His second sleep was slightly more restful in that he was not awoken by any rude blasts of cold air. When he woke, the sun had risen, and it was finally time to go.
He’d packed before second sleep and so was nearly ready to leave. He grabbed a slab of bac-mat from the digester and swallowed it down quickly, slimy, and lukewarm. It was an improvement over the always cold, occasionally frozen meals of bac-mat on the tundra. After breakfast, he moved the star to access the cold-lock and put on his cold weather garments.
The torso segment of the garment was formed from the carapace of a large stilt crab, bigger than those in his team, but of the same variety. There were layers and chambers in the exoskeleton, and those combined with dense layers of hair on the exterior allowed the crabs, and Max, to stay quite warm. The arms and legs of his suit were formed from segments of a much larger cousin of the stilt crabs. When all assembled, Max looked like a sort of crab-bear hybrid monster. Surprisingly, the crab outfit had nothing to do with being a member on the crab team's list of family as they could easily smell Max through the borrowed outer shell.
Max went outside to ready the sled and rouse the team. The crabs were no longer balled up for warmth, now they were spread out, happily sunning themselves with their normally white fur folded over to reveal the black underside. The cabin stowaway skittered outside to rejoin the team. He practiced stalking and ambushing the full-sized crabs, an activity which the larger crabs accepted patiently.
Max loaded the sled first to give the little crab more time to play. He concealed the shape of the star by packing various items on top before covering all of it with the tarp. If anyone had questions, he would tell them he was loaded with ice core samples and hope they hadn’t seen the same movie he had. It was a good bet. There were no theaters anywhere in the True North. When he was finished, the sled was packed quite tight, and Max hoped that Snow White in there didn’t choose this moment to wake up.
It was a short trip down to the docks where his boat had been moored throughout his survey. Max waved politely at the few people he saw on his way, but successfully avoided any conversations. As he crested the hill on the road leading to the harbor, he could see the fishing boats sailing from the harbor below, heading out to hunt their candy-catch. Candy-catch was the whole reason for anyone to live in the True North. The precious little fish were the resource of the fishery. The key to their value was a sappy sugary resin reserve, which they could burn in an emergency to escape the hungry jaws and tentacles of predators. The little fish were so energetic when panicked that their human hunters needed to incapacitate them before scooping them up. Otherwise there might be little of the delicious amber candy left when they reeled in the nets. Humans didn’t eat the fish themselves of course, they were tossed into the digesters just like any other food source. But people loved the resin. After all, tasty sugar was tasty sugar.
A short gust interrupted the steady breeze and a gentle chorus of clunks and clacks rose from the masts and hulls that were bobbing in the crusty ice-covered waters below. With Mega slipping past the horizon, the tide was at its lowest point. The tidal cycle wasn’t as extreme in the True North as it was further south, but it was enough to place the floating docks far down the cliff face.
Max moved his gear onto the cargo net. When all his belongings were loaded, he raised the net up off the ground with the small crane and spun the net over the edge of the cliff. He lowered the pulley enough so he could step out onto the side of the net then, balancing on top the long star, he lowered the net releasing the rope slowly hand over hand.
At the bottom he briefly abandoned the full net to retrieve his boat, though he kept looking back over his shoulder, as though the star and the rest of his gear might be suddenly stolen. Ultimately it seemed no one was paying any attention either to him or his possessions.
He pulled and guided the boat, weaving it around the few other vessels that were still in port and not out fishing in the bright, sunlit, icy cold, and occasionally ice-filled waters. Max loaded the boat as quickly as possible. As with the entrance to the hut, the artifact fit through the doors, though again, just barely. Max’s boat was a variety that originated in the Northern regions. It was formed from a single enormous spiraled seashell of a sea snail native to the Northern waters (which resided south of the True North). It was neither as roomy nor as comfortable, as the more common fungus log variety, but it had the advantage of being completely sealed and very sturdy. Sturdy enough to frequent these ice-filled waters. Nowadays, boats of this variety were fabricated in all shapes and sizes through genetic manipulation of the giant snails that grew the shells, but Max’s boat was the original centuries-old variety. Which was to say, well used, affordable, and with a tendency to roll over in large waves.
With the boat loaded, Max returned up the cliff to the sled team. That they could not join him on the boat was clear, but he was surprised by his reluctance to part ways. Especially the little one who had sneaked into his cabin. That one looked up to him as the big crab of the family, and Max felt like he was abandoning the lot of them.
In exchange for two large sacks, filled to near bursting with fresh catch, he traded the sled and the sled team at the stable nearby Nerrian’s shop. Or at least that was the plan. Instead, when he learned the smallest crab, the stowaway from the night before, was to be killed and tossed into the digester for the unforgivable crime of being the team’s runt, Max insisted on keeping him and paid the handful of Candy demanded by the stable master.
The stable was part of the clifftop port facilities. Made of imported fungal logs, the core structures of the port had been in place most of the two centuries since the Candy Catch fishery had been discovered. When Max had arrived, it was here he’d found and purchased good cold weather gear. But he didn’t have the funds to also buy a sled team, which could be expensive and were not generally available. Instead he trained a team himself. Untrained crabs were much cheaper, and he had not come unprepared for this, having trained crabs on the orphanage farm outside of SoChar since his youth, albeit distant cousins of these shaggy beasts.
He arranged at the time to trade the crab team when he was done, for the two large sacks of catch. The sappy sugar was now hardened into resin on the outside. Fresh catch, like that in his two sacks, was still juicy on the inside. When you crunched through the outer resin, sweet goopy syrup exploded into your mouth. He’d been happy with the deal when he made it, but something in the stable master’s eye told Max he could have gotten more. Still, fresh was best and two large sacks of it would fetch a high price in New York.
On the way out, Max stopped to say goodbye to the team and to scoop up the rescue runt he now named Doozer. He tapped each of the others on the carapace with his knuckles and told them to be good. They cooed in pleasure, not understanding that Max was going away.
“Bye,” Max said. The biggest ones wouldn’t mind so much. For them it would be a chance to rise to pride leader status in his place, or so they might think. He waved them a fond farewell.
Chapter 7
There was the target, coming up the street and waving.
“My own candy-catch. But he wriggles from my net,” said the hunter under his breath.
The hunter waved genially back at the man he was determined to kill.
“He will be not so lucky this time.”
But those were just words. The target might in fact be just so lucky. Especially if he was, as he appeared to be, headed straight out of port. The hunter continued past the target, up the road just enough to keep from being obvious, before turning his team of shaggy crabs around to tail the target. He arrived at the port in time to see the target loading up the cargo net. It was as the hunter feared, the target was making the right move, wasting no time. The hunter stepped from his sled and leaned across it, as though repairing a malfunction. He watched and weighed his options.
It would be simple enough to take the target now in the open, as he loaded his cargo. But the village people were not likely to
sit idle. The harsh conditions forced them to be a cooperative and helpful people, but they were not weak. No, they would fight. And the hunter might not come out on top. He continued to observe as the target loaded the boat, frustrated to watch his quarry slip away again. The scowl fell from the hunter’s face only when the target had finished with his loading.
He was returning from the port, leaving his boat unguarded. When the target led his sled team away, the hunter immediately guessed the target’s destination. He had time. Not much, but it would be enough. Quickly, he unstrapped the tarp from his sled and grabbed a large rough-spun sack. As he moved toward the dock, the heavy bag that spread wide across his back twitched and wriggled. Then it was still.
Chapter 8
Standing on the outer deck, Max navigated the boat from port and into the large natural harbor. When the wind picked up, changing from a cold but light breeze to harsher face-numbing gusts, he moved below and Doozer followed him in. Max sealed the hatch and continued to navigate from inside, through the large, thick, windowpane.
Doozer climbed up his leg and clambered onto his shoulder to rub its furry carapace against Max’s cheek. The little crab was just small enough to cling on the shoulder of Max’s parka. Doozer locked two of his long legs into a clothes hanger-like hook and hung there, chittering contentedly, and cleaning his fur with surplus legs.
Max was thankful the larger fishing vessels had already set out to sea, smashing a path through the new ice formed during True Night. The warm currents from the south kept the sea mostly clear up to the port during the day. However, a short distance further up the coast was the hard edge of the True North. A wall of ice that stretched far out into the sea. ‘All the way’ as they said. The boundary between the True North’s cold water and the relatively warm water from the south was in constant flux near the port, regularly changing between a liquid and solid surface, with the fishing vessels acting as kingmaker in liquid’s favor each morning.
An hour of slow sailing later, the boat left the sheltered waters of the harbor. There were many tight groups of ships spread out in the distance, all the way to the horizon. In a way it felt busier out on the water than it had in the village.
The water was choppy thanks to a good sailing wind crossing the channel. There was a tapping, knocking sound coming from the deck. Max waited until he was safely past the local shoals and islands indicated on his charts, before slowing the boat to deal with whatever it was he had left loose on deck.
Clear of the shallows and into deeper water, he put on his gloves, pulled up his hood and unsealed the hatch. He climbed on deck and looked for forgotten gear or loose ends. He was on his hands and knees when he heard the sound again. “Clack-clunk.”
Doozer, on the deck beside him, chittered a warning.
“Silly little bean,” Max said, assuming the furry little crab was nervous of the sea. “You won’t long be a landlubber.”
But there had been no wave this time. Nothing to shake the boat. The hair on Max’s neck stood on end. He looked up. Two thick armored legs with short bristly hair arced up over the side of the hull. They were followed by the tips of two more legs. The legs were grasping at the hull, as though trying to pull itself up and free of something.
Doozer spread his long legs wide and hissed dutifully.
Max got to his feet and peered over the edge at the creature. It was, as he’d suspected, a crab. A distant cousin to stilt crabs like Doozer, with shorter fur, stockier legs and with a shell that looked thick and chunky. The dangerous-looking creature was stuck to the outer hull and struggling to pull its carapace free.
“Doozer! Get back,” Max said, pointing towards the stern and the hatch. The little crab obeyed and scuttled backwards, never taking his eyes off the intruder.
Max followed him back. There was nothing on deck to fight with, he had secured everything properly after all. The crab’s pointy legs slipped and scraped on the deck and it seemed to pull itself further up. It was winning the battle against its bonds.
“Inside. Doozer, git!” he said, again pointing where he wanted the crab to go.
Doozer was in full combat mode. His fur churned hypnotically, each hair on his body twisted rapidly back and forth between black and white, giving him a blurred appearance and making him difficult to focus on.
But orders were orders and the little crab did what he was told, though his fur continued to churn as he scuttled below. Max followed him around the back of the boat, through the one hundred and eighty degree turn and down through the hatch. He was on the last step when he heard the crab break free. The pointed ends of its legs clacked across the hull of the small boat, straight over the cabin. It clunked to a stop at the top, straight above Max’s head. Max spun in place to close the hatch. He released the dowel lock and pulled down on the hatch. The noise drew the crab’s attention, it leapt down and forced its way through the narrow opening that remained and hurled itself at Max.
Max fell backwards under the assault and pushed the crab away, over his head, as before. They each struggled to their feet and spun to face each other. The crab ambled sideways up onto Max’s bunk to gain height. Max grabbed blindly from the galley rack and by chance grabbed the crab hammer. He swung it at the crab hitting it on the carapace with a ‘thunk’. The strike caused no damage, but the crab skittered away from the weapon.
“That’s right,” Max said boldly.
The purpose of the hammer was, as it happened, to dismantle crabs for the digester, but it would be of little use while the crab yet lived. Max opened his mouth to taunt the crab more when it leapt at him again. Max ducked the best he could in the bulky cold weather gear. The crab clutched at him with individual legs, but Max managed to stay out of its powerful kill zone.
He grabbed its carapace and slammed it, legs first, to the windscreen struggling to pin its legs against the window. The crab struggled back. Desperate to break free of Max’s grasp it moved around the room held to the walls by Max who was forced to move with it to keep it from spinning on him.
Doozer saw his chance and pounced onto the enemy crab, gnawing ineffectively at its legs and carapace and anything that stuck out. The larger crab made occasional unsuccessful grabs at Doozer but largely ignored the blurry little crab.
Max and the attack crab danced back and forth in circles, neither able to better their position. Max’s muscles ached from the effort. Finally, the crab worked its way into a corner. Max pressed tight on the carapace, forcing it tight into that limiting space.
Sensing an advantage, Max turned to find his axe, for a moment dropping his guard. The crab spun in place, using the additional surface area of the corner, grabbed Max around the chest and pulled him in for the kill. The pair tumbled to the floor with the crab landing on top.
“No, no, no!” Max said.
He flailed, trying in vain to wriggle free, knowing he was moments from death. If not for his own carapace made clothing, he would be dead already. His body rocked gently as the crab’s jaws worked casually and methodically through his armored chest. The crab wasn’t even trying any more. It had won. Now it was simply settling down for a meal.
Doozer too was frantic, tearing chunks of short hair and small splinters of shell from the enemy. But the enemy crab ignored him completely.
Max managed to pry one leg off him, for a moment. But the others held him tight and even that one quickly snapped back into place a moment later when Max lost his grip.
When the axe smashed into the back of the crab, Max had been about to give up. Doozer dodged away momentarily then back to continue his assault.
Max could scarcely believe what had just happened. The crab let go of him and moved on its attacker. It was sluggish as it moved towards the woman, but its taloned legs still dug into the floor with deadly strength.
She gripped the axe that was stuck in its carapace and held it at bay, but the attack crab did not give up.
Max crawled over, grabbed the crab again, holding it down. He saw the axe come
free of the crab and leave his field of view then return, smashing deep into the beast. He felt its strength ebb. The axe lifted again, and Max sat up out of the way as it crashed down again where his head had been.
The woman lifted the axe for another swing.
Chapter 9
Max shuffled back, sliding off his hood. He waved his hands, palms towards her. "Whoa now, wait. I'm not… not going to hurt you!"
Doozer hissed and chittered aggressively. The crab was trained to not harm people, but he must have looked threatening to the young woman. Max uttered a guttural command while gesturing with his hand. Doozer obeyed and backed away.
The woman stopped advancing but continued holding the axe at the ready. Her whole body shivered visibly, from fear, cold, or both.
She didn't know who he was, or even what he was. The way he was dressed, he probably looked like a crab himself.
"This is just my gear," he said, shaking his now shredded carapace parka.
It flopped loosely from his body and nearly fell off on its own. He helped it the rest of the way, tossing it to the floor beside him where he sat.
"I'm not really a crab," he added redundantly and shrugged. "I don't know if you understand me," he said, continuing to look up at her from the floor. "You're probably a bit out of sorts after your… nap."
Without his parka on, the cold air streaming in from the open hatch chilled him to the bone.
She lowered the axe slowly.
Doozer climbed onto Max's shoulder from behind him. "Breuw pop. Pop?" He was eyeing the dead crab on the floor of the boat.
"Not right now, little bean," Max said. "Go sit outside." He pointed out the hatch and started to get up.
The pale-haired young woman raised the axe again.
Doozer chittered and flashed aggressively, only part way out of the door.
"Shush you. Git' going," Max said, nudging him the rest of the way. He turned to the woman. "It's okay, I'm just going to close the door," he said, pointing at the wide-open hatch. "You must be freezing," he added, hugging himself to illustrate what he meant, in case she didn't understand his words.
Starship Relic (Lost Colony Uprising Book 1) Page 4