by Chris Howard
“You kept your ship.” April let out a long, deep sigh, her eyes brimming wet, catching the fading sunlight. “Lose anyone?”
He shook his head. “There were only four of us aboard.”
“And you fought it off?”
He read the loss on her face, something too painful to call up in front of everyone.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
April sniffed and wiped her nose, lips pressed into a firm line. April gave Wilraven a solid punch in the arm—not the one with the bullet graze. She managed a quick smile, but her voice was still hoarse with pain. “I think I have something that’s yours. I believe it was taken aboard the Carla by mistake, when we last hooked up for supplies.”
The crowd hushed, distinct frowns on many of the faces.
Wilraven, who had known April longer than anyone there, shot a grin over to Aro, who was as perplexed as any of them. He called out, “Is it in a big box and shiny?”
April’s mouth curled up on one side as if she was giving that some thought. “Could be. Let’s just say it’ll need some work to make it shine again.”
Aro jumped forward, shouldered his way forward with Dewayne—grinning—pushing him forward. “How?”
“You mean how did I end up with a big box of treasure?” April laughed again.
She kept her smile, made a show of flexing her arm muscles, but the tone of her voice took a serious turn. “The two soldiers sent back to land were going to sell it all and keep it, that guy with the stupid goatee and the other one, the freaky Aryan fantasy boy. They made some trouble when I called them on it. And you can ask the Cap. I just don’t respond well to threats.” She flipped a hand nonchalantly, as if everything after that had gone smoothly. “I took care of it. Your big box of really old money is in the secure stores in Lauderdale, ready for you to pick up. Bring your own damn forklift, though.”
Aro whooped and did a little dance right there in the middle of the crowd. Others took it up.
While she had some of their attention, April put a hand up. “Anyone know a company called Knowledgenix? I have something that belongs to them—someone, actually. See me after the party if you know. I need to get in touch with a Jon Andreden.”
Only puzzled headshaking in response until Wilraven opened his mouth, swinging around to look for his first officer—and then remembering Angelo had gone off with the Irabarren and the Serina. He asked the question anyway. “Isn’t Knowledgenix a sub company? They make autonomous subs.” He turned back to April. “Did you find one of their vehicles?”
April lost her smile, rubbing a few tears from her eyes. She shook her head. “One of them found me.”
Seven hours outside Fort Lauderdale, Reg Bacote, captain of the Beauliev, threw them all a party, using up most of the Marcene’s stores that had been transferred over before the towlines had been let out. Olad and the Beauliev’s cook, Chip Stanert, worked up a lavish dinner, using every steak on the ship. Wilraven brought along some very old rum that had been hidden in his cabin. The bottle had been a present from Val Nersesian, but he had never found quite the right time to open it.
Even now, with only moderate energy in the party, and nothing but death and pain in their wake, he wasn’t sure the time was right. But he opened it anyway, thinking of Val Nersesian’s letter to him.
He tapped a thick-walled glass of the rich orange-brown liquid against the glasses Adista and Tychasis held up. “To Captain Valentin Nersesian of the Serina Beliz.”
Adista was clearly holding back tears, but kept her drink raised. Her voice came out clear and a little too loud. “All life began in the ocean. The tides, the salt, the rolling waves are in our souls . . . ” Her voice dropped off after she pulled in a shudder of pain. She continued in a whisper. “ . . . and the Sea will always have the power to call us home.”
There was a long space of silence with nothing but the rush of waves and the hum of the ship’s engines. Every crew member of the Marcene and Irabarren had fallen quiet. They turned to face Adista, taking in the words.
Wilraven cleared his throat. “Something you wrote?”
She shook her head. “Just the truth. Something I read somewhere.” Then she lifted her glass. “To you, Val.” Adista put the glass to her lips and took a sip.
The party built slowly from there, with Andres and others drifting over to find out about the “visitors from the rebreather pod” they had pulled up from the sunken Serina Beliz.
Captain Bacote came down from the bridge to find Wilraven with April, Andres, Tychasis and Dr. Kozcera at the Beauliev’s stern. “Captain? Phone.”
He took it, gesturing the four to carry on without him for a bit. “Thanks, Reg.”
“Yeah? This is Wilraven.”
“It’s Angelo. I haven’t been in Tampa more than fifteen minutes and already I hear from Rusty that the Marcene’s in trouble. She was attacked?”
Wilraven put a finger over one ear and jammed the phone against the other. “We’re fine. Marcene’s not, but Reg is here with the Beauliev Salvor, and we’re going to need a tow back to Lauderdale. Be there in the morning.”
“Attacked?”
“Hell of a battle. I’ll come out to Tampa when I get back. You’ll have to be sitting down for this one.”
“Well . . . okay.” Angelo was obviously not very happy about waiting to hear the tale. “Hey, Adam’s in intensive care at Mount Sinai Medical Center in Miami. Drino brought him into Key West, and they medevacked him. Just spoke to the surgeon, and they’re expecting Adam to be out of the ICU in a few days, and back in the show middle of next month.”
Wilraven let out a deep breath, almost as if he had been holding it since the departure of the Errantes.
There was a long space of quiet over the phone.
“You okay, Angelo?”
“Yeah, it’s just piling up. Another thing. Rusty called with news about Corkran. They found him dead a couple of hours ago.”
Wilraven opened his mouth, couldn’t get any words out.
“Here’s the crazy thing. Didn’t he hate water—or was afraid of it?”
Wilraven dragged out the word. “Yeaah?”
“They found his body rolling in the surf outside Edgemoor, Delaware. They’re calling him the victim of an ‘accidental drowning.’ I don’t think I’m buying that.”
Wilraven let out a long breath. “No. I’m not either.”
After the call, he handed the Beauliev’s captain his phone, thanked him, and rejoined Adista and Tychasis, who were now discussing antidepressant meds, blood toxin symptoms, and the Glasgow coma scale with Dr. Kozcera.
“Doc, can I have them for a few?”
Kozcera gestured toward the pair. “Certainly. How is your leg, Captain?”
“Hurts like hell. The flexible German Navy cast thing itches like a spider’s nest. But I’m standing on it thanks to you.”
The doc just bobbed his head and walked away to refresh his drink.
Wilraven motioned them over to a quieter space.
“From earlier.” Wilraven jerked his thumb over one shoulder. “Another question.” He let the words sink in. “I may have been a bit groggy, but I was there when you took Levesgue over the side of the Marcene, headfirst, fifty feet into the sea. I don’t have trouble with that. If I could have done it, I would have. What I do have trouble with is that you—” he pointed at Adista “—were underwater for close to ten minutes. On one breath of air.” He turned to Tychasis. “And you went to the bottom of the Caribbean for over an hour—again, one breath of air—and you return with the dive hat of my dearest friend who lost her life in an accident that has . . . ” Pain clamped down around his throat. His mouth opened, but he couldn’t get another word out.
Tychasis looked directly at him. “Regina Lowell would have wanted you to get on with yours, Captain.”
Adista gave his arm a gentle squeeze along with a reassuring smile. “You said you had a question.”
Her calm voice unlocked his own.
“What exa
ctly are you?”
She leaned back, raised an eyebrow as if she was expecting a more difficult question. “Just a couple of friends who are good on ships and in the water.”
Ty seemed unsatisfied with that answer, and he was about to add something to it, but Adista stepped in, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Tychasis can handle any job on this ship. Beyond that, you want to know what he is?”
That was the question Wilraven really wanted answered—what were they beyond the jobs they could handle on a ship? Having been part of the crew of the Serina Beliz, he had assumed the first. “Yes, what is he?”
“Let’s see . . . ” Adista said thoughtfully, and gave him a gentle smile. “My best friend Ty is a poet.”
“A poet?” He said the words flatly. “With a shipmaster’s license, crane certification, and who knows what else?”
Tychasis smiled, too, glad the captain understood. “Precisely, Captain.”
Chapter Fifty-two
Just Breathe
The Marcene was tied up in Fort Lauderdale. Repair work wasn’t scheduled to begin for another two days. A big diesel generator on the dock ran power to the ship, and the captain remained aboard with his two guests. He had let everyone else go on two weeks’ paid holiday while he got the Marcene back in business.
Rusty flew down from the northeast to settle hazard pay accounts and ownership of the Serina salvage, get their attorneys to work out treasure salvage details on the Spanish silver, and sit down with the captain to figure out what to do for the families of Clark and Paulina. The phone calls to the Seifferts—Clark’s mother and stepfather—and to Paulina’s oldest son, William, had left him hollow inside, and he turned every ounce of energy that remained toward all the work that still had to be done. Throw yourself into the work. It was the only thing that had kept him sane after losing Regina in the spring.
He got up from his workspace and closed the lid to his old aluminum Mac, glancing up at Regina’s dive helmet on the shelf above. “Need some air,” he said to no one and headed out to the main deck.
Pulling in a deep breath of warm sea-salt breeze off the harbor, Wilraven was just coming around the portside curve where the deck followed the Marcene’s hull toward the bow when he saw a stranger on his ship, a woman in a long dark shirt and black leggings, her hair braided and swinging along her back.
She was barefoot and left wet footprints. He wheeled to follow the prints aft until they curved around the edge of the main structure. He didn't need to use crutches to get around anymore, painkillers kept the damage under control, but he couldn't do more than a good walking pace in Kozcera's flexible waterproof cast.
Turning back toward the bow, Wilraven stopped to grab the rail, leaning way out to see if he could get a better view of the stranger as she made her way forward. He caught a glimpse of swinging dark hair before she vanished. He walked as best he could along the lower deck walkway to investigate, stopping to peer down the corridors leading to the main deck cabins. He passed the medical station, ducked in to check. It was empty. He climbed the first deck stairs. She was gone.
With a few more doors and investigation he made his way up and around the bow, coming back down the starboard side. Adista was leaning on the rail ahead, her head bent down as if she was looking into the slow wash of the harbor against the hull. She straightened as Wilraven approached.
“Good afternoon, Captain.”
He frowned as if he was about to ask a delicate question, one that might sound insane, or one that would reflect badly on him. “Did you see someone, a woman, come this way?”
Adista nodded, waving over the side. “Sure.”
He followed Adista’s gesture out to the harbor. That wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “Who was it?”
“My sister,” Adista answered. “She’s been looking for me. I told her you were the one who rescued us—me and Ty. She went to check on you, and probably allowed you to catch a glimpse of her before she returned home.”
“Home?”
Adista waved at the water again, frowned sympathetically, and said, “My sister gave me everything she knows about the Ekhidnadai—and she knows quite a bit.”
“Okay,” he said reluctantly. The children of Ekhidna, the larval forms living in Ty’s abdomen—and in buckets in his cabin--tugged at his attention. He thrust the thoughts aside. “Tychasis is a poet, and you’re what? A soldier?”
Adista sighed. “I know my way around a battle. I have been in several.” She let her focus stop on his face. “But you’re still looking for more?”
“Yes. And I mean the underwater stuff, the singing and conjuring up the sea. I mean drawing swords out of thin air. I mean the way you move—like you’ve walked on a ship’s deck since you were toddlers, like the sea is in your blood.”
Adista brightened at his words, holding up her arm with the bright gold name bracelet facing toward him, stamped with eight Greek letters, ΤΕΛΧIΝΕΣ.
Thumping sounds above them indicated Tychasis was taking the outer stairway a couple of steps at a time. He jumped the rail one level up and landed in a crouch on the main deck, waving.
“I’m one of them.” She gestured toward her poet friend with her free hand. “So is Ty.”
Wilraven leaned forward to read the letters stamped in gold, then stepped back, watching Adista and Tychasis coolly. “Them?”
She opened one hand, spreading the fingers. “I could show you the webbing we have on our hands, but we have it hidden. It usually freaks surfacers out.”
Wilraven made a face at the idea of webbing between her fingers.
Adista laughed, but it was a carefree and sympathetic laugh. “It would be better if I showed you what I am. What we are.” She waved toward the bridge. “The Marcene’s not going anywhere. Now is the right time. Call Ocean Eight and tell Rusty you’re going to take out the Alexis O8.”
Wondering how she even knew about the Alexis, one of Ocean Eight’s smallest vessels, a thirty-four-foot tug, Wilraven looked over at Ty for any clues to what was going on, then he reached for his phone. “You’re going to show us something?” he asked Adista.
She shook her head. “I’m going to show you something. And only you.”
He waved the phone at her. “What do I tell Rusty?”
Ty tapped his fingers on the railing with a playful rap of beats, smiled and said, “Tell him you want to do a bit of diving.”
Wilraven started to smile, but he felt it sour on his face. “Are you playing me?”
Adista looked serious. “Do you mean am I trying to deceive you? No.” She reached out and put her hand on top of his knuckles, his fingers tightening around the Marcene’s rail. “I just don’t want this to get beyond you.”
That sounded like Corkran right before he was killed. “What is this? Some weird ritual? Was Captain Nersesian involved in something?” He gasped out a few syllables, some of it inspired by Nersesian’s years of letters and emails containing stories—stories described as fiction—about people and cities in the sea, more stemming from Corkran’s ship-sinking submarine experiments forty years ago. He was just trying to capture what was happening. “Are you part of some kind of military experiment?”
Adista smiled sadly, turning to Tychasis. “That’s not a completely wrong way of describing it—although we’re strictly freelance. Not tied to any nation or state. Ty and I don’t answer to anyone but ourselves.” She sounded bitter. “And it’s more of a curse than an experiment.”
Wilraven stared at both of them, shaking his head, lost.
She slapped him on the arm and abruptly said, “Come. Make the call. Say the word.”
He had his phone up to his ear, but he had another question. “So what are we going to do exactly?”
“I am going to show you something that will make you want to take me on as your first officer.”
He lowered the phone. It was as if all the strength drained from his arm, and he had to concentrate on keeping a grip on the phone. He felt a scowl tightening
across his face. “I already have a first officer.”
She was shaking her head, almost laughing. “No, you don’t. You’re going to put Angelo Goriaga in for captain of the Serina—once she’s back in operation.” Her laughter bubbled out at the immediate look of shock on his face, She gave his arm an encouraging squeeze. “Don’t be silly, Captain. It’s obvious to anyone who’s been on the Marcene for more than an hour.” She leaned back to elbow Tychasis. “And we helped raise a ship from the water with you.”
Wilraven frowned and made the call to Ocean Eight.
Two hours later, Wilraven pushed through the Fort Lauderdale sea channel and into the Atlantic. Adista wanted him to head straight out from there, cutting across the wide eastern seaboard shipping channel. They passed astern of a container ship heading for Port Everglades, thudding heavily across its wake. Adista kept pointing ahead until they were almost eleven miles out from the harbor.
He cut the engines when she told them they were there. Fully suited up—with some assistance from Ty—with tanks and gear, he was ready for anything. She just wanted him to get in the water. While he had been going over the portside with Tychasis leaning against the stern rail, Adista stripped down to shorts and bra and went over the starboard, sliding into the water without a noise.
Swimming took some adjustment with the cast, and he couldn't move as easily or swiftly as he usually could underwater, but he was getting along fairly well. Some prescription meds and the German Navy certainly knew how to make life easier for divers with fractured bones.
Wilraven had been under for a little less than an hour, and when he came up he was cold and silent, giving Ty a stern look when the mariner poet asked if he’d found what he was looking for.
The captain remained tight-lipped as Ty helped him peel out of his suit. He then headed below to find what the Alexis had for showers.
Adista was already waiting for him in the ship’s lounge, smiling and sipping a glass of water. He had lost her on the way up about ten meters from the surface, and apparently she had slipped aboard before he was climbing out of the water.
