Ocean: The Sea Warriors

by Brian Herbert

  Kimo shrugged. “I don’t really understand it myself. I only know what I’m able to do, and what I see Alicia doing. It’s kind of mysterious to us, too.”

  “Yes, mysterious. That’s a great angle on your story, and it will make good newspaper copy. An air of mystery surrounds everything you do, and the overarching theme is the altruistic cause you are leading—for the welfare of the world ocean.”

  “I know you can help us,” Kimo said. “I know you can help the ocean.”

  “Thank you,” Jimmy said. “Now, I think you need a group name for yourselves, something for public relations.”

  “How about ‘SOS—Save Our Seas’?” Alicia asked.

  Waimea leaned forward on his desk. “That’s clever, the SOS emergency call would be good for rallying the public. But I was thinking more of a name for your group, and for the new members you expect to obtain. Mmmm, SOS could stand for Sentinels of the Seas instead.”

  “How about calling us the Fish Shepherds?” Kimo suggested.

  “Or the Sea Guardians?” Alicia thought for a moment. “What about the Ocean Rescue Force?”

  “All those names have merit,” Jimmy said. He paused. “How about calling yourselves the Sea Warriors? The term can be traced back to numerous historical sources around the world, including long-ago Fijiian warriors who had a navy of double-hulled sailing canoes.”

  “I like that,” Kimo said. “We fight for the sea.”

  “I like it, too,” Alicia said. “We’re the Sea Warriors! Fight the bad guys to the death!”

  “All right,” Waimea said, with a small smile. “We’ll work it into the publicity. I see several stages to this, starting with a two-page spread on your new organization, highlighting the lofty goals and your own remarkable personal abilities. That will be the print story, and we’ll do a companion video report showing what the two of you can do—for distribution to television networks. We follow all that with individual letters to every person on your list—e-mails where possible, for speed of communication, or snail-mail if necessary.” He smiled. “Express snail-mail, that is.”

  “You’re doing a lot for us,” Alicia said. “Thanks for helping us get it organized. You’re going to have expenses, so we should include fund-raising in our publicity—all for the cause of the ocean.”

  The older Hawaiian man nodded. “As I told Kimo, I believe strongly in the cause, and so do my students. After Kimo’s call I spoke to the entire student body, and we already have more than a hundred volunteers, and even some faculty members, and parents who offered to help.”

  Jimmy paused. “You still need to arrange for the transportation of the full-time volunteers, bringing them back here.”

  “I thought of using the fund-raising drive to pay for transportation costs,” Alicia said, “but Kimo would rather bring the volunteers back here with a natural ocean transportation system.”

  She looked at Kimo, who then described the jetfish pod for Jimmy, providing some of the arcane details about how they amalgamate and follow his basic commands.

  “This story is getting better and better,” Jimmy said, flashing a broad smile. “Jetfish—I like that, and it will enhance the publicity. I’ll need photos of a pod, of course.”

  “Of course,” Kimo said.

  In the ensuing silence Alicia waited for a moment, and finally said, “Maybe the fund-raising drive could help pay any overland travel expenses the volunteers need to get to the seashore, and help with their continuing family expenses. Also, we should make house payments and pay other bills for their families while the ocean experts are working with us.”

  “Good idea,” Jimmy said. “The students in this high school have already proven their skills at things like that—they just need to think on a broader scale. A much broader scale!”

  That afternoon, Jimmy assembled a student camera crew. At Waikiki Beach they filmed Kimo and Alicia remaining underwater for extended periods of time without diving equipment, and Alicia generating her own waves—even larger than her earlier attempts. They also went to the largest aquarium in Honolulu, where Kimo treated a rescued, near-dead green turtle, bringing it back to health.

  Kimo and Alicia ate dinner with Jimmy and his wife Latoya that evening, discussing important details of the ocean-rescue campaign, then spent the night in Jimmy’s guest bedroom.

  The following day, Jimmy Waimea’s publicity campaign got underway, with a print story in the online version of the Honolulu Mercury News and in its printed edition. The potential volunteers around the world were listed by name and location, and letters were sent to each of them informing them they might qualify to become Sea Warriors—and that they would be provided with the opportunity to be transformed into hybrid humans with gills, along with the ability to eat by filtering plankton from seawater, and other physical changes that were not visible to the naked eye—if they were accepted by Moanna, the Goddess of the Sea. Or, the story added, they might be permitted to contribute to the campaign in some other way as associates, without being physically transformed at all. Those who wanted to undergo the transformation, however—or attempt to do so—would be required to report to seaside pickup points at appointed times, based on a detailed schedule that would be released in the next publicity broadcast.

  In the first publicity release, each person on the list was also being told that if the Sea Warriors did not work out for any of them, or if they changed their minds for any reason, they would be returned to their homes at no charge to them. Volunteers were instructed that they must be willing to work long hours, and remain away from their families for extended periods—and that living arrangements were being organized at private homes in Hawaii, because it was unlikely that anyone would feel comfortable spending all of their time in the sea—at least, not yet.

  They were also informed that the process of becoming a hybrid (as well as swimming with sharks and other aggressive sea animals) was very dangerous, and that legal release forms would need to be signed.

  “Unfortunately,” Jimmy wrote, “it is sometimes impossible to avoid the lawyers.”

  ***

  Chapter 8

  Preston Ellsworth and his grandson sometimes took breakfast together in the resort owner’s private dining chamber, a screened balcony overlooking the entrance of the grand hotel. Below them, the flower-lined front walkway was uncommonly silent; no guests arriving or leaving. All the work he’d ordered to protect the beaches was for naught, because the afternoon before, tiny organisms had been found in the water at Olamai and Ha’ini beaches on the ranch, getting on swimmers’ skin and burning them, causing rashes and burning sensations. The mysterious life forms were being analyzed in a laboratory. Several guests had walked out of the hotel or not checked in at all, and now it was less than fifty percent booked, when it should be full at this time of year.

  The elegant old man took a sip of coffee and stared glumly across the table, noting that Jeff had barely touched his food, and was instead reading a tabloid-style newspaper. For a change, the younger man wasn’t wearing his gold chain and watch. Whatever he was looking at had his full attention, and he held the paper in such a way that the front page banner was not visible to Preston. From what he could see, however, the print style and layout did not look familiar, so he presumed it was not one of his publications.

  “My sister is a freak, Grandfather.”

  He turned the front page toward the old man. To Preston’s shock and displeasure, he stared at a copy of the Honolulu Mercury News, featuring a bold, front-page headline:

  ELLSWORTH GIRL HAS TURNED INTO A FISH

  “Alicia says she has gills, Grandfather, and so does that wacky boyfriend of hers. Both of them claim to have strange powers, too, that they she can supposedly generate ocean waves, while he heals injured sea creatures. What a joke! They want to recruit more humans to be converted into fish people, too, along with ocean experts and sympathizers from all over the world, for a new organization they call the Sea Warriors.”

  “I do
n’t care what that rag publication says, dammit! How dare you bring such filth to my table! You know how I feel about Jimmy Waimea. He would do anything to get even with me for nearly putting him out of business, and now he’s printing lies to make me look bad.”

  “You don’t want to know what this article says?”

  “No!”

  “You’re going to ignore it, ignore my sister the mermaid?”

  “Jeff, she’s not claiming to be a mermaid. I’ve already discussed it with her. Besides, I’ve got a lot more to worry about than anything my enemies say about me. Or my family.”

  The old man lurched to his feet and threw his napkin on the table angrily, turning over a nearly-full cup of coffee and spilling it on the white tablecloth. A servant hurried over to clean up the mess, but Preston pushed him out of the way and left the screened balcony.

  With his stomach roiling, he strode through the lush botanical gardens, trying to calm himself. He didn’t like being made to look foolish, and that was exactly what the headline was trying to do. Moments ago in the lobby, he’d waved off a clerk who informed him that a national television reporter was on the phone, wanting to talk with him. He vowed to ignore all attempts at an interview, and to maintain his composure.

  On the garden path now, he struggled to prioritize and refocus his thoughts, which he’d done successfully in the past when faced with difficult situations—both business and personal. But with so much occurring at once, this seemed worse than any previous situation he’d experienced, a combination of severe business and personal problems.

  Moment by moment, he felt the negative thoughts shifting as he pushed them to the back of his mind….

  The old man stopped and closed his eyes for an instant. Then, opening them, he marveled at the verdant beauty of his gardens, the remarkable and rare flowers he’d brought in from exotic locations all over the world. Preston moved closer to admire an exceptional crimson orchid, and made brief eye contact with Toshio Yamasaki on an adjacent path where the shy little gardener knelt working, a loyal employee who had tended these gardens for more than thirty years, since he was a child and his late father was the master gardener. Now Toshio held that important position, more by his talent than by any right of heredity.

  Preston’s earliest and fondest memories were on this marvelous property, with its gardens, rolling green pastures, bright aquamarine seascapes, and thick jungles climbing the slopes of the dormant volcano. His family had owned the land for a century and a half and had developed it to what it was today, maximizing its income-producing potential without having to plant sugar cane or other revenue crops on the acreage. Even in Preston’s youth his father had shown financial projections to him—how much the family could earn in different ways, including the planting of crops, running a big cattle ranch, or subdividing the land, or operating a resort here. At the time, the stately hotel had less than half the rooms it had now, along with a much smaller riding stable, no botanical gardens, aquatic park, or tour operation.

  Preston had made so many improvements over the years that he could hardly imagine making any more. The property was perfect in all ways—but he was getting older now, and didn’t know how much longer he would have to enjoy it—or what the future held for the Ellsworths, with his strange granddaughter and often-disappointing grandson. He’d thought that Alicia would be the leader of the family going into the future, but she had disappointed him terribly. She had gone crazy, had turned against him.

  Unable to lift his mood, he sat on a bench by the smaller of two carp ponds, gazing out on the serenity of the water and its multi-patterned fish darting this way and that, or hiding under the broad green leaves of floating plants. It was a habitat without predators to worry these valuable fish; all they had to do was to swim around and locate the food that was provided for them. The pond was a sanctuary that even had electronic methods of fending off predator birds, making it a niche of survival in these halcyon gardens, on this one-of-a-kind property. At least the carp had little to worry about. That was something, anyway, albeit small, and he had created their little paradise. Usually, he was able to use such thoughts to expand outward and calm himself. But he was having difficulty with that today.

  Tourism was way down in the Wanaao area due to the problems with sea creatures, and the number of visitors was continuing to drop precipitously. Despite Preston’s efforts to muzzle the press, word had gotten out about the situation anyway—and not only about the aggressiveness of the marine animals. The species die-offs were problematic, too. The deaths of dolphins, porpoises, crabs, coral, and reef fish was of such great concern to oceanographers that experts such as Fuji Namoto were coming in to see what was wrong. They wanted to know if it was a normal pattern, or if it could be suicides, pollution, global warming, or any number of other causes that had been postulated—with most of them involving the alleged negligence and illegal activities of humans.

  As he stood there, details of the Honolulu Mercury News article seeped back into his mind, and he remembered the last time he saw his granddaughter, when she told him about the startling changes in her body, and demonstrated her strange abilities. She was putting the Ellsworth family in a very bad light. It particularly galled him that she was traitorously collaborating with a Pohaku—a clear sacrilege to the old man, the worst possible affront against the Ellsworth family that he could imagine. And if his initial assessment was correct (that it was all an elaborate plot to trick him out of his money), that was bad, too—because Alicia was either a circus freak or a charlatan, and now it was in the newspapers, and probably on other news outlets as well.

  His grandson was of increasing concern, too, because of the ongoing police investigation, and questions that kept trickling in by phone and e-mail after the visit by two local police officers. He assumed the federal Drug Enforcement Agency was involved at some level, too, and if Jeff was lying about not being a drug dealer, Preston’s entire ranch could be confiscated by the authorities. The old man would be placed in the position of being suspected of involvement himself, and perhaps having to prove his own innocence, showing that he had no inkling of what his grandson was doing.

  But I suspect him, he thought. I really do suspect him.

  ***

  Chapter 9

  “Good morning, Gwyneth.”

  The door to her room had just squeaked open, and even though the girl did not look, she knew it was Dr. Halberton from his soft tone and precise, Queen’s English. With her back to him, she stood staring glumly out her barred window, in the direction of the sea. A thick fog lay over the English village, preventing her from seeing the water, but she knew where it was nonetheless All her life, no matter where she was, she always knew the direction of the ocean from her, and always wanted to be as close to it as possible.

  “Have you ever heard of the Sea Warriors?” he asked. “A radical ocean-rights organization?”

  The question startled her, and she turned her head slowly to stare at him blankly.

  “Well, have you?” His dark features were intense, but not severe. Usually he looked exceedingly kind to her, but sometimes she worried that he only used that demeanor to draw information out of her—precious secrets from her innermost, autistic world.

  He held up a small computer, which looked familiar; she had seen her father with one like it. The black, overweight doctor walked over to her, and let her see the screen. It showed a website entitled SEA WARRIORS, with a list of names, two or three hundred, it looked like. But as she focused more on it, the letters grew blurred. Her arcane inner world had been disrupted, and she’d been brought out of it too quickly, like a diver surfacing too fast.

  Scrolling down the list, he pointed to a name. “Do you recognize that one?” he asked.

  For hours today, the teenager had been staring toward the sea without interruption—and though she could not actually see it, in her imagination she’d been envisioning herself out there swimming in the water, being soothed and comforted by it. The doctor’s int
erruption was not welcome.

  As moments passed the letters and names began to clear, and she realized she was staring at her own name, right above his pointing forefinger. Even so, she said nothing.

  But she felt herself emerging from her displeasure, and from her vision. Her thoughts scurried to organize themselves and transmit messages to her brain.

  Sea Warriors? she thought. What on earth is that? And ocean rights? She liked the term, liked the name of the organization, too.

  Glancing at Dr. Halberton briefly, she reached out, touched the screen and scrolled it back to an explanation of what the Sea Warriors were all about. She liked what she was reading. She liked it very much—and they had mounted a recruiting program for new members—a program in which only an elite group of humans were being invited, yet all of the invitees might not make the grade and be accepted.

  She managed to speak, but haltingly. “How … how did my name get … on this list?”

  The doctor shrugged. “They also sent you this letter,” he said, handing a small white envelope to her. It had been opened, which she considered a serious violation of her privacy. Yet she said nothing of this, and examined the one-page communication. Her thoughts were spinning as she again tried to focus, and she had trouble reading the words. She set the letter aside for the moment, on the window sill.

  He nodded toward the doorway, and she was surprised to see her parents in the corridor, both dressed in heavy coats that were open at the front.

  “I’ll leave you and your family alone,” the doctor said. Then, as he went out into the corridor he handed the small computer to her father. So it was his after all.

  Jim McDevitt was a tall man in his late forties, his face ruddy from spending so much time outdoors. An advertising executive, he had a passion for backpacking through the nearby forests. He used to take Gwyneth, her brother, and two sisters with him on those trips, and those times had been better for her than most. Her father knew a lot about the flora and fauna of the woods, and he also spoke of archaeology and history and all sorts of interesting subjects. He was something of an environmentalist regarding trees, but when she asked him one day what he knew about the ocean, he just looked at her vacantly, as if he didn’t realize that life on the land depended on the sea. He often looked at her that way when she spoke to him. With her he had a certain coldness about him, an aloof demeanor he didn’t use with her siblings, or with her mother. It always made her feel odd, even stupid.