by David Poyer
When she woke again the cabin was nearly dark. Only the pearly luminosity of Antarctic twilight glowed through the portlights. Something had changed, but she wasn’t sure what. She leaned out and parted the curtain.
Perrault was in the dome. Strapped in, leaning forward, head twisted to look astern. His hands never paused on the wheel, exerting so much force they quivered. Beyond a certain point they had to turn off the autopilot. Only a human eye and skill could cope with waves so massive, such an uproarious sea. The captain’s lips sagged. He squeezed his eyes closed briefly each time a crest freight-trained past and Anemone floated airborne for a few seconds, arching at the top of her parabola as gear rose off the deck and Sara’s body surged against the straps. Then it all smashed down, the flat bottom crashing into hard sea like a van dropped from twenty feet onto concrete. Everything vibrated, and that fearsome cracking came again, as if something incredibly strong but not infinitely flexible was snapping fiber by fiber toward ultimate failure. Between these leaps they canted to starboard, and each time this happened tools and cutlery and parts fell clattering and tinkling out of their stowages, shoaling up along the starboard side of the salon.
Sara lay there as long as she could. Then, at one of the lulls between leaps, climbed down over a motionless Georgita, who stank even more strongly now, and hand-over-handed herself up the slanted deck into the salon.
Perrault spared her a glance. “Sixty knots in the gusts.”
“How much worse will it get? What’s the forecast?”
“Forecasts aren’t much good down here.” He squinted ahead. “We just have to hang on until it blows over.”
“Georgita’s not well. I’m getting worried.”
“Is she strapped in?”
“Yes, but she’s not eating, and I don’t think she’s getting out of the bunk to … go to the bathroom.”
“Maybe not a bad choice right now, with a broken arm. Can you clean her up?”
She swallowed. Bad memories of taking care of her mother, as she’d died. In terrible pain, with a doctor too frightened of the law to prescribe anything powerful.
“It would be good of you,” he said. “Get Tehiyah to help.”
“Tehiyah?”
“Georgie’s her assistant. Why shouldn’t she help?”
Sara thought this unlikely, but a crazy lean so far to starboard she was lying on the bulkhead interrupted her. Anemone hung canted for long seconds, then staggered back. “All right,” she muttered.
“I just don’t think it’s something Georgie’d want one of the men doing.”
A convenient excuse, she thought. The captain twisted to look off to port, then spun the wheel. A wave crashed into the side, toppling them again, though not quite as far.
“We’re rolling a lot harder.”
“It’s veering on us as this low passes. I had to come right, but that’s not good either. Thing is…” he glanced back again, corrected, not looking at her. “I can’t build up speed because I have to watch for ice. And in these seas, all this spray, I can’t see more than a hundred yards. At the bottom of the trough there’s no wind, but we have to have speed to maneuver. Then at the crest we get hit with the full force.”
“Are we in danger? Should you, I don’t know, start the engine?”
“We’ll need every drop of fuel when we catch up to the Japanese. And lack of power’s not exactly my problem.”
She nodded, not really understanding, her mind moving to the task ahead. But instead of getting to it she felt her way aft, handhold to handhold, avoiding wet patches on the deck. Finally she reached the after cabin. Rapped on the teak door. “Tehiyah?”
A startled yip. “What?”
“I need help.”
“What do you mean?”
“We need to get Georgita cleaned up.”
“Can’t you take care of it?”
“I could use some help.”
Silence was the only response. Sara took a deep breath and lifted a hand to knock again. Then let it drop. She should have known better than to ask.
* * *
She was in the galley gathering paper towels and vinegar when the boat toppled again, slowly, deliberately. She clung like a spider, waiting for it to come back, but it hung for as long as she might take to draw a breath.
Then another wave crashed into them, and they went over. Vinegar and towels went flying. Her whole body stiffened, tree-dweller reflex flinging out her arms and crimping her hands against whatever they struck first.
She’d been leaning against the sink; now she was bent backward over it, looking straight up at the galley door, which had swung open and hung straight down. From forward and aft came crashes and screams. Above her a piece of radio gear tore out of a rack, dangled for a moment by its cables, then dropped straight down as if aimed for her. She lay pinned, helpless; all she could do was throw an arm up. At the last possible second the boat staggered and the heavy assembly smashed into the jamb instead, cracking the wood like a hydraulic logsplitter. It spun on its axis, tumbled past her, and demolished the spice cabinet.
The boat sounded as if it was coming apart around them, piece by piece, with every maul-blow of the waves. Lying on her side, Anemone was taking each new sea full on her exposed, flat bottom. Each impact smashed her sideways. Sara clung to the sink, waiting for them to turn completely over. If they did, maybe the little semienclosed galley was the safest place just now, to judge by the gear and metal flying around in the main salon. A hollow booming came from forward, then a crash and howled curses in Bodine’s voice. A deep strumming echoed from all around, as if they were trapped inside a broken guitar being kicked around on bricks.
Suddenly she had to get out. The wet-gear locker. Her mustang suit. Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly, but staying in here waiting for something to crush her or for the hull to split apart—no. She reached for the jamb where it wasn’t splintered. Waited until the world staggered partially upright again, and jumped and caught it and folded herself around as if kipping on a bar. She hung, gasping, then scrambled over into an apelike crouch.
Ahead and above her the captain hung half out of his chair, fighting the wheel savagely. Quill was with him, both straining to force the helm over. The boat started to come back, then shuddered as another huge sea burst over them. Turbulent green covered the plastic dome above the struggling men, then vanished as wind tore it into white froth and whipped it away. The roar and clattering all around made thought impossible. She clung helpless, forgetting where she’d been going. With a hoarse shout a body fell like a shot duck from the portside cubby; Madsen, dropping free across yards of space to crash into the starboard bulkhead with a sickening thump.
She started to fight her way aft, then froze. “What in fuck’s name am I doing,” she whispered. Hesitated, looking yearningly toward the companionway; then turned back and crept on hands and knees over pots and pans and broken crockery toward where Madsen lay curled like a fried eel, moaning. “Lars, you all right?”
“My head, hit my head. Pis og lort.”
“Let me see.—Dru! He’s bleeding! You’ve got to get us back upright!”
“Tabernac! What d’ hell you think I’m—”
“Jamie—”
“Downwind, Dru, you’ve got to let her run. Yeah, that’s away from the Japs. But it’s the only way we’re going to recover.”
“These seas’ll swamp us. Break in the companionway.”
“It’s our only chance. If that keel snaps, we’re never coming back up. We can’t keep this course. Dru!”
Sara glanced up. She’d thought Quill was trying to help Perrault, but now made out in the dim light that both men, lips drawn into rictuses of effort, were straining against each other beneath the dome. She stared, appalled.
Then, all at once, the captain lifted his hands from the helm, raising them like a priest addressing Heaven, and Quill wrenched it over. Now both were working together, one steering, the other hauling madly on the control lines. Anemone surge
d, tried to rise, but failed. She rode up and down again, and more gear tore loose up forward in a cascade of heavy thuds.
At last she gave a drugged lurch and rolled drunkenly upright. She pointed her bow in a great woozy circle, as if feeling her way through a dark tunnel; then staggered into forward motion again. Gradually she straightened still further, as if relieved of some immense burden. She lifted her tail, arching like a cat in heat; then once again resumed that long, violent pitching.
Sara realized she was sitting in wet cloth, cradling Madsen’s bloody head on her lap. They were both looking up at the piloting station. Perrault and Quill were steering with heads lifted, as if listening for something astern. “Not swamping us yet,” the mate ventured.
“We lost something.” The captain passed a hand over a ragged face. “I heard it. A spreader, or a shroud.”
“I’ll go topside and check.”
“No, Jamie. Wait until morning.”
“If it’s a shroud, the mast’ll be gone by then.”
Perrault shook his head, lips compressed. “Stay here.”
The minutes stretched out, and Sara crouched, still terrified. At last she took a deep breath and looked around. Georgita? No—forget Georgita. She’d see to her in the morning. If they made it to morning. If something else didn’t break, and doom them, here in this immense lonely waste.
She stretched out beside Madsen, feeling him gather her in his arms. After a moment she put hers around him, too. But there was no heat in the embrace. They simply lay in the cracking, pitching dark, fingers digging into each other desperately, both of them shuddering, as cold as ice.
6
The Whale
Two days later she climbed the companionway by sheer will. Her arms vibrated like tuning forks. Every muscle had passed through aching into the dull numbness of a dead tooth.
She topped the ladder and shaded her eyes, blinking in the dazzle of a low sun that flashed polished brass off five-foot seas with jade-green flames in their hearts as they rose and heaved and passed on. Offering Anemone to the sky, then lowering her to whisper on. The huge golden-and-bronze jib bulged each time she rose, then wrinkled and shrank as she declined. The brightness brought tears to Sara’s eyes, and she fumbled at her pockets.
Through polarized sunglasses the sea took on a deeper blue, beyond indigo. Surreal hues oiled waves with the colors of shattered glass found on a deserted beach. A few cotton-puff clouds sailed high above, miles between each and the next. The sky was a dark sapphire cupola above the whirling cups of the masttop windvane. It deepened to lavender, then russet as her gaze dropped to the horizon.
She turned in a complete circle, gripping the companionway coaming as Dorée pushed past into the cockpit. No other sail marred the great circle of the sea. No ice, either, which was reassuring, but made her wonder where it had all gone. They were much farther south than when they’d first encountered the bergies.
“It’s almost warm,” Eddi said wonderingly.
Sara turned; the videographer squatted atop a yellow drum, lowering the camera. Had she been filming her as she gaped? Fleece ski pants covered the tattoos that snaked down Eddi’s legs. She was naked from the waist up, small sallow breasts innocent, brown nipples erect with the cold. Beside her on the drum was spread that same grimy German army sleeveless tee, the black wings of the stylized eagle echoing the riot of animal designs that ran down her arms. She wore fingerless thin black leather gloves.
“Good grief, Eddi. Aren’t you freezing?”
A crooked smile. “The sun feels good. Anyway, we’ve got to get used to being cold.”
“I don’t seem to be getting used to anything out here.” Sara tugged her zipper tighter, shuddering. Sunny it might be, but the air was still glacial. The wild sea was lovely, but she couldn’t ease the bone terror learned over the last few days. She eased out a quivering breath. A swaying bundle drew her eye upward again. Perrault, dangling high in a canvas sling. Her gaze traced the hoisting line down to where it wrapped a winch, then rested tautly in Quill’s big gloved hand, the mate’s boot braced against the coach house as he alternately looked aloft and aft, leering at Auer.
Little eyes squinted redly at Sara; the black braided beard nodded. “See you’re up and on deck.”
“Good morning to you too, Jamie. What’s the damage?”
“Broken spreader.”
Dorée snickered. “I know a few actors with that problem.”
Sara suppressed a sigh. “That’s the horizontal pole up there? That holds the uh … the shroud away from the mast?”
“Guess you could say that. Bloody fooking lucky we’ve that double spreader rig. And that ’twas the starboard one that busted.”
She shaded her eyes again, and spotted a dangling length of aluminum or maybe some kind of gleaming carbon. The captain’s face was bent to where this connected to the mast. A tool glittered; a repetitive clang drifted down. “What would have happened if…”
Quill’s gaze kept sliding past her to the half-naked woman in the cockpit. “If the port ’un broke? We’d have lost the buggerin’ mast.” His free hand slid inside his coveralls. “Eh, you strippin’ down too? We can make a party of it.”
“No, thank you,” she said drily.
A shout from aloft. Quill raised his head and shifted his boots. The winch ratcheted. The wheel rotated tenantless. Who was steering? Then she caught white and brown, the goofy, wide-open cartoon eyes of Madsen’s hound-dog hat in the plastic dome.
Which reminded her, she hadn’t seen Bodine at all during the storm. “Has anyone seen Mick?”
“I did,” Auer said. “He’s fine.”
“Wonder if he’d like to come up.” She waited, but no one said anything.
* * *
He did eventually, an hour later, a bundle wadded under his armpit. He balanced on metal and plastic, looking up to where Perrault was pinning a new spreader into place. The old one lay in the cockpit, twisted crystalline gray at the fracture point. “Anywhere up here to hang out wet stuff?”
“Good idea, let’s peg out the oilies,” Quill said. He picked up the broken metal, examined it critically, and flipped it end over end over the side. It struck with a splash, sinking fast as it dropped astern, visible beneath the water for only a few seconds before it melted into the wavering green. “Long’s we got sun. Anywhere on the windward lifeline. There’s small stuff in the locker if you want to lash it.”
She went below to gather her own clothes. Georgita was awake, staring up at the underside of Sara’s bunk. Her reddened eyes did not blink. “You okay, Georgie?” Sara asked her.
“All right.”
“Want me to help you to the toilet? To wash up?”
“That’s all right. I was just listening.”
“Um … listening?”
“Can’t you hear them? They’re all around us.”
“Who? Who’s all around us?”
“I’m not sure. But I can feel them. So beautiful. Like angels.”
What was she talking about? Sara frowned. She’d sponged her down during the storm, and Eddi had cleaned her up again the night before. She wouldn’t have minded, if the woman had really been ill. But something else was wrong, something more fundamental and systemic than a broken arm. What sane adult seemed perfectly content to soil her sheets? “You ought to get up, Georgie. You can’t stay in your bunk forever.”
“My arm hurts.”
“Let’s see.” She knelt and peeled the blanket aside. The splints were in place. The arm looked puffy, but not alarmingly so. Yet the girl seemed unable to manage the slightest effort. “You can’t stay in bed,” she said again, more sternly. “It’s nice topside. The sun’s out.”
“I don’t really want to. Thanks.” She turned her face to the hull and her eyelids sank closed. Sara hesitated, kneeling. Then thought: Fine. Whatever. She got up and began pulling dirty underclothes out of her laundry bag, wincing at the fermented stench.
* * *
Presently the
lifeline flapped with socks, underwear, and inside-out mustang suits. Walking the length of the deck, balancing against the roll, but enjoying the opportunity to move around, she doubted they’d dry completely—not soaked with salt water—but there was no fresh to rinse with. The air might be a degree or two above freezing. Auer had put her fleece top back on. The sun was an orange Necco Wafer on the horizon. Below the Circle, it never set, only spiraled, gradually rising each day, until it reached its apex at the height of the Antarctic summer; then slowly declined. She hugged herself, still worrying about Georgita. Bodine could set a bone, but she couldn’t shake the feeling something else was wrong. It wasn’t natural to lie in your own …
“Don’t stare at it,” Quill warned, hustling past with a heavy-looking bag of red sailcloth. Up forward Perrault and Madsen were dropping the jib, gathering in great flapping folds as it slid to the deck. “And if you stay up much longer, put on sunscreen.”
She heaved a sigh. This seemed overprotective, after they’d barely survived a gale, but she just nodded.
“Want some of mine?” Dorée held out a tube.
Surprised, Sara took it. The product was labeled in French and looked expensive. “You sure?”
“Keep it, I have plenty. One of Jules’s companies makes it. How’s Georgie?”
“I’m worried.” She explained. “Now she won’t get up at all.”
The actress frowned. “Want me to have a look?”
“Actually, Tehiyah, Eddi and I could’ve used your help cleaning her up.”
“I’m no good at that type of thing, I’m afraid. Maybe it was a mistake, letting her come.”
Sara stared. Could Dorée have forgotten she’d browbeaten the girl into coming? That smooth lovely face gave no clue. The actress massaged her cheeks where the sunscreen emollient glistened. Then her forehead, taking her time, as if working cream polish into a rich leather saddle. Catching Sara’s examination she smiled, full dark lips bending into a lovely curve that expressed far more than a simple smile should.
“Do you want me?” she murmured.
Sara started. “I … excuse me—?”
