from a lack of vocabulary, because I can’t think what else you would be.”

  “Then let me provide you with the words. We are concerned citizens of the Empire.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Janx smiled. Her longer than usual incisors gave her a sharkish look. “With all that spice in uncertain hands, my crew and I were nothing less than duty-bound to see if we could be of assistance. What if real pirates were to have attacked Meshaltown? You would have undoubtedly done well to have my cannons and crew at your disposal. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “And while we’re speculating on intentions, I feel I’m also duty-bound to call yours into question.”

  Gaemmil loudly scoffed and plunked herself back down in her chair. She crossed her arms over her bosom, but not before using the back of her hand to wipe the sweat off her brow. “You can call my intentions into question all you want. I do believe you’ll find that I’ve been a loyal servant to the Concord of Mael in every aspect of this affair.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I inquire to some of the murkier details,” Janx stated. “How many chests of quickspice were on the Mynndah when she sailed for New Dagos?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “And how many chests did you pull off the rocks where the Lavics shipwrecked?”

  “I beg your pardon.” Saeliko couldn’t see Gaemmil’s face from where she was sitting, but she was sure that the governess’ eyes had narrowed in anger.

  “You heard my question.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “So if I were to ask our friends the Lavics how many chests were in the hold of the Sarleff, they wouldn’t report that there were more than fifteen?”

  “It wouldn’t prove anything if there were more than fifteen. In all probability, some of the cargo was lost at sea.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Ask Tlell, my captain of the guard. She was with me when we recovered the chests. She’ll tell you the same.”

  “Well then, if my crew were to search Meshaltown, I’m sure we wouldn’t stumble upon a chest or two that didn’t make it on board the Mynndah, would we?”

  Gaemmil hesitated before she answered. It wasn’t a long pause, but it was all that was necessary. Janx and Saeliko both read the reply hidden in the woman’s vacillation. She had stashed some spice away for herself. Where was it? wondered Saeliko. Was the governess stupid enough to keep it in her house? Maybe in an excavated space under the floorboards?

  “You won’t find anything out of the ordinary,” Gaemmil said.

  Too late, you old hag, Saeliko’s internal voice called out.

  “Nothing at all?” Janx asked, eyebrows raised.

  Gaemmil stood up again, finding courage despite her slip. “I think,” she began, “that you and I have just come to a lovely compromise as a result of our discourse.”

  “Have we?”

  “Indeed we have.”

  “How so?”

  “I believe that I have come to the conclusion that you are indeed not a pirate,” she informed Janx, “and in return, it behooves you to come to the conclusion that there is not a speck of quickspice to be found in Meshaltown.”

  “Is that so?”

  “If you deliberate on these paired conclusions, I believe you’ll see that they’re mutually beneficial.”

  Janx swirled the wine in her own cup without taking her eyes off of Gaemmil. Saeliko sensed uncertainty from her harker despite the iron glare. Why are you hesitating? Saeliko feared that Janx was going to let up. It would be disgraceful, a Saffisheen harker cowing to a pig-bellied governess of a feeble dollop of snake infested land.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Janx admitted.

  No! Saeliko fought back the urge to spit.

  “Are we agreed then?” the governess wanted to know.

  Janx gave Gaemmil a long look and then nodded her head. “Saeliko!”

  “Yes?” Her voice was nearly a growl. Inside, she castigated herself. Revealing one’s emotions was very unprofessional.

  “Please see that Governess Gaemmil arrives back in town safely.”

  “Aye, harker.”

  “And Saeliko?”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep a close eye on the crew in town tonight. Make sure they behave as upstanding citizens of Mael.”

  “Aye, harker.”

  Later, as Saeliko helped row the dingy back to shore with the governess relaxing on the aft seat, she silently fumed at her harker’s cowardice.

  1.5 KETTLE

  He didn’t keep his promise. Instead, he made himself swear up and down that come hell or high water, he would reply to Emma before he got on the airplane on Friday. Then he cursed himself for being such a craven ass. By waiting and stalling all this time, he had made his task of explaining himself to her even more difficult. What kind of jerk waited three and half weeks to answer a fourteen-year-old girl brave enough to reach out to a stranger who might be her father?

  The rain came down – with a few breaks – for three straight days. Occasionally the sky would light up with streaks of lightning, followed by rolling salvos of thunder. The wind howled across the atoll with enough ferocity at times to tear the broad leaves off of trees and send them whipping through the parking lot outside Kettle’s window. For the most part, he stayed inside for the entire week, oscillating between berating himself for his dubious life choices and being optimistic about creating a new and improved Kettle after he got himself off of Diego Garcia. He contemplated ditching the Guam post, quitting his job and hightailing it back to wherever Emma was to see her as soon as possible.

  He doubted the wisdom there. Aside from the possibility that she wouldn’t want to see him right away, his job was worth hanging on to. Strangely enough, it wasn’t even a job that he had applied for. Two weeks before the whole Emma bombshell had landed in his lap, a headhunter had tracked him down and set him up with an interview. When the job offer came in with a stupidly high salary attached, Kettle immediately signed on the dotted line and quit his old job. The move to Diego Garcia had tripled his income.

  The storm died down almost to a standstill on Tuesday evening, which was altogether convenient for Kettle since he had to leave the sanctuary of h
is room and head over to the Brit Club where Jay was having his farewell soiree. Not only was Kettle going to miss seeing Jay’s friendly face after the Frenchman left on Wednesday, he was most definitely going to miss the Brit Club. It was one of the few establishments among the drab cement block buildings that made up Downtown that had any real character whatsoever. Originally reserved for Brits only, the beachside club (or pub, depending on the night) had long since been opened to all ranks and nationalities, though the walls and ceiling were still adorned with British and English flags. There were also framed photos plastered around the bar showing the history of the atoll.

  His favorite picture was of a B-1B bomber laying belly-down on the runway. Back in 2006, the two pilots had flown in from Guam, lined up their approach perfectly and forgot to put the landing gear down. Amazingly, they skidded dead straight for about a mile and a half without spinning off onto the grass, and everyone walked away unharmed. It was a textbook landing of sorts. When the Air Force asked the pilots why $280 million dollars of tax payer money was sitting on Runway 31 with chunks ground out of its bottom, the two men explained that they hadn’t noticed all the warning lights. But what Kettle really liked about the entire fiasco was that one of the pilots, a 1st lieutenant at the time, was shortly thereafter promoted to captain. This confirmed to a lot of observers that FUMU – fuck up, move up – was alive and well in the US Armed Forces. To Kettle, it was a happy reminder that success might still be in reach despite all of the times he had fucked up.

  The evening went better than expected. People laughed about Kettle’s black eye, which was morphing into purples and yellows. He laughed along with them, joking that he was a lover, not a fighter. Later in the evening, he found himself with his arm draped over Jay’s shoulder as they lifted tequila shots and toasted to each other’s futures. They promised to keep in touch, and that Jay would visit Guam when he got a chance and vice versa.

  On Wednesday morning, he was mildly hung over and utterly thankful that Doug had given him the week off. The rain was hammering down again, making his headache worse. He spent the morning watching coconut husks floating in a puddle in a puddle in the parking lot, betting on which one could cross first. That was the single most entertaining moment of his day.