The Simmering Seas

by Frank Kennedy

  “What …?”

  “Don’t talk. Just listen. Easier that way. My hand’s not steady.”

  “Please.”

  Ryllen saw it. The recognition. The horror. One time, a man peed himself on this spot.

  “Last year, you were one of twelve,” Ryllen said. “You arrived here in two boats. You were disguised as immo smugglers, but it was an ambush. You knew Green Sun was waiting. You killed us all. If you try to deny it, I’ll slice you open. Talk.”

  Loma breathed in short, tremulous spits.

  “No. No, Royal. What? I wasn’t …”

  “So, you’re not interested in keeping your head?”

  Ryllen saw the wheels turning in Loma’s mahali-addled mind. He wasn’t surprised by the sudden turn.

  “You weren’t here,” Loma said. “Nobody survived. We filled them full of flash pegs. If you were here, you’d be dead.”

  “I was. Then I wasn’t. Woke up. Saw three men standing over me. Your boss shot me in the head. Dead again. Then I wasn’t. Funny.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Nope. Just immortal. It happens. Good news, Loma. Play it right, and you can walk out of here. All you need to do is tell me where to find Shin Wain.”

  Loma’s eyes narrowed. Ryllen saw the next lie coming.

  “How am I supposed to know where he is? Never met the man.”

  “You did that night. He showed up late, after the dirty work. One more chance. Where is Shin Wain?”

  “You won’t find him.”

  “Where is Shin Wain?”

  “I haven’t worked for him in months. He moved on.”

  “Where is Shin Wain?”

  “He left Pinchon for another island. That’s all I know.”

  “Oh, I’m banking you know a lot of things, but the rest don’t matter to me.”

  He retracted the blades. The eyes told Ryllen what he needed: Loma possessed nothing else of value. He rolled off the prey and sprang lively to his feet before Loma might contemplate retaliation. Like the ones before, Loma needed a moment to gain a new appreciation for life.

  Ryllen tapped the bicomm melded to his left wrist. A six-inch figure of a Hokki emerged. Twentysomething. Tall and lean. Bold red hair with orange streaks.

  “His name was Kai. He was shot near the entrance. Maybe you were the one. His name was Kai, and he saved me. I loved him. You filth killed him. Anything to say?”

  Loma sat up, one hand massaging his neck.

  “Who are you, really?”

  “Who am I? A man who’d rather be with Kai right now. But I can’t, because nobody knows how to kill me for good.”

  Ryllen spun, reached for his jacket, and retrieved a device the size of his palm. He turned and aimed as Loma reached his feet.

  Ryllen didn’t want a bloody mess. Less evidence, the better.

  He fired the Goodboy twice, its flash pegs burning holes in the prey’s chest. Loma landed with a smack against the stone where he once anticipated a brilliant night of sex.

  Ryllen cleaned up quickly. The tide needed to do its job. The currents were strong here, but timing was crucial.

  When he discarded the last evidence, Ryllen took stock.

  This was a fruitful night. He learned something new.

  He needed to tell Ham Cortez by morning.

  13

  R YLLEN DIDN’T REQUIRE A HOME, although the occasional bed with toilet access proved useful. Many nights he parked the rifter in a quiet spot and curled up until sunrise, moving on before suspicious eyes turned his way. Otherwise, he relied on the charity of “friends” whose problems he made disappear. Attics, basements, and safe houses welcomed him in interludes no longer than a few days. He dropped Dims at public baths, mobile kiosks, or fresh seafood vendors near the port. Living invisible in Pinchon proved simple; living secure came down to how fast he drew a gun.

  An hour after he sent his prey’s body out with the tide, Ryllen showed up at Harra Su’s traveling sea boil on the northern outskirts of Umkau. Harra converted an old public hopper bus into a mobile kitchen, complete with working nacelles for low-skim travel. She specialized in Quomo-style seafood – skinned and boiled in heavy salt then dressed in a sweet vinegar. Acquired taste with a cult devotion, but Ryllen’s favorite on an empty stomach.

  Plus, it was on the house. Harra owed him.

  “Five minutes to close,” she said, hands on hips, when he rapped the service window. “Always the same with you, RJ. I have ten locations, and you always know which.”

  He shrugged. “Would you believe I’m a good guesser?”

  “One day I will find the tracker you planted.”

  “What? Harra, you hurt me. I’m here because nobody does Quomo like you. And I’m always last, so you give me whatever’s left over. Got any F’helda ropes? Three? Four?”

  “You know I do. My best seller, especially on a nice Yeodlin night like this. Always boil too much. I’ll season a carton. But here,” she said, handing him a clear cup containing orange chunks. “Mango to ripen your stomach. The F’helda, it’s …”

  “Chewy?”

  “Stringy. Second-day batch.”

  “Oh. Quality control problems?”

  She wagged an indignant finger. “Do not go there, RJ. I do not need your help with my supplier.”

  “OK.” He ate the fruit. “I can always put a word in. Or more.”

  “Say nothing,” she said, stirring a tall pot. “You hear me? I do not need trouble. People disappear when you ‘put a word in.’ Yes?”

  “Sometimes for the best. Heard from Anho lately?”

  Harra grabbed a pair of long metal tongs.

  “No. He is a memory. A bad one.”

  “One day, he won’t even be that. You’ll see.”

  She dropped three steaming F’heldabeast ropes, which resembled malformed intestines, into a serving carton and squirted them with vinegar. He raised a thumb to request a second squirt. Harra gave her vinegar an extra tang by adding in diced razorweed. Ryllen thought she bested the competition, and he’d eaten from every sea boil north of Umkau to south of Zozo.

  Harra scanned the promenade, where shops closed, and revelers disappeared into the night. Ryllen slurped up the white strands of meat as if they were noodles.

  “Did you kill him, RJ?” She asked.

  He bit through uneven skin to savor the tender meat within. Her question didn’t surprise him, though she took four months to ask.

  “You told me not to. I keep my word.”

  “Anho is not a man to be silenced for long.”

  “I hear New Seoul is a tough city. Swallows up assholes like him. Especially if they only got a three-fingered left hook.” He saw the sly grin tucked inside her feigned shock. “You got a nice smile, Harra. Need to use it more, especially with the bruises gone.”

  “To what end? Find another husband?”

  “I was thinking more about customer service. And don’t worry about Anho. He won’t set foot on the island.” Ryllen laughed. “Unless he wants his fingers back.”

  She stepped away from the counter.

  “You are a cold-blooded man, RJ, but I am glad you like Quomo. Do you have a room for tonight?”

  He finished off the fish and slurped the vinegar.

  “I’m a man about town.” Ryllen left her with a snap of his fingers. “Keep the boil bubbling.”

  A room awaited crosstown in the Naansi district. Open invitation, bed overloaded with pillows and room scented in smythe, and a girl a couple years younger who did wonders coloring his braids. All her mother asked in return was that he service them both on demand. It wasn’t a difficult chore – they were passive fans of intercourse with Randalls. Some cultish myth about the special properties of Chancellor semen. Ryllen never shattered their illusion by speaking of his true origin. A bed was, after all, a bed.

  Tonight, however, he needed to be alone. The killing didn’t bother him, for he’d risen to many a sunrise without the first shade of remorse. This was his fif
th at Ronin Swallows, all well-deserved. But like the previous four, Ryllen reserved the night for alone time with Kai.

  He parked the rifter three kilometers north on Gangkwan Beach beneath the island’s tallest cliffs. Rocky, seaweed strewn, shells crackling beneath feet – Gangkwan was no one’s favorite haunt, which set up perfectly for Ryllen. He found a rare spot of clean sand near the water’s edge, wet but firm, and made himself comfortable.

  The stars were sharp tonight, and the Kye-Do rings scaled the western horizon at twenty degrees. A comforting warm breeze curled in from the northwest.

  He opened a flask and downed a shot of sanque then tapped his bicomm. The three-dimensional image of Kai Durin – his first, best, and only love – stared back with a stoic half-smile.

  “Seven down,” Ryllen mumbled. “Picked up a lead tonight. Getting close. I feel it. Bet you never thought I’d stay on point so long. I had my doubts, too. But here we are, past the halfway mark. I’m gonna kill that cudfrucker, but I won’t make it easy for him. He’ll beg me to put him down.”

  Sometimes, he talked for hours to Kai, who he last saw in Ronin Swallows, his body riddled by flash pegs and tangled green hair covering his face, matted with blood. Ryllen spoke of their best moments, from the night Kai rescued him off the streets, to their successful missions in Green Sun, to the first time Ryllen reciprocated Kai’s love.

  “It’s been four hundred and twenty-seven days, Kai. Might as well be yesterday. Even after fifty thousand, it’ll still be yesterday.”

  Therein lay the problem: Ryllen would never stop counting because his days were never going to end. Even if they had somehow survived a lifetime of wars to grow old together, Kai couldn’t escape final judgment. He’d leave in peace and sentence Ryllen to an eternity of grief.

  “I’m glad you never knew,” he said before deactivating the bicomm. “How long could you have loved a freak?”

  He laid back on the sand and studied the stars until he fell asleep.

  After sunrise, he awoke refreshed and eager to build on his progress. Ryllen knew Ham Cortez’s morning routine and reached the Plaza Fresh Market in Zozo as the vendors opened their stands. Every fruit, vegetable, and herb cultivated on The Lagos filled half a block. Early customers were sparse, but crowds were inevitable.

  Ryllen scooped a small bag of loganberries and tossed the old vendor three Dims. The man winked. He was a relic who only accepted hard currency, costing himself business by not erecting an AutoScan. Likely one of the old guard longing for bygone days, before hand-comms and credit vallors. The time of the Collectorate.

  Ryllen took pity. He also loved the sweet-sour tang of loganberries in the morning.

  Ham wasn’t hard to find. As always, the rogue ex-Chancellor carried a commanding presence, taller than everyone by half a foot and dressed in the traditional Sak’ne as if preparing to visit temple – a thousand years ago. He examined the produce with a discriminating eye, nodding approval to the vendor whether he purchased or not. He once explained his process: Ham purchased from every vendor at least monthly, with a ten percent tip. They appreciated his egalitarian approach. Though none were his friends, all were his allies.

  A deep, woven basket hung from his right arm. He grabbed two breadfruit and waved his hand-comm against the vendor’s AutoScan.

  “Exceptional, Meera,” he told the charmed young lady behind the stand. “They will be as tender and sweet as the last.”

  Ryllen walked abreast and ate loganberries like candy.

  “Laying it on heavy,” Ryllen said with muffled voice. “I know Hokkis just like her. She’s begging for a night with a Randall.”

  Ham smiled through his beard. “I’m spoken for, thank you.”

  “In case you ever wanted a little something on the side. Yes?”

  “I prefer a single plate, kid.” He grabbed a cucumber and sniffed. “No one ever smells these. They judge by touch and sheen.” He repeated the procedure three times then dropped them into his basket. “You’re out and about early on this fine Jeglin.”

  “Me? I’m one with the sun, Ham. Maximize the day. You taught me that months ago. I follow my mentor’s lead.”

  “Ah. I see. I’m one of those, am I?”

  Ryllen leaned closer. “I made a breakthrough last night. Confirmation about Shin Wain. We haven’t found him because he’s off island. Given everything else we know, he’s still in The Lagos.”

  “Outstanding, kid. You’ve narrowed the field to fifty-six islands. And who is this we? I wasn’t aware I was involved in the search.”

  Ryllen reached into a pocket. “You lend me your special tools. That makes you part of it.”

  He handed over the cylinder used on his latest prey. Ham flexed his brows as he tucked away the tiny device.

  “The spider claws. I was wondering where they disappeared to. I don’t think lend is the proper word. And Shin Wain is your obsession, kid, not mine.”

  “Been telling you for a year I’m not a kid.”

  “Oh, yes. I know.” He studied an assortment of grapes, both the green and blue varieties. “You’re a man because you’re nineteen and you kill people. And as I have told you for a year, manhood is defined neither by age nor the ability to slaughter humans. Yes?”

  Ryllen smiled at the vendor, who stared quizzically.

  “Maybe bring it down,” he whispered. “We’re in a market.”

  Ham chuckled. “You brought it up. Your latest badge of honor.”

  “Fine. What say you meet me over …”

  Ham wagged a finger. “Watch carefully.”

  He weighed a bunch of blue grapes, completed the AutoScan, and bowed his head to the vendor. She was short and wire thin.

  “And the best Jeglin to you, Honored Cortez,” she said with a beaming smile.

  Ham moved on. “They respect me. They know nothing of my past, nor do they care. What they see is an off-worlder who is now one of them. They also know I’m a formidable opponent should anyone cause them injury. Zozo is my nest. So, if I deign to prattle on with a poser like you, they assume it must be to good end.” After a dramatic pause, he added: “Kid.”

  Ryllen didn’t put up a fight. He’d been down enough losing rhetorical stairwells. He excused himself and waited at the market’s entrance until Ham finished his shopping.

  Free of the growing crowds, they started up the old stone streets. Ham lived in a walk-up three blocks away.

  “For the sake of argument,” Ham said, “you left no trace?”

  “I never leave the body. You know that.”

  “I should remind you, there are less than sixty Chancellor-born on The Lagos. We tend to stand out. If you are ever linked …”

  “I won’t be.”

  “You’re a serial killer, RJ. Worse, you seek vengeance. In my considerable experience, people like you make reckless mistakes. The Constabulary are idiots. Yes. But they need not be competent if they possess one strong witness or piece of physical evidence.”

  “Trust me, Ham. I know. I won’t put the community at risk. But I won’t stop until all twelve are dead.”

  “Which is the only reason I teach you so many techniques and lend you – note the operative word, lend – my tools. Better your crusade be finished in short order. Sit with me.”

  They stopped at a stone bench. Ham set his basket aside.

  “I wish to pose a scenario, kid. Would you be able to put your bloodlust on hold if you killed Shin Wain but four of his assassins lived?”

  “You mean, give them a pass?”

  “Kid, these are not upstanding Hokkis. Whatever pass you hand them will collapse of its own accord. Time and fortune will see to it.”

  “No. They all die at my hand.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know which one hit Kai with the kill-shot. This is the only way to be sure.”

  “Shin Wain hired that team to ambush Green Sun. Without him, Kai Durin lives. You are happy, you are mortal – or so you’d assume - and we do not know e
ach other.”

  Ryllen closed the bag of loganberries.

  “I do this for Kai. We’ve had this talk, Ham.”

  “It’s interesting. You always reference Kai, but you lost many other brothers and sisters that night. I’ve never heard you speak of them. Yes, yes, I realize Green Sun turned its back on you, but the circumstances were extraordinary. Nonetheless, they were Hokki, and you fought alongside them for the same cause.”

  “Your point?”

  “This crusade is not about your love for Kai. Your true love is your hate, and it will lead to no end.”

  “You’re wrong. I love Kai more than ever.”

  “That’s your guilt talking. You walked away. He did not. Whatever genuine feelings you experienced in his arms were as transitory as all emotional infatuations. You’re a killer, RJ. It’s in your bones. You can murder all twelve, and it won’t be enough. Back during pre-history – before the Collectorate – you would have been said to have lost your soul. Humans believed in an artifice which contained a transcendent life force. Those lacking a soul were thought savage, amoral, insane. You are, by turn, all those things. But no one suspects … yet … because you are highly educated and wear beautiful braids.”

  Ryllen shifted uneasily on the stone.

  “I didn’t come here to be dressed down, Ham. Your point?”

  “I come to it with reservation but also the hope of compromise. If I can offer you Shin Wain before the week is out, will you agree to make him your final kill?”

  Was this a joke? Ham often circled around great possibilities before revealing his bait and switch. He proudly announced it as a skill learned through many years in Special Services for the Guard.

  “Is this on the level, Ham?”

  He nodded. “Someone of considerable import has reached out to me. A daughter of the House of Syung-Low. If my prelims are correct, I think she might provide the solution to your problem, my problem, and …” He folded his hands together and pointed to the Kye-Do rings. “The largest problem of all. I’ll require your assistance. In exchange, I’ll satisfy your true love, kid. Deal?”

  14

  H AM EXPLAINED WHAT HE KNEW SO FAR, and the intelligence he believed Kara Syung was seeking. He laid out a general plan but required reconnaissance and a few logistical solutions to pull this off. He had yet to confirm time or location but suggested the following night at Mal’s Drop. Ham was a familiar face, would fit in nicely, but Ryllen admitted he hadn’t stopped in for a drink in a few months. Not the best vibe, he said, to which Ham proposed a solution.