Earth Thirst

by Mark Teppo

  I use my optics to zoom in on the trailing vessel. There isn't any activity on the upper deck. Not that that means anything. As there were no whales, there was no need to have any of the harpooning stations manned. Yet another sign that this was all a ruse. I scan the tiny rectangles of the bridge windows, but the sun is behind me and all I can see is glare, even with the light reduction lens on my optics.

  White Egret's aspect begins to change, her nose drifting to port.

  A door slams open on our ship, metal against metal, and we all hear the chatter from the bridge. From the upper deck, the first mate whistles, a piercing shriek of sound, and we flinch as one. Having gotten our attention, he waves frantically, and Phoebe—understanding more intuitively how badly the situation has deteriorated—moves faster than the human eye can track. Talus and I cling to our fraying illusion of normalcy, and by the time we reach the bridge, Phoebe has come and gone.

  Captain Morse is slumped in his chair, shivering violently. He tries to make himself even smaller as Talus and I enter the bridge. The first mate's knuckles are white on the wheel, and he won't look at us. The young man manning the radar is trying to hide his fear by being helpful. He knows Japanese, and he's translating the radio signal as quickly as he can.

  Talus speaks the language too, but he lets the boy translate. Something for his brain to focus on.

  “Over and over, he's saying ‘Kyuu—'…‘Kyuuketsuki.' And: ‘they're all dead…'” He trails off. Talus doesn't bother translating the one word. The boy's imagination is doing a pretty good job already.

  “Come about to port,” Talus instructs the first mate. “Bring us close to Cherry Blossom, the other boat.”

  “The other boat?” The captain finds his voice and some of his courage. “What the fuck are you doing? We've got to—”

  “Do what?” Talus interrupts.

  “The White Egret. They're in trou—” The captain's gaze flickers back and forth between us. “We can't just…”

  “You heard him. There's no one to rescue.”

  “There's one guy,” Captain Morse tries. “Listen to him. He's screaming for help.”

  “Cherry Blossom,” Talus repeats quietly, and the first mate spins the wheel. The engines groan and grumble with the sudden strain, and our boat begins to turn away from the drifting harpoon boat. The other boat has already begun to flee, and the gap is widening between us. In a flat-out race across the sea, we might not be fast enough to catch them.

  Phoebe is in the forward observation blister on the boat. Her blonde hair is tied back in a pony tail so the wind can't play with it. She ignores the spray of water coming up from the sea as the boat churns across the ocean. Her rifle, a Sako TRG-42, is set up on a plinth, and she's completely focused on what she sees through the rifle's optics.

  When the man on the radio begins shrieking incoherently, Talus tells the boy to turn it off.

  Kyuuketsuki. Vampire.

  Our cover is blown.

  SIX

  All it takes is several rounds from Phoebe's Sako TRG-42 and the Cherry Blossom begins to drift; no longer is it a question of whether we will catch her, but when. It's not clear how Nigel got to the other boat, but he didn't take our Zodiac, which is fine with me. I get the prop turning before it hits the water, and it skips across the ocean like a flat pebble. As soon as I am close enough to jump aboard the tender, I kill the small engine on the Zodiac. My leap carries me over the railing and I land on the deck just below the bridge house. I hear a distant pop—Phoebe providing me cover—and a small circle of glass falls out of the bridge's side window, like an extra star in Orion's belt.

  There's no movement following this last shot, and so I dart up the stairs to the bridge. There are several bodies, all of whom have been hit by Phoebe's sniping. She's using .338 Lapau Magnum rounds, heavier and more devastating at distance than the standard .308 Winchester round—one of her few concessions to modern technology—and the bullet tends to make a mess of people. The one guy who is still alive took one in the shoulder (unlike the other two who took rounds to the head and are spattered rather dramatically across the small bridge), and he's rolling around on the floor, making a lot of noise about the exit wound that has demolished most of his right shoulder blade.

  I resist the urge to drag my finger through the bloody mess.

  A thirsty man, lost in a desert, will drink anything that is more fluid than sand and call it water.

  There should be more men on this boat, and I'm a little concerned to find it so deserted. I don't like this setup; it smacks too much like the processing ship the other night. Like someone is expecting an Arcadian response.

  The Japanese sailor is slipping into shock. I try to get some answers out of him, but he only shakes his head wildly, shrieking with pain, and then sprints into unconsciousness.

  All of the men on the bridge are all carrying sidearms. SIG Sauer P226s. Two of them are so new I'm sure their users have never fired them. The P226 is a fine pistol, though unexpected on Japanese sailors; I take the new pair of pistols and the clip from the third.

  The men below deck are better armed. It's only because I'm expecting trouble that I don't walk straight into their ambush. As it is, I empty one of the two pistols driving them back into the depth of the ship. The hallway is filled with smoke, and my ears are ringing from all the gunfire, but I creep forward. I've killed two men—neither is Japanese—and I pause long enough to check their bodies. The only thing they're carrying is extra magazines for guns that the others have taken. No wallets; no IDs; no receipts from a favorite lunch place back on the Continent. Professional mercenary behavior.

  Who are these guys?

  I check their teeth and dental work, both of which suggest American backgrounds with time spent on overseas military bases. I inspect the extra magazines again: .40 S&W rounds. Same as the pistols.

  I don't know the layout of the boat, and playing hide and seek with these guys doesn't sound like much fun, and I'm wary that I'm supposed to follow them. I don't need another repeat of the aerosol incident from the factory ship. I go back to the upper deck and head for the engine room instead. There are two guys waiting down there, trying to be stealthy, but the cloying stench of the diesel engine doesn't hide the scent of their sweat. The first tries to gut me with his tactical knife like I'm a wild sturgeon. I catch his wrist, break it, and take the knife from his slack fingers. The knife blade is long, and it reminds me of my first kopis. I show him an old technique, one that works just as well now as it did back then. I like the way the blade feels in my hand, and cutting the second man's throat feels like a home-coming.

  I lick the blade, feeling like a junkie as my body shivers at the taste. The blood is foul and I want to spit it out, but much like Nigel when he was drinking from the student, once it hits the back of my throat, there's no denying the shivering joy that sweeps through my body.

  I hack through a number of critical pipes and tubes, mainly to coat the blade with enough oil-based products to take the edge off my desire, but also to reduce the boat's ability to do more than drift with the current until the oncoming storm can have its way with the derelict vessel.

  The rest of the tactical team hasn't been waiting for me to find them, and as I return to the upper deck, they try to catch me in a furious hail of bullets. I'm not so easily caught unaware, and I don't stroll blithely into the gunfire. The pair in the engine room carried Heckler & Koch UMPs—the magazines I found on the other men match—and I return fire, catching one of the team. He staggers over the rail, and pitches off the boat. The remaining pair head for high ground, and I let them think they've got the advantage of high ground. They're just going to get picked off by Phoebe.

  Nothing happens after a minute or so, and I finally crab-walk to a position where I can look to the rear of the boat. Why isn't Phoebe firing?

  The answer is clear as soon as I look. The Cetacean Liberty isn't following the Cherry Blossom any longer. The Prime Earth vessel's aspect is all wrong. She's
heading off on a different course entirely.

  As I stare, wondering what is going on, one of the two mercenaries pops out of the bridge and empties a clip in my direction. Bullets chew up the deck and railing around me, and more than a few chew on me too. I drop out of sight, gasping from the pain. It's been a long time since I've been hit this badly. Not since… when? Verdun? The fall of 1914? I gape at the sight of my blood. So many holes. I am going to lose blood.

  Mother will be so displeased. Such a waste.

  The mercenary drops down to the deck, coming to look for me. We get in a stand-off, both firing at the same time. He panics; I get lucky. The .40 S&W round is heavy, and firing it causes the gun to jerk more than the old 9mm round. He doesn't control his weapon, and his bullets stitch a line in the wall over my head. My bullets run right up his hip and belly. He drops, screaming, and curls into a fetal position on the deck. I drag my leaking body across the deck.

  He is close to passing out when I reach him, and he finds a reserve of strength when I latch on to his leg. He starts screaming again, and I shove my fist into his mouth to shut him up.

  One more. I'll take care of him in a minute. As soon as I drain what blood is left in this one.

  The last guy bolts from the other side of the bridge, and I waste a few seconds wondering where he's going to go. The harpoon boat isn't that big. He can't hide forever. Then I hear the sound of a motor running, and a gurgling noise. Like a hose filling.

  I dart forward, racing toward the nose of the boat where I discover why there hadn't been anyone manning the harpoon guns. They've been replaced with something more akin to a mounted fire hose, except this hose is attached to a series of tanks lashed along the front rail of the boat. The last mercenary has turned the hose around, and as I come limping into his field of vision, he lets loose with a spray of a pale yellow liquid.

  I back-pedal, slipping on the wet deck, and the chemical spray douses my legs. As it soaks through the fabric of my pants, the burning starts. My legs feel like they are being devoured by an infestation of fire ants. I'm firing my gun indiscriminately—trying to hit him, trying to get him to stop—anything to make the pain go away. Several of my rounds perforate the hose leading to the nozzle, and the pressure drops. The deck is awash with the chemical. My boots are splashing in it.

  He's firing his gun at me now. Bullets are shredding the deck all around me. I'm hit again, in the upper arms and chest. My rifle clicks, the hammer falling on an empty chamber. I throw the weapon aside, and dig out one of the pistols. I snap off a trio of shots as he ducks around the fire hose assembly, and I hear him fall and splash on the deck.

  My legs are shaking badly. Standing is hard. Doing so without touching the deck is even harder. But I manage. I creep forward, peering around the edge of the bridge housing.

  The mercenary is lying on his back. The main hose is still spewing yellow chemicals on the deck. I raise my gun, squinting through the sights.

  The mercenary's hands fall away from his chest, and the hand I can see opens, releasing a round object.

  Grenade.

  I get two steps away when the incendiary goes off, rocking the boat. A flume of water cascades over me. It's tainted by the chemicals, and while it is diluted, it still burns. My hair feels like it is on fire. The boat lurches to the right, starting to list, and the only good news inherent in this change is that the deck is now titled away from me. I'm climbing as I stagger toward the stern of the boat, which means I'm getting away from the chemical agent. It's going in the water, though, and unless I can get off this boat before it sinks, I'm going to end up in a toxic slick that is going to corrode my flesh.

  The wind is picking up too. It's as if the storm that has been gathering strength to the south has finally decided to move. In another hour or so, the sea is going to be very unstable.

  I reach the stern and look for my Zodiac. I hadn't attached it to the harpoon boat, thinking that, after I had taken over the Cherry Blossom, I would have simply piloted it back to the Cetacean Liberty. Or they would have come and gotten me.

  A bad plan, that one. Easy to see now in hindsight. Also easy to get side-tracked in kicking myself for not thinking the plan through. Chalk it up to sea-spawned dread.

  The Cherry Blossom has to have its own life boats. Its own inflatable rafts.

  The boat is listing more now, tilting a few degrees to starboard.

  I don't have much time.

  In a locker beneath the rail along the stern, I find the large yellow shape of an inflatable raft. And long plastic oars.

  On the open sea. With a storm coming.

  It's an easy choice, really. Given how much my legs are shaking. How much my body is quivering with adrenaline and fear.

  I have to get off this boat.

  I yank the cord that starts inflating the raft, and shove the expanding lifeboat over the railing. I throw two sets of oars down into it as soon as it starts to take on an oblong shape. I shouldn't delay, but I take a few minutes and find the galley of the ship, retrieving as many bottles of drinkable water that I can carry. When I return to the deck, the raft has finished inflating, but it has floated a good twenty meters away.

  I'm going to have to swim.

  I find a mesh bag for the water bottles and tie the end around my belt. As I clamber up to the rail of the Cherry Blossom, I catch sight of my Zodiac. It's a faint black dot against the sea. Too far away for me to reach it now, but not so far that I don't spend a second lamenting that it isn't closer.

  The Cherry Blossom lurches beneath me, and I spill off the railing and hit the water headfirst. My legs start burning all over again as sea water gets in my burns.

  When I surface, I've forgotten all about the Zodiac. All I can think about is getting to my raft. Getting out of the ocean.

  The storm is coming. The sea is beginning to churn.

  I'm a long way from land.

  SEVEN

  I don't even know how long I cling to the raft. The storm tries to have its way with me, but it is a mild spring bluster compared to the tempests I have survived. It tries to drown me with rain, but I welcome the fresh water. It blows me about the ocean for a day or so, and then relinquishes its hold, casting me adrift. I float for a long time, lost in a delirium of pain, until I realize the raft is caught on something.

  I peer over the edge of the raft and spot tiny waves disturbing the water. I've floated into a coral reef, one that nearly breaches the surface. My body is dehydrated and wracked with painful tremors when I try to move, but I have to turn my head. I need to look around. Coral reefs are typically found in shallow water. I have to be close to land.

  I am, but it's not as much land as I would like.

  On my left is an atoll, a wedge of red stone rising out of the water like a crooked thumb. The end that would be the nail is encrusted with rock and it rises to a flat point that has been claimed by sea birds. A dry sob rattles its way out of my chest when I spot loose collections of long strands coyly peeking over the knuckle of the thumb. Trees.

  You could almost call it paradise.

  The coral tears a hole in the raft as I use the oars to swing the inflatable boat toward the shore. I paddle as quickly as I can in my debilitated state, but the raft takes on too much water to be viable as a seaworthy vessel a hundred meters or so from shore. I'm forced to swim again, and the pain starts in my legs again when I submerge myself in the ocean. I have an incentive to swim fast, and my feet soon touch the bottom of the narrow beach on the atoll. I drag myself into the dismal shade of the knuckle-like ridge. The ground is hard, more like petrified coral than stone, and there is very little loose dirt. Not enough to cover me. Still, there is shade. Enough to suggest that the thumb of the island points north. I am on the eastern side, and as I lie on the cool stone, the shadows get longer.

  It's been a busy day, I think. I'll start again tomorrow.

  I sleep, for the first time in many days. It does seem like I've found paradise.

  * * *

>   I'm woken by the sound of boots on wood and the buzz of voices. As I struggle out of a dreamless valley of sleep, I struggle to remember where I am. Am I still on the Cetacean Liberty? I twitch, moving my legs, and the twinges of pain bring everything back. My eyes are glued shut by both tears and dried salt spray.

  I'm not alone on this rock. Moving sluggish—every muscle in my body aches—I slither up the slope of the knuckle until I can peek over the other side of the hill. Unlike the eastern side, the west is home to a slender collection of lancewood—tall trees with naked trunks and clusters of leaves shaped not unlike Grecian kopides. Beyond the tufted lancewoods is a white beach, pristine and clean. At the southern end of the island, at the base of the thumb, there is a gentle groove in the rocky atoll. At the top of the arc of the groove is a partially concealed shelter, and along the rim of the natural lagoon are a series of wooden poles sunk into the water. It's a cheap harbor, probably indiscernible from a kilometer out. You almost have to be on top of the atoll before you would notice the man-made modifications.

  The harbor is easy for me to pick out now because there is a boat anchored there. It might have been a commercial fishing boat once, but that time is well past. A frenzy of antennae and satellite dishes festoon the roof of the narrow bridge like a cluster of mushrooms. The seamen I see are dark-skinned, and they're wearing an assortment of clothing. Nothing that looks like a uniform. Unless you considered the distinctive shape of the AK-47 each carries as an adequate stand-in for a squad patch.

  It's hard to tell what they are doing from my vantage point, though it looks like they are offloading cargo and reconfiguring it. Repackaging and dividing. It's oddly familiar all of a sudden as I recall doing not-dissimilar work while transporting contraband for the French Resistance. You get the goods from the supplier, repackage them to meet the requirements of your buyer, and then make the delivery. Neither end knows how much you skimmed off during the transaction. Everyone goes home happy.