by Sean Wallace
“I wasn’t expecting it anyway,” she grumbled.
“At this point we don’t know if they’re likely to pose a threat, but keep your coms on. If you need to know anything else, you’ll be told. Over and out.”
Silence over the channel. Thirteen stared at the scotch in her lap. There was only a couple of fingers left, so she tossed it back, screwing up her face as it burned a trail to her gut.
Then she let out a long and vicious stream of the most shocking words she knew.
“Not happy?”
“No,” she said tightly to Fourteen, “Not happy.”
As conversation between the other riggers slowly grew on the channel, Thirteen sagged in her chair. Her reflection glared back at her in a singularly unattractive way.
Apart from the voices of the others, she spent every day alone. Even for Fourteen, who’d been on the next rig since before she’d arrived, she couldn’t put a face to his voice.
At first it was hard, but everyone adapted. She might not like it, but it was her solitude, and she didn’t like anyone breaking it without her permission. Not to mention she hadn’t had the chance to request items from the continent. Such as a new bottle of scotch.
Eight, appearing now that the coast master was gone, sniffed. “How much damage can a crab do?” Aristocratic accent, droll, too civilized to be a rigger.
“Thought you were jerking off, Eight,” Thirteen gibed, although her heart wasn’t really in it.
“Sleeping! For crying out loud, I was sleeping!”
“Uh huh,” Nine snickered.
“And you’re a vestal virgin. What do they think these crabs can do, in real terms? Tidal rigs aren’t exactly delicate machines. The worst I can see happening is one getting caught in a wing. Hardly worth the effort.”
“You have a point there,” Fourteen mused. “Exactly how does anyone expect to learn anything out on our rigs? It’s not like we’ll be able to see anything, and with the tide turning the currents will play chaos with any fancy toys they toss in.”
“Hey, guys,” Thirteen fished a not-quite-finished dog end from a bristling ash tray, “my history is a bit sketchy, but it was the Salt Fae who herded the hermit crabs, right?” She discarded the butt again, and pulled out a fresh smoke.
“Yeah, I think so. Why?”
“Doesn’t Fifteen have net access?” she asked, patting her pockets. Her matches were missing.
“Not anymore, her dish broke. Why, Thirt?”
“Well, given that the crabs only migrated when the Salt Fae herded them, and since the faeries closed the moon the Salt Fae are mostly dead—”
“All dead.”
“—shut up! So why are the crabs migrating?”
“Thirteen, just between friends, you need to stop with the Salt Fae shit,” Nine snipped.
As she struggled to think of something nasty to say, Nine added, “All that crap about you being part Salt Fae and all, getting very old I must say.”
“But I am!” It sounded petulant, but she wouldn’t back down. “My great-great-great-great grandmother was Salt Fae!”
“That makes you . . . ” Fourteen paused. “One thirty-twoth Salt Fae?”
“More like one sixty-fourth,” Nine corrected.
“Kasha ni su fakka!”
A beat, then a bemused Fourteen. “What?”
“I said you’re both arseholes! In Salt Fae-ese!”
Fourteen sighed. “C’mon, Thirt, don’t shoot the messenger.”
“It’s not like you have gills,” Nine said.
She didn’t say anything.
“Do you have gills?”
Pouting, she shook her head. “No.”
“Ha!” Nine said smugly. “See? They don’t say the Salt Fae are extinct for nothing.”
Thirteen bared her teeth at the speakers.
“Don’t feel bad, Thirt,” Fourteen said, a smile in his voice. “We love you all the same.”
“Thank you. You’re still arseholes.” She glanced out the window, and sighed. The lights of a chopper drew near. “I’m going to go and not be a prick to the geek.” So much for sausages and mash. Ah! Matches.
“Make it quick, girl, nearly time to turn.”
“Yeah, yeah. I can make it to the beacon and back before you even start, old man,” she mumbled around the cigarette.
Fourteen just laughed.
The curve of her hand glowed as she lit and inhaled. Cold drafts slipped under the door, breathing through her thick trousers. She grabbed her beanie and jammed it on her head.
The wind tugged her hair as she stepped onto the catwalk. She squinted against it and hastily zipped up her coat. When she swung out onto the ladder her nose was already running. Unseen in the darkness below, the waves thundered against the rig as they had for more than a century. It was, Thirteen reflected, probably a good thing that the rig hadn’t had a structural survey in more than a decade. There was probably, no, definitely all sorts of wear and tear down there that would mean the Ministry would have to spend money fixing it. Which really meant shutting Tidal Rig #13 down and loading her territory onto #12 and #14.
Hell no, this rig would be standing long after the new shiny ones had fallen to scrap.
The roosting seagulls murmured and waddled out of her way when she mounted the top platform. Her pace was slow; she could barely see, and didn’t want to step on any of them. Dumb birds, she thought affectionately, and exhaled away from them.
The chopper—sleek, streamlined, top of the line—circled above, spotlight wavering about uncertainly. It caught her full in the face and she cursed, waving it away.
“Attention Tidal Rig Number Thirteen. Turn on your beacon, repeat, turn on your beacon.”
The birds fled screeching from the blare of the loudspeaker. Thirteen waited till the angry storm of feathers around her subsided before feeling her way towards the beacon station. Her night vision was shot. She ran her hand across a rusting surface till she found the handle. A couple of shoulder-wrenching yanks and it screamed open. Refill the oil pot, right. The light inside failed to come on.
“Tidal Rig Number Thirteen, turn on your beacon, repeat—”
“I heard you the first time, sheesh.”
By light of the chopper she flipped the switches, and as an afterthought slapped the com channel on. Familiar voices burbled in the wash of noise. When the tower began to hum beneath her feet, she straightened and pushed the door shut. After a last long drag on her cigarette she flicked the butt into the wind.
“Tidal Rig Number Thirteen—”
“Sweet friggin’ . . . it takes a while to warm up, all right!” Exasperation made her gestures sharp. The pilot didn’t speak again.
Spider legs uncurled from the chopper’s belly, the hinges snapping open with scissor-like snicks. Thirteen raised her eyebrows. Only military choppers were licensed to use spider legs, the very useful toy that they were. The mechanical arms snaked down and clamped the catwalk around the beacon, forming a temporary dome frame over Thirteen’s head and anchoring the chopper safely. She held her breath, face averted, as the downdraft was full of fumes, too strong for someone used to clean sea air. The floor rattled with the equipment being unloaded. When the direction of buffeting changed, she looked up. The chopper was retreating into the darkness, spider legs curling away.
Amid the sudden mound of boxes atop her rig hunkered a figure in a much cleaner coat than hers. He scurried over, and in the growing light Thirteen made out a clean face, cheek bones to cut diamonds on, a neat hair cut, glasses, and a smile that had to be surgically perfected.
“Hello, my name is Lloyd Doyer. I’m with the Coastline Rehabilitation Organization. They sent me out here in such a rush, I was never told your name.”
His was a voice that had been raised on air conditioning and assumed it would be heard without being raised. Prior to this, she’d never found the nerdy librarian look particularly attractive, but it had been a long time since she’d seen another human being, let alone a good-looking one.
<
br /> It had also been a long time since she’d talked face-to-face, and to her horror she realized he could see her quite blatantly checking him out.
“Thirteen,” she said, and shook his hand quickly, too aware of the sweat and rust and grease coating her palms.
He gave her an adorable quizzical look. “I’m sorry, I thought that this was the thirteenth—”
“It is. The numbers tend to stick, Mr. Doyer.”
“Call me Lloyd, please. I must apologize for arriving with such short notice. Unfortunately we didn’t detect these larger crabs till very late. My uncle was a tidal rigger, and he was very clear about the etiquette of visiting a rig.”
“Really? What generation rig did he have?”
Doyer shrugged. “I really don’t know, but it was along the northeast coast of Nova Mentus.” He unslung his bag and fished around in it. “He always said to come bearing gifts. I didn’t get much time to shop before they flew me out, but I did grab this.”
Thirteen laughed, covering her mouth to hide her delighted grin.
“Is that scotch single malt? Yes? Okay, we like you, you can stay.” He’s pretty! He comes bearing presents! Oh, she liked him a lot.
“I’m glad it’s appreciated,” he said, seeming much more relaxed. “So, this is the antiquated Tidal Rig Number Thirteen.” He looked about the platform, taking in the rickety grid underfoot, the salt- and rust-encrusted beacon mounded high with leavings from the birds, and the single cannon mounted facing the ocean. None of it inspired awe in his expression.
“Um, where do I attach myself?”
Thirteen stared at him blankly before noticing the safety harness strapped around his waist, somewhat lost in his bulky coat.
“ ‘Antiquated’ is a fancy word for ‘old,’ and in this particular case, ‘old’ means piece of junk built before the words ‘safety’ and ‘regulations’ met and shook hands.” At the dismayed look on his face she chuckled. “It’s not that bad. Look, the wind is coming from the west tonight. Just stay away from the east side of the platform and you’ll be fine. It isn’t even blowing that hard.”
He gave her another doubtful look.
“Really. It took a class three gale to blow the last rigger off. Stop looking like that. You’ll be fine. I’ll be back when I’m done.”
“Wait!” Doyer clutched her arm. “You’re going? Where? Why?”
She gave his hand a comforting pat. “The tide doesn’t turn by itself.” This close he smelt of aftershave, curry, fuel, and earth. Rare and exotic scents. A step back and they disappeared, clearing her mind.
“Now? Oh.”
She paused with one foot on the ladder. He was afraid of heights. Typical. “Don’t worry if the place starts shaking like a jackhammer. It’s always quiet like this, just before a turning.”
“This is quiet?”
Her top lip peeled back and she dropped out of sight swiftly. Scotch, yes, pretty, yes; however, it was one thing for her, whose life rotated around this clunky iron behemoth, to bad mouth it, and another thing entirely for him to. Geek. Nerd. Toff.
When she passed the tower room she could hear the com buzzing with talk. The ladder shook and rattled with every step. The metal coils and angles of the rig rose up around her, and even at the end of the cycle the throb and crunch of the engine drowned out the sound of the ocean. The rig never truly slept.
Far below she could make out the dim light of the switch room, a dirty yellow smear in the darkness.
This far down the ladder vibrated constantly. By the time her feet touched the bottom her palms were numb. She slapped on the com and clapped her hands to drive some feeling into them. Sixteen’s voice came on loud, clear and distinctly pissed off. The com on the beacon was still turned on; drat. Hopefully Doyer wouldn’t be able to hear it over everything else he wasn’t used to. Thirteen elected to remain silent until Sixteen had finished her rant, and flicked the safety systems off. Uninvited guests were not the best way to wake up.
“Buck up,” Thirteen said, when Sixteen’s steam seemed low. “They might be pretty.” She bit down on “too” before it left her mouth.
“Oberon’s arse, they’re here to look at crabs, Thirteen, doesn’t that say something?”
There was a rare moment of silence on the channel as all contemplated the many quips that sentence prompted.
“Sod it,” Sixteen spat. “I’m starting the count. All ready?”
A chorus of affirmations.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . . Turn!”
Thirteen grunted as she put her shoulder against the lever. With a screech it clunked into place. A series of clangs and thunks followed, moving deeper into the engines. A single massive shudder shook the entire structure. Thirteen sucked her cheek in, and watched the machinery around her.
The slow roll of gears was barely perceptible at first, and she squinted until she was convinced they were turning. A sudden snake of energy discharge slithered up the pipes. The platform began to shiver with the strain of the engine turning the wings. Pushing an ocean around was not easy business.
“Hold together just a little longer.” She patted the wall beside her. “Mr. Doyer,” she raised her voice, “can you hear me?”
“Yes, Miss, uh, Thirteen.”
“What, you left your guest all alone? For shame, Thirt!”
“Shut up, Nine. Doyer, I’m on my way back up. Any idea when this crab of yours is going to appear?”
“Setting up the tracking now.”
The rig groaned and pinged as she flipped the intercom off and began the long climb up the ladder.
She frowned as she ascended, staring up at the sky. The beacon wasn’t turning, only pointed towards land. Bloody useless. Why on Earth was it blue—oh, yes. The Blue Moon Festival two weeks previous.
The wind grabbed her as she rose out of the shelter of the rig, and she halted to clutch at her beanie. Perhaps it was the remnants of chopper fuel, but something smelt off. Rank. She struggled to brush her hair out of her face, anywhere that would stop it tickling her nose. A snatch of garbled sound made her tilt her head. After a moment she resumed her climb with haste. As she drew towards the tower room, her mouth tightened. The phone, again. Some people never learned. She ground her teeth, scrambled off the ladder, wrenched the door open, and lunged for the phone.
“Thirteen here.”
“Where the fucking faeries have you been?”
She flinched away from the coast master’s bellow, half imagining spit in her ear. “Turning the tide, sir,” she said, thinking that should have been obvious.
“You . . . . inc . . . —d me . . . oming—”
“You’re breaking up, sir.”
A savage burst of distortion blared in her ear, and although most of his words were eaten by interference, she knew she heard him utter “serpent cannon.”
“Say again, or get on the coast ch—”
Without missing a beat the com speakers roared. “I said you have incoming. The biggest mark on the screen altered course to get around a rock outcrop and is now heading straight for you. The navy have scrambled two combat moths, but they won’t arrive for another half hour—”
“Half an hour?”
“Till then you’re on your own. Get the cannon loaded. I don’t want this thing getting tangled in the rig. The gods know how many parts we don’t manufacture any more. Move it!”
“Tangled? How big is this thing? I mean, is it seriously going to be big enough for me to see?”
“I said move it, rigger!”
Thirteen growled at the coast master. His orders unsettled her more than she liked to admit. Only twice in her time on the tidal rig had she needed to use the serpent cannon, and she considered herself lucky to have only had reason two times. It was more than a little terrifying to go up against a serpent, a creature large enough to deal some real damage to a tidal rig. In the migration years the coastline was constantly patrolled by navy ships, for the rigs’ protection. At least the newer rigs had defens
es more adequate than a single unautomated cannon.
She unlocked the ammunition cabinet. The shells inside were designed specifically for use against serpents. They had so many enchantments of death, bad luck, pestilence, and destruction laid on them that the cupboard itself had to be enchanted as well, to keep it from disintegrating. The amount of arcane energy saturated into it all would fetch a disgustingly high price on the black market, what with enchantments becoming increasingly rare since the moon closed. She pulled out an iron case, flipped it open to check it was full, then shouldered it. The straps dug deep.
Outside was nothing but darkness. She strained until her eyes ached as she scaled the ladder, but the night revealed nothing, least of all giant crabs.
Something squawked when she stepped onto the landing. Bloody birds. She waded around the beacon.
The gods knew what Doyer had set up. Cameras, sensors, expensive-looking machines that went ping! when he touched them, and something that looked like radar.
“Can you see it?”
He whirled around, flashing a pocket torch in her eyes. “Oh! Sorry, you startled me. What did you say?”
Thirteen pointed her chin, blinking her dazzled eyes. “Tracking. Can you see it?”
Doyer shook his head. “No, something from the rig is interfering. The vibrations, maybe the arcane energy, I don’t know. All I get is a big blurry blob. I thought the tidal rigs had shock absorbers built in.”
“The second generation, yes.”
“How do you sleep? I mean—” he blushed. “What with all the noise and bouncing. Er.”
Thirteen raised an amused eyebrow. “You get used to it.” Carefully she sank to her knees and pulled the ammunition case from her shoulders. Everything felt a lot lighter without it. “Did you hear the coast master over the com?” she said, crawling over to his side.
“No, sorry. It got so loud up here, I couldn’t make anything out.”
The tracking was as useless as he said. Ghost images flickered around the edges. “Apparently it’s coming right for us. I’m going to turn on the beacon. He didn’t say if we’d be able to see it, but given he told me to load up the serpent cannon . . . ” she trailed off and shrugged. The coast master was probably over-reacting. “What are you trying to get anyway?”