by E. E. Knight
“No, that just won’t do,” Stamp said, looking at Duvalier.
“What won’t do?” she asked.
“You’re about to take your first cross-Atlantic voyage. You can’t board looking like a stowaway rat,” Stamp said.
“I believe this is your first cross-Atlantic voyage, too, Thérèse,” Sime said. “While you certainly look nautical, I doubt it’ll be a yacht parade.”
“I’m going on board looking right,” she replied. “Whaddya think?” she asked, performing a clumsy pirouette for Duvalier.
“Anchors aweigh,” she said.
Duvalier submitted to having her makeup put on. Stamp loaned her a nautical-looking cable sweater. Fortunately, Stamp’s shopping mania on Duvalier’s behalf hadn’t gone so far as to include a new wardrobe, so she was able to slouch around in her duster and the borrowed sweater. She wondered how her tired old Evanshikers—rubber-soled ankle boots from a cottage industry in Evansville that turned worn-out tires into new footwear tread—would handle seawater.
Preffer nursed the old van through the tight streets, going gently through the turns and taking it easy on the brakes. If there was a Kurian spy keeping tabs on the activities of the Refugee Network, his job was made a lot easier.
“Do you have any idea of the cabin arrangements?” Stamp asked Sime once they were loaded in the back.
“No, the Baltic League organized the rest of the trip through the Refugee Network,” Sime said. “I just had orders to get to Halifax by a certain date.”
“Hmmm. Let’s hope we’re not sharing.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ahn-Kha said. “I put in a request to bunk with you. We settled it while you were napping off the wine yesterday. I hope I get you. You’re so clean and quiet. But I must warn you, when I get seasick, I become very gassy.”
“What?” Stamp asked, shocked.
“A joke,” Ahn-Kha said. “I suspect we’ll be down in a hold somewhere for at least part of the trip. We’ll be lucky if we’re just sharing with each other and not the ship’s rats.”
“He’s contrary from not being able to stretch out in bed,” Valentine said. “I’m looking forward to it. The only blue water I’ve ever been on was the Caribbean. The North Atlantic will probably be a little more exciting.”
“I prefer my jokes starting with animals walking into a saloon,” Stamp said.
Sime wanted their departure quiet and discreet. Their transport couldn’t have been more humble.
The Out for Lunch was a disappointment to Stamp. Her pleasure-cruise outfit seemed clownish when set in front of a rust-sided fishing boat that had a definite odor of fish to it.
It was a wide-bodied boat with high sides, with roughly the proportions and lines of an oversized rowboat, except for the big control house amidships. Masts with yardarms for nets and the placement or extraction of fishing gear stood to either side just behind the control house. Much of the woodwork on deck looked newly replaced, and the control house had a fresh coat of paint. It seemed the captain-owner maintained the boat by working on whatever was the most pressing need in the winter off-season.
Instead of a steward ready to hand them welcome-aboard beverages, they were greeted by a line of men in yellow plasticized overalls and thick rubber boots. Most of them had scruffy beards, but they smiled in greeting regularly enough.
You also had to walk down from the high pier to get into the boat. Stamp made the descent tentatively, as though aware that the next leg of the voyage wasn’t the sort of conveyance she was used to.
“Gew, what are we going to do with him?” one of the crew asked as they sized up Ahn-Kha. “Hope this’un likes fish.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Ahn-Kha rumbled. “I can catch my own on a long line.”
Appearances aside, once the captain took them below, Duvalier was impressed. It was a ship designed to smuggle people. The fishermen on board could create, with their ice machine and a realistic, permanent board of fish heads and tails (mostly haddock and cod), false fronts to the fish bins below that could conceal two people in each bay.
They were little compartments, about the size of a large closet. Duvalier thought them perfectly sized—indeed, cozy—but Ahn-Kha could barely squeeze into one of them, folded up like a card table. Because you did not stretch out your full length in a hammock, you could sleep comfortably—if you weren’t a Golden One, that is. There were little grates between the compartments, allowing you to converse in the manner of a Catholic confessional.
Their passengers did not have to spend the whole voyage in hiding, of course. During the day they could move about the ship—there was a small galley and recreation area with a little locker full of books in various languages, plus the control room for the captain.
Captain Ableyard of the Out for Lunch was a very young man with sandy hair and permanently windburned skin. Duvalier doubted he could be much into his mid-twenties.
“Been at sea since I was twelve, apprenticed to a tuna fisherman,” Ableyard said. “I know, the boat has a day-sailor’s name. Most working boats have women’s names, a mother or a wife or a daughter. Old Captain Spangler had a real odd sense of humor—never really fit in with the other captains and men. He was the one who converted it into a refugee boat. Honestly, he didn’t care much about fishing. I like to bring in a commercial-sized catch, in case I’m searched.”
“It’s a new experience to have people outbound,” Ableyard said. “We’re usually picking up midocean.”
She learned a little about the refugee extraction system from Europe. The European fishing boats would take a few out and pass them off to fishing boats of another nation, Ireland or Iceland most frequently. They in turn would pass them to the Canadians.
“There used to be a great line through the Azores to Florida or the Caribbean or South America, but the Kurians occupied the Azores and cut that off. Everyone always asks me what good I think I’m doing, bringing them over in threes and fours a few times a year. They wouldn’t ask if they could see the faces of the three or four when we pass the Sambro Island Lighthouse.”
Valentine nodded heartily. He was always of the opinion that everyone making a tiny contribution would create a tsunami that not even the Kurian Order could stop.
The captain showed them some marks near his boat’s steering wheel. It was in the traditional wood, though without spokes. The wood-panel console beneath had dozens of little hash marks running just out of sight from a man standing at the wheel.
“Every time I bring human cargo in through the narrows, I kneel down, thank God, and make a mark.”
“Will you make one for us?”
“You’re not escaping anything. But it’s nice to have celebrities on board.”
“We’re celebrities?”
“I don’t have the faintest idea of what you’ve done, but you must be somebody important if you’re headed over to the Baltic League. Glad to do my bit in the other direction.”
The net boats they followed out of the harbor turned north. Behind them, a larger vessel Ableyard identified as a crab boat rolled more gently on the waves owing to its deeper keel. Its centerline had a sort of rack-catwalk running back from the prow to the bridge, filled with blue plastic barrels that served as markers for the crab traps. It was a big, powerful-looking boat, and rolled less than the Out for Lunch.
Duvalier wished she was on a boat that was rolling a little less. The motion gave her a headache and left her feeling nauseous. Ahn-Kha spied out her condition and stuck one ear out and one ear up; in the semaphore parlance of Golden One ears she knew that to be a good-humored reassurance. The sea didn’t seem to bother him.
She didn’t have time to decide between the ship’s rail and a toilet. An alarmed shout sounded almost as soon as they were in the Atlantic swell.
“A patrol boat! Christ, we’re goners,” one of the sailors called.
&
nbsp; The boat was sleek and speedy-looking, closer in size to the crab boat now almost lost in the mist than to the Out for Lunch. It had a single turret with a cannon up front, probably a 30 mm or 40 mm, capable of tearing the fishing boat to pieces as easily as a twelve-gauge used on a bag of marshmallows.
“They can just stop and board you anytime?” Sime asked.
“There’s no law out here,” Ableyard said. “We fishermen have our own ways to keep order, of course, and there’s our little Coast Guard, not that they’re where you need ’em.”
“First day out! This makes no sense at all.”
“It makes perfect sense if the Kurians know you’re carrying us,” Valentine said.
“We were too visible in Halifax; that’s the problem,” Sime said. “I’m sure they have spies there.”
Yeah, I’m sure news of me shopping with Stamp was all over Washington DC in minutes, Duvalier thought.
“It’s quick action,” she said. “The spy has to report to his superiors, who have to relay the information to someone who can make a decision about what to do about it, and then these sailors have to move their ship into a likely position to intercept. I think it’s probably bad luck.”
“Do you have weapons, explosives, anything?” Valentine asked.
“We have a shark stick,” Ableyard said. “It can put a twelve-gauge round into something. You have to be touching, pretty much, and it takes forever to reload.”
“There’s the charges,” an older fisherman said.
“I have a scuttling charge,” Ableyard said. “If my boat’s ever seized. It’s large enough to blow it into matchwood.”
“I have a bag with a few grenades,” Pistols said.
“Best just to hide. Maybe it’s a routine search,” the old fisherman said.
“Nothing routine about searching an outbound fishing boat,” Ableyard said. “If they’re going to steal some catch for ‘analysis,’ that is. Not like there’s anyone I can complain to. Law of the sea is whatever the person with the biggest boat and the biggest cannon says it is.”
“Get me that scuttling charge,” Valentine said.
Ableyard took them down to the smuggling compartments in the fish hold. The smell, though faint, made her seasickness worse. Stamp had it even worse; she was quietly vomiting into a wash bucket.
They hid, two to a compartment. The “false fish” would be laughable to anyone who would know they left that morning, and they hadn’t had time to try to catch anything to add verisimilitude to them. No, any way you looked at it, they were screwed.
Pistols hid with Sime, Stamp and Alexander took another, Val and Duvalier hid in the third, and Ahn-Kha crammed himself into the fourth.
“I don’t care what they say. I’m not getting taken like a rat in a hole,” Duvalier said.
“So what are we doing?” Valentine said.
“Surprising them?”
Valentine whispered through the hole to Ahn-Kha’s chamber and the Golden One growled something back.
“They’re expecting diplomats, not you, me, and Ahn-Kha. It’s not a destroyer; it’s not all that much larger than this thing. Running down smugglers and whatnot is more their style. The chances of a couple Reapers being on board are pretty slim, especially in these waters. No Kurian’s going to like the idea of swimming in the North Atlantic; it would kill them more quickly than us.”
Ahn-Kha relayed another message: “Pistols says he’s in. Sime says to shut up and not do anything unless they discover us.”
They couldn’t see the boarding party, but Duvalier counted footsteps.
The boarder with the machine gun fired in the direction his gun was pointing—right into the compartment holding Stamp and Alexander.
Duvalier leapt out and used her claws low, hooking one boarder behind the knee to take him off his feet and raking another one along the inner thigh, causing a gush of blood from the femoral artery.
Ahn-Kha was a hairy boulder rolling through, sending men flying this way and that. Using the enormous range of his arms, he reached up onto the bow of the patrol boat and swung on board. He jammed the scuttling charge under the gun turret and flicked the switch that closed the circuit on the fuse.
Pistols, meanwhile, had thrown an open jerry can of gasoline for the fish-preserving ice machine onto the rear deck of the patrol boat. He followed it with a grenade.
It was a mess in the compartment. Stamp was dead, her North Atlantic crossing cut short. The blood that had soaked through her carefully chosen outfit added an extra note of pathos, running across those neat nautical lines.
“Shit,” Duvalier said. Stamp was a little silly, annoying even, but her heart was big, strong, and in the right place. What a loss.
Alexander was badly wounded. He had a tourniquet on his right arm and left leg. Sime and another man were up to their elbows in blood.
“Valentine, you bloody, bloody clown. I would have bribed us out of this. You risked all our lives and lost Stamp. She’s a personal friend of the president,” Sime said.
Duvalier didn’t like Valentine taking the fall for her decision.
“Sime, it was me, not Valentine. I told him I was fighting no matter what.”
“How did you know your bribe would have worked?” Valentine asked.
“Everyone has a price. You just have to figure out which currency works.” He took a peek at his thigh. “Jesus. We have to get to a doctor.”
“You’re just grazed,” Duvalier said. “I have some superglue. That’ll close that up no problem.”
“Superglue?” Sime gasped.
“We can’t turn around now, in any case,” Valentine said. “The Kurian Order’s going to be visiting Halifax, investigating the loss of their boat.”
“My days as captain of this boat are over,” Ableyard said sadly.
“I’ll buy you a new damn boat,” Sime said. “I can’t believe this tub’s worth the paint flaking off it.”
Sime clearly wasn’t used to dealing with pain, Duvalier thought with satisfaction. It was nice to see him sweat and cuss out the inoffensive Captain Ableyard.
“Maybe I’ll relocate to Iceland,” Ableyard said. “I hear the women are incredible. They’re a key link on the Northern Network.”
The wind dispersed what little smoke the burning wreck of the patrol boat produced.
Most everyone instinctively made for the control room. Captain Ableyard did a quick head count and had his informal ship’s medic—he’d spent two years driving a hospital ambulance before seeking refuge at sea—attend to the wounded from the fight.
Duvalier had come up on deck. She needed air before dealing with the bodies of the Kurian boarding party. One of the crew suggested putting them on fish-ice for now, so they could at least be buried on land.
They had company. The crab boat that had come out of the harbor with them had turned their way and put on speed, digging its weighed-down nose into the Atlantic rollers, dumping the water that came on board in streams of spittle running from each side of the grinlike rail. It had obviously seen the explosion and moved to render assistance. A searchlight above her control room turned on.
From the opposite direction, another low gray shape powered toward the direction of the explosion, heeling as it made a swift turn. It had a swept-back superstructure that was similar to that of the burning patrol boat, but details were indistinct in the morning fog. Its color was that of a wet greyhound.
It made sense that the Kurians would want to cover several points of the compass out of sight of Halifax. One boat couldn’t do the job.
“This may be bad,” Ableyard said, unlocking a wooden case near the wheel. He extracted a pair of large naval binoculars and gently rocked his hips as he examined the new mystery boat.
Bet those are worth a bit, Duvalier thought. When she was operating in the KZ, she took every opportunity she
could to steal binoculars or telescopes.
Ableyard’s big binoculars were so battered and worn that the black coating that had once covered the metal had all but rubbed off of the casing, leaving stainless steel shiny with the oil from various pairs of hands.
“Do you have another pair?” asked Valentine.
“Optics are family heirlooms in these parts,” Ableyard said. “I’ve a telescope; it’s a relic, not much better than a kid’s toy. It’s just above the chart table behind you.”
With that he fell silent, observing the boat running toward them. It would beat the crab boat, easily. “No,” Ableyard said, putting the silver binoculars to his face. “No! It’s definitely a patrol boat. New England Fleet. They’re burning a blue flare. That means we’re to slow the engine to just enough to hold a course, and assemble on deck, hands above heads.”
“We won’t be able to try the same trick twice,” Valentine said.
“If they even bother boarding us before sinking this pig,” Ableyard said. “That turret is manned. It’s aimed right at us. They’re probably just waiting for an order to fire.” His cheek twitched nervously.
“They might not know for sure what happened,” Ahn-Kha said. “The boat behind is now nearer the debris.”
“They must have our description,” Ableyard said. “A big crab boat, mistaken for us? Not likely.”
“Should we abandon ship?” Valentine asked.
Ableyard shook his head. “No point. We’re in range. We’ll be blown away before we can get the raft manned. I’d rather let the shells get me than freeze in that water.”
“We can take some solace in the thought that the crabs that eat up the bits will be pulled up by your fellow fishermen,” Ahn-Kha said.