by Jase Kovacs
I plunge deep, my eyes stinging, as do the still-tender scars on my hands, arms, and back. It's a pain that is not unpleasant. The water has the clarity of crystal; I see ten metres down to the bottom as clearly as if looking through a telescope. A cow-tail ray glides across the bottom on wings a metre across, as serene and elegant as an angel.
Michael and his cronies' attitude would infuriate me if I let it. I found a shipwreck containing a creature the likes of which we've never seen. I engaged in battle, a desperate fight for survival that stripped me back to my barest instincts. The being I fought, the intelligent mary that Duncan has coined as an "alpha," reached into my mind and played my deepest guilts and fears against me: the loss of my father, the deaths of my mother and brother, my own insignificant place in a world that is rapidly leaving the human race behind. The creature who called himself the Pale King… he seduced me. I don't mean in any base physical sense — I mean he took my soul and made it crave his touch. His approval. It was this, as much as basic compassion, that made me turn Voodoo around and go to rescue Blong. The Pale King corrupted me, and I would never be free unless it was finished.
One of us had to die.
I went through all that and my reward, when I returned, was to be questioned and second-guessed and belittled. Intellectually, I know that Michael, Big Kev, and their supporters are a minority, exploiting the situation for their own ends. But I can't help the pain I feel and, unlike the pain that rises from my physical wounds, this is a sting that is far from pleasant.
I roll and let myself float, through shafts of sunlight that rise like the columns in a cathedral. The bay is empty, and the only person I can see is Martha's husband, Amos, who fishes from the Queen Victoria's stern two hundred metres away.
I've spent too long ashore. I'll sleep on Excelsior from now on.
***
MATAI.
The voice comes from the void. I float, but this is no milk-warm sea that carries me. It is the emptiness of space, a darkness beyond perception, a deep, soulless abyss that sinks relentless cold into my meat and saps my strength like the draining of a dam. A relentless hum fills my bones, a dirge played on instruments strung with my nerves. Mournful whispers and cries, moans of the damned, evoke nervous despair.
YOU KILLED MY PRIEST, INFIDEL.
The voice is old beyond time. I feel an incredible, terrible languidness in its timbre, as if it stirs from a sleep so deep that, to mortals such as we, it is indistinguishable from death. To hear its voice is to court madness, to feel the caress of a malignant intelligence older than time itself. I feel myself rolling in the void, and I shut my eyes so I cannot see. I feel a coldness upon my face deeper than the vacuum of space, and magenta fire pulses beyond my closed lids.
YOU WOKE ME FROM MY DREAM OF DEATH.
What strange aeons separate us. The Pale King brought me here, and here I remain. I cut him in two, and yet still his power touches me. A terrible realisation — all I shattered was the vessel that ported this chthonic evil into our world. For it comes to me now. I want to scream into the void, a wordless howl of defiant fear. There is a pull on my skin, as if I were facing a stiff wind, and I see a spiralling maelstrom, a swirling funnel of dark clouds as stars are sucked into the yawning maw of the black hole at the centre of the galaxy. The dark star, from where all evil comes.
COME FIND ME, LITTLE HERETIC.
It draws me down, it draws me down, I sink down into the maelstrom and it draws me down, the dark star, the fire, the cold fire, a green fire…
And then there is a warmth that covers me and loving arms fold around me and another voice says, Matty, wake up.
***
I sit up, and blinding pain fills my skull as I bash my head against the steel ceiling over the quarterberth. I fall back, and the stars I see are red flashes of pain, warm and welcome despite the way my head rings like a bell. Awake and alive, pain is life, and then I roll to my side and give myself over to the sobs that have nothing to do with the agony. For I can still feel her arms around me, the way she cradled my head when I was small, the way she held me when I was afraid, when we first went to sea and the waves crashed and roared against the boat, whispering in my ear, It's okay, little sister, it's okay, I've got you.
***
In the morning, all that remains of this episode is a tight, tender lump in the middle of my forehead and the vague, lingering discomfort that follows a forgotten bad dream, in the way an unlit ship may pass unseen in the night, save for the glow of its luminescent wake.
Piper is waiting on shore when I row in. Her long red hair is drawn back in a ponytail, and her slim legs are dusted with sand as she runs down and helps me haul the dinghy above the tide line. Unbidden, she follows me as I walk up into First Landing. "Duncan says there is to be an expedition."
I know where this is going, and I don't have the time or the mental fortitude for a scene. "You can't come."
"Why?" She's not upset, just annoyed that I haven't even listened to her case.
"Because I've got too many new people as it is."
"That's stupid. Why won't you let me come?"
"Why do you think you should?"
"I'm one of the best shots on the Watch. I can work and learn as good as anyone. So what if I haven't done any blue-water sailing? This trip is barely more than an overnight passage."
I stop and round on her. Her pale cheeks can never support more than the lightest tan, and now they are flushed pink. "Is it now? You presume to tell me how far I'm sailing?"
"I worked it out. With the winds as they are, you would go to the Louisiades first. It's around a hundred and seven miles to Misima. You could do that in less than twenty-four hours."
"A hundred and seven, eh? How do you figure that?"
"I'm assuming you come around the eastern point. Then, depending how deeply you go into the Louisiades, it's a hundred fifty up to Trobs and then seventy-five back. I'll have time to learn my duties."
I do my best not to let any surprise show on my face. "You can read a chart then?"
Piper looks to the ground, her sudden, uncharacteristic shyness absurdly out of place. "Larry has been teaching me. I've been doing all the book learning with him — tides, currents, anchoring theory."
"But no practical experience."
"Not yet." Her moment of insecurity has passed. Now she juts her chin and glares at me. "I'm fifteen. When you were my age, you'd been sailing solo for three years."
"Do you think I had a fucking choice?"
She blinks, taken aback at my sudden anger and then looking abashed as she realises her faux pas. I sailed solo because my family were dead. However, she doesn't equivocate in her answer. "No, I don't, and I'm sorry for speaking… carelessly. But you know what I mean."
She seems so earnest, and there is a truth to what she says. Also, I have to admit I am a little impressed at her book learning. I curse myself silently as I feel my resolve waver. "My crew best not have the habit of telling me what I know."
"Oh, Matty!" My reproach is completely lost in her sudden joy as she leaps to hug me.
"Knock that off!" I shove her away, sending her sprawling in the sand, where she sits wearing an imbecilic grin. "What the hell is wrong with you? You can help us prep. Maybe, if you can keep from making any more foolish gestures, I may give you a chance. Now get the hell out of here."
I watch Piper run up the beach, shaking my head at her excitement and enthusiasm, unsure if I have made a mistake in giving her a chance. A hundred metres up the jungle path, I run into Zac coming the other way. He looks bright eyed this morning; I've found him filled with an excited motivation ever since Duncan's mission became general knowledge.
"Ho, skipper. Where are you bound?" he asks.
His enthusiasm annoys me. He doesn't have any idea of what we might find out there. I'll see if he is so cheerful after we confront a den of marys or have to pick our way through a supermarket full of dusty corpses to collect salvage. Still, he does mean well, and there'
ll be plenty of time to knock the edges off him. I hide my annoyance and say, "Off to see Infrastructure and browbeat some batteries out of them."
"I'd hold off an hour or two; give them a chance to sweat out their hangovers first."
"And you?"
"Language classes with the locals."
"They're teaching you Muyuw?"
"No, no, they're still cagey about us learning their own language. No, this is Kilivila for the Trobriands and Misima for the Louisiades."
"Two languages at once? I'd rather deal with a dozen hungover Big Kevs. Keep some time free for me to show you the ropes."
"Do you have any idea when we are to set sail for the islands?"
I look at him intently. Has Duncan told him about my intentions? Zac's expression is typically open and free of guile, though he wouldn't be much of an ambassador if he didn't have a good poker face. I can't tell if he knows, so I guard my reply. "A week… maybe two. It depends on how quickly I can ready Excelsior."
"Is there much to be done?"
"Plenty."
"Then I'll hold you up no longer. Have a good day, and perhaps we can talk this evening about some training."
***
The solar plant is on the far side of First Landing. Forty solar panels, scavenged from two dozen different sources, are set up on trestles in an old vegetable garden that was carved out of the jungle centuries ago. Apprentices, teenagers learning electrical and mechanical skills, move through the field, manually adjusting the panels so they face the sun throughout the day.
The powerhouse is on the western side, closest to First Landing. It is a squat cinder block building, half submerged in the earth, with a thick concrete roof shaded with woven palms in an attempt at climate control. The air is filled with the rustle of palm leaves and the hiss of a dozen wind generators, mounted on poles in places where they can best catch the breeze.
The lack of uniformity in the equipment and the jungle setting give the plant a patchwork, motley feel — no two wind generators are the same, scavenged as they are from yachts, and the solar panels are of all different wattages and dimensions. However, everything is organised as neatly as can be, the cabling is as robust as supply and conditions allow and, to the practised eye, it appears a well-run organisation.
Although you'd never think so from looking at Big Kev and his mates this morning. They lounge around in the shade of the powerhouse, snoozing or shading their eyes against the bright morning sun. Big Kev sits on a camp stool, leaning back against the cool cinder block wall, apparently sleeping as I come up. However, his eyes open a crack, like a suspicious householder inspecting a midnight visitor through a chained door, and he says, "Jesus Christ, kid, your head looks how mine feels."
I resist the urge to touch the bump, which has begun to throb unpleasantly. "Getting used to a new boat."
"Suppose you're here with a shopping list." Kev's mates are rousing themselves, propping themselves on elbows or standing as they watch, anticipating some fun. They're an awkward, belligerent bunch whose lack of social skills seem in direct proportion to their technical abilities. They're drawn from the mechanics and electricians who used to work the mines, the rigs, and the telecommunication facilities in the Time Before, grey bearded now, surly, usually considering themselves overly ill used and given over to strong drink and complaining. "Let me save you some time: No."
I snort, surprised. Not at his attitude, which I expected, but at him having the almost exact response I gave to Piper not half an hour ago. "I don't care if you like me or my mission. I need batteries."
"Liking you doesn't come into it. You may be a teenaged girl, but I'm not. This isn't a popularity contest. You're responsible for, what, five people? I've got a hundred people demanding the lights are kept on. Who needs batts more?"
"Christ, this isn't a dick-measuring contest. Good thing, too, as I'd hate to see a grown man cry."
Someone off to the side guffaws, and Kev takes a moment to glare at his crony before continuing. "Listen, kid, I've got neither the patience nor the time to waste—"
"You think this is a waste?"
"It's a bloody stupid waste, and a bloody stupid loss of life and resources. Duncan may be happy to throw away you and your little team's lives away on a fool's crusade, but I'll be damned if I'm party to it."
"What are you talking about?"
Despite my resolution to handle him calmly, a heat rises within me, matching the red flush that fills Kev's face as he talks, his lip trembling with emotion as he works himself up.
"Giving a child command and sending her and a bunch of kids out into hostile territory. He might as well cut your throats himself, and if he was any sort of a man, he would. At least that way there'd be no way of infection getting back to us."
"You've been against me and the mission since I returned, from the first hearing—"
"I was a dick at the hearing, I'll admit that. Probably jumped the gun a bit, if I'm being honest. But then I read your full report, and I realised you've got no idea what you're doing. Don't look at me like that, because I mean it kindly. You've mistaken luck, stupid unwarranted good luck, for skill. I didn't oppose you when you were going out solo, and you brought back some good stuff, no doubts about that. But Duncan's boat is a piece of shit, and this time you'll be taking a bunch of trusting fools out with you. If the fucking zombs don't get you, the locals will. I'm not a snowflake like Duncan and the rest of the bloody bleeding hearts. I've been in this country for forty-five years, and I know the locals will cut our throats the moment we aren't of value to them. What do you think is going to happen when you turn up on other islands? It ain't going to be sing-sings and feasts, kid."
I force myself to spit out the words. "Are you going to give me any batteries or not?"
A muscle in his cheek twitches as he stares me down with eyes holding a peculiar mix of contempt and pity. "Don't let the gate hit your ass on the way out."
***
That afternoon I sit on the broad, comfortable back deck of Fidelio with Abella and Enzo. They listen, nodding sympathetically as I call Big Kev every name under the sun until finally I run out of steam, my frustration collapsing. "I'm so bloody… dissatisfied with myself. Having to walk away, leaving him with his pack of cronies all chuckling, thinking they've got one over me."
"Oh, it is nothing," says Enzo, dismissing the shoreline with a wave of his hand. "What do you need? Batteries? You have ours. I give two hundred amps, wet cell. Is no problem."
"Enzo," says Abella quietly, placing her hand on his forearm. "The battery bank is low as it is. We need to keep the medical fridge cold."
"We move the fridge off the boat. The supplies belong to the camp. They should handle the upkeep."
"I need to have them at hand. Sorry, Matty, but you know."
I nod. Her regret is entirely genuine, but the thought of those batteries so close to hand makes me want to weep with frustration.
"Why are people so bloody difficult?" I spit. "Can't he see that—"
"He's not wrong," says Enzo, in that bloody infuriating French manner he has of seeing both sides of an argument. "You, Zac, Roman, and now Piper? All very young, yes. No, I am not saying you are not a good sailor. I see you, you very good. But the others? Pah. Perhaps, I think maybe you need a bosun, yes? Someone experienced to help. It's okay, I no make you beg. I will come."
The offer is so unexpected that both Abella and I are speechless for a minute. He looks at his wife, whose lips harden into a firm line as her brow crinkles in displeasure, and he chuckles and grins at me. "Uh-oh. I think I am in trouble. You should go. Now I must let my beautiful wife yell at me. Tomorrow I will bring you batteries, and we will make ready."
CHAPTER FIVE: ISAAC
There is something different about being at sea. The air. It seems… so very clean.
I'm up the front end of Excelsior (it's called the bow — I must try to use the correct names that Matty spends so much time teaching us), with my back against the mast. Th
e big front sail — the genoa — rises in a noble arc above me, a curved sheet of canvas only a little yellowed at its seams to mark the passage of years. Matty is on the helm, Enzo at the sheets, those ropes that control the shape of the sail, the two of them studying the motion of the yacht, the angle of its heel, the casual manner it shoulders aside the gentle swells, with utmost attention, communicating aloud only rarely. Instead, their similar ideas on sail trimming and performance allow them to act with an almost uncanny unison, as if they share a psychic bond that allows them to work in harmony with barely a word.
When Matty came forward earlier to ask me how I was, I excused my clammy brow, my pale face, and my lack of enthusiasm as acclimatising to the waves, a brief period of seasickness that would soon pass. Matty accepted it as a landsman's weakness. The water has been quite choppy and Piper is suffering particularly, her brow damp with cold sweat the whole time we've been out.
But, in truth, I am on deck not to relieve my anxiety but to confront it. It's not seasickness that weakens me but the sight of Woodlark Island, away to the north, growing closer with every passing second, like an emerald serpent slithering down a vine.
When I was a boy, I often came to Woodlark. Its community was far larger than Madau's — maybe six thousand people all told. Many local folk had farmed and harvested the land and jungle since tambuna time — that is, since before the recording of history, since the time of legends.
But many others had been attracted by the island's mine — the gold that had drawn expats and their workers since the 1980s. They came in waves, and while the Kulumadau mine never really paid off big time, every now and then the profit margins made the enterprise worthwhile. The first mine had struggled on for ten years or so before failing, the second attempt had lasted through much of the early 2000s, but it was the third iteration, the one operating during the Fall, that had been the most successful, prompting a surge of development that was abruptly cut off when the plague swallowed the rest of the world.