by Jase Kovacs
He sits heavily and stares intently at me for a moment, taking my measure one last time before he commits himself. "I need you to do something. The Council is about to formally request you undertake a mission on the behalf of First Landing and Madau. But there will be aspects of that mission that must remain utterly confidential — and perhaps you will not be comfortable with them. So, before I speak further, I need your assurance that what I am about to tell you will not leave this vessel."
Now my heart joins my hands, quickening with excitement. I've taken note that he said First Landing and Madau. "I'd be more comfortable agreeing if I knew what I was agreeing to." He says nothing; he just inclines his head and raises his eyebrows, waiting. "Okay. Fine. I'll keep your dumb secrets."
"What you faced on Black Harvest is just the beginning. We all know the deadies act almost as if they share a mind, schooling like fish and moving in groups. But I've suspected the existence of alphas for a while now. You know what we are right now?" I don't bother to answer his rhetorical question, and he doesn't wait anyway. "We're a scared blind man, locking the doors but leaving the windows wide open. Michael and his friends think if we shut the windows, we'll be safe. But it's only luck that Madau has survived for as long as it has. We've got the gun tower facing out to sea, but we've got miles of unpatrolled coastline, and there are a thousand deady bastards in our backyard. Isolation isn't going to protect us, not until we can build a wall around this entire island. What will protect us is knowing who our neighbours are, what they know, and what they're up to."
I think about Black Harvest's logbook, which I have kept secret. The delicate Chinese calligraphy with which the routine records of ship operations were recorded, the words unintelligible to me but no less beautiful for it. And how they contrast with the harsh, desperate strokes of the Captain's English epigraph, every mote of his regret visible in his handwriting. I suspect that somewhere within are more clues to the origin of the alphas. But no one on Madau understands Mandarin or Cantonese, and I fear that the logbook would be snapped up by Records and Tech if I revealed its existence. So it sits, in the bottom of my bag, wrapped in plastic.
Duncan watches patiently while I think, waiting for me to realise his intentions. "So, what?" I ask. "You want me to visit the Trobriand Islands?"
"The Louisiades too."
"Fine. No problem. I'll be glad to get out of here, back by myself again."
He smiles and shakes his head. "No, I'm afraid not. You have many talents, Matty, but diplomacy is not one of them. You'll take an ambassador, appointed by the Council."
"Fuck off. I don't need any dickheads on my boat."
"I think you just demonstrated my point."
I roll my eyes as I look away, out to the open sea. That bright blue realm. The unbroken horizon calls to me. It's been a fortnight since my return, and my hands fairly itch to feel the tension of a tightly winched sheet. I crave the lively motion of a well-trimmed yacht shouldering aside a head sea. Already I am plotting my course to the islands he's mentioned. The southeast trades are dead until March, so the wind will be less reliable. But there tend to be northerlies this time of year, so running south downwind to the Louisiades first would be best, then close hauled northwest to the Trobes, and it's an easy beam reach back to Madau. "It's got to be someone I can get on with. I'm not sharing my boat with any dickheads."
"Your boat?"
"If I am to be master, then I'll call it my boat." I spread my hands in a gesture of sarcastic magnanimity. "Of course, you'll still be the owner."
"So kind. Well, let's get this relationship clear then. Yes, you are the master, but you are working for the Council. You'll pick your crew—"
"Too bloody right I will."
" — but you will have two representatives of Madau with you. Zac and Roman."
"Jesus Christ!" I laugh. "Why didn't you say so? I thought with all this hemming and hawing, you were working up to saying I had to take Michael or Big Kev or someone."
"Those two support this mission, in that they suspect it will fail and thus strengthen their position that the outside world is dark and scary."
"Well… they're not wrong about that. But wait a minute. Who's Roman?"
"A local."
"Michael can't be happy about a local on a yacht."
"He's not. But we don't own this island, and the locals should be represented."
"I've no argument with that. But who is he?"
"You know that young fella who's always hanging around the creek? Fisherman type. You probably have seen him talking to Zac. Are you okay?"
"Yes." I swallow, my throat strangely dry. "Yes, I'm fine."
"I only ask because you've gone a little pale."
"No, I'm fine. Just get these twinges in my back from time to time."
"Okay. Well. There are five bunks on this boat. I suggest you fill them."
"Blong."
"I expected as much. Who else? I suggest someone who can sail, so you don't have to stand every watch by yourself."
"I assume you're spoken for," I say, smiling.
He returns my smile. "I think I will be a little busy in the months to come. And don't get any ideas about stealing Larry from me. Think carefully on this. There's no shortage of shipless sailors kicking around First Landing."
"Sober ones?"
"That does cut down the pool a little. But, if I can address the elephant in the room, you're a nineteen-year-old woman. There's already rumblings that we shouldn't have chosen you for this job. A lot of the older expats might have difficulty accepting your command." He says this carefully, to let me know that he doesn't buy into either the sexism or the ageism but that it's a political reality he has to deal with.
"Yeah, I already said I don't want any dickheads on the boat. Let's come back to manning later. What is this trip, really? A diplomatic mission?"
"Nominally a trading and friendship voyage. Roman and Zac are your translators and cultural advisors. But… and this is between you, me, and these four walls" — he raps his knuckles on Excelsior's steel deck—"I want you to find out whose canoes use red sails. And I want you to search for any… shall we say, suspicious influence in the local populations."
"You don't think the Pale King was the only alpha out there."
"No, Matty. I do not."
***
That afternoon, I sit in Excelsior's cockpit and watch storm clouds drift over Madau from beyond Woodlark. Drifts of blinding rain, as dark as the coming of night, stretch from horizon to horizon, and I can see the jungle-clad mountain ridges of Woodlark between the fronts of rain as if through holes in smoke. The air, hot, humid, and charged with static, portends action.
The sweat cloth I've tied around my head is soaked, as are the cotton shirt and pants I wear. I've spent the entire afternoon going over Excelsior from bowsprit to stern, to gain an idea of her quality and condition. I've emptied every locker, opened every inspection hatch, got into the bilge and the plumbing and the engine bay. I've checked the sails and the rigging.
What I have discovered has given me a lot to think about.
I personally believe that we became overreliant on technology — in the years before the Fall, I mean. I think the mariners' art, the arcane skills of sailing and navigation, has been in decline since the invention of the steam engine. Before then, we had to play by the ocean's rules. We could use every ounce of the material cunning that has been humanity's advantage ever since a fella in a cave worked out how to knap flint. In the latter half of the nineteenth century, sailing vessels were relatively sophisticated machines: clipper ships could achieve blistering speeds with a bewildering array of sails and lines. But, ultimately, we were still part of the natural world — we could only harness the wind, never control it. And we needed the stars and sun to tell us where we were on the globe and bring us safely home.
But that all changed when we invented the steam engine and then the internal combustion engine. Suddenly, we could move against wind and tide and, becau
se the old skills were no longer necessary, they became a curiosity or a hobby, kept alive by enthusiasts and those who preferred the simplicity — or the economy — of using wind and wave alone to cover vast distances. I don't think it is any coincidence that a fair percentage of Madau's expat population is, or once were, blue-water sailors.
But even we were not immune to the seduction of technology. Our ropes weren't hand-laid hemp; they were multibraid polyester nylon blend. We used GPS satellites to tell us exactly where we were, day or night, with incredible accuracy. Our diesels could run for weeks as regularly as clocks. Our sails were strong and light, with even the ordinary ones made of high-tech materials like Dacron. I can use drum winches to create hundreds of kilos of pressure to haul sheets iron tight, a task that once needed a dozen — or more — strong men hauling and belaying. All these advances meant that well-founded oceangoing vessels could be handled by a solo person, instead of the dozens or hundreds once required.
Now we're paying the price of our burden's easing. Because all this fancy technology needed to be maintained, with spares and parts and replacements. In the old days, if the GPS got busted, all you needed was an Internet connection and access to overnight shipping, and a new one would arrive at your door. These days, the GPS satellites mostly don't work, and we're relearning old skills, like how to use a sextant, trigonometry, and books of tables to navigate effectively.
Or, to put it another way, as our technology fails, we're falling slowly into the past.
This is a roundabout way of saying there are a dozen serious issues with Excelsior that I need to address.
***
Martha looks down at the list I've handed her with deep suspicion, reading it quickly through a pair of scuffed and cracked reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. It is hot in here, on board Queen Victoria, the old ferry that we now use a stores ship for the convenience of having marine equipment, water, and other sundries at hand in the anchorage.
"Seven hundred and fifty litres of water is no problem — our tanks are fairly overflowing with this regular afternoon downpour. The same for dried fish, taro, and your other provisions. You can load sago, fresh fruit, and biscuit until you sink. I may even be able to provide some diesel that will have half a chance of firing when you call upon it."
"I'm not too fussed about fuel. Excelsior's head gasket is blown, and I can't get compression."
"No engine."
"One less thing to worry about, I guess."
She snorts — like many landsmen, she can't understand how we could put to sea without a motor. She dismisses it with a shake of her head that morphs into a disapproving frown as she runs her finger down my list. "But what's with all this ammunition? I assume the 5.56 is for your personal weapon. I can give you sixty rounds without putting it before the Council. I thought you were on a trading mission."
I shrug. "Just preparing for all eventualities."
She snorts, and I see the stern headmistress she was in her former life. "Young lady, I am pleased to say you have neither the talent nor the ability for deviousness. Do not feel you need to carry on Duncan's charade with me. He may be able to fool those other dimwits on the Council, but one look at this shopping list of yours tells me you're sailing to war."
How the hell can she make me feel like I'm a twelve-year-old? It must be her evil teacher powers. "I don't know, Martha. Bloody Duncan has told me half of what I'm to do, and I'm expected to facilitate Zac with the rest. I know I'm sailing with an agenda, and I'll tell you plain that I don't like it."
"Nor would I. You'll need a specific Council authorisation for this ammunition."
For security and political reasons, the contents of our armoury are a closely guarded secret, and the open carry of firearms is prohibited on shore. Only the Watch is armed, and then only on station: with the .50 cal in the First Landing guard tower, with scoped hunting rifles on the Dilkawau passage to snipe any marys seen across the narrow waterway, and a pair of .45 pistols, locked in the watchhouse out the back of the town hall. There are several civilian hunting weapons in private hands, but lack of ammunition keeps most of them on the mantle.
"What about the rest of the list?"
"Stainless bolts, wire, I can do. I've got no multibraid rope but plenty of three-strand nylon."
"That'll have to do."
She frowns over the list. "Rubber?"
"Rubber sheets, for use in pump diaphragms."
"Oh, of course. Your handwriting is terrible." She runs her finger down the list as she mentally ticks off each item. "What about these tools? Handsaw, adzes, machetes… yes, no problem. Does he have power? I can provide a cordless drill."
"He's got four solar panels, but only two work worth a damn."
"I assume you'll be getting rid of them before departing? If so, see that they come my way. Amos is proving quite a whiz when it comes to rejuvenating old electrics."
"I'd like new batteries — his don't hold any juice."
"That I can't help you with."
"Solar isn't much good without batteries to hold power."
"You'll have to speak with Infrastructure. They gobble up every deep-cycle battery we find for the solar plant."
"Ah. And Infrastructure would be Big Kev's domain, right?"
She gives me a tight, sympathetic smile. "Good luck getting anything out of him."
***
I find Duncan on the beach, roasting shellfish in the hot coals of a fire. The coconut palms overhead whisper and sigh, as if gossiping, as the breeze builds. The wind is from the south; the storm will miss Madau. At least for today. Locals dot the bay, paddling around in their outrigger canoes and dangling hooks off the reef.
"So," he prompts when I come up to him. My exhausted expression, dirty, sweaty face, and filthy, oil-stained arms tell him I haven't been idle. He wears only a pair of ratty old shorts; his chest and arms are covered in silver hair that runs up his shoulders and neck into his beard, as if he's the missing link.
"There's a lot to do. Serious rust in the forepeak. The head is out of action. The standing rigging is fine, but the sheets and halyards have severe UV damage. I'm sure there's microcorrosion in the shroud chain plates. I couldn't get the engine to catch. It turns over for all of ten seconds before the batteries die, even with full sun on the panels. And speaking of the panels—"
"Matty, stop." He says it not unkindly but firmly. "I know she's a bit shite."
"That's an understatement."
"She's been at anchor for over three years. What do you expect?"
"I'm not bagging your boat. But there's a lot we need to take care of before we even leave the anchorage. I'll need workers and supplies."
"Take a shopping list to Martha."
"I already have. She can help me out with some. But she says I'll need Big Kev onside, as Infrastructure sucks up a lot of supplies before they even get to Martha."
"Leave him to me."
"To be honest, I'd rather not."
He looks evenly at me. "People won't think you're hiding behind me."
"I don't care what people think. I care what I think."
He nods, as if to say, Riiight, sure, so long as you believe it. "Have you thought more about who you're taking?"
"Back up a second. What was that look?"
"Big Kev will provoke you. Not because he opposes you or because he's siding with Michael. He'll do it because he's a cranky bastard and it's in his nature."
"Yeah, he's a dickhead. So what?"
"I want you fighting them out there." He sweeps his hand to the horizon, encompassing everyone in the world, human, mary, and alpha, who would wish us harm. "Not wasting time and energy on battles here."
With deliberate emphasis, so he realises the condition, I say, "And I won't. Not on unnecessary battles."
He snorts and bends over the coals, picking out mussels whose open shells are grey with ash. They must be scaldingly hot, but he doesn't flinch as he drops them in a bucket of seawater. "Hungry?"
/> "No. You've given me two lubbers. I need serious sailors and gunslingers."
"Take your pick. I know Enzo will be more than happy to help you prepare. But don't write off Roman. He's a good hunter and a bit of a sailor. You ever seen him in a trading canoe?"
"No."
"I'll be surprised if he's not a natural."
"I'll already be training Blong and Zac up. Is this a diplomatic mission or a sailing school?"
"We've never mounted a trip like this before — I mean, with emissaries and a new crew. Some work-up will be inevitable."
"Okay, that brings me to something else." I pause to marshal my thoughts and draw breath before I plunge on to my point.
"You want to do a shakedown cruise?" He says that with a sly smile, as he knew I had been working my way up to it.
"How'd you know?"
"Because you're not an idiot and neither am I. What do you have in mind?"
"There's no room on the boat for idle hands. Everyone, even Zac and Roman, will need to be able to sail, steer, and shoot."
"You know the Council will never approve of you training a local in firearms."
"Yes. But that's my condition. I'll need to train him, and I'll need privacy and distance to do it."
"Don't mention this to anyone else. And I don't want to hear about it again. What you do, on your boat, away from these shores, is your concern. So. The shakedown. Where do you want to go?"
"Woodlark Island."
He looks away before dipping a hand into the bucket of saltwater. He fishes out a mussel, rips the shell apart and sucks out the meat within. "Keep your destination to yourself and get your boat ready."
***
At sunset, I strip naked and dive off Excelsior's stern into the milk-warm sea. The water takes away the sweat and the grime of the day. I float, suspended in the brine, cut off from air and the world above and all the petty issues the land represents.