I looked back at the accusing finger pointed my way. “You’re a filthy traitor!” he yelled. “You were working with the Jebyl the whole time, weren’t you? I knew they were too stupid to destroy the missile system on their own.”
I looked at the guard. “Seal it up.”
CHAPTER 36
“A clever boy. Tht was what my fatherr used to cll me.”
–JAKOB BRYCE
I stood at the bottom of Stairway 4. After drowning for months, the first section had been pumped free of water by the Empire’s engineers. Given another week, they’d have every last waterlogged cabin of the Ministry airing out.
I knelt on the still-damp floor and sifted through my satchels to select the perfect cuda for the newly opened hatchway. Every entrance required a blessing.
Holding one above my head, I studied its gaping jaws before tracing a finger along its length to the crescent-shaped tail. Yes, this was the one.
I stood up, and like the other two functioning entrances to the Ministry, I rested the cuda on the upper lip of the hatchway.
I hoisted the two-and-a-half-foot redwood cuda up to my shoulder and took hold of my satchels. The staircase was dark, none of the lights having survived so long underwater. I didn’t let that deter me. I started up, barnacle shells cracking under my heels.
I kept climbing, the light from the corridor dimming until I was bathed in complete darkness. Progress was slow. After every upward step, I had to hunt and peck for solid footing with the toe of my boot.
Fifteen stairs up, I found the rhythm and picked up the pace, planting one foot after the other with confidence. Stumbling a few stairs later, I slowed back down. Had to be patient. I could afford to be crazy—no choice on that score—but I couldn’t afford stupid.
Halfway up, I’d worked up quite a sweat, the redwood cuda feeling slick against my fingers. One slow step at a time, I climbed toward the surface, toward the promise of relief in the form of fresh air.
Reaching the top, I squinted against the bright lighting inside the dome. I breathed deep of the briny breeze blowing through the open doorway on the opposite side of the dome and headed into the wind.
I didn’t stop walking toward the doorway. Piles of junk sat to either side of my path. Old fishing nets and crab traps. Stacks of bamboo and mammoth bone.
I picked up my pace, his protests turning more urgent with every step. Reaching the doorway, I halted under the arched stone, my toes hanging over the edge of the short step that led out to the sunbaked stone.
I reached out a toe and touched the creviced rock.
Perhaps twenty feet straight ahead, the water pumps’ power lines snaked along the stone. Starting from Dome 2, I traced their path with my eyes until they disappeared behind a short stack of crab traps beyond Dome 5.
Yes. They’d clear all the crab traps hanging off those lines before rerouting them properly through the protected conduit, then under the ocean bottom to the turbines. They had much to do.
So did I.
Turning around, I surveyed the interior space. To complete my carving, I needed fishhooks. To write the story I’d promised to Emmina, I needed pen and paper. And I hadn’t even started carving the cuda’s corkscrew tongue.
Caring very little about creating a mess, I dumped bins and emptied jars until I found the fishhooks I needed. Next, I sought pen and paper by rummaging through storage cabinets until my eyes landed on a large metal object leaning against the wall. Shoving aside a stack of crates, I stepped up and put my palm on the missile.
Yes, Mathus had thrown it in as a bonus. And hidden away as it was, it had so far escaped the new contingent’s notice.
I wrapped my arms around the metal tube before lifting it away from the wall. Knowing firsthand the kind of damage it could do, I took great care as I began to lower it toward the floor. Bending over, I felt the strain on my back as I continued to control its fall. When the missile was a few inches from the floor, the weight got the better of me, and the fear-inducing thud echoed over and over in my pounding heartbeat.
I felt along the steel until I found the seam and pressed in with my fingers to pop open the control panel. Inside was a touchpad under a small screen.
Pol recited the numbers, and I punched them in as fast as I could.
He started over, and I took some pleasure making another mistake.
Glad he couldn’t see the smile forming on my face, I asked him to start again.
I kept up the game for a while. Kept it up until my cheeks ached from smiling so broadly.
I did.
Carefully, I stood the missile back up and leaned it against the wall. Pol wanted to send it back home with me. The Empire could use it, he’d said. My Maritinian vacation was almost over, and this missile would be my only souvenir. It was fitting, really, the way Pol had it planned out. Only the Sire deserved such a fine gift.
Now where did I put those fishhooks?
I rubbed one weary eye, then the other with the back of my hand. I didn’t feel sleepy. My mind was too preoccupied for that. But my strained eyes kept blurring after so many hours of carving.
A glance at the morning sun beaming through the doorway confirmed I’d been at it all night. Embedding fishhooks
along the cuda’s spine had taken longer than I’d expected. I’d painstakingly laid them on an angle so each barb would be the high point, the fish’s back now a danger to anybody who dared reach close. My fingertips were plenty sore from getting hooked while adjusting and readjusting. The spacing from fishhook to fishhook had to be perfect.
Perfect.
I’d switched to working on the cuda’s tongue midway through the night. The rough-hewn corkscrew needed more work to meet my standards. Eight inches from end to end, the tongue’s tight spiral was just a quarter inch in diameter. I’d properly hollowed out the interior of the helical structure, but the edges still showed whittle marks where they should be smooth. Setting the wooden corkscrew on the table, I watched closely as I rolled it forward. Verifying that the corkscrew maintained a smooth drilling motion as it rolled, I decided it would have to do for now.
Cupping the cuda’s lower jaw, I lifted the mouth of the wooden fish. Taking the sharpened tip of the corkscrew tongue in one hand, I inserted the other end between rows of cuda teeth. Pushing backward, I fit the tongue into a notch at the back of the cuda’s mouth.
I stood and walked around the table to view my artwork from different angles. The tongue looked fearsome, jutting out from between spiked teeth. And the spine of fishhooks befit the angry soul he represented.
My chest filled with pride. By far the finest work I’d ever done. I hadn’t yet carved flaming fish scales along its sides, but that could wait. Emmina would be along sometime today, and I’d told her I’d write her a story.
I took up my pen and wrote with my eyes open.
The Flesh Eater King
He built his throne on an island of dead. He shouted orders from lips smeared with blood. Bring me more wine! Bring me more to eat!
His subjects tried to please him. They understood it best to not upset the order of things. His term was to be only ten years. Another king would come soon enough. A kinder king.
Keep him entertained, the people thought. So singers would try to tickle his heart, and jesters would try to tickle his ribs. When they succeeded, they’d be rewarded with ample bounty. But when they failed, he’d chain them to stakes. He called them his little garden.
He was a caring gardener. For the thirsty plants, he carried a watering can. And for the unruly plants, he took up pruning shears so he could cut himself a little snack.
As the years passed, his subjects counted the days, always thankful to be one day closer to the end of the Flesh Eater King’s reign.
The people had high hopes for the king in waiting. A man of simple means, he knew little of how to rule a kingdom, but he had ten years to prepare. Unlike his predecessors, he never talked to the generals, for he had little interest in learning how to run an army. Nor did he talk to his world’s mayors and chiefs. He didn’t care much for politics. The only thing he wanted to learn was wisdom. So he spent ten years sailing the seas to speak with all of his world’s elders.
Festivals erupted on the last day of the Flesh Eater King’s term. Soon the sun would set, and when it did, so would his reign.
A new king required a new island. Separated from the old king’s island of dead by a narrow channel of water, the new king had chosen to raise his island on the backs of his subjects. If he ever lost their support, all they had to do was walk away and let him drown.
But when the sun began to set, the Flesh Eater King didn’t move from his throne. Instead, he said he quite liked being king. So much, in fact, that he’d decided to keep his kingdom.
He turned to his queen and told her she would never be betrothed to the new king as was tradition. And if she ever tried to run away, he’d take a thousand heads for every hour she was missing.
The queen agreed. She knew to take his threats seriously.
The Flesh Eater King turned to his generals. I’m hungry, he said. Bring me that other king’s leg on a platter!
The new king had spent the afternoon watching the sun sink toward the ocean. Standing by his throne, he waited to take his seat when the moment arrived.
But before the sun could touch the water, a boat approached. The new king’s subjects hurried to form a dock. Using legs as pilings, and bent backs as planking, they provided a short pier for their guests.
The Flesh Eater King’s generals marched across the spines of the new king’s subjects to arrive on the bamboo platform atop the new king’s island. Behind them came the queen.
I cannot marry you, she said with a slight bow. The Flesh Eater King has chosen to retain power.
The new king accepted the news with a nod. You understand what this means for our people?
She simply said, Yes, I do. But there is no other choice.
I understand, said the new king. And why are you here? he asked the generals.
One held up a machete. We’ve come for your leg. Give it, and you may live, but never as king. Don’t give it, and we will kill you and all of your people.
The new king looked down through the slatted bamboo floor at the men and women who held him above water. They shook their heads in unison. Their message was clear. You mustn’t give in.
But the new king knew nothing of war. Fight, and they’d all die, just as the generals said. So he steeled his voice, and said, I will give you my leg. But first, I must have some wine to dull the pain.
The generals agreed that he be allowed to drink.
The new king looked down through the slats and saw the disappointment in his subjects’ faces. He knew he hadn’t lived up to their expectations, but he felt buoyed by the fact that they continued to hold his island above water. As he’d thought, they’d proven to be more loyal than they were vindictive.
You have five minutes to drink your fill said one of the generals.
Fine, he said before excusing himself to enter his hut. He went to his fish tank, and, using a net, he scooped out the one with the green stripes. He wasted no time biting off its head and swallowing it down. He stuffed the remainder of the beheaded fish in his pocket.
Looking down through the bamboo slats to the men and women below, he saw understanding in their eyes. He waited for the first cramps to let him know the poison had sunk into his tissue before stepping back outside.
He dropped his robe and straightened his waistwrap before sitting on his throne.
Take what you came for, he said.
The queen refused to turn her back as the generals made quick work of hacking off his left leg.
Taking the leg, the generals headed for their boat. The queen lingered for a moment to say, I’m sorry it had to happen this way. I had no choice.
The new king stood on his remaining leg and tried to tell her again that he understood, but a new convulsion brought him to his knee. She took his elbow and helped him get back onto his throne.
He saw her eyes go to his robes piled alongside the throne, and, taking a glance, he could see a green-striped fishtail poking free. He watched her eyes light in recognition, and, fighting with all his might against the pain, he said, With my sacrifice, I give you a choice.
She nodded her understanding before walking silently to her boat.
Managing to stay upright long enough to watch the boat set sail, the new king collapsed just as the sun ducked below the horizon. He died moments later, staring into the eyes of his subjects, who steadfastly held him from the water.
CHAPTER 37
“Ninety-nin percentof a mission’s sucess is in teh preparation.”
–JAKOB BRYCE
I walked with the pages of my story pinched between my lips. Thanks to my satchels and my redwood cuda, I didn’t have a hand to spare.
Entering the conference room, I found Emmina sitting with the governor and the major. Mumbling through closed lips, I said, “I heard you were here.”
“We’re busy,” said the governor. “Representatives of Maritini
a’s cities are beginning to arrive, and we have much to discuss.”
I dropped my satchels by the door before setting my cuda on the table with a proud flourish. The governor stared at the fish with knit brows. The major tilted his head like he was giving the fish serious thought. Only the Falali Mother appeared genuinely impressed. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
I took the papers from my lips. “Thank you, Emmina. I knew you had an eye for art.” Waving my papers, I said, “I wrote you a story.”
“Not now, Colonel,” said the governor.
I helped myself to a chair and sat down. “I decided to come find you, Emmina, because I was afraid these two would take up the rest of your morning, and afternoon, too. You promised to come see me.”
“And I would’ve, Colonel,” she said.
“But you might not have found me. I spend all my time in Dome 4 now. I’ve set up a workspace in there.”
“We don’t have time for this,” said the major.
“Sure you do. We all know the talks won’t begin for real for a few days. Your little session this afternoon is nothing more than a meet-and-greet before you send them all back to Maringua for the night.”
I put my hand flat on my papers. “You have to read my story, Emmina.” Feeling wetness under my fingers, I tried to rub the moisture away. “Sorry, I must’ve drooled a little carrying it in my mouth.” I checked to see if any of the ink had smudged. “It’s okay.”
The governor turned to Emmina. “I need you to step out for a minute. I have to talk to the prisoner alone.”
I hadn’t missed the special emphasis she’d put on the word prisoner. Neither had Emmina, who was now staring at me.
“It’s okay,” I told her.
The Falali Mother rose from her seat. It had only been a day since she’d gained her freedom, but she’d already recovered her posture. With her chin held proud, she stepped out of the cabin and closed the door.
The governor watched her go before turning cold eyes on me. “You’ve exhausted the last of my goodwill.”
Tides of Maritinia Page 27
