by Perrin Briar
The majority lined the eastern shore, reaching toward the shiny blob of yellow across the canal that was Port Fouad. Tim pressed his influence against them and they turned to him, mewling at his touch. Through their eyes he made out a series of tall spires across a narrow body of water, and there, faint and distant on the fringes of his new pets’ weak sense of hearing, a shrill alarm blaring from the centre.
Tim felt exhausted to his bones, his eyes barely able to stay open. He was nearing the end of his journey, and as the final few miles drifted past, he thought back to how his voyage had started all those months ago. It had started, literally, with a bang.
The explosion had knocked him off his platform and out of his zen-like state of concentration. The ball of fire licked one half of his face, and on days such as this when he passed the burned remains of entire cities he could still recall the singed hair and pork scratching-like smell of his own cooked flesh. The pain was agonizing, like a hive of hornets stabbing at him from the inside, but it took the sinister edge off another pain, deeper than anything merely physical.
His beloved pets had been wrenched from his control, out of his consciousness. He reached for them, but they were gone now, blocked out by bloodlust. He was all alone in the world. The eight thousand voices he’d felt in the back of his mind for so long had been ripped from him. The world was silent and terrifying.
He heard the thumping of hooves behind him and considered facing Commander Harris, the man who had done this to him, to let him finish what he had started. To let himself be killed. Tim was as good as dead anyway without his beloved pets. But something made him get up onto his feet, an inner strength from an earlier, forgotten time, and he ran away.
By morning, the last of his beloved pets were slain, and the greater part of him had died along with them. A great cheer rose up from the compound, distant and yet audible, and Tim felt hot anger bubbling up inside him. He was surprised to find it was not aimed at those in the compound, but at himself.
He lay down on his front and reached into the water, cleaning the burn on his face. The salt stung the wound, making him grit his teeth. But he deserved it. He washed his face again and let the pain wash over him. He would wear the fiery brand as a reminder of his failure.
For two days Tim had wandered from place to place, with no direction or purpose. He had become one of his pets, powerless and without aim.
Then Tim had sensed something behind him. A pet. It was lost, meandering, not one of his former pets, but needing him all the same. But Tim hesitated. Did he really want to begin assembling another army? He would only lose them, and his heart would bleed all over again.
The figure wandered around like a lost child, veering gradually in his direction. Tim tentatively reached for the Lurcher, like an adult reaching for a child, and took him in his warm grasp. The pet responded to Tim, a soft mewling like a kitten.
I’ll never lose you, Tim said. Not again. I promise.
The pet didn’t understand what he was saying, but Tim imagined he could feel warmth through the bond. He smiled. He wasn’t alone any more. He had a friend.
Something hollow thudded against the hard wooden posts of the jetty he was crouched on. It was a boat, a shiny white yacht with a purple flag flapping in the breeze. Tim focused and scrolled through the memories and lives of thousands of men, women and children he’d collected. None of them had much knowledge of how to operate this floating contraption. He called to new pets, from as far as his newly restricted influence would allow and drew them to him. They stood on the deck, waiting for instructions.
Tim climbed into the yacht and sat down on the uncomfortable cold stern. He would wait. Eventually a pet with the requisite information would turn up.
“Oi!” a voice shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Four large men – one of which carried a fat, stupid-looking man on one shoulder – ran toward the boat. As they got closer their footsteps slowed, and their eyes lost their angry frowns and grew to the size of saucers.
Tim’s pets disembarked from the boat and swept up behind the men like a wave. They seized them with little resistance, biting into them. Tim Tasted their blood memories. One, his name was Barry, knew a great deal about boats. Tim licked the blood off his bleeding neck himself to extract all the information.
The man they had been carrying squealed like a pig when his pets gutted him. Tim leaned over and dipped his finger in a droplet of his blood.
“Terry?” Tim grimaced. “You even taste like pig.”
Tim’s pets removed Terry’s colossal buttocks and placed them on the hard plastic seat for Tim to sit on. He sank into them. Much more comfortable.
When they got far enough out to sea it became necessary to – he searched Barry’s mind for the correct term – plot a course. Despite his obvious stupidity, Terry had the best knowledge of the area. Tim focused on Terry’s memories and was surprised to find a familiar face.
“Jordan?” Tim said, his eyes crinkling with a smile.
Tim scrubbed every memory he had of Jordan – including his own.
“The Indian Ocean,” Tim said with a smile. “That sounds nice.”
Tim repeated the line now as he passed Port Said. The memory, one of his own, was very strong. Soon he would be at the Suez Canal, and then a short trip through the Red Sea to the Indian Ocean. He would find his old friend. But first he would make a stop off and collect more pets.
Tim focused on his crew, driving them forward faster through the water.
Port Fouad, Egypt
21.
The shrill alarm echoed the panic in Jessie’s chest. It had started a few minutes earlier, and the king’s guards, who were already rushing around like headless chickens, were now in a state of frenzy, some heading to the secret entrances dotted about the city, while others ran to the king’s mansion where the alarm emanated from. Most veered between the two, unclear of their orders or what they should have been doing. It was a mess.
Townspeople stood at their house windows watching the commotion. Merchants paused in pushing their laden carts and turned to look up at the mansion. Opportunistic street urchins reached for the untended produce while the owners’ backs were turned, and then beat a hasty retreat.
But one troop of guards appeared to be moving with purpose. They broke from the crowd and ran toward the mosque entrance two hundred feet below.
“Shit,” Jessie said, picking up her rifle and slinging it onto her back.
The wind howled around her, making her clothes flap and press against her toned body. She was facing the dock, where two dozen boats were moored alongside a dozen quays. One of them was Hope Tomorrow, but she couldn’t identify it.
There was a rattling sound up the staircase of clanking metal armour and weapons, and a dozen man-shaped shadows carrying long wicked halberds danced on the wall.
Jessie gulped and tossed one end of a chain around a suspension cable and caught it with the other hand. She looked down over the side and immediately regretted it, her head swimming.
“This is really a bad idea,” she said.
She looked back at the stairs, hoping she’d imagined the approaching shadows. The tips of the halberds stabbed at the air as they ascended the stairs. Jessie took a deep breath and threw herself off the side of the building.
She fell a dozen feet before her weight caught on the suspension cable. She jerked with a jolt, but held on tight. The strap of her rifle pulled against her throat, restricting her air flow. Her instinct was to slap it away with a hand, but she ignored it.
The wind pressed against her body as she picked up speed. In a remarkably short period of time the ships’ masts passed beneath her, and then zipped past her on either side like a forest.
The wire ended up ahead, wrapped around the wall of a large building. If she kept hold of the chain she would end her days as unkempt graffiti. But letting go was difficult. The surface of the water rushed up to meet her at speed. She still couldn’t let go. Finally,
she shut her eyes, squeaked, and released her grip.
She fell…
Fell…
Fell…
And hit the water, piercing it deep. She kicked with her feet and dug with her hands. She peered around but didn’t know which direction was up. The bubbles floated past her, between her feet in the direction she had assumed was down. She turned and chased the bubble breadcrumbs.
A quivering circle of white on the water’s surface grew larger as she scaled at a sharp incline. Her lungs burnt with starvation, the need to replenish themselves. She kept kicking, expecting to burst through the surface at any moment, but the moment never came. She squeezed her eyes shut and her mouth began to open instinctively to take a breath. She struggled harder, pushing her burning muscles. In her panic she lost her natural rhythm. Her arms and legs flailed, and a bubble of air escaped her lips, a big brother of the tiny flecks of bubbles around her. She had the thought that it was a waste of oxygen, before thinking that the thought too was a waste. Black spots flared in the corners of her eyes like a demon’s wings, flapping and building in size and frequency, threatening to turn her world black.
Jessie struggled harder, a terrified squeak escaping her lips, along with another bubble of air. She kicked and clawed at the water and felt it beginning to seep in through her nose. She couldn’t wait any longer. She needed to take a breath.
She exploded out of the water’s surface and breathed in a huge gulp of air. She rocked back down, the water covering her head again, before she managed to tread the water. She floated there a moment, leaning back. Her lips felt numb. She concentrated on expanding her lungs, paying back her oxygen debt, back to the normal process of breathing.
She looked up at the tower she had leapt from. She felt relieved she’d managed to survive such a huge fall. She could see the small figures of orange and green uniforms standing in the archway where she had been camping. They turned and headed inside. They would be coming for her.
She swam toward the water’s edge and climbed onto the dock. The locals were still emerging from their houses in response to the piercing wail of the alarm that blared over the city. They were too distracted to pay Jessie, soaked though she was, much attention.
She approached Hope Tomorrow and climbed onto her deck. She headed down the stairs and found the cabin door locked. She got a sinking feeling in her stomach. She unlocked the door with a key she kept on a thong around her neck and peered into the darkness.
The main cabin was silent, empty as a tomb. The small space had never felt so lonely before, nor so dangerous. The coloured drawings she’d made poked fun at her, reminding her of a time when she could just enjoy herself, like happy memories of a relationship before it had gone sour. She shivered, and not just because of the cold.
She took her rifle off her back and placed it on the table. She picked up a towel and began to dry herself off.
The events of the evening passed uninvited through her mind. It was too much to hope the wailing alarm and Anne and Jordan’s activities were a coincidence. But perhaps there was a chance – small though it was – that Jordan and Anne had not been captured, but that they had been spotted escaping. They might even be on their way back to Hope Tomorrow at that very moment.
Thud. A footstep on the deck.
Jessie picked up her rifle. Water spilled from the barrel. She cursed herself for not thinking to replace it with a pistol or another weapon the moment she had entered the cabin. Dare she try now? No. The figure was already beginning to head down the steps. They would be on her before she got the safe open, and all the weapons would be up for grabs. But the rifle still might fire. She aimed it at the bottom of the stairs.
The figure’s footsteps were heavy and ominous as they descended. The breath caught in the back of Jessie’s throat. The figure wore an orange uniform with a green stripe up the side. Jessie’s grip on her rifle grew tighter. The figure didn’t carry a weapon. He ducked his head down to peer into the main cabin.
“Jessie, thank God it’s you,” Ori said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
He entered the cabin and peered out through the portholes.
“Any signs of the guard?” he said.
“Not on the dock,” Jessie said. “Where are Jordan and Anne?”
“They got caught,” Ori said. He pointed to the towel Jessie was using to dry herself with. “Can I borrow that? We were making our way out when the guards fell on us.”
“How did you manage to escape?” Jessie said.
“With a great deal of luck,” Ori said. “After your warning about the guards entering the secret entrances, we headed for the mansion. We were coming up the steps, Jordan and Anne going first. They pushed the door open. I heard shouting – in Arabic – telling them to get down on the floor. Anne and Jordan raised their hands in surrender. I was still on the steps behind them. Whoever was inside couldn’t see me. Anne made a movement with her fingers to back away, and I did. I panicked. It was a cowardly thing to do, but I turned and ran.
“I went into a random room, pulled up the rug, and climbed down into the tunnel. I hurried down it, stopping every few steps to listen for guards, but I heard nothing. I came to the end and emerged out into an empty room. There were no guards there either. I couldn’t believe my luck! But they could have still been outside the door, guarding it. I pushed them open and ran out as fast as I could, so they would have to chase me if they wanted to catch me. But there were no chasing footsteps, no shouts. Nothing. All I can think is they must have been recalled, or followed a protocol when the alarm goes off.
“I ran here as fast as I could, hoping Jordan and Anne had somehow made it out of the trap the guards had set. But I see they are not here yet.”
“What will happen to them?” Jessie said.
“They’ll be at the whim of the prince, now the king,” Ori said.
“Now the king?” Jessie said. “What happened to the old one?”
“We had some… misfortune with him,” Ori said. “He’s dead. But all is not lost. I’m sure we can get Jordan and Anne out. They will be placed in the prison cells in the basement of the king’s mansion.”
Ori’s eyes lowered to the gun in Jessie’s hands, aimed at his chest.
“Do you mind?” he said. “I can’t tell you how nervous it makes me to have a gun pointed at me. Even in as experienced hands as yours.”
Jessie hesitated, and then lowered the rifle to the floor.
“Thank you,” Ori said.
“Do you have any ideas how to break them out?” Jessie said.
“I’ve never been to the prison cells myself, but from what my friends tell me-”
Ori spun around and punched Jessie in the face, knocking her to the floor. The force of the blow had knocked her into a state of stupor. She reached for her rifle with a slow, weak hand. Ori stepped on her forearm and then threw another punch at her.
The world turned fuzzy, and then black.
22.
Jordan and Anne smacked the parquet floor, their bleeding lips pressed against the green and orange flower petals that adorned it. There was the faint scent of fading incense and echoing male voices departing down a corridor.
For the past ten minutes Jordan and Anne had been dragged, pushed and cajoled through the halls of the mansion. The servants had hissed at them, spitting at them when they could get within reach, and threw rotten fruit when they couldn’t. Their hands were bound together behind their backs in handcuffs Jordan could not get free of.
A man in elaborate dress robes and a deep sense of purpose sat a crown on a teenager’s head. The boy looked awkward wearing it, standing bolt upright so it didn’t slide down his face. The man in dress robes spoke in a deep commanding voice, and the boy, now a king, got to his feet. Nobles dressed in all the pomp and finery of a bygone era clapped. The king climbed the short flight of steps to a large gold throne with carved snake heads in the armrests.
The king looked down at Jordan and Anne,
who were surrounded by a close ring of guards. The new king was in his late teens, handsome, with a dark face and short hair. He took after his mother, who sat to one side in a smaller throne, a twist of thorns on her forehead. The nobles looked down their large hooked noses at these criminals.
The king spoke, his voice smooth as velvet silk from a lifetime of elocution lessons. The man in elaborate robes stepped forward and translated his words into English.
“Just two of them?” the king said. “They look so small to have killed my father.”
“It does not take giants to do a dog’s work, King Haji,” the captain of the guard said. “These two are responsible for the death of the king.”
“That’s not true,” Jordan said.
The captain of the guard booted him in the ribs.
“You’ll talk when spoken to!” he said.
“What were you doing in the king’s home if not attempting to assassinate him?” King Haji said.
“We were here to find the location of the key for the food vaults,” Jordan said. “We were told the people are starving and need more.”
“You’re not from here,” King Haji said. “What concern is it of yours if the people are starving or not?”
“We thought they needed our help,” Jordan said. “We were passing through Port Fouad to use the Suez Canal, but the fee is higher than we expected. We decided to wait a while, to work and save up until we could afford to go through the canal. But then we were made an offer, a way to earn what we needed in one night instead of the months we’d need to work and save in the city. We were tricked into kidnapping your father.”
“Kidnapping?” King Haji said. “You murdered him!”
“It wasn’t us!” Anne said. “The man who tricked us was the man who tried to assassinate your father a few days ago! Ori Mizrahi! He murdered your father! You have to believe us!”