Azam motioned for his uncle, brother, and Durand to follow. They joined the chow line. Clearly nothing else was available out here. After a considerable wait, they emerged with cultured plastic bowls of steamed rice, tofu, greens, and bottled water, passed to them by aid workers. The same volunteers were also handing out pocket chemical stoves, rations wrapped in biodegradable plastic—apparently an effort by Malaysian authorities to stave off waves of immigrants burning wood and hunting in the national forest.
After they had eaten, Mahfuz chatted softly with his nephews in Bengali. Durand kept his translator app turned off to allow them privacy. It was clear they were working through some difficulties. The young men sounded despondent. But they were also tired, and soon they rolled on their sides to sleep on the still-moist ground.
Lots of refugees around them were doing the same, whole constellations of device screens winking off. Durand slapped mosquitoes off his neck.
Then he heard Mahfuz speak softly in his direction. The man’s device translated into English: “What are you, Mr. Jim—a smuggler?”
Durand looked up to see reflected screen light illuminating Mahfuz’s eyes in the darkness. Durand spoke into his own device. “Same as you: I need to get somewhere. And I don’t have documents.”
A murmuring of Bengali followed by, “You had a private car.”
“It was owned by smugglers. I was just a mule.”
“They will be angry with you.”
“I don’t care. I need to get to Thailand.”
“Borders mean little to gangs. And they do not forgive debts.”
Durand almost laughed. If the man only knew. He looked more intently at Mahfuz. “Do you have family back home?”
There was a moment of silence.
Then, “My entire remaining family is there.” Mahfuz looked down at the young men. “We spent all we had to reach Penang, but I did not want my nephews to get indebted. So we remain.”
“Indebted—to traffickers?”
Mahfuz nodded grimly. “Abul has an architecture degree. Azam was pursuing a degree in engineering. What does it matter? There is no work outside the cities.”
They sat in silence for a time.
A commotion began in the center of camp. It looked like a convoy of electric all-terrain cycles was moving through. A whining nafiri combined with thumping techno music synchronized to laser lights awoke the camp. Lights flashed through the trees. There was shouting in many languages.
Mahfuz gestured and spoke into his device. “Traffickers. They come at night—when their boats leave. They will promise work, but only the foolish get in their debt.”
Durand watched the commotion. The laser lights whirled. It certainly drew attention. “I have no intention of getting in their debt.” He stood. “Because I have money.” Durand opened up his phablet. “Mahfuz, what’s a reasonable sum for me to pay traffickers to reach Northern Thailand?”
Mahfuz was taken aback. “From here?” He thought for a moment. “They will probably want at least twenty thousand ringgit, half up front, half on arrival. But you must give them the transfer code for the second half on arrival, or you will never escape. They may cheat you still. And admit to no family—say you are alone in the world—or they may kidnap you for ransom. Keep your bank codes memorized. Write nothing down.”
Durand checked his ChiCoin account. “They bring people by boat?”
“They will bring you out to one of the trawlers supplying the fishing fleets. But do not board a fishing boat—no matter what you do. And do not ever board a container ship—especially those at anchor in international waters. These they call Hulks because they never move.”
Durand tapped at his device. “What’s on the Hulks?”
“Factories. They seal slaves into the shipping containers. Make them assemble devices like the one in your hand. I’m told it’s even cheaper than factory robots. Because they do not feed anyone. No one leaves alive.”
Durand stared at Mahfuz in shock. “How could that be happening? What about the coast guard or—”
“In international waters, the disposable are disposed of. No one wishes to know.”
Durand shook his head. His own problems seemed so insignificant amid all this. He then looked back down at his phablet. Desai had made a substantial sum available for emergencies. It was time to put it to good use. Durand transferred about ten thousand US dollars’ worth onto one of his several bitrings. After receiving a confirmation code, he handed the bitring to Mahfuz.
Mahfuz looked warily at Durand.
“There should be enough on here to get you and your nephews into either Johor or Kuala Lumpur. To buy documentation.”
“You would have us be in your debt?”
Durand had forgotten how menacing he could appear. He shook his head. “I am in your debt, Mahfuz. Consider this repayment.”
Still wary, Mahfuz took the ring and touched it to his own. He then checked his phablet to confirm the amount it held. After a moment he looked up. He placed his hand to his heart and lowered his device—speaking man-to-man. “Bhalo thakben, Mr. Jim. Jani dekha hobe.”
Deriving the sentiment from the tone and solemnity, Durand nodded. He then turned and walked toward the music and whirling laser lights of the traffickers.
Chapter 20
Durand stood on a stone pier in darkness on the shore of the South China Sea. The coast curled away in both directions to form a sizable cove hemmed in by steep jungle hills, devoid of lights. Wispy casuarina trees sighed from an onshore breeze, their trunks extending into the gentle waves. Semisubmerged huts and abandoned resort cabins stood in the water as well. Parking lot signs stood half submerged.
The water had indeed risen over the decades. Malaysia was relatively lucky. Low-lying, heavily populated countries like Bangladesh were in a much deeper crisis.
The night was moonless, but Durand gazed up at the brilliant field of stars above—the Milky Way at the edge of his vision. Around him the jungle thrummed with insects and whooping night birds. He felt eager to reach his destination. To see this deed done.
Close by, an Indian teenager in stylish clothes sat on an electric all-terrain cycle. He’d used it to bring Durand through jungle trails to this location. But right now, the kid was playing an invisible AR game through his designer LFP glasses—ignoring the breathtakingly beautiful night around them.
Durand heard the crunching of tires over gravel, and soon an electric SUV rolled into view through the trees. It moved like a shadow through a half-submerged parking lot and came to a halt at the end of the stone pier.
Several people got out. They removed luggage from the cargo area. Before long they approached, and Durand’s companion turned off his LFP game, sitting up straight.
The kid’s boss had evidently arrived.
Four men joined them. Two dour-looking Malays in wide-collared shirts, shorts, and sandals. The other two, clearly paying passengers—like Durand.
The first was a portly Hoklo man in his sixties wearing a white suit that almost phosphoresced in the starlight. He clutched a Panama hat to his head while his tie flopped around in the breeze. A businessman jumping bail? A dirty politician on the lam? Anybody’s guess.
The second passenger was a twenty-something Thai man with spiked hair, wireless piercings, designer LFPs, and trendy clothing. A long-tailed macaque crawled around his shoulders, chattering. The man clutched a refrigerated metal case in one hand.
Durand knew a case like that could hold a thousand microscopic samples of proprietary synbio lifted from firms in Singapore, Johor, or Kuala Lumpur.
And this one probably did.
Lights flashed in the forest. And soon the low silhouette of an electric cigarette boat glided silently across the cove like an eel. A crew of two stood in the black boat, and they brought the vessel alongside the pier with practiced ease—not even bothering to tie
it off.
The traffickers on the pier slid a small ramp out onto it. They then motioned for Durand and the others to board.
As he descended, Durand felt something sharp scratch across his forearm. He looked down and could see a shallow scratch on his skin, visible even by starlight.
“What the hell was that?”
One of the Malays was busy inserting something into a small device. “DNA sample. Get ass on board.”
The other trafficker scraped a skin sample from the next passenger.
Durand looked back down at his arm.
“Hey! Shit for brains . . .” It was an Australian accent. The pilot of the boat was a young Aussie in cargo shorts and LFPs sporting a night-vision nodule.
Standing next to him was a wiry Filipino man—an old Skorpion machine pistol hung on a strap at his chest and a metal-detecting wand in his hand. He spoke Aussie lingo with a Filipino accent: “Oi! Hold out your arms for scan.”
With no room to argue, Durand stepped aboard. He held out his arms as the metal detection wand was waved over him.
“He’s clean.” The Filipino pushed him toward an open seat. “Sit down.”
Durand sat. His grown knife had indeed passed through. No wonder they were illegal. He sat pondering the significance of the DNA sample that had just been taken from him.
The seats were surprisingly comfortable—plush white faux-leather upholstery. He guessed the boat was a stolen pleasure yacht. Perfect for smugglers. Low radar signature. Quiet. No doubt fast.
The second mate scanned the other two passengers with the detection wand as well, while the traffickers stowed the businessman’s luggage on deck. The Thai man held his metal case close. The monkey crawled over him, though now it was clear it was on a leash.
“If that monkey bites me, mate, I’m going to serve you monkey tartare on a fucking cracka. You hear me?”
The Thai man spoke in heavily accented English. “Monkey does not bite.”
The detector wand warbled on the businessman’s coat, and the second mate pulled a .357 snub-nosed revolver from the man’s belt. “Fuck’s this?”
“Protection.”
He shouted in the man’s face: “You don’t need potection. We yo potection.” He shoved the man forward, passing the revolver to the Aussie pilot, who placed it on the dash.
The men on the pier pulled the ramp up. Without a word, the pilot brought the boat about. A whoosh of water jets, and the boat accelerated. An ocean breeze rolled over them, and they headed out into the South China Sea.
Looking back, Durand watched the dark line of jungle recede. The smell of rotting vegetation faded with it.
The wind picked up. Soon they were doing at least thirty-five knots. The pilot fastened a safety harness as the boat continued to pick up speed. Durand searched for his own seat belt and fastened himself in. No one else appeared concerned.
The silhouettes of mountainous islands rose a few kilometers ahead. The biggest of these, Durand knew from examining his phablet map, was Tioman—with a pair of rocky peaks, about fifty kilometers out. It was visible only as a dark smudge on the horizon against a field of stars.
Once they were clear of the cove and in open water, the powerful cigarette boat picked up even more speed—its electric water jets moving them at sixty knots or more. The boat had no dashboard lights or gauges. Durand guessed those were all beamed into the pilot’s LFP glasses as virtual displays—though the boat did have a physical throttle and wheel. It skimmed across the surface of a calm sea, the wind whipping over them.
The businessman’s hat finally broke free of his grip and disappeared over the stern into darkness. The Filipino second mate laughed as the elderly man cursed under his breath.
Durand leaned down to activate his phablet map. At their current heading, they appeared to be aiming for Tioman. And at this speed they’d reach it in just a half hour or so—and then it was out into the open sea, and the supply trawler already moving north, toward Thailand.
• • •
Durand’s mind wandered as the whine of the electric motors sent up a geyser behind them. He fixated on the phosphorescing water. Before he knew it, the rocky peaks of Tioman loomed in front of him, black silhouettes. The earthy scent of jungle reached them. He could see the lights of resorts stretching along its coastline. No doubt refugees were quickly whisked away from here.
In ten minutes Tioman fell behind, and they headed out into the open water of the South China Sea.
Durand started from a light snooze as the young Thai smuggler shouted against the wind. “There! Hulks!”
Durand sat up and saw what appeared to be a glittering city ahead. There were hundreds of bright lights reflected on the water. After a few moments he realized it was a flotilla of huge container ships, moored in place. Smaller boats moved about between them. They were probably a kilometer or more away.
The Thai man’s monkey hunkered down at his feet, sheltering from the howling wind. But the young man pointed again and shouted to Durand. “Slave city!”
Durand watched with disbelieving eyes as they passed the collection of rusting retired vessels. The ships were massive. And there must have been forty or fifty of them, each a thousand feet or more long, stretching to the horizon. The most distant ones were illuminated by flashes of far-off lightning. These also revealed dark, towering clouds.
But the looming weather could wait. Durand instead focused on the Hulks. Decommissioned after the collapse of global shipping, no doubt. When he was a child, they’d transported the products of distant factories. Now they were the factories.
Even over the roar of the speedboat, he could hear voices on loudspeakers from the Hulks. Talking in a foreign language. Heavy machinery pounded rhythmically. Human forms moved along the railings. Men with guns. Cranes lowered containers onto ships, while others lifted containers from ships.
How many flotillas like this were in the oceans? How many refugees were disappearing in transit, never to be heard from again? Durand checked his device and noticed there was no signal. Or perhaps they had jammers? This place was beyond calls for help.
His own boat powered on, heading farther out to sea.
• • •
After five minutes or so, Durand heard the water jets rev down, and the cigarette boat’s speed reduced by half. And then half again.
Durand turned to see the pilot studying something unseen in his own LFP glasses. Apparently the man had a satellite uplink. He had that blank virtual-presence stare. A moment later he looked up and focused on Durand.
The pilot reduced the boat’s speed again and motioned for the second mate to come close.
Durand felt a surge of adrenaline.
The two men conferred, and at one point the Filipino glanced furtively over at Durand, too.
The Hoklo businessman shouted from a forward seat, “Why we stop? Let’s get moving!”
The pilot was reading something in his LFP glasses again. “You’re confused, mate. I’m in charge here . . .”
The boat began to turn, looping around to head back toward the Hulks, still glowing a couple kilometers behind them. Durand spotted lights moving out from the Hulks to meet them.
Boats.
The Hoklo man shouted again, “Why are we turning around? The trawler is north! My associate is on board.”
The second mate now brandished the Skorpion, aiming it. “Shut up!”
The man blanched.
The young Thai pulled his macaque up onto his shoulder. “You know who I’m with?”
“I said shut up, asshole!”
Durand felt a renewed rush of adrenaline. He unclipped his seat belt and stood, gazing out toward the lights of distant boats coming to meet them. They were still at least a klick away.
The Filipino unsteadily aimed the Skorpion at him as the boat rolled through the waves.
/> “Big fish, eh? They want for you. They pay big.”
Durand felt an eerie calm as the adrenaline bathed him with clarity. He knew without having to see. He could feel them on his skin. His marks revealing themselves.
The second mate lowered the gun slightly as a look of shock came across his face. “Holy shit. You seeing this, Mackie?”
The pilot stared in shock at Durand.
The boat pitched sideways as it hit another wave, and in that moment Durand launched himself at the pilot. He brought his hand up with the grown knife already in his grip. The pilot, still strapped into his seat, came up with the businessman’s .357 revolver. Durand caught the man’s wrist and buried the knife under his armpit.
There was a loud CRACK from the pistol. Durand glanced back to see the Hoklo businessman roll sideways on a seat, choking as blood spread on his shirtfront.
The macaque screeched, and the Thai man dove for the deck, covering his head.
Durand turned toward the second mate—who struggled to maintain his footing as he brought the Skorpion to bear. The boat rolled through another wave.
Durand grabbed a metal rail and jammed the throttle forward.
Everyone else slid sternward; the businessman’s choking body slid across the desk and slammed into the second mate, followed by the Thai smuggler. Only the monkey held on, climbing into a storage cabinet.
Durand rolled the wheel, turning the cigarette boat in an arc away from the approaching searchlights and the Hulks in the distance—on a heading back north.
The boat now roared ruthlessly over waves, thumping over the ridge of each and making it difficult to stand.
Durand saw his own reflection in the windshield as a searchlight passed over the boat. Tattoos covered Durand’s neck and chest now. They were as dark as he’d ever seen them. He felt as fierce as he looked. The dead Aussie pilot was still strapped into his harness, and Durand drew the grown knife from the sucking wound in the man’s chest. Durand then moved sternward using handholds, toward the pile of men struggling to their feet.
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