Children of Zero

by Andrew Calhoun

“Four. Two Americans and two Koreans. We camping by the old house.”

  “Old house?”

  “The plantation,” Jay clarified.

  Kettle had seen pictures of the plantation house on the internet before coming to the Diego Garcia. It was very old; the original foundation had been laid back in the 1800s. He couldn’t remember what the plantation had been cultivating. Copra, probably. Anyway, the plantation was difficult to get to, and not because of its location. The house and accompanying buildings, including a church, were situated on the bottom end of a triangular slab of land called East Point. On a map, the entire atoll looked like a big wonky-shaped V, and East Point was roughly in the middle of the right arm extending northward. The point jutted out toward the center of the lagoon rather than out to sea. This meant that the plantation could have a long pier that was protected from the ocean’s temperaments.

  The American military facilities were scattered across the left arm of the V. There was a road that ran from Camp Justice down to the bottom of the V and back up to the plantation, and because Diego Garcia wasn’t that big to begin with, it would have been a fairly easy bicycle ride to get across. However, Americans needed a permit from the British government, which was sensitive about how it might look if a bunch of soldiers went rummaging through the cultural heritage of the place.

  “Hey, Kettle, you still with us, buddy?”

  “What?” He quickly snapped to. Jay was waving a hand in front of his face slowly like a doctor in a psych ward. “Sorry. Was trying to remember if I left the stove on.”

  “You don’t have a stove.”

  “No worries then.”

  “Yeah, well, Haley here is going to be here for another three months, so you’ll have to keep her from dying of boredom out in the jungle.”

  Kettle smiled, hoping he didn’t look too eager. “Will do.” He made a mental note to thank Jay later.

  “Honey, forget the garbage man,” Dallas blurted. “Let’s you and I go for a walk on the beach.”

  Kettle momentarily didn’t know what to do. He could see that Haley was startled. She obviously wasn’t used to having hulking Marines in her face asking to go for a stroll in the oncoming darkness of night. She may have also been reeling from the alcohol fumes riding on his breath. At the same time, it was hard to ignore his broad shoulders, powerful frame and chiseled-out-of-marble-by-Michelangelo face. Even with a drunk expression and bad breath, he was impressive to behold. A part of Kettle strangely thought that Haley would be stupid not to go with him. The other part of Kettle told the first part to shut up. He then attempted to shuffle forward in the sand and wedge himself between Dallas and his intended victim.

  “Easy there, tiger. Leave her alone.”

  “She can talk for herself, dipshit.”

  “Who are you calling dipshit?”

  Dallas didn’t reply. Instead, he placed his rum carefully down in the sand and then gave Kettle a big two-handed shove to the chest, which sent him crashing down on his back next to the beer cooler.

  It took a few seconds for Kettle to even realize what had happened. One moment he was standing upright, the next he was horizontal looking at the stars. A few moments after that, he noticed that the chitter-chatter of party goers had stopped. He guessed that everyone was looking at him. The only sound was the infantile music emanating from the speakers. His brain quickly ran through some options. He could get up and walk away. That would leave Haley to an uncertain fate, however, and plus, it was just plain cowardly. He could try to talk Dallas down and get him to see reason. Probably unlikely.

  Kettle got himself into a sitting position and fixed his eyes on the enemy, who was still standing close to Haley, one hand clasping the bottle of rum which he must have retrieved from the ground. Luckily, Jay was next to Haley as well, motioning for her to just back away quietly. Then Kettle noticed something. He saw Dallas lose his balance and sway. And within that half a second, as Kettle remembered that Dallas was really, really drunk, an idea exploded into the forefront of his thoughts. He should punch Dallas right in the face. Much later, Kettle would look back and understand that this was a horrifically bad idea. But in that half-second, he believed he was a genius. He was going to teach Dallas a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.

  Kettle rolled forward onto his feet and into a crouching position. He then catapulted himself forward. His right shoulder pulled back, the muscles in his arm coiling their energy. He hurtled his fist forward at full force, aiming right for Dallas’ nose. Even as his arm was swinging forward, he imagined the Marine lying on the ground in pain while onlookers gasped in amazement.

  Instead, Dallas coolly moved his head about six inches to his left. Kettle’s fist shot harmlessly past Dallas’ right ear and the momentum of his swing brought Kettle slamming into Dallas’ chest. It was like jogging into a brick wall. Dallas didn’t move. Kettle tried to back up, but the Marine quickly grabbed the front of his shirt, holding him firmly in place.

  And then he saw Dallas’ free hand curl into a fist.

  “No, no, no!”

  Too late. Just after the impact with his face, he could hear the crowd call out “Ohhh!” in unison.

  1.2 SAELIKO

  Saeliko stepped out of the dinghy into cool, knee-deep water. She waded onto a beach of coarse sand and began ascending a low hill sparsely covered with patches of stinkgrass and a few pathetic windswept shrubs. Reaching the top, she assessed the landscape laid out before her. It was well past sundown and the sky had repainted itself from a deep cobalt blue to ink black, but the nearly full moon in the cloudless sky provided more than enough light.

  In the foreground, starting from the base of her hill, she saw the moon’s reflection in a pool of fetid swamp water. The reflection shimmered ever so gently in the light wind that was sweeping across the broad isthmus. Fortunately, it was blowing away from Saeliko, sparing her the noxious smells of putrefying animal corpses and decomposing plants. She wouldn’t be spared for long, however.

  In the distance, on the far side of the swamp-strewn isthmus, she spotted the faint glow of Meshaltown, a dreary settlement of about three hundred hardened souls. There were a few homesteads scattered around Dyssal Main, all of them inhabited by obstinate farmers or loggers trying to eke out a living, but Meshaltown was the only inhabitation on the island deserving the suffix town. It was a lonely outpost at the very tip of the Empire’s reach. Yet, by its very isolation, Meshaltown had earned at least a token level of importance. The Empress’ admiralty had seen fit to post a governess to Dyssal Main to ensure that the interests of her holiness were properly accounted for.

  She turned back to the sea to observe her comrades. Five figures stood on the beach. They had just finished untying two simple catamarans from the dinghy. Two of the figures, Lofi and Fat Rat, moved back into the water. They wouldn’t be making the trip across the swamp, Lofi because as the ship’s surgeon she was too valuable and Fat Rat because he was simply too fat for the little catamarans.

  Farther offshore Saeliko saw the Epoch anchored in calm water. Her lanterns had been doused and her occupants were silent. She stood tall in the water, a silent mass of wood, cloth and metal. The cannon port lids were shut tight, hiding the frigate’s menacing firepower and bequeathing the ship a dormant appearance, like a merchant’s shop boarded up and locked tight for Layali Day.

  Saeliko waited for her three remaining comrades, two women and a man, to drag the catamarans to the crest of the hill. Brenna and Jren were both Maelian, like Saeliko. Their coppery skin, weathered dark by countless days working the Epoch, glinted in the moonlight. Ollan, one of the two Lavics among the crew, had skin the color of driftwood, and his light brown hair had turned yellow after years under the Sollian sun.

  Ollan was odd, his character mercurial. He spoke Maelian well, albeit with a thick Lavic accent, but his words were few and his mood changed as quickly as the weather. He was as oft bitter and standoffish as he was jovial. However, he was big, strong as an ox and dependable.


  She nodded and the four of them pulled the catamarans, which were little more than a dozen slabs of bamboo lashed together with hemp rope that had been tarred to prevent rot, down the hill to the edge of the swamp. They quietly clambered on, two to each boat, and found positions near the middle where their weight was balanced across the length evenly. Brenna was paired with Jren, Saeliko with Ollan. On each side of the two crafts, a long pole had been tied on parallel to the hull. Each of the four crewmembers untied a pole and dipped it in the water, seeking firm ground at the muddy bottom.

  “Watch yourselves, sistren,” Saeliko whispered, well aware that the wind could carry sound over long distances. “I can think of about five or six ways to die between here and Meshaltown.” One of the reasons Dyssal Main was lightly inhabited was its isolation. Another, however, was that it served as a home for three varieties of venomous snakes and a particularly large breed of crocodile. Tonight the poles would serve as both propulsion and protection.

  They pushed forward, keeping a very careful eye on their surroundings. Almost immediately, Saeliko spotted a serpentine body slithering away along the surface. The snake darted away into the reeds. She glanced at the others. If they were concerned, they didn’t show it.

  Onward they travelled, every now and again coming to a bit of dry land where they would have to portage the catamarans to the next patch of water, only after waving their poles in front of them like blind women to make sure they weren’t walking into any nasty critters. Minutes turned into hours. Progress was slow and tedious, but they could see the town gradually come closer into view. At one point Brenna stifled a gasp of surprise when her pole nearly hit a crocodile that had been lying just below the surface. The great beast paddled its tail and left a wake in the water as it leisurely moved away.

  About halfway to their goal, the swamps came to an end. They gave way to brushland with stunted trees that rose chest high above the ground, permanently bent away from the swamp due to the prevailing winds. They abandoned the catamarans and proceeded on foot. Saeliko reached over her left shoulder with her right hand and gripped the leather-bound hilt of her scimitar. She eased the wickedly curved blade out of the scabbard strapped to her back and held it out in front of her as she moved forward. It wasn’t as long as the catamaran pole she had left behind, but it would suffice if she happened upon a snake.

  Saeliko stepped with a dancer’s grace, weaving fluidly past outreaching branches and avoiding debris on the ground that might crackle under her boots. Annoyingly, the other three weren’t as adept. Brenna and Jren were heavier set than Saeliko; they both had wide shoulders and extra weight around their midsections. They lacked the flexibility and muscle control that Saeliko had at her disposal. She had to stop and remind them with an icy glare that their plan hinged on stealth. Surprisingly, Ollan, the largest member of the party, was light footed and seemed to know where to step.

  The town itself was situated on a crescent shaped plateau that hugged the shallow curve of the coastline on the eastern side of the isthmus. A few lanterns were visible, and somewhere on the coast side of the town there must have been a bonfire going, causing a flickering light to reflect off of some of the buildings. She could hear singing and laughter, the town’s inhabitants no doubt drinking themselves into oblivion. Good, she thought. That’ll make things easier.

  On the north side of town, where the land sloped upward in elevation to a roughly square hilltop, the governess’ house overlooked both the other buildings and the sea. It was the biggest structure in Meshaltown and was surrounded by a fence of sharpened wooden stakes. Saeliko couldn’t see it, but she knew that just on the other side of the official’s house where the hilltop overlooked the town’s docks, a battery of cannons pointed out to sea.

  When the four interlopers were not more than a stone’s throw away from the nearest home, Saeliko put her hand up, motioning for them to stop. They had made better time than she had expected, and so now there was nothing for it but to sit and wait. For this to work, timing was important. She padded over to a nearby cluster of contorted trees and sat in their midst, the other three in tow. Sitting on the hard ground, she was happy to see that the little trees were blocking out the brunt of the wind, which was now picking up with the stench of the swamp on its breath. The droplets of sweat that had formed on her brow now ran cold. She wasn’t bothered. Saeliko was rarely bothered by small discomforts.

  Still, she decided that the next time she was infiltrating a decrepit little town in the middle of the night, she would dress more appropriately. Her leather boots ran all the way up to her knees, but she hadn’t taken the trouble to wear breeches. The heat and humidity had been too daunting, even with the sun gone to bed. Nor had she donned a shirt or doublet. Instead, she wore a close fitting, black, sleeveless jerkin and a leather kilt the color of dark wine. A knife was strapped to her lower right thigh, and along with the scimitar she kept over her left shoulder, she also had a small fighting axe strapped over the right shoulder. A final thick leather strap came over her right shoulder and ran across her chest between her breasts down to her left hip. Attached to the strap just above her kilt, a black holster held a flintlock pistol with an ornately carved firing mechanism. Her hair ran back in braids that dropped down to just beneath her shoulder blades.

  She looked up at her sistren. Ollan was asleep. If he started snoring, Saeliko would be sure to put the heel of her boot to his head. Brenna and Jren were more alert, keeping a watchful eye on the town, looking for any signs of danger. They both wore breeches and doublets, and yet they were also both beginning to shiver. They had probably worked up a greater sweat during their trek, and their damp clothes weren’t doing them any favors. Saeliko concluded that maybe she had dressed appropriately after all.

  They sat crouched beneath the moon, hands tucked in armpits for warmth, until they saw the barest hint of orange in the eastern sky. Saeliko nodded at Jren to wake up Ollan and then stood up slowly, scanning the buildings.

  “Ready to have some fun?” she asked softly, a sly smile cresting her lips.

  “Aye,” the two girls replied, pulling out cutlasses from sheaths. The groggy Ollan nodded, blond locks falling down over his eyes. His hands moved up to his shoulders to help shrug off the straps holding an over-sized crossbow to his broad back.

  “Remember,” Saeliko continued, keeping her voice low, “anyone gives us any trouble, we run a blade through ‘em and send ‘em to Mysha.”

  “Janx said no carcasses this time,” Jren reminded her. “She was cross with us the last time.”

  Saeliko took a step toward Jren and leaned in toward her ruddy, square-shaped face. She stared down the sailor with dark, penetrating eyes. Jren visibly shrank back. Saeliko was well aware of her reputation, and she was willing to use it to intimidate when necessary.

  “Is Janx here?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “And who’s qarlden of the ship?”

  “You are, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  Jren thought better of it. “I see your point.” She waited, but Saeliko’s eyes remained locked on, as if searching for any signs that Jren wasn’t being sincere. “They cause trouble, I stick ‘em,” she added.

  “I’m glad we have an accord.” She eyed Brenna and Ollan. “And you two?”

  “I ain’t never shied away from no blood,” Brenna declared. Ollan dipped his head once in solidarity.

  “Let’s get on with it then.”

  She led them across the gap to the buildings, avoiding the main town and heading toward the governess’ estate, such as it was. They reached the fence, which was short – it only came up to Saeliko’s shoulders – and angled outward. It was a poor effort at keeping out unwanted guests. And then she realized that the fence was built for a different purpose altogether – snakes.

  Saeliko raised her hands and grabbed onto the blunted stake tips. She pulled down, testing the strength of the fence. Confident it would hold her weight without collapsing and
waking up everyone within earshot, she hoisted her right leg up and over the top and hung by her arms. She then lifted herself up and over, rolling down the fence’s inward slope. The entire maneuver had been administered with little more than a soft scraping sound of weaponry against wood. Just to be sure, she paused and held herself still, watching the property for a sign that someone had been alerted.

  Satisfied, she looked back to her companions and then pointed to the front gate of the estate. They nodded in understanding and stalked off to meet her there. Saeliko slipped through the morning fog and re-drew her scimitar, readying it in the event that a guard was posted by the tall wooden structure that served as the frame for the swing-gate. No one was there, which made sense. There was no point assigning a guard to the front gate when any half-wit could just hop the fence. She lifted the wooden beam holding the gate shut, letting Brenna, Jren and Ollan into the compound. Together, the four of them approached the front door, which waited at the top of a four-step staircase.

  From the landing, Saeliko looked back at the view. The two dozen or so buildings that made up Meshaltown were now enshrouded in grey gloom that was beginning to glint in the morning sun that had just poked up over the ocean horizon. Nothing moved. She did see movement, however, in the harbor. Two small, shabby sloops were tied up at the docks, and another three boats were anchored a little further out.

  Closer to the governess’ house, Saeliko could see the battery. Positioned on the edge of the hill and reinforced with stone abutments, seven cannons sat watch over the water. Even through the morning fog, they were close enough that she could see the type. Hefty, 15-stone caliber barrels sat on wooden platforms. Trunnions integrated into the barrels enabled vertical pivots and considerable range. It was a lot more firepower than she thought the town warranted, a sign that Mael had bigger plans for Meshaltown in the near future.

  She could also make out two guards in blue uniforms sitting on wooden crates to the side of the southernmost cannon. A few paces away, a bell about the size of a woman’s head hung from a bracket mounted to a stone pillar. A thin rope hung down from the bell. The idea was simple; if a ship neared the harbor, the guards would ring the bell and the rest of the troops would run up the hill and ready the cannons for action.