by Dan McGirt
Jack grinned as he threw a leg over the red bike and settled into the durafoam saddle. “Knife Point is on the other side of the canyon.”
“Kamenay.” Galahad gave him the finger.
Jack laughed and lowered his visor. He started the bike’s secondary motor, the electric, with a flick of his eyes toward an icon on the heads-up display.
Galahad mounted his own bike. “You know, NHTSA says the chances of dying on a motorcycle are thirty-five times higher than in a car, per mile. For you, that's an underestimate.”
Jack nodded, then turned his bike away from the canyon.
“Come to your senses?” said Galahad.
Jack laughed. Over his shoulder he called, “We’ll want three hundred yards of runway before hitting full speed. Knievel’s old launch ramp is pretty solid, but cheat to the right when you go up. One of the left side struts is almost rusted through.”
“There is no way I am—Chod!”
Jack sped away from the rim on the deeply rutted dirt road that wound across the plateau. Galahad muttered a few choice curses in Monoga as he strapped on his own helmet—also plastisteel, with a much-simplified HUD. The jetcycle purred to life. Galahad brought it around.
Jack, my brother, you’d be a hundred times dead without me. And will be the death of me yet.
Gal opened the throttle and followed Jack’s trail.
***
The approach was reasonably level. The old Knievel ramp still stood, a tower of rusted steel and weathered red, white, and blue planks. The famous daredevil attempted to jump the Chief River canyon in 1974. The much-hyped stunt ended in disappointing failure before a rowdy crowd of ten thousand and a live worldwide television audience. Knievel’s steam-powered X-3 Cloud Cycle roared up the ramp at 400 mph and into the sky. Aerial camera footage showed Knievel’s vehicle did clear the north rim. Unfortunately, his parachute deployed before he was all the way across. Wind dragged him backward from glory and brought him down in the canyon. He landed a few yards from the river, back on the south side where he started. His net forward distance was barely three hundred feet—a real downer, in the parlance of the time.
Jack wasn’t worried about a malfunctioning parachute. The jetcycle didn’t have one.
He throttled up the primary engine, a Boreas ceramic turbine drive of his own design—compact and powerful. Revving past 10,000 rpm, the Boreas could, in theory, accelerate the jetcycle to 600 mph. Jack had not tested the bike at that speed, for several reasons: the frame wasn’t designed to take the stresses; steering control would be nonexistent; the gyrostabilizers would burn out, making it almost impossible to stay upright; and a crash at that speed would be fatal more than 99 percent of the time. Nor was there a use case for a land bike that fast—if you needed to move 600 mph, it was better to fly.
But 400 mph? No sweat.
Jack and his bike became a red blur. The jetcycle’s tires of adaptive solid-cast hephaestucine with a microdiamond coating devoured the ground, shrugging off every dip, bump, and loose rock.
Jack covered the three hundred-yard approach in under four seconds, reaching the base of the ramp and his target speed of 400.525 mph at the same time. Less than a second later he was airborne, launching at a steep angle into the sky.
Jack enjoyed the sensation of weightlessness caused by the downward force of gravity being temporarily unchecked by the normal force of the ground. He knew it was an illusion, but that didn’t matter. He was soaring. Floating. Flying. The Chief River was a tiny ribbon far below. The sky was an almost cloudless dome of blue. The north rim of the canyon seemed to reach out for him.
His helmet com pinged a Level Urgent alert.
Jack took the call.
“Jack Scarlet,” he said. “Go.”
“Jack?” said an older man’s voice. “Jeff Settles. It’s about my daughter. I doubt you’ve heard but her ship—”
Jack’s personal AI was already throwing details on the HUD. “Went missing in the Gulf of Mexico three days ago,” he said. “Just saw it. How can I help, Jeff?”
“Jack, the Coast Guard isn’t telling us anything at all. Marian and I are in Crescent City and—”
“Jeff, excuse me a moment. I need to stick the landing.”
“Landing? What are you—”
Knievel used parachutes in his jump for a reason. At Jack’s airspeed his lungs would shoot out his nostrils when he hit the ground unless something dissipated the impact. The adaptive tires would absorb some of the forces, but if they deformed too much even the gyroscopic couldn’t keep this bike upright. Jack would become a bloody smear several hundred yards long.
Jack alternately feathered the front and rear brakes mid-air to level out the bike so that his attitude for the landing was almost parallel to the ground. He tapped out enough reverse thrust on the Boreas to reduce his landing speed to something survivable without putting the bike into a hopeless flip. Even so, touchdown was bone rattling. Jack almost went into a slide, but the gyros popped him up and he was two hundred yards beyond the rim in the blink of an eye, with a dust cloud fifty feet high blooming behind him.
Jack brought his nose around in a wide arc and slowed to a stop, facing back toward the canyon. He peered into the scattering curtain of dust, waiting.
A full minute passed.
Then Galahad’s black jetcycle blasted out of the haze, kicking up its own fresh comet trail of debris. Gal brought his bike around, popped a vertical wheelie, and rode on the rear wheel, circling Jack twice before parking beside him.
“Show off,” said Jack.
“Not bad, hey?”
“What kept you?”
“Wanted to see if you’d crash.”
Jack laughed.
“Race you to Knife Point,” said Galahad.
“You go ahead,” said Jack. “I have to finish this call.” He took Settles off mute. “Sorry about that, Jeff. You caught me in the middle of something. I’ll be in Crescent City as fast as I can.”
3: Unofficial Channels
“Jack, I can’t tell you how much we appreciate you coming on such short notice,” said Jeff Settles.
Jack shook hands with the older man. “I wish I’d been here sooner.”
Jeff and Marian Settles were a wealthy African-American couple from Pacific City. Both were smartly dressed and wilting a bit in the unaccustomed Louisiana heat. Jeff was in his fifties, bald on top, with a neatly trimmed beard speckled with grey. He wore understated titanium frame glasses. Though he had put on a few pounds since his grad school days at Stanford, Settles kept himself in good shape. Jack recalled Jeff was an avid fisherman and diver when he wasn’t closing deals for his venture capital fund.
Jack took Marian’s extended hand. Dr. Marian Settles was a few years younger than her husband, a bit lighter-skinned, almost his height, and far more graceful. Every movement she made was precise, economical. Marian was a champion swimmer in college and only narrowly missed making the U.S. Olympic Team. Now she was a top microbiologist at Pacific State University. Jack saw at once where Cassi got her looks, and her drive. He also saw that right now every erg of Marian’s intensity and focus was directed at solving one problem – finding her daughter.
Jack wondered briefly whether it was Jeff or Marian who thought to call him. Not that it mattered. From the haunted look they shared, it was evident both were exhausted and sick with worry. Jack doubted either of them had slept much since arriving from the West Coast two days ago. He understood. Cassi was their only child. They were grasping at any straw to bring her back.
The couple had decamped to a Roman Inn chain hotel that was surely a few stars below what they were used to. But it was near the Coast Guard Command Center. Jack met them in the hotel’s patio restaurant overlooking the rolling brown Mississippi River.
“What is the latest?” asked Jack, as he seated himself in a wicker chair at their table.
Jeff hung his head. “The Coast Guard hasn’t much to tell us. They have boats in the water and planes in th
e air. The search is ongoing. That’s all they’re saying.”
Jack mimed holding a phone. “I spoke with Admiral Reese during my flight down. As you know, Sandpiper’s last known position was in international waters, closer to Yucatán than to here. Coast Guard has deployed assets out of Houston and Tampa. They’re coordinating with the Navy and with Mexican authorities. I’m certain they are throwing everything they have at this.”
“But finding nothing,” said Jeff. His voice was almost a growl.
“Not yet,” said Jack. “I told Admiral Reese that any asset ScarletTech has is at his disposal. Boats, planes, sonar, satellites, whatever we have.”
“I wasn’t able to reach your father...” said Jeff.
Jack grinned. “Dad is overseeing field trials of experimental mining equipment in Mongolia. He’s a little hard to reach right now. I assure you, I made the same calls he would make.”
“Thank you,” said Jeff. His expression softened. “I know the Coast Guard are doing what they can, but...” Settles trailed off, shaking his head. He clenched and unclenched his big hands.
“They’re hiding something!” said Marian, with a vehemence that startled Jack. She leaned toward him with fire in her eyes and thrust one arm in the general direction of Gulf of Mexico. “My baby is lost out there and they are not telling us all they know!”
Jack nodded gravely. “I understand your frustration, Dr. Settles.”
Marian pressed her lips together in a tight line and shook her head defiantly, sending her long braids swinging. “You do not know, Jack. Unless you are a mother you do not know.”
“Understood,” said Jack. “What I do know is you want Cassi back, safe and sound. I will do all in my power to make that happen. That’s a promise. To both of you.”
Jeff and Marian locked hands and exchanged a hopeful look.
“Thank you,” said Marian.
“Thank me when I get back,” said Jack.
“You’re going out there?” said Jeff.
Jack nodded. “I have a boat here in Crescent. I want to see the search area myself.”
“I’m going with you,” said Jeff.
“It’s better if you don’t. You’ll want to be here, at the command center. Everything the searchers find will be reported in. This is the place for you.” Jack met Marian’s penetrating gaze. “I believe you are correct, Dr. Settles. The Coast Guard may be holding something back from you.”
Marian’s eyes narrowed. Jeff took on a pained expression. “What? What would they not be telling us?” he demanded.
“Sandpiper disappeared near San Marcos,” said Jack.
“San Marcos?” said Jeff. He frowned. “That little island country?”
Jack nodded. “San Marcos is one of those accidents of history that slips through the cracks of world attention and makes a virtue of obscurity. The San Marcans are adamant about preventing intrusions into their territory. So far they have refused permission for outside search craft to enter their waters or airspace.”
“They aren’t cooperating in the search?” said Jeff. His voice rose. “That is outrageous!”
Jack made a placating gesture. “Most ships plying the Gulf steer clear of San Marcos, with good reason. If Sandpiper was disabled, it may have drifted into their territorial waters.”
“You’re saying Cassi could be there,” said Marian. She straightened to her full height, struck by a disturbing thought. “You’re saying they may have arrested her?”
Jack looked her straight in the eye. “That would be a best case scenario,” he said softly.
Marian’s mouth opened in shock as she grasped the implication of Jack’s words.
Jeff shook his head vigorously. “No, no, no, Jack. No, they would have told us if there was anything to do with San Marcos.” He banged his hand on the table. “If those people are...are holding my Cassi prisoner, then, by God, I’ll—”
Jack raised his hands in placation. “I am only reading between the lines of what Admiral Reese told me. What he was saying without saying, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Jeff. He gripped the edge of the table and leaned toward Jack. “I don’t know what you mean at all.”
Jack took a deep breath. “If – I emphasize if – if Sandpiper was taken and the crew detained, we go from search and rescue to delicate diplomatic situation. So far, the San Marcans haven’t said they have the Sandpiper crew in custody. Nor have they denied it.”
Jeff exploded. “Then the State Department needs to –”
Jack raised a hand to interrupt. “State won’t be much help. San Marcos has poor relations with the United States. Officially, San Marcos is off limits to the search, and that isn’t likely to change.”
“Even though Cassi’s ship may have gone there,” said Marian.
Jack spoke slowly. “Without permission from the San Marcans, there can be no official search of those waters.”
“I won’t stand for this!” said Jeff. “I’ll call Senator Fairmont. I’ll get the president on the line if I have to. I gave enough to his campaign.”
“No official search,” said Jack.
Marian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not official. Are you, Jack Scarlet?”
Jack grinned. “No, Dr. Settles. I am not.”
***
Jack’s yacht Marisa shot south across the Gulf of Mexico at just over ninety knots. She was a 160-foot trimaran propelled by four Aegir directional waterjet thrusters – two on the outriggers and two on the central hull. A quartet of Spectrum laser-gain engines provided power, factory-rated at 6,000 hp each and overclocked by Jack’s mods to something beyond that. For a vessel of her size, Marisa was insanely fast and maneuverable, requiring no propellers or rudder for steering.
Jack and Galahad were the only people aboard. Marisa was licensed to operate with a crew of one. Often that was Jack, rated a master mariner, or Commander Tara Lane, the Royal Canadian Navy vet who managed Jack’s private fleet of research ships, experimental vessels, and pleasure craft. In their absence, MARISA was legally authorized to pilot the boat. The Marine Reticular Integrated System Avatar was a maritime-optimized fork of Jack’s RISA artificial intelligence engine. MARISA had the helm while Jack and Galahad prepped in the main salon.
Galahad eased a white leather recliner all the way back and groaned. His complexion was a notable shade lighter than usual.
Jack glanced up from studying a bathymetric chart on the holographic tabletop. “Sea-Band not helping?”
Galahad raised his right arm limply. The acupressure wristband he wore was meant to prevent sea sickness. Sometimes it worked for him. Today was an exception. Gal extended his middle finger. Jack laughed.
“Jumped a canyon, jetted to Crescent, and now your devil boat all in the same day,” said Galahad. “It is too much for the medicine of the bracelet to overcome.”
“I have Dramamine if you want it.”
Galahad wrinkled his nose. “White man’s poison.”
“Sure, tough guy.” Jack pinched his fingers to zoom in on a particular undersea feature that interested him. “Ginger tea?”
“Excuse me.” Galahad leaned over and made use of the sick bag. When the convulsions subsided he sat up and said. “Tea would be lovely.”
“Should be here any second,” said Jack.
On cue, a robotic Rolling Butler serving cart entered from the galley area and wheeled to Galahad. A compartment in its cylindrical body opened, revealing a steaming cup of reddish-brown liquid with a strong aroma of ginger root.
“You already ordered tea,” said Galahad. He raised the recliner halfway and took the cup, which he sniffed suspiciously. “Am I so predictable?”
“Yes,” said the feminine, yet distinctly synthesized voice of MARISA, emanating from speakers in the ceiling.
“Thank you, MARISA,” said Galahad. He raised the cup in salute.
“You’re quite welcome, Mr. TwoHawks.” MARISA spoke something close to the received pronunciatio
n of British English.
Galahad sipped his tea. “At least your computer cares I’m puking my guts up,” he said.
Jack rolled his eyes. “I programmed her.”
“True,” said MARISA.
“Let’s not get all existential,” said Galahad. He took another long draught of tea. “Yeah, this will work.”
“Good.”
“So remind me why you dragged me here from Idaho. I was looking forward to my stay in Crazyland.”
Other Native American tribes had reservations. The Monoga Nation had the Chief River Autonomous Zone – the CRAZ, Crazyland. Galahad was born there, though he now called Metro City home.
Jack laughed. “You’d be bored out of your skull by week’s end.”
“That’s why I invited you along, kemo sabe. To entertain me. This is not what I had in mind.”
Jack gave a slow, distracted nod. “Jeff Settles is a friend of Dad’s. He started his career as an engineer at ScarletTech. Left to launch his own company; Dad was an early investor. Sold it for a few hundred million and founded Halica Ventures with his partners.”
“Friend of the family,” said Galahad.
“Exactly.”
“And the daughter? GFE?”
Girlfriend emeritus. Of which Jack had far too many.
“Ph.D.,” said Jack. “Marine biology. For the past two years, Cassi has led plastic pollution survey expeditions partially funded by WES.”
Jack was on the board of the World Ecological Society, founded in 1912 by his great-grandfather to advance natural conservation.
“You think the San Marcos crowd grabbed her ship?”
Jack adjusted the map. “Sandpiper vanished suddenly. No distress call. Transponder went dark. As did radar and radio signatures. That says catastrophic event.”
“Sunk on purpose?”
“Wouldn’t be a first for the friendly San Marcos coast guard,” said Jack. “They’re known to sink vessels suspected of drug running. But there are other possibilities.”
“Such as?”
