Cataveiro

by E. J. Swift

  ‘About a lockdown? No, nothing. What happened? Not redfleur?’

  ‘No – although, did you hear about Cataveiro?’

  ‘Not the redfleur?’

  He nods.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah. They’re in quarantine.’ For a moment they sit in silence, knowing there is nothing to say, before Félix continues. ‘We’d already departed Fuego, but half the fleet was there when it all kicked off, and they got held up. A telegram came up the coast; we had to wait for them to catch up. Fuego wasn’t letting anyone in or out.’

  She frowns. ‘But why?’

  ‘Pirates was the line we were fed. But the rumours were there was a shipwreck down the coast. And not just any shipwreck.’

  ‘Antarctica?’

  Félix’s voice drops to a whisper. ‘Not even. A boat from the sea city.’

  She stares.

  ‘You know, the one they called Osiris,’ Félix adds, as if any clarification were needed. ‘But it couldn’t be, could it? I mean, the city was destroyed. Fifty years ago, it was all destroyed. Boats went there, they never came back, there was nothing.’

  She tries to say something but all she is capable of is a slack-faced oh. Félix mistakes her shock for incredulity. He keeps talking. It can’t be, it couldn’t possibly be. But why would anyone say such a thing? Who would make up a rumour like that? What did they mean by it? While Félix wonders aloud it is as if a series of events are slotting into place before Ramona’s eyes. The Antarctican, Taeo. His sudden, desperate message, the timing of which never quite added up, and yet she had never really questioned it, wondering, but not wanting to know more. She remembers his insistence that she fly a direct route to Panama. His fumbling for cash: take this. Whatever you need.

  The holoma.

  The holoma that was stolen from her.

  You must have something of value, said the truck driver. Otherwise, we would have let you die.

  ‘Félix,’ she says. ‘I think it’s true.’

  She thinks, how odd and unpredictable are the ways of the world. The lost city. The lost city is not lost. A revelation that, at another time, might consume her thoughts completely, and yet now all she can do is push it to the back of her mind, along with the fate of Cataveiro. After she has found her mother, she could try and track down an Antarctican agent and tell them what she suspects the holoma contained – but until then, this is somebody else’s problem.

  Through the afternoon she patrols the harbour relentlessly, but at no point does she see a transfer of people from a Patagonian ship to a northern one, or even people going on board a Boreal ship. They’ll move them at night, she thinks. This is secret cargo. They’ll take no risks; they’ll cover their tracks. And there is no possible way she can watch the entire fleet in the dead of night.

  She has to find out which ship her mother is on, and which ship she is being taken to.

  There are ten Patagonian ships. Félix’s ship, the Aires, is the only one she can absolutely discount. Of the others, the Bogotá is a renowned pirate hunter, and the least likely to be shepherding human cargo. She has had past dealings with the Rio’s captain, a young and impetuous character, but fiercely patriotic. That leaves seven ships to search which might have brought the prisoners, and the Boreal destination ship could be any of them.

  All manner of people are here, but they have one thing in common. They are hunters. They are looking for something: a spare part, a geotech seed or a rare frog for a private collection. Information.

  Ramona goes to the harbourmaster’s offices, a two-storey premises in a row of secure warehouses. Outside the cranes are swinging into action as cartons are deposited onto the docks, then taken to temporary warehouses for logging before being trucked down to their destination ship, or up to the market for less formal distribution. Any one of those cartons might hold people.

  Pushing aside her fears, she puts on her best swagger and strolls into the offices.

  ‘Hey, who do I talk to here about an unlogged package?’

  The clerk looks up at her, bored.

  ‘What’s your registration number?’

  ‘I don’t have one, that’s the thing. I’ve been sent all this way to pick up a package and all I know is it isn’t logged.’

  He smirks.

  ‘Sounds like blacklist dealings to me.’

  ‘There’s nothing blacklist about it. I just get told where to go and what to do. Seven years I’ve been hauling cargo and I never had to drive this far north before. Just do a girl a favour and give me a glance at the log register, would you?’

  He hands her a slate. ‘Everything’s named and numbered. No missing packages.’

  She scrolls dizzily through the logs. The numbers blink on the screen: fucking robotics, she can’t escape it. She is looking for something. She doesn’t yet know what. A glitch. An anomaly. If people are going north who shouldn’t be, someone has to feed them. Bodies have to be accounted for.

  ‘How many crew members on each ship?’

  He pulls up numbers on the slate, too quickly for her to see.

  ‘Look, it’s all right here. You people need to get computerized. Seriously.’

  ‘We don’t like machines,’ she says automatically.

  ‘It’s fucking medieval, that’s all I’m saying. Do you know how long it takes trying to equate credit with cash? And now I’ve got to find everything for you and it’s taking up my time …’

  ‘You’re taking up your time slurring my culture,’ she says sharply, too sharply for her previous, laid-back persona. He gives her a look.

  ‘I don’t have to help you, lady.’

  ‘I’m just doing my job, same as you.’

  ‘Here. Look. Read. That’s all the crews.’

  She bites down a retort. ‘Thanks.’

  She checks the numbers of the Boreal ships, and then she navigates painstakingly through the slate to find the scheduled water intake for each ship. There is nothing to suggest provision for additional passengers, on any of the ships.

  Félix is already waiting at the docks where they arranged earlier. She can tell at once that something is wrong. Félix’s emotions are written into his body, and the way he is standing betrays his agitation now. She hurries towards him.

  ‘What is it, what’s wrong?’

  He glances quickly about, then grabs her hand.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘I thought we were going to eat here?’ There are plenty of cafes and restaurants on the front, and she wants to maintain her surveillance of the ships, but Félix is leading her away from the docks, heading back into the town.

  ‘Seriously, what’s up?’

  He shakes his head: not here. She knows she won’t get anything out of him while he is in this state – it is rare for Félix to act so alarmist. She follows him through the town’s backstreets. Félix approaches and rejects several locations before settling upon a gloomy brasserie with barely any customers, where he orders two beers and brings them to a dark corner. The beers are served straight from the fridge. Ramona presses the glass to her cheek, savouring its coolness against her skin.

  ‘You’d better tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘You’re on the radio.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re on the radio! They’re saying you’re wanted, Xiomara’s after you. There’s a reward and everything. Shit, Ramona, you need to get out of Panama before someone recognizes you.’

  It is only in the silence that follows that she realizes why he has brought them to this particular place. There is no radio here. The brasserie’s music originates from a jukebox in the corner, playing melancholy old songs.

  ‘What exactly does the radio say?’

  Félix shifts nervously. She puts a hand on his knee.

  ‘Stop jittering. Tell me what you heard.’

  He drops his voice. ‘I heard Xiomara is offering a reward for anyone who captures the pilot Ramona Callejas. They said your name, your exact name. They said you’re wanted
in Cataveiro. How did you even get to that woman? You must have really pissed her off.’

  She remembers Xiomara’s face. Her final screaming words. The red rash all over her neck. On the other side of the desert, as far from Cataveiro as she could get without going north of the belt, she feels suddenly exposed.

  ‘I did.’

  Félix takes a gulp of beer. ‘You should leave now.’

  ‘How can I leave? I don’t have any transport.’

  ‘I’ve thought about it. We’ll hole you up on the ship until we leave. But we’ll have to do it at night, when it’s quiet. And I can’t tell any of the crew, not even the captain. They’re good people but we can’t trust anyone. I can bring everything you need, it won’t be long, just until the Exchange closes and then we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘Félix, I can’t leave, I can’t hide on your ship!’

  ‘It’s the only way. You’ve got to stay out of sight.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about the medicine. I’ll get it. I’ll get it for you, Ramona, I promise. Shit, I shouldn’t even say your name in here. We don’t know who’s listening.’

  ‘Shut up and listen to me a minute, will you? There’s a reason I can’t leave.’

  ‘The medicine, I know, I—’

  ‘My ma was taken by raiders.’

  The fuzzy sound of the jukebox drops into the silence. A singer who was popular twenty, maybe thirty years ago. An old song.

  Félix is staring at her, uncomprehending. ‘Inés?’

  Now Ramona is whispering.

  ‘Taken. By northerners. They’ve been kidnapping people from the villages on the east coast, and bringing them to Panama. That’s all I know.’

  ‘They took Inés?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me?’

  He is hurt, she can tell. Angry, too. He tries to swallow it.

  ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to get caught up in it.’

  ‘That’s my people there too.’

  ‘I know. I know. But Carla’s fine. It was Gabi who saw – she saw them take my ma.’

  ‘Fuck.’ He squeezes her hand. ‘Fuck. What do we do?’

  For a moment she feels the panic rising. The Exchange is short and she has so little time. This is why I didn’t tell him, she thinks. Because to say it aloud makes it real. Her eyes are wet. She can’t cry now, not here. She’s made it all this way. And she can’t waste time away from the docks, letting desolation swamp her. She needs to be there, on guard, watching …

  She wipes the tears impatiently from her cheeks.

  ‘Ramona.’ Félix pulls her into a careful hug. She leans against him, not caring that it hurts. ‘We’ll find her. We’ll look together. Tell me everything.’

  She tells him about the village in the mountains, what Gabi saw, about the worker at the desalination plant. She sees Félix’s anger growing as she explains that the stolen people are brought north by ship, a Patagonian ship; he shakes his head in disbelief. It is a relief, in the end, to share the burden. So many fears, unspoken until now. What do the northerners want with Inés? What are they planning to do with her? Félix says not to think about that.

  They finish the beers. Félix suggests a plan. It’s the stevedores, he says, who know what goes on a ship and what comes off. Those are the people they need to target. They can divide the names up between them, and while they’re at it, they can ask about the medicine. He’ll do that. It will draw less attention to Ramona.

  They begin their rounds the next day. Ramona is on edge, jumping at every unexpected movement. It takes an immense effort to get up and leave the room they are staying in. For all she knows, Yamila, who knew where she came from, has already sold the story to the Panama authorities. Her only hope is that the chaos of the Exchange will maintain her cover.

  Outside, the day is even hotter. She can feel her skin tightening under the sun. Her feet sweat in their sandals as she clops through the dusty streets. To the south of the town, she can see the distant swirls of sand devils in the desert. There is something strangely alluring about the sight. She remembers the jaguar, the moment she believed herself dead. The desert has marked me, she thinks. But I don’t yet know how and by how much.

  In her pockets she has a list of names, provided by Félix. He has given her the ones who have been in their jobs the shortest times. He says they are more likely to talk.

  The stevedores are all busy with the transfer of goods. She catches one on his break and offers to buy him a beer. He refuses, but says he’ll take a can. She worries it was a mistake, to offer alcohol – will he think she is trying to bribe him? She asks about unlogged packages. The stevedore is adamant. Nothing gets through without being checked off on the register. What about the black market, she asks. Everyone knows there’s a secondary trade. If there is, he says, it’s nothing to do with what goes on here, under his nose. Is she implying he’s not doing his job?

  She fares no better with the other names. Some are willing to chat, some are not, but on one point they are all agreed: nothing gets through the net. Halfway through the afternoon she feels eyes on the back of her neck and turns uneasily to find someone is watching her: the truck driver she met on her first day in Panama. She meets his gaze, suddenly suspicious. What was he doing down at the harbour in the heat of day, when the rest of the town was dozing?

  ‘Found what you’re looking for?’ asks the driver.

  She shakes her head. ‘Not yet. Care to help me?’

  ‘You’ve been asking a lot of questions, it seems.’

  ‘You don’t get answers without questions.’

  He smiles. She cannot tell the meaning of the smile. She begins to feel a creeping paranoia, a prevailing sense of dread pressing down on her with the impossible equatorial heat. Are they all in on it?

  The last name on the list. Ramona is exhausted. She gets someone to point him out to her, and watches him stacking crates for a while before she approaches. He’s the youngest of the workers she has spoken to, not quite grown into his body, with large hands and feet, lacking the rhythm of the more experienced stevedores. A light spread of acne still covers his cheeks.

  ‘You got a minute, kid?’

  He straightens, surprised.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You got a minute?’

  ‘A minute, I guess.’ He lifts his hat and wipes sweat from his forehead.

  Ramona points at the crates. ‘That’s normally my job. Except the boat I drive’s a lot smaller than those ships.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve never been this far north before either. You?’

  ‘No further than this.’

  ‘Ever thought about it?’

  ‘Fuck no.’

  ‘You’re a southerner like me, from your accent.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  He names a small town south of Cataveiro.

  ‘I know the region. Good people.’

  ‘They are. But hey, I’m not supposed to be standing round chatting. This is my first year on the Exchange, you know. I don’t want to make mistakes.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t want to distract you, believe me. I’ve got a boss too. I know what they’re like. That’s why I was hoping you could help me out.’ She pauses. He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either. ‘Some of the people in this town, they aren’t so friendly, you know? There’s no doing anyone a favour. Not how my mama brought me up.’

  ‘I guess they’re not the most talkative bunch,’ the young stevedore acknowledges. ‘But they’re all good guys.’

  ‘I’m sure they are. Listen, all I want to know is, is there anything that slips through the books? I mean, I can tell you’re all ridiculously efficient, but the Exchange is so huge, there must be the odd thing that isn’t logged.’

  ‘No, not really. It’s all very efficient, like you
said. Look, I’ve got this list, everything’s got a number and a destination, every number’s ticked off by us as soon as it comes off the ships. So nothing could get in or out the bay without us knowing, see?’

  ‘So there’s no fear of smuggling?’

  ‘Harbourmaster runs a tight crew. What you asking about smuggling for? That talk’ll get me into trouble, it will.’ He sounds distinctly nervous now, and she wonders if it is just the new job as he claims, or something more. She smiles.

  ‘I probably phrased it wrong. Like I said, I’m here for my boss. She’s had some stuff go missing – nobody’s fault at this end, I’m sure – and she’s asked me to come up here and have a look around for myself, see where the loopholes are. That’s all.’

  He shakes his head firmly. ‘I can’t see how anything could get lost. All the crates are logged.’

  ‘What about passengers?’ she says idly.

  He tugs nervously at the fine hairs on his chin.

  ‘What about them? All crew, isn’t it? Hardly any passengers cross the belt, I’m not sure there’s even a single one this Exchange. Not any I know about.’

  ‘Have you seen something?’ she asks softly. ‘Have you seen people?’

  The stevedore’s eyes dart around.

  ‘No. No, I haven’t seen anything.’

  Ramona feels a shiver of certainty. She leans closer, not letting him evade her gaze.

  ‘I’m looking for those people. They shouldn’t be here. You know they shouldn’t be here. So tell me what you saw.’

  ‘Look, all it was, a few people changed ships in the middle of the night, no lights or nothing. And that’s kind of strange. I only saw because I’d had a drink with one of the guys, and we were out late.’

  ‘Did he see it too?’

  He hesitates. ‘He said he didn’t see nothing. Maybe I imagined it. It was probably just shadows, is all. And I’ve got to get on with my job. I’ve been chatting to you way too long and you’re making me say things I shouldn’t.’

  ‘I won’t tell a soul. Which ship did they go to?’

  He turns pointedly away.

  ‘Which ship?’ she presses.

  ‘The Polar Star,’ he mutters. ‘Now leave me alone.’