Blood Ocean

by Weston Ochse

  They backed out of the doorway and let the fabric fall into place. They hadn’t gone ten feet when Pak stuck his head out of his home. “Listen,” Pak began, glancing back inside for a moment before stepping outside. “Abe knows. Abe wants to help. He’s one of the Real People.”

  “I wasn’t aware Real People wanted to help anyone,” Spike said.

  Kavika had to agree. He’d never interacted with them. He’d hardly ever seen them. They kept to themselves and didn’t allow transit on or above any of their ships. And because skying above their boats was forbidden, the Pali Boys couldn’t help but believe that the Real People were hiding something. And aboard a floating city, that couldn’t be good.

  “This one is different,” Pak said, seeing the suspicion in Kavika’s face. “Like your friend, the Boxers killed his son.”

  “Damn.”

  “He knows who the Boxers are who did this.”

  “If he knows, then why hasn’t he done something?”

  Pak stood with his hands out at his sides. “Look at me. Who am I to do anything? Who is he?” He gestured towards the Freedom Ship, which was a part of everyone’s horizon, like it or not. “They are too powerful. They are too much for us.”

  “What about the rest of your people?” Kavika asked.

  “They are too afraid. They don’t want the Boxers coming to them, so they don’t do anything.”

  “So who is going to stop them?”

  A hopeful grin flashed across Pak’s face. “Maybe you.” Then he ducked back inside the container, hollow laughter chasing him behind the curtain.

  After a moment Spike turned to Kavika and shuddered dramatically. “Ugh. I know I should be sympathetic,” she whispered, “But God... ugh.”

  They began making their way back out.

  “Why this maze, I wonder?” Spike asked suddenly.

  The question got Kavika thinking. It fit his mood perfectly. Not knowing where he was going, not knowing the next step—it all gave him a feeling of powerlessness. He was led to Pak, and now a Real Person named Abe. What next? Why couldn’t he see more of the solution rather than being led like a child through the process of discovery? He supposed that the thing about mazes was that one was never able to see the whole thing. If he could only see it, he could trace his route to the center. This was why he liked being a Pali Boy and living in the rigging. Up there, he was free. He could choose where to go and how to get there. Very much unlike living on the ground, where he could only see what was directly in front of him.

  “Pssst—look,” Spike whispered and poked him in the ribs.

  He glanced left but saw nothing.

  “Other way, stupid Pali Boy.”

  Kavika glanced right and saw a figure clambering over a cabin on a ship two away from the area demarked by the People of the Sun.

  “Who is it?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Tiburón?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The living dead girl.” He wanted to give chase, but she was too far away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE REAL PEOPLE was a confederation of white-skinned people comprising a large tanker, several dozen smaller boats and two perpendicular ships that had been fixed in place. Old Donnie Wu hated them, especially for the arrogance at selecting their name. Real People. As if everyone else wasn’t real. But it was Kavika’s mother who had taught him how the name came from a bad translation. Originally the ship’s captains, they were referred to as the Officials in the early days of The Great Lash-up, when the city was forming. The Chinese word for real and official were the same. Once the People of the Sun, the Water Dogs, and the Mga Taos began to separate into their groups, the Officials were called the Official People. Somehow, whether it was self-generated or some sort of irony, that term changed to Real People, which found its way into the popular lexicon. Wu called them White People, because not a single one had skin darker than a tan.

  Regardless of where they came from, if Mr. Pak was to be believed, the Real People had expressed their desire to help Pak deal with the Boxers. But there was a logic problem with that, one which Kavika couldn’t work his brain around.

  “What is it?” Spike asked. “Stomach ache?”

  “No. Just thinking.” He glanced at Spike and saw her smiling. “Oh—you knew that.”

  “You always get that look on your face when you’re thinking hard on something.”

  “Okay, then. Why would the Real People want to help Pak? They don’t know him. They don’t owe him anything.”

  Spike shook her head. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what their relationship really is. Look at me—what’s on the surface isn’t always what it is.”

  “Sure. I get that. But as much as we hate the Boxers, we can’t argue their reasoning. After all, without them we’d be no closer to a cure for Minimata disease.”

  “Them? Do you think they’re actually working for a cure?”

  “No,” Kavika acknowledged. “Not them. But the Corpers for sure. I mean”—he stopped to talk with his hands—“as bad as we hate blood rape, it’s meant to help us find a cure. I mean, everyone who is blood raped has the possibility of curing my sister’s disease... everyone’s disease.”

  “Not that I’d want to be blood raped and then monkey-backed—no offense to you or your sister—but then I don’t see the problem.”

  “You don’t? If being monkey-backed is the way to find a cure for Minimata, then why is it the Real People want to help Pak?”

  “You’re right. Everyone should be looking forward to a cure. We’ve seen more and more deaths from the disease—the numbers are rising. But like I said, we don’t know what their relationship is. Maybe Pak grows tobacco for them as well. Who knows?”

  They’d crossed several ships and were heading back round the Freedom Ship to the area of the Real People. The lagoon created around the Freedom Ship had an aeration fountain. As they watched, a slender black boat with several men wearing full-body SCUBA gear exited a hole in the side of the ship. The hole slid shut and the boat rumbled towards the fountain. One of the men held out a long catch rod with a bucket. He let it fill a moment, then pulled it back to where one of the other men took it and placed it in a sealed metal jar.

  “Corpers,” whispered Spike.

  “Has to be. Speaking of Minimata.”

  “Think that’s what it is?”

  Kavika grabbed her wrist. “Shh. Look.”

  The man who’d just retrieved the water now had something new on the end of his long catch pole, a slender black cylinder. They watched as he extended it over the fountaining water, then upended it. For a moment the water turned black, then returned to normal.

  “Mother Pele, what is that?”

  “Maybe a cure,” Spike suggested. “Maybe they are close.”

  Thoughts of his sister running and laughing as she’d once done soared through Kavika’s dark thoughts. “Could it be?”

  “What else could it—”

  Suddenly Spike shoved him out of the way, taking a club to the side of her head.

  Kavika grabbed her as she slumped. He backed away, dragging her with him. When he saw who had attacked, his heart sunk.

  Boxer!

  As tall as Kavika, the Chinese man was double his age. Fine veins crawled around his slender muscles. His tonsured head held the long, telltale braid of his gang. A graying Fu Manchu mustache bounced above a mouth filled with filed and broken teeth, and he spat Chinese curses. He was shoeless and shirtless, with an old dragon tattoo on his chest; the only scrap of clothing he wore was a pair of faded black pants that frayed to nothing just above the ankles.

  The Boxer lunged with the club, intent on catching Kavika in the head as well, but the Pali Boy was able to stay just outside the other’s reach. The Boxer swung again and missed, but so close that Kavika could feel the rush of air. In one arm he held Spike; the other he used to reach behind him, searching for the nearest ship’s rail.

  The Boxer kicked out and follow
ed the strike with a blow. Unable to block both, Kavika took the wood on his shoulder and immediately knew he shouldn’t have. The arm went limp and useless. Spike fell to the ground, still groggy from the blow she’d taken.

  Fear lanced through him as he saw the blood seep from her wound, eagerly soaked up by the sun-bleached decking. If it was only him he might have fled, but he had to save Spike. So instead of retreating, Kavika did something that surprised both of them—he stepped into the Boxer’s guard and kicked out at the Chinese man’s knees. His opponent backpedalled, but Kavika kept up the attack, and the Boxer was barely able to keep from losing the use of a knee or splintering a shin. When he came to the edge of the lagoon, he planted his feet, blocked a kick and managed to swing his club wildly, and Kavika threw himself to the deck and swept with his foot, catching the Boxer at the left ankle. The Boxer twisted but managed to sink to one knee to keep from splashing into the lagoon; his wild eyes sought something to save him. He shouted something just before Spike’s foot caught him in the face, then shot off the boat and crashed into the water.

  When Kavika climbed to his feet, he noticed that the man’s club had fallen, and was rolling towards the edge of the deck.

  Kavika slid over and snatched it up, and then sprang to his feet and grabbed Spike with both arms just in time to keep her from falling again. Her eyes were still unfocused. He heard the Boxer thrashing, but didn’t take the time to look. He propelled Spike before him and found the nearest ship. Kavika slung himself over the rail, then dragged Spike across after him. They’d gotten almost to the other side of the ship when he spied two more Boxers coming after them. One he recognized from Akamu’s media stick.

  The recognition must have shown on his face, because the other narrowed his eyes and shouted something to a third man.

  Damn! Had they been following them intentionally or were they just in the wrong place at the wrong time? What were the odds?

  “Spike—Spike!” He pinched her cheeks and shook her none too gently. “Come on!”

  “Ungh.”

  She could barely keep her head upright. Kavika gauged his position on the deck by where the other three stood. He had a single chance. If he’d been alone, he would have climbed into the rigging and been gone. But he had the responsibility of Spike and he couldn’t leave her, not after what they’d done to Akamu.

  Against every iota of self-preservation he’d ever had in the fear factory of his soul, Kavika charged the nearest Boxer. A Hawaiian battle cry ringing, his newly acquired war club swinging madly above his head, he dragged Spike behind him by one arm.

  The Boxer he’d targeted was leaning against the rail. For a moment he seemed ready to accept Kavika’s onslaught, then his grin fell as he glanced behind him at the water far below between the ships.

  But it was far too late for him to move. Kavika let go of Spike, launched himself into the air and hit the Boxer in the chest, bowling him over the edge. Kavika managed to grab the rail and wrap his arm around it before he, too, was propelled over the side by his own momentum. The Boxer scrambled for a grip, but there was none to be had. He fell the dozen meters to the water, hitting with a hollow clap.

  Kavika pulled himself back over and ran to Spike. The other two Boxers were advancing. Instead of hurrying, having seen what had happened to the others, they crept across the deck in a defensible crouch. Kavika looked at first one, then the other, trying to decide which one would get to him first. He’d always hated the idea of waiting. Without further thought, Kavika threw the club at the nearest one, then dragged Spike to the rail. He glanced down, saw what he’d hoped to see, and with a quick apology, slipped her over the rail until her feet dangled and let her go.

  He would have liked to have had time to see how she hit, but he couldn’t spare the moment. Hesitation had proven to be the downfall of the others. No way was he going to make the same mistake. He leaped the rail and vaulted to the next ship, landing on an old icebreaker converted to a pleasure yacht. He sped to the cabin. Behind it was a smokestack one could see from many ships away.

  The Boxers cursed behind him. Kavika risked a look; they were just pulling themselves over the railing. One fell and took a moment to gather himself, but the other came on strong.

  It was time to do what Pali Boys were good at, regardless of what Kaja had told him. Three more strides and he leaped, catching hold of the vestiges of an old ladder on the side of the great smokestack. It was sizzling hot from the sun and never meant to be touched, much less transited. The cured sharkskin was as useless a protection for his palms as were the rubber soles on his feet. So like a lizard, he scrambled up the rough metal, careful to let his hands and feet make only the most fleeting contact. Still, the heat soon had him biting back tears and wincing.

  Finally at the top, he pulled himself up the last few rungs and got his feet beneath him, staring down at the Boxers, who were unwilling or unable to follow him up the vertical shaft.

  He gave them the double shaka, bit back the bile of his fear and laughed.

  “You want me, you’re going to have to do better than that.” He felt the strain in his own laughter. He wasn’t used to bravado of this sort, and he knew that he’d end up paying for those words.

  The top of the smokestack was supported by two sets of wires. One ran down and connected to the center of a deck where children played. One of the Boxers ran towards it, cancelling the possibilities for that route. The other cable ran into an enclosed cylinder built aboard the flat deck of an old trawler, which was the home of the Sky Winkers. Since he couldn’t ever remember them doing any harm to anyone, he chose that route and was soon sliding down the wire naked, using his shorts to protect his hands.

  He gathered speed, dimly making out figures as he entered the darkness of the cylinder. Then he hit. He tried to tumble to dissipate the energy, but he only had a few feet before he slammed into the metal wall of the far side of the cylinder. He lay upside down, his vision blurry and jumbled, for a moment, until he was able to gather his bearings, then he let go of the shorts with his left hand and fell hard to the deck. He managed to stand on the second try, and wobbled as he pulled his pants on.

  He began to hear whispering around the edges of the cylinder. Soon he understood the words.

  Pali Boy.

  He made a shaka and waggled his hand. “Aloha.” He gave his best and brightest smile.

  A hunchbacked old man approached him. He wore a T-shirt that said I Grok Science. What little hair he had on his balding pate was long and white. His eyes were covered with strange goggles that had a single pinpoint hole from which he could see.

  “Sorry, Uncle. I did not mean to interrupt you. I was being chased.”

  “Chased is never a good state to be in. How is it you became the focus of such a thing?”

  “Asking too many questions.”

  “Ah. Just as in science, sometimes good questions require answers that make people uncomfortable. Was your question a good one?”

  The old man took Kavika by the elbow as he spoke and escorted him down a set of stairs.

  “It was a very good question, Uncle.”

  “Good. Make people answer. Even when they don’t like to. Here, we need to take care of your hands. You’ve burned them.”

  It was as if noticing caused his hands to begin throbbing. Pain surfaced and took over, causing him to grit his teeth.

  They went down two flights into the hold of the ship. Kavika immediately felt the coolness. The lights were as low as they could go and the surrounding metal seemed to conduct the temperature of the ocean.

  “You’ll have to forgive us. We abhor the light. It keeps us from seeing what’s in the sky, from communicating with those above.”

  Kavika didn’t need an explanation. The eccentricities of the Sky Winkers was a common subject. Mostly it was because no one really knew what went on inside their ship. But also it was because of their constant vigil of the sky, their beliefs in something called a space station and the idea that it ci
rcled the earth with people inside of it.

  They entered a large room with several families resting on scattered couches, many of them asleep.

  Seeing his observation, the Sky Winker said, “We sleep during the day so we can be awake during the darkness.” He tapped his eyeglasses, which he took off as he was speaking. “These help us protect our eyes from the light. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I wish I had something to protect me from the Boxers.”

  The Sky Winker sat back and exhaled. “Boxers... nothing good there.”

  “Name’s Kavika Kamilani.”

  “Doctor Timothy Lebbon. Call me Leb. Here, let me see those hands now.” Leb had grabbed a first aid box and now gently spread a cream onto Kavika’s hands. It immediately began sucking out the heat.

  Kavika relished the coldness of the medicine. “Ah.” He couldn’t help himself.

  “This is only temporary. Be careful for the next few days. So what was the question?”

  Kavika stared a moment, then grinned. “You mean the question that got me into trouble?”

  Leb nodded.

  “I was asking why a friend of mine was accidentally killed.”

  “And you’re sure it was an accident?”

  Kavika thought for a moment. He couldn’t be sure, but then he’d never contemplated that possibility. “Leb, what is it that you know about the Boxers?”

  The Sky Winker stared into Kavika’s eyes as he began putting the medicine back in the box. “Knowledge is like pain. There’s only so much that can be done to conceal it. Once you have it you have it.”

  “But I need to know. A friend of mine was blood raped, and he died because of it.”

  “Nothing good there.”

  “My sister has Minimata. If there’s any hope, it is in the blood rapes, no matter how terrible they are.”

  “Nope. Nothing good there at all.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “These are not connected issues.”