Freya wasn’t sorry to see her friends in jail. After all, they were the ones who fucked up her flawless plans. Hell, they could have easily set off a dozen or more bombs before the cell was rolled up, explosions and assassinations rocking the core of the cadre of imperialist corporate executives and oil-barons, inspiring new recruits, copycat bombers, maybe even shaking the sleepy masses out of their complacency.
It was not to be. Not with the weaklings who made up her group: hippie know-it-alls more comfortable with pedantic discussions of Marx, Foreman, and Abby than true direct activism. They sat around and drank microbrews and smoked pot and argued with strangers on Twitter while she honed her mind and her body. So why not leave them in prison and take the plane ticket to Australia, save some whales under the guidance of a mysterious voice?
Or at least that’s what she first thought. Over the weeks, Himura’s anonymous tele-presence had become so much more to her—an inspiration, guardian angel, even an odd father figure of sorts. In whispered conversations over the satellite telephone, she’d told him secrets about herself she’d never told anyone. “You found the fleet,” Himura prodded. “Please continue.”
“Yeah, we found ’em. Shadowed ’em for a while, but our secondhand rust-bucket couldn’t keep up. They’d rabbit every time we got within five miles.”
“How did you infiltrate the Japanese fleet?”
“Our captain called for volunteers. Wanted us to sneak a couple of activists onboard with jet skis, have us handcuff ourselves to the harpoon ship, force them to turn around to Japan rather than bring a prisoner all the way to the Antarctic Ocean for the entire hunting season. That was the idea anyway. My hand was the first one up, and I was the only one who managed to get on a harpoon ship and handcuff myself to the railing before the whalers could throw me overboard.”
“What of the other volunteers?”
“Didn’t even make it over the bulwarks. It was midnight, no moon, but they still saw us coming on the radar. The crew was waiting for us with hammers and machetes.”
“But you got through.”
“Broke the second mate’s jaw and sliced two fingers off another guy’s hand with a box cutter before they backed off long enough to let me chain myself to the railing. By the time they sawed through the lock, my ride was long gone. Throwing me overboard again would have been murder, not that they didn’t seriously consider it.”
“Was it difficult to access their computer systems?”
“No,” said Freya, remembering the small USB drive that had arrived in an unmarked manila envelope shortly before she’d sailed from Brisbane with the environmentalists. Not difficult at all, she thought.
“Explain.”
“I slept with the sailor assigned to watch my cabin. When we were finished, I told him I wanted to send an email to my family, tell ol’ Mom and Dad I was okay and not to worry.”
Despite her budding devotion to her protector, she’d only told him part of the story. She’d slept with the sailor, that much was true. But the young man had refused her request to access the shipboard computer network outright.
So she did it the hard way instead—snapping his neck, taking the keys for herself, and marching to the nearest terminal. From there, it was only a matter of plugging Himura’s flash drive into the network before returning to the cabin to wait.
“Do you disapprove?” asked Freya, cocking her head to match her benefactor’s blind, considering stare.
“No,” answered Yasuo Himura, a ghost of a smile upon his lips. “I only pause to admire—you are the embodiment of the perfect instrument. Cunning . . . ruthless . . . and quite beautiful, from what my men tell me.”
“It all went down just as you said it would,” said Freya, smirking at the compliment. “After a few hours, the harpoon ship where I was held prisoner suddenly heeled to starboard and steered into the factory ship like a spear. One of the mates burst into my cabin and threw a survival suit at me and ran off. He knew neither ship could be saved.”
And they were in such a hurry they didn’t even see the body hidden under her bunk. Not that it mattered; both vessels went beneath the waves with minutes, the smashed harpooner sinking not long after the massive factory mother-ship.
“And your rescue?”
“I figured you were full of shit.” Freya grinned openly. “Thought you’d leave me out there to die after I did your dirty work—no loose ends.”
“And yet you completed your mission.”
“You gave me an opportunity I always dreamed of,” said Freya. “The chance to truly strike a blow. Dying was always a possibility—but failure wasn’t. Not with extinction at stake. Your helicopter came, just as you said.” In her mind, she still heard the frustrated screams of the stricken men thrashing in the sea as her minder hoisted her to safety before abandoning them to their fate.
“I hope you will now take me at my word. My operatives have ensured the American authorities will discover your real identity and presence on the activist crew. As a prisoner of the now-sunken ship, you will be reported missing and presumed dead, along with your former captors.”
“Do you suppose rescue crews will find any of the whalers?”
“Yes, but by then it will be too late,” said Himura. “The virus in the flash drive altered the course of the entire fleet. When they sent their distress signal, they reported their position eighty miles to the west of their actual location. It will take days for the searchers to happen across their bodies. If exposure doesn’t claim them, the sharks will. I believe it is fitting given their crimes against the ocean.”
A silence fell between the two, Freya considering the death of nearly two hundred men, the warmth of sick gladness filling her up from the inside.
“This vessel, do you think it’s beautiful?” asked Himura.
“It’s stunning. A little fancy for me, though.”
“Would you like to meet the captain?”
“Sure,” Freya said, looking around confused, wondering where the bridge would be on a ship like this. “Why the hell not?”
Himura smiled again, a knowing smile as though he could see her confused expression. He made a sweeping gesture with one hand, hidden infrared cameras catching the motion. With an outpouring of harsh light, the bamboo floor began to open along the entire length of the chamber. Shocked, Freya moved next to the writing desk, watching as the main deck split before her. Beneath it was a grotesque, pulsating collection of organic matter like disemboweled organs, all captured within glass vessels and electronic wiring. On the walls, several cleverly concealed screens flickered to life, displaying dreamlike, fractalized images of Freya, Himura, the superyacht, and the American fighter planes above.
“This is Meisekimu.” Himura gestured to the strange, vivisected biology below them. “She’s an organic computer controlling all onboard functions of my ship. She doesn’t simply steer us, she has the ability to intuitively monitor, maintain, and repair nearly every onboard system, replacing all but the most menial service positions.”
Eyes aided by the newfound light, Freya noticed a row of black-suited men at the other end of the long chamber, men not unlike those who’d snatched her from the bus stop in Seattle. She wondered if bodyguards and hired guns were considered ‘menial’ in Himura’s labor calculus.
As Freya watched, the screens slowly turned to the fighter aircraft above, focusing first on, and then within them, displaying a point-of-view cockpit perspective as they dipped and banked over the lights of Naha City.
“What are the screens doing?” said Freya. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“We’re observing a narrow visual window into her calculations, or more appropriately, her thoughts,” answered Himura. “She’s capable of incredible insight and intelligence. You see, Meisekimu is not self-aware—that would be too dangerous—rather she exists in a sort of digital dream-scape, experiencing flutters of consciousness but never truly awaking.”
The blue light from the Meisekimu’s sunken
chamber shifted, erupting into iridescent yellows and greens.
“What’s happening?” Freya turned to Himura. “The lights and screens—they’re all changing.”
“She’s very happy,” said Himura. “She’s experiencing flight for the first time. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Wait—experiencing?”
Himura didn’t answer. Instead he rolled his wheelchair back behind his writing desk and held out his hand until Freya took it. The blind electronics magnate grasped hers with a surprisingly strong grip, gently pulling her behind the desk as well. Hidden motors silently whirred, slowly raising the desk and surrounding platform ten feet, twenty feet out of the floor as the triangular ceiling above them opened. Within moments, the rising platform emerged flush into the floor of the glass-enclosed greenhouse above. Fresh organic humidity swirling around them, Freya found herself within a jungle of vines, flowers, plants, and trees.
“Japan is the first,” whispered Himura, “the first among the world, the . . . how might you say it? Yes, the canary in the coal mine, the harbinger of things to come. We were the first to run out of resources, out of energy, out of living space, out of youth, and first among nations to fall into irreversible decline.”
Freya tilted her head back and looked through the greenhouse ceiling to the starry sky. The fighter planes still circled above, their engines rendered silent by the thick glass.
“In the past decade, I came to realize my investments in alternative fuels were a waste,” Himura continued. “Japan can no longer be saved by a new energy source; the search is all but fruitless. The world has reached a tipping point, one that will inevitably consume us all. The methane of the Russian permafrost has already begun to erupt, and soon their great northern forests will burn. The drought in the American southwest will only worsen, draining the last of their ancient aquifers and turning their bountiful farmlands fallow. Islands in the South Pacific will drown; Africa and Asia will starve. And the Home Islands of Japan will weather typhoon after typhoon as the world around them crumbles into resource-sparked conflict and chaos.”
“We exist at the mercy of our planet,” said Freya, a faraway look in her eyes. “I’ve always known humanity must live in harmony with nature, or not at all.”
Himura nodded. “The fickle mercy of Gaia indeed. We must all embrace a new ideology, an ideology that already burns within you. Destruction. And with it, reinvention and harmony. But blows must first be struck, devastating blows against every false god of profit and power.”
Himura again guided her gaze toward the fighter planes, the unassailable symbols of domination and imperialism.
“We cannot allow anyone to feel safe, not anymore. No industry or military will be immune. We will strike without explanation, with no manifesto or creed. We’ll leave them to deduce the common thread, discover for themselves what they must do to survive—or they will perish in our new world.”
Freya stared at the fighters as they circled above. “Cast them from the heavens, Meisekimu,” whispered the old man. One after another, the indicator lights of the planes flickered and died off as the frozen aircraft spun and dropped from the starlit sky. A geyser of water erupted as the first slammed into the deep harbor, a second and then a third transformed into blossoming fireballs on the beach, the final planes disappearing behind the low forested hills of Okinawa as they fell.
Distant flames glinted in her dark irises, and tears sprang into Freya’s awestruck eyes as she watched with unimaginable joy.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “It’s all so beautiful.”
CHAPTER 5
The Scorpion glided beneath thick pack ice, her engines softly churning dead slow under battery power. Alexis stole a glance at the digital map from her post in the command compartment, their position plotted by a clever electronic combination of inertia sensors and dead reckoning. Masked by the ice above, the submarine drew closer to the outskirts of North Korean territorial water.
Vitaly carefully steered along an invisible maritime boundary between North Korea and Russia, aiming for the sliver-like border between the two. Alexis took off one glove and pressed her palm to the interior of the metal hull, shivering as the cold of the sea pushed against the other side. The surface was slick with moisture, bleeding water in thick rivulets of condensation as the interior heaters struggled to keep out the sucking winter chill.
Outside their fragile craft, the pack ice twisted and cracked with high-pitched groans and rumbles. The sound was hideous, like cracking bones. Normally so attuned to the minutia of engines and machinery, her ears now betrayed her. The fearful sounds were inescapable, filling her with anxious anticipation.
Jonah caught her frown and furrowed brow. “The pack ice is breaking up,” he said. “Arctic explorers used to call it the Devil’s Symphony.” He reached over to give her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. The gesture felt a little strange, like it was something he ought to do but had never tried before. Still, she appreciated it.
“The name fits,” said Alexis with a shudder. “It sounds positively awful.”
Jonah shook his head as he smiled. “It’s music to my ears,” he said. “We could be within thirty feet of a North Korean listening array and they still wouldn’t hear us go by over this goddamn racket. If it’s the Devil’s Symphony, he’s playing our song.”
Alexis nodded, not entirely convinced, and glanced over to Hassan for reassurance. The surgeon leaned against Vitaly’s helm console, arms crossed and lips pursed in deep concentration, as though the slightest display of emotion might somehow endanger the entire ship.
She was familiar with his stoic act, knew it inside and out, despite only having met the surgeon a few short weeks ago. She also knew how thin it was. Despite being a man who unhesitatingly did whatever the situation required, the surgeon clearly worried about everyone and everything constantly. Her in particular.
Hassan could be quite the mother hen. It was kind of cute, really. And yet the surgeon scared her. Not in the way Jonah did with his alpha-male, the-only-way-out-is-through, damn-the-torpedoes braggadocio, but in the other way. She was scared by how she felt with him, how the days spent talking with him felt like minutes, how she felt that she’d known him for years and not weeks. His smooth olive skin, sharp jawline, and kind eyes—all terrifying.
Maybe they were each other’s distraction. After all, she was the only woman on the crew, and he was the only man who wasn’t gay, crazy, or whatever Jonah was. She supposed everybody found their own way to cope with the long voyage from Puget Sound to Fukushima. Jonah took his comfort in silence and solitude, often pacing the quiet corridors of the submarine. Vitaly and Dalmar had their dramatic, on-again, off-again flings, either relationship status manifesting itself with loud arguments in three languages.
All she really knew about Hassan was this: every morning, she returned from brushing her teeth and washing her face in the ship’s single bathroom sink to find the tiny cabin bed they shared already made, clothes carefully folded, and deck swept. With little to do in a medical capacity, Hassan had taken on the role of the ship’s chef. Everyone ate well from the ample stocks, but few were aware the meals were typically designed around Alexis’ favorite foods. Hassan never missed an opportunity to tease out one of her fondly remembered dishes, teach himself the recipe from the small galley library, and make a batch for the whole crew.
Alexis used to play a silly little game early into a new relationship. She’d ask herself what their house would look like, who their friends would be. And if she really liked him—or to prove to herself she didn’t—she’d even imagine what their family might look like some day.
But she couldn’t do it with Hassan, couldn’t bring herself to even try. With him, the only possible future was a vast, dangerous void, colder even than the Sea of Japan in winter. Life on the fringes—their life—was dangerous. She’d brought him back from the dead once already, and she didn’t think she could bear to do it a second time.
Jonah
punched the intercom and ordered Marissa to join him at the helm. Dressed in a thick ski jacket and leather boots, their guest stepped into the command compartment moments after.
“Are we there yet?” she asked, glancing around the bridge.
“We’re close,” Jonah said. “I was hoping you could guide my helmsmen over the final stretch.”
Marissa nodded, but Vitaly just sighed with annoyance. His hands were tightly wrapped around the submarine’s control yoke, keeping a steady depth below the pack ice.
“Vitaly does not need lady help,” protested the helmsmen. “We already too shallow. Submarine useless in shallow. Nowhere to hide, no way to escape.”
“We need to go here,” said Marissa, touching the digital screen at the rendezvous point less than a thousand meters distant. “Steady on. It’s just a little further.”
Vitaly grumbled and swore in Russian. “This is not tour bus,” he said, but still adjusted the rudders as requested. The tiny digital avatar of the submarine slowly approached Marissa’s updated coordinates as the helmsman brought the engines to a drifting halt.
“Prepare the ship to surface,” ordered Jonah.
Alexis caught herself wondering why Jonah hadn’t deployed the periscope and taken a peek before moving the entire submarine above the protection of the ice. Then she realized they wouldn’t be able to this time, not with the frozen pack in the way of the sensitive optics.
For the first time, Alexis realized she completely trusted Jonah and his leadership. Their rag-tag crew wasn’t backed into a corner and forced to defend themselves, and her role on the ship was no longer a matter of chance or convenience. She was his crew, his engineer—and she was goddamn proud of it. No matter how incredibly illegal or insanely dangerous their mission, she was there by choice. Who knew? Maybe she’d even get paid this time.
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