by E J Frost
on her dread. “You’re my eyes up front.
Keep talkin’ to me.”
“Does she ever stop?” Erin scoffs.
I ignore her and wave Banks into the
opposite seat. “You two stay there. Keep
your weight distributed. Let’s go.” I give Kez
a final kiss. Release her. I don’t like letting
her go. When I’m holding her, she’s safe. I
know she can take care of herself. I know
Tyng’s threat is distant. I know all that, and
every instinct I have still screams at me
whenever I let her go.
She doesn’t move away immediately.
Stands looking up at me with a small smile.
Maybe she’s thinking the same thing.
“Door,” she says.
Or not. She’s a practical woman, my
kitten. I reach behind me, pull the hatch shut
and move to the rear controls.
Kez takes her seat at the front of the
skimmer, and plugs the little transponder into
a socket in the palm-sized control console.
The transponder begins to make a soft,
regular ping.
“Any image?” I ask Kez. There’s a faint
yellow glare on the front window, which
could be the transponder, or could just be the
angle of the Twins.
“Yup, I’ve got it,” Kez responds. “Three
hundred degrees south-south-east.”
“Right.” I fire up the skimmer’s jets and
swing the little craft in a wide arc around the
cove. With Kez watching the front, I glance
back at the shore as we shoot out through the
sheltering rock promontories and towards the
open ocean. Behind us, the dunes are quiet,
empty. Ripples spread across the pale green
water, tracing the path of our passage. The
water swells and darkens more than the light
wave action warrants. Not far from where
the skimmer was resting, now a hundred
yards to our rear, a dark fin breaks the
surface for a moment.
Adult tegli, or maybe a juvenile orclas.
Whatever it is, we quickly leave it behind.
The transponder keeps up its soft, steady
pinging as we speed across the open water.
It’s the only noise, other than the steady hum
of the jets, inside the skimmer. No one talks.
Kez leans forward over her stick, peering out
the front window. Erin sinks back in her seat
and keeps the amber spectacles down over
her eyes. Banks watches Kez, one knee
bouncing slightly.
I keep the throttle open, trusting Kez to
tell me before we hit anything. We need to
intercept the bowship just as it leaves the
dock. The skimmer is a speedy little craft,
but it’s no match for a bowship. If the
bowship gets into the open water of the bay
and begins to accelerate, no matter how hard
I push the throttle, we’ll never catch it.
The first of the long black jetties that
mark Hot Sands’ industrial port rises out of
the water in front of the skimmer.
“Got it,” Kez says. “Third pier. Eighty
degrees.” She extends her left hand.
“Hold on,” I tell Erin and Banks as I
swing the skimmer to port. The skimmer
banks sharply, helped by Kez leaning on the
front controls. As we come around, the front
window flares red-gold. We’re heading due
east, into the sunset. I grit my teeth and squint
into the brilliance.
“Kez?” I growl.
“Still got it. Third pier. Ten degrees
north. Slow down. We’re going to overshoot
it.”
I ease back on the throttle. Scan the
choppy view of waves, the back of Kez’s
head and the low band of the jetty for the
bowship’s distinctive prongs. The setting
suns are dazzling, but I finally find the
upturned hand-shape of the bowship in the
glare.
Kez wasn’t wrong about overshooting it.
The bowship is creeping between the piers. I
eye up the angles, throttle back a little
further. Shaker said the bowship would only
register the skimmer as an echo, but it won’t
look like an echo. To anyone on deck, we’ll
be hard to miss.
Unless we’re concealed somehow.
“Kez, gimme a read on the pier.” I’ve got
my own read on it. The lowest support strut
I’ve seen will still give the skimmer about a
meter of clearance. But a meter isn’t much,
particularly with the wave action, and I can’t
see clearly in the glare.
Kez glances back over her shoulder at
me. Her eyes are round. “Uh, about four
meters above the waterline.”
I nod. That’s what I figured, too. “Hold
on to your hats,” I tell my passengers, then
angle the skimmer between the two nearest
pylons.
I hear Banks inhale sharply as the
darkness under the pier swallows the ship. I
can’t see anything but permacrete, but I don’t
need to. I’ve already made my calculations.
The pier is standard Colony construction.
One hundred and ninety meters long. Sixteen
meters wide. Six meters between pylons.
I’ve throttled back to a third of the skimmer’s
top speed, so it’s a quick count of one-and
before we pop out between the next set of
pylons on the far side of the pier. I bank hard
to avoid crashing into the adjacent jetty.
The sealane is crowded. We bob in the
wash of a big Infinity yacht that’s pulling out
ahead of us. Between the high wedge of the
yacht’s stern and the prongs of the bowship
filling the eastern horizon, the glare of
Kuseros’s sunset is muted, manageable. I
sweep the horizon quickly, make a fast
adjustment, then swing the skimmer under the
next pier. There’s a squeal of metal across
permacrete as the yacht’s wake lifts us up to
kiss the pier’s underside. One-and and
we’re out the other side, so close behind the
bowship that it eclipses the entire horizon.
Kez rises out of her seat slightly.
“There,” she breathes, pointing at something
I can’t see in the massive shadow of the
bowship. “Three degrees north.”
The throttle slides under my palm as she
makes the small adjustment. I see the dark
slit she’s angling towards. I throw the
throttle forward, trusting Kez to steer, and
the bowship swallows us. There’s a funny
lifting sensation and my stomach drops a
meter or two. I kill the jets. I can’t see
anything in the sudden transition from light to
pitch blackness but we must be in the sweet-
spot under the bowship. We’ll ride along
now like a lingus-fish on an orclas.
I sit back against the bench’s padding.
Hear Banks exhale. There’s a faint whisper –
wind or the bowship’s jets – from outside
the ship, but inside it’s as quiet as a
tomb. I
grin into the darkness and feel the air next to
me shift as Kez finds me and slides onto the
bench beside me. I put my arm around her.
“Did we damage the roof?” she asks.
“Yeah, Shaker might shave a couple of
credits off our deposit,” I whisper into her
hair.
She puts her head down on my shoulder
and from the roundness of her cheek against
my collar, I can tell she’s smiling. She
doesn’t give a fuck, either. Damage to the
skimmer is something to worry about after
we survive the run. My kitten’s good at
living in the now.
My eyes adjust and I begin to pick out
shapes. Erin with her face turned away from
us. Banks sitting with his head back against
the wall, eyes closed. The long arc of Kez’s
legs as she curls them across my lap. I slide
my hand up her thigh and pull her nice and
tight to me. There’s nothing to do now for
eighteen minutes as the bowship accelerates
out of the bay and crosses the expanse of
open ocean to Outniss Rock. Maybe it’s the
darkness, maybe it’s the weird silence,
maybe it’s the lingering tension from the first
leg of our journey, but no one seems inclined
to talk. We sit in darkness, and silence, for
seventeen minutes.
Dropping out of the bowship is harder
than getting in. The lift off the bowship’s
huge jets holds us in place against the
underside of the ship. I have to rev the
skimmer’s engine until it screams to get up
enough momentum to escape. We shoot out of
the underside of the bowship at over a
hundred kilometers an hour, trailing sparks.
Shaker’s not going to be a happy man
when he gets his skimmer back. Banks must
have the same thought because he meets my
eyes and grimaces. I shrug. Priorities. Get
Erin to the Cloudlands. Survive the run. Then
I’ll worry about the damage to Shaker’s
pride-and-joy.
The sun has nearly set while we’ve been
tucked under the bowship. Only a thin red
band remains on the horizon, shading to
purple and midnight blue overhead. The
Broken Moon is up, bloated and red with
reflected light. In the darkening ocean,
Outniss Rock is a series of low black humps.
I angle the skimmer towards the tallest,
longest hump.
“Anywhere in particular?” I ask Banks.
Banks nods. “Far side. Tower Beach.”
I swing around the tip of the island,
clearing the bowship’s massive wake as it
continues to accelerate out to sea, and
immediately identify Tower Beach. On the
southern side of the atoll, a low, black sand
beach ends in a pile of weathered boulders.
A few of the boulders form a distinctive
spire, which glows dull red in the fading
light.
The beaches on this side of the atoll,
sheltered from both the mainland and the
Cloudlands, are alive with light and
movement. Each beach hosts two or three
bonfires, which flicker seductively. Around
the bonfires, black stick figures swirl,
silhouetted against the flames. Guess the
Mirrormen really are dancing tonight.
There’s no bonfire on the expanse of sand
below the rock tower, but there are two
small skimmers bobbing just beyond the
breakers. Banks nods at them. I pull up
alongside the one furthest from the beach. A
thin silver cord stretches from each skimmer
to the rock tower. I pick up the skimmer’s
control and am about to click dock when
Banks says, “You mind beaching, Mister
Snow?”
I glance at Kez.
“C’mon, sass.” Banks holds up his hands.
“It’s gonna be a bitch to load up out on the
water.”
Kez nods. I put down the control pad and
open up the throttle again.
The skimmer beaches neatly, the rattle of
gravel under the jets replacing the whush of
water. I kill the engine. Let the skimmer
settle on a slight angle, following the pitch of
the beach. Banks rises and crosses the canted
deck, skidding a little. He pops the door and
jumps down onto the dark, wet sand.
I beckon Kez with two fingers and point
to the bench Banks has just vacated. The
interior of the skimmer is dark, so I doubt
anyone looking into the skimmer from the
firelit beach will be able to see inside. But
in case a stray beam from the setting suns
light us up, I don’t want anyone seeing Kez’s
sweetly curved shape at the front window.
“Stay there, kitten.”
She nods. Settles onto the bench I’ve
indicated. Erin ignores me, but she doesn’t
seem inclined to move. She’s a bitch, but
she’s not stupid.
I move to the doorway and stand there for
a minute, hanging onto the cool metal rim,
feeling the salty sea breeze lick my cheeks
and chin. Assess the situation.
The beach is a short crescent of black-
flecked gravel, no more than ten meters
across, bordered by scrubby purple foliage,
tumbled rocks and gravel mounds. In the
fading light, the gravel glimmers. The bushes
luminesce. The black rocks crackle. An
occasional bright jet reaches up into the
clouds like a long white finger. I grimace at
the thought of the rad dose we’re getting.
Looking around, I can see why smugglers
would choose this spot. It’s well-concealed,
distinctive, and of no use to anyone but the
MAO-A whackos jumping around the fires a
quarter klick away. Still, I don’t like
spending any time in their stomping grounds.
Particularly when I’ve got such sweet meat
under my wing.
I turn my head slightly and meet Kez’s
wide blues. “We’re out of here in five
minutes. I don’t give a fuck what your boy’s
doin’.”
Kez nods. “Should I get the finboards
out?”
“Yeah.” I glance at Erin. “Suit up.”
I expect an eye-roll at least, but Erin’s
suddenly all business. She packs away her
specs and palmtop with quick, economic
movements. I turn back to the beach when
she starts shrugging out of her assassin chic.
A pair of man-shaped shadows have
detached themselves from the rock tower.
They meet Banks as he trudges up the gravel
shingle. I’m too far away to hear what
they’re saying, but the pitch of their voices is
urgent, agitated.
I’ve got no hair on the back of my neck,
but it’s standing up anyway. Time to go.
“Kitten, make that three minutes.”
She nods with a rustle of dreadlocks from
where she’s unstrapping the finboards. I
cross behind her, to the bench where
my gear
is stowed, ignoring Erin’s dusky gold
nakedness on my way. I want some blades.
There’s no place in the shadowsuit to
hide my blades. No pockets. No patches.
Whoever designed this fucking thing should
be shot. Grimacing, I strap my wrist sheaths
outside the suit’s sleeves. They’ll be clearly
visible – there’s no mistaking what they are
– but they’ll also be easily accessible. I
shove my feet into my boots. The water will
ruin even the treated genSkin, and they’ll be
fucking heavy once they’re wet. I don’t care.
I’m not leaving my kukris behind.
I debate over my vest for a moment. I
haven’t been shot at yet, but there’s still time.
There’s also a couple of blades in it, and a
hundred hard credits in the lining. A glance
at Kez shows that she’s got her backpack
slung over her shoulders. She packed five
thou against expenses, so she’s still got a
couple grand, even after paying Shaker. Her
backpack bulges with everything she’s
stuffed into it. I fold the vest and leave it
with the rest of my gear. There’s no way I’m
going to fit the vest into her backpack, and I
won’t be able to swim with it on. If Shaker
finds my emergency stash, he can put it
towards the damage I’ve done to his baby.
I’ll just have to try to avoid getting shot.
I fasten the flight webbing over my gear
and take a finboard from Kez. While I tote
one and shove another towards the door with
my foot, she starts unstrapping the third.
Out on the shingle, the discussion
between Banks and his fellow smugglers has
risen in volume and gesticulation. I’m not
interested in sticking around to see the
outcome, or whether their noise attracts the
attention of the Hyp-ed cannibals doing their
war-dance down the beach. A sliding noise
to my right heralds the arrival of the other
finboard. I expect Kez to be pushing it, but
it’s Erin, sleek and curvy in her shadowsuit.
She mimics my pose, hanging onto the lip of
the doorway and leaning out of the skimmer
to survey the beach. It puts the shelf of her
boobs right under my nose. I have to give her
points for persistence.
“This is not a good place to be,” she
says.
“You’re not tellin’ me anything I don’t
know, sister.” I nod at the surf whispering
across the gravel. “Get wet.”
She jumps down onto the beach. Casts
back over her shoulder, “I always am.”
