by Jasmine Walt
The whale returned. It opened its huge, tooth-lined maw and shot toward another boat—the one Janx occupied. Avery felt suddenly cold. Janx had become something of a mascot to the Maul, and the crew adored him. Were he to die so would the ship’s morale. Not only that, but Avery liked the big whaler.
Visible from far away, Janx stared up at the whale, harpoon cocked and ready. He did not throw, although the men to either side of him hurled theirs right into the whale’s oncoming head.
It drove on.
With a thunderous crack, it smashed the boat to splinters, devouring several of the whalers instantly and plunging beneath the waves with such force that one of the nearby boats capsized in the swell. There was no sign of Janx or the other whalers that had been on the destroyed boat.
“Damn,” Avery said.
Hambry snorted. “Maybe he’ll find his nose in the afterlife.”
Mist blew across the sea, and somewhere a few leagues off a burst of lightning must have struck a gas bubble, as a furious ball of orange and white expanded over the water. Expanded, then faded. By its light Avery saw one of the other ships of the line, several leagues to the east, he couldn’t tell which one. The night was too dark for him to see any of the other ship’s boats, though they must be out there, too, hunting, hunting. The whole fleet would be scrambling.
The whale emerged from the depths.
This time it breached more slowly, and for a moment Avery thought it had grown arrogant, that it would leisurely move to destroy the remaining boats. As if it had heard his thoughts, it swam toward the nearest one, and the men there braced themselves, ready to throw their harpoons.
The whale closed in, mouth agape, but for some reason the men didn’t throw. As it neared them, its mouth began to close, and its tail slowed.
Limp, the whale drifted, carried by momentum, until finally it reached an utter stop.
A ragged cheer drifted across the waves.
Only then did Avery see, as one of the moons came out from behind a cloud, that a tall, broad figure stood on the whale’s head, leaning on a harpoon—Nancy, it must be Nancy—driven deep into the creature’s skull.
Avery laughed and clapped Hambry on the shoulder. “It’s Janx!” he said. “He’s alive! He’s alive! The bloody idiot! He must have ridden it as it went under! Ha!”
The others on the deck—there was quite a crowd—laughed and cheered. Out on the water, the whalers ringed the animal and Janx climbed down its sides to much slapping on the back.
Hooked ropes sliced the air. Sharp steel sunk deep into fatty flesh. The boats began to haul their catch back toward the Maul, the boats small and puny against the vast blackness of the whale. They searched for survivors as they went, but there were none. The whale had slain perhaps ten men.
And yet Avery could not help but feel an enormous sense of relief. With the amount of hot lard that would be harvested from the monster, the machines that powered Ghenisa’s defenses could be fueled for dozens of hours. Though other substances were used, few were as readily (if not easily) obtainable as the lard of a whale from the Atomic Sea—hot lard. Not radioactive in the traditional sense, but holding powerful concentrations of energy just the same. With the whale slain, the army of Octung might be staved off, at least for a time. Hopefully the other ships of the fleet would make kills, as well.
The whaling boats drew their prize to the Maul, and whalers and sailors coordinated tying it to the sides. A celebration broke out. Avery wasn’t sure if Captain Sheridan had called for it or not, but she certainly seemed to allow it. Janx clambered aboard and was instantly surrounded by admirers. With him in their center, men and women retreated inside, removed their suits, and were passed double rations of grog. Avery followed. Somewhere around a corner, he heard Janx toasting the dead. “Tonight they dance in the deep!” Others echoed him.
Before Avery could remove his suit and pour a glass of his finer officer’s whiskey, Ensign Tapor ran up to him. Her breath masked her face-plate, and he could just see her wide eyes behind it.
“Doctor, you must come quickly.”
Avery had just been in the process of taking off his helm. “Is it necessary?” he said. “I was just about to—”
“It’s an emergency.”
She sounds odd. “Show me,” he said.
He snapped his helmet back on, and the ensign hurried him through the air-lock and outside again. Assaulted anew by wind and mist, he grumped. He’d been looking forward to warmth and whiskey, to toasting Paul’s memory and Janx’s victory.
Overhead a great gas-squid floated against the stars, tentacles squirming, moonslight filtering through its half-translucent flesh, making it seem to glow in places with a ghostly sheen. Celebrating sailors near the bow took pot-shots at it, laughing.
Ensign Tapor led Avery to the port gunwale amidships. Ropes strained and creaked, and when Avery looked over the side, he saw that they ran from the ship to the whale, which had been tied off snugly—a huge, misshapen, cancerous growth sprouting from the Maul, its sides slip-slapping against the ship. Avery had thought all the boats had been raised and secured, but to his surprise he saw that one remained on the water directly below. It bobbed, oddly, in front of the whale’s mouth, which sagged open. Something was being lifted from the boat toward the ship’s deck in a canvas sling.
Avery’s frown deepened. “I don’t ... Did that thing come from the whale’s mouth?”
He glanced sideways. Ensign Tapor stared downward at the ascending shape, but she turned to look at him, a mix of fear and wonder in her eyes. “Yes, Doctor. She did.”
“She?” Avery frowned. “A woman?” When Tapor didn’t answer, he said, “A crewwoman from one of the other ships of the line?”
“I don’t think so, Doctor.”
The body reached the gunwale, and Avery rushed over to assist the sailors in setting it down. Only then did he step back, away from it, and see it for the first time.
Impossible.
It was a woman, naked, breathing, with hair too long for her to be Navy, and showing no obvious signs of sickness.
“Amazing,” he said. “She should be dead. No one could survive those waters, uninfected, without a suit ...”
Thunder rolled, and lightning lit up the seas. Avery hardly noticed.
2
The woman was alive, but injured. She had suffered burns on her legs, buttocks and lower back. For a moment Avery thought she might have been on a ship attacked by an Octunggen sub, that a fire or the explosion of a torpedo had burned her. But then, as he bent to study her, he saw that the burns were acidic. It should have been obvious, but it took him a moment to realize they could only have come from the stomach of the whale. She had been eaten. It must have been when the whale opened its throat to swallow one of the whalers that she had dragged herself out of its stomach.
Which of course was ridiculous. The gastric gasses alone should have killed her, not to mention the obvious acids.
And then, the sea ...
“Come,” he told two of the crewmen. “Help me bring her to sick bay.”
In awe—no one had ever been known to survive the sea without immediate and obvious sickness before—they complied. Avery washed her off in the buffer chamber at the same time they rinsed their suits, using his hands to cup the water and then pouring it over her, a cupful at a time, so as not to aggravate her wounds. Once they were all clean and had hung up their suits, Avery led the men and their charge out of the buffer chamber into the ship proper.
Around them the ship groaned. Great pipes snarled along the ceiling, banging and rattling. The whole place stank of oil and sweat. Avery had never gotten used to it, even though he’d been at sea for three months at the current stretch. Before that, he’d served the Navy on and off since the war began, some four years ago, but life aboard was still foreign to him.
“Don’t spread word of this,” he instructed the two crewmen in regards to the woman. “The last thing she needs is gawkers, understood?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
When they reached the medical bay, he sent for his assistants. They arrived and fussed over the woman, cleaning her of any remaining acids, hooking her up to an IV drip, pumping out the poison from her lungs, while Avery dismissed the sailors who’d carried her, warning them one last time to keep their mouths closed. He knew such a warning to be futile, but it might slow the spread of gossip.
He checked the woman’s vitals and made some adjustments, then pondered what to do with her. He briefly considered administering adrenaline to rouse her, if only to be able to question her, but decided that would be more for his benefit than hers. Better to ensure that she was well rested and let her begin to heal. Answers would wait.
His fingers shook, his head pounded, and he knew he needed a drink. Just a little more, he thought. I can go a little longer.
While his assistants saw to the woman, Avery checked on Paul.
Paul had already been brought to the bay, and he occupied a table behind a thin operating curtain. Avery saw that he was secured and took a moment to catch his breath. Paul V. Bercka, career enlisted man and widower (a circumstance which Avery shared, and something that had helped them bond), did not look peaceful in death. His eyes were closed, but his face had locked in a terrible grimace, his lips pulled back, his teeth bared and specked with blood. Avery wished there was something he could do to relax his friend’s facial muscles, but he was no mortician, and Paul would have to be given to the sea with an animal snarl on his face. At least you went down defiant.
After unstrapping him, Avery rolled Paul over with help from one of his assistants, Nurse Reynolds, who’d disrobed and cleaned the sergeant, and studied the wounds on Paul’s back: inch-and-a-half gashes angled upward below the tank and at a reduced angle along the sides. As he’d supposed, Avery saw that one of the strikes had cut halfway through the fourth vertebrae. The killer’s arm had been strong, the knife thick. The spine severance probably hadn’t killed Paul, though. From the frothed blood in his mouth Avery knew that his lungs were filled with fluid; one of the knife strokes had punctured the bottom lining of a lung sac. Paul had drowned in his own blood.
Something heavy settled on Avery.
“Who could have done it?” Nurse Reynolds said. He was a big, good-looking young man with blond hair, a strong jaw but weak green eyes. They made him look soft somehow, though the rest of him was of heroic proportions.
Strong enough to be the killer, Avery thought, hating himself for it. He wondered if he would ever feel comfortable around another large man for the rest of the voyage.
“And why would anyone want to kill Paul?” Avery heard himself add. Bercka had been a good man, respected by those under him, depended on by those above him.
Reynolds had no answer.
“Go,” Avery told him. “Check on our new patient.”
The nurse studied him quietly for a moment, then nodded and left.
Avery moved to his desk and retrieved a flask of bourbon. He stared at it, unscrewed the cap and knocked back a long swig. Healing waves of warmth coursed down his throat. He downed another. Slowly, the pounding in his head began to fade, and he returned to Paul’s side. The purple bruises around the sergeant’s throat where the killer had held him showed lividly against his pale flesh. Avery checked Paul’s elbows. Sure enough, they were scraped raw. He’d been elbowing his attacker, trying to break free, even as the killer had stabbed him. That meant the killer might have bruises on his chest, belly and arms. If Avery could find the man with those wounds ...
He took a last slip, screwed the cap back on and returned the flask to his desk.
The nurses and junior doctors were gathered around the young woman when he reemerged. One was administering salve to her burns. The rest just stared. The woman had blond hair and was not unattractive, and her body was lean, athletic, well-proportioned ...
“Fetch her some clothes,” Avery said, and they leapt to obey. For a moment, there was silence, save the distant sound of revelry in the background. Somewhere someone toasted Janx, and bawdy laughter trickled down the halls.
“Now find something to do or go back to bed,” Avery told them, and his assistants hastily occupied themselves, willing to sacrifice sleep for the chance at solving this medical mystery.
Avery assisted in coating salve on the woman’s burns, which were extensive. The alchemical agents in the salve would help her heal and reduce her scarring, but they could not erase the scars completely. All Avery could hope for was that the treatments he would administer over the coming days would allow her skin to heal well enough so that she could bend and flex her legs normally, not hampered by tightened skin; she would not be crippled if he could help it.
A throat cleared behind him. Feeling suddenly hot, Avery turned to find Captain Jessryl Sheridan looking at him pointedly.
“Bagged yourself a mermaid, I see,” she said, speaking with her upper-class drawl.
He made himself smile. “I’d prefer not to start calling her that.”
“Then what is she?”
“I have no idea, but she needs peace and quiet, not the sort of attention from the crew she’d get if we start calling her names.”
“Perhaps you prefer to keep her to yourself.”
“Far from it,” he said. “We need for her to recover fully and quickly. Ideally she can tell us where she came from and how she was able to survive the waters.”
Capt. Sheridan approached, rolling her shoulders as she moved. Though not tall, she was solidly muscular and was said to be one of the finest fencers in the Navy. She had steel gray eyes, short auburn hair, and her jaw was slightly squared. Her nose had been broken in some battle years ago, and it still had a small scar right on the bridge. Another scar started over her left eyebrow and cut across her high forehead. Her lips were full and might have been sensuous with lipstick and a smile, but she never wore make-up and her smiles were never sensuous—predatory, more like.
Sheridan grabbed the young woman’s chin and turned her head as if inspecting a dog.
“Doesn’t look Ghenisan to me,” she said. “Nor Octunggen. She’s probably from the north, one of the Yorish States perhaps.”
“She’s not Yori.”
“True,” Sheridan said. “She has no braids, and her skin’s too smooth. She didn’t come from a nearby ship—they’re all ours—and she couldn’t have come from far away, either. The whale she was inside of has been in our sights for the last several weeks.”
“And all without a suit.”
“I’ll have to hand her over to the Navy Science Division when we get back.”
“They’ll dissect her!”
“They’ll do what they must,” Sheridan said. “If she’s immune to the sea, as unlikely as that sounds, perhaps we can use her blood to devise some sort of vaccine ...”
“As chief medical appointment of this ship, she’s my charge, and I will decide where she goes.” Avery tried to lighten his voice. “Besides, she could wake up at any time. She can answer our questions.”
“We’ll see.” Sheridan seemed to have lost interest in the topic, though she had acquired an interest in something else. Avery’s moment of rebellion had triggered sparks in her eyes.
“Why don’t we discuss it ... in private?”
Damn her.
“Well?” she said.
Slicking the hair on the side of his head over his bald spot, he said, “Very well. Captain.”
Her smile widened, but not with warmth, and she turned smartly on her heel and departed. Avery cast a glance back over his shoulder at Paul, dead on his slab, and at the mystery woman, who might be dissected shortly, and followed in his captain’s wake.
“Sergeant Bercka was a friend of mine,” he said as they passed down the corridors, their way lit by flickering electric light in spots, but the rest illuminated by candles, both conventional and alchemical, evidence of the struggling generators.
“Let’s not talk about it in public,” she said. “Keep ship m
orale high.”
She led him down bustling halls, through the officer’s quarters and finally into her cabin, shutting the door behind them.
“Now. About Paul,” he said, squinting in the darkness. “We have a major problem. It appears we have a serial murderer aboard.”
Click. An alchemical light flared. The lantern smelled of smoke and cinnamon, and its red light pulsed on the walls in regular beats. The glowing liquid moved slowly in the thick rounded glass of the lantern, making it seem as if Avery and Sheridan were underwater—red, slowly moving water. She’d had the metal surfaces and ceiling mounted with oaken covers, and the tusk of a sea elephant hung from the port bulkhead. She’d shot the creature herself. Among other things, she was a renowned markswoman.
She stripped off her jacket and threw it on a hanger. Her eyes stayed on Avery. Her stare was flat and gray, but there was something under it, something that smoldered. He thought of a fiery sun masked by smog and clouds.
“Sgt. Bercka’s death will be addressed,” she assured him. “We’ll catch the murderer, serial or not. I’m sorry. I know you were close. But dwelling on it won’t help. Let me ... distract you.”
“Captain, this is important.”
“So is this.”
Pushing her would only backfire on him, he realized. Hiding a sigh, he began to unbutton his jacket.
Their lovemaking, if it could be called that, exhausted him as always. Ghenisa was a country whose culture valued athleticism and physical contests greatly, and the captain was Ghenisan to a fault. There was not an ounce of wasted flesh on her body, which could have been sculpted from rock and was nearly as hard. Despite her fitness, however, she was not a good lover. Perhaps she could have been had she wanted to be, perhaps she was with others, but her single goal while she was with Avery was to climax, and after she did she would roll quickly off him, as she did now. She’d never allowed him to finish inside her, and as ever he was forced to finish himself by hand. At least she provided a towel.
