Point Apocalypse

by Alex Bobl

  "So, what do you think?" McLean said without taking his eyes from the ocean. "You don't get whiskey like this on Earth any more. It's the cao fruit I get from loggers. With its juice we make excellent whiskey like this one, feed the pulp to the cattle and use the dried rind as fertilizer. Lots of interesting plants Pangea has to offer, Mr. Posner.

  I nodded. He sat half-turned toward me. The steward took him the other tumbler and returned to his post at the serving table by the exit. He moved a massive stone ashtray aside, lined up the bottles, placed the cigar back into its box and shut the lid closed.

  "To welcome company," McLean toasted me with his glass and leaned back sipping his whiskey.

  I took another swig and glanced into the room behind the rattan screen. Two men sat there on a bench: Frenchie and the gorilla who'd confiscated my guns. Wladas and Wong were kept in the yard downstairs, guarded by a few raiders. The house had three levels: the second one served as the entry, opening into the yard. A rough spiral staircase led downstairs from the verandah. The first level was built into the cliff, supported by wide beams that stuck out far above the water. A net was stretched under the beams - just in case.

  From the net to the water had to be fifty feet or so. Worth a try. I leaned against the log railings and tried to estimate the depth. I could barely see the bottom. No rocks on the surface. Easy to get out onto the shore, too: all I had to do was swim to the left, along the cliff toward the pier that separated the port from the seaweed farms. Further from the pier, several abandoned jetties stretched into the sea.

  The shore bustled with people carrying heavy bails on their backs to a pontoon wharf behind the jetties. Two motor boats and a few junks rocked there, moored along the wall. Further on, fishermen dried their nets stretched wide on poles. An ancient barge lay stranded on the shore sunbathing its black tarred side. Shells covered its bottom below the water line, and a good dozen locals were busy scrubbing it clean.

  "My boats will be back in two hours," McLean said. "I'll have to go there and inspect the catch. One needs to keep an eye on these people."

  I got the message.

  "It won't take long," I finished my whiskey and stood with my back to the ocean.

  My head still swam after the memory release. Every now and then colored circles flashed before my eyes. Probably, drinking wasn't such a good idea. I concentrated on my heart, still beating fast like I'd just finished a cross country run. McLean glanced at me from under his hat and puffed on his cigar waiting for me to go on.

  I really didn't want to speak first but I had no other option.

  "Are you going to help us?" On my way there, I'd decided I'd put my cards on the table. Pointless trying to keep secrets from him. Tex knew about me and the FSA. I'd already dropped a few hints about General Varlamov; now I needed to know everything New Pangers knew about him.

  McLean's eye, gray and cold, stopped blinking. His face froze. Then he laughed out loud, his mouth wide open, his head dropped back. The steward watched the scene, indifferent, his hands folded at waist level.

  "Wow," McLean wiped a tear and grinned one last time. "Your FSA bosses must be really up their own asses. Did you really think I would work for you?"

  The smile disappeared from his face. Hatred glowed in his eye. His voice became icy.

  "We deliver carula, and what do we get in return? More and more dead meat: sick and useless men unable to survive here." McLean sat up and clenched his cigar until it broke sending sparks flying onto his pants. He didn't notice. He leaned forward and gave me a poke. "And now you want me to help you? Who do you all think I am?"

  His whiskey splashing his boots, Tex rose and threw the glass over the railing. He was heaving. I glanced at the doorway. Frenchie and the gorilla already stood there, gloomy-faced, clenching their guns.

  "Oh no, Mr. Posner, I don't think so! First, I want you to tell me everything you know. Carula, mainly. Also, I want to know why your agency wants Neumann after all these years. Leave your Varlamov story for some other idiots. You give me the accurate information. Then I'll decide where to go from there."

  So! Apparently, I couldn't count on McLean's help. I had to find Neumann all by myself. When our analysts had developed this scenario they predicted the odds of a negative outcome as negligible. They reasoned that McLean was tied down by Earth suppliers and confederate obligations. They claimed he'd been informed of the repercussions following his refusal to cooperate. But apparently, McLean was no coward. He even tried to put the situation to good account by using me.

  Potential information leak, the Information butted in. Mission compromised. I froze. How on earth had the software analyzed McLean's words? What's its algorithm? Did the thing read my thoughts?

  Was it a warning or a system error? It could be a false identity overlap as it had already happened with clones back in the hotel? Up until now, all my actions fell within the programmed algorithm, bar the failed meeting with the contact.

  Threat identified, a voice resounded in my head. Third degree alert. Carrier to leave New Pang immediately. Failing to do so will result in annihilation.

  Oh great. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed the spot above the bridge of my nose. It prickled and stung a bit. Rationalizing hadn't done me any favors. The invisible helper was at the point of scorching my brains.

  The FSA director was a real jerk. He should have let me know that the information program could force me to act against my will. So it looked like they kept me on a long leash, giving me little freedom of choice.

  The pain in my forehead grew leaving me no illusions. It felt as if a white-hot rod was forcing its way through my skull.

  Third degree alert. The procedure of memory capsule formatting commenced. Its termination will activate automatic liquidation.

  "In how much time?" I asked without thinking.

  Information answered, Four minutes twenty-two seconds.

  Looked like I had to hit the road whether I liked it or not.

  "Agreed," I stepped toward the door. "Let's go downstairs."

  "Why?" McLean raised a surprised face. The gorilla blocked my way.

  "One of my men is a chartered medical specialist," I struggled to preserve a calm expression. "He can explain this carula stuff."

  McLean rose in his chair and looked back. "Butch!"

  "Yes, boss?" Gorilla squeezed himself sideways through the doorway and stopped next to the steward shifting glances between me and the booze on the serving table.

  "Go down into the yard. Take four more boys and bring me the prisoners."

  "What's their business here, boss?"

  McLean slapped the armrest. The chair squeaked. "On your way!"

  Gorilla staggered across the room, panting and stomping his feet, and disappeared down the staircase.

  I used my glass to point at the bottle. While the steward was pouring me another whiskey, the stairs filled with voices and stomping feet. Wong entered the room first, followed by Wladas, Butch and the bald-headed raider. Two more took the stairs and stood guard on both sides of it. My men walked out onto the verandah.

  "I told you to take four men," McLean glared at Butch. "Idiot!" he turned red in the face.

  Butch sighed, licked his lips and shrugged. "But boss-"

  "Shut the fuck up!" McLean jumped up.

  Wladas by the serving table flinched. Wong pretended he was scratching his neck as he glanced at the raiders by the stairs and shifted sideways between gorilla and the bald raider. Now Frenchie couldn't see him from his room.

  Third degree alert, the Information wailed. Carrier to leave New Pang immediately!

  "I'm losing patience, Mr. Posner," McLean returned to his seat and nodded at Wong and Wladas. "Which one is your medic?"

  The stinging in my head turned into drilling. A cramp clutched my cheek. My spine shuddered. My brain might boil at any moment now. Time to beat our retreat.

  I was about to step toward the doorway when I noticed three familiar figures down on the pontoon wharf. A
wizened fat man in pale shorts climbed over the fence and jumped into a moored motor boat. His skinny friend threw him a barge pole and followed. My last doubts disappeared when I saw Jim, disheveled as usual, climbing the fence after them. He cast the boat off, threw the rope's end to his bosses, stepped onto the prow and kicked away from the jetty. Georgie wielded the barge pole turning the boat around.

  "Wong," I threw my drink into Butch's face, punched him in his Adam's apple and jumped toward the guards by the stairs.

  I had to admit they had excellent reaction times. Still, they forgot they stood in a fenced-off area. As soon as they raised their carbines, I used both my hands to punch them in the chest. One went ass over tits down the stairs. The other let go of his gun, grabbed my shoulder and pulled me down with him.

  I'd lost precious moments. I had to dig my wrist into his chin to free myself from his grasp. Only then could I push him down the steps.

  Punches resounded behind me, followed by a slap. Wladas cried out. I turned and nearly collapsed. My head was swimming and I had to lower myself onto one knee. McLean slumped in his chair. He hadn't had a chance to draw his gun. Butch and the bald raider lay on the floor a few feet away from the senseless Frenchie in his room. Wong froze in the doorway, pleased with his work. The steward was pointing his compact pistol at him.

  How could I forget the steward? That was a beginner's mistake. Apparently, Wong wasn't without error: the steward would shoot him before the Chinese had a chance to wring his neck. If only Wladas...

  Wladas raised his hand and smashed a whiskey bottle over the steward's head. Glass flew everywhere. The mute steward collapsed in the doorway. Wong stepped over him, gave the neurotech the thumbs-up and ran to the steps.

  "Jump," I croaked and got up.

  The Information finally shut up. My forehead stopped stinging and I could breathe again. I looked down. The raider lay in the safety net below.

  "Wladas, jump, quick!" I straddled the railing and looked at him.

  The neurotech stared at the collapsed steward in the hallway, his head covered in blood.

  "Wong!" I gasped. "Help him."

  McLean stirred in his chair. An enormous bump ripened on his Stetsonless head. Judging by the size of it, Wong had hit him with the ashtray.

  He tried to get up and reach for the gun. But the Chinese on his way to Wladas restored the status quo with a deft hand chop.

  "Jump," I nodded at the pier. "When you surface, go for the jetties. Ask those in the motor boat to take you on board."

  Wong grabbed Wladas' hand. He jumped over the railing and stood on the edge. Turning to Wladas, he grabbed him under the other arm, squatted, then sprang back to his feet and flipped Wladas over his head like a wrestler on the tatami. At the last moment he kicked himself away from the verandah, tucked up and somersaulted down the cliff.

  Wladas hit the water. Next to him, Wong opened up and entered head first. In two seconds, he resurfaced, grabbed the struggling neurotech by the scruff of his neck and swam toward the jetties.

  I heard a noise on the spiral staircase. Someone was calling for help. Instead of jumping after Wong, I returned to the verandah. I grabbed a few bottles off the serving table and smashed one against the wall, then hurled another toward the stairs but missed as it fell between the banisters.

  I swore and grabbed another bottle and the lighter off the tray. I ran to the stairs pouring the whiskey onto the steps and the floor around. Then I smashed the bottle against the banister and flicked the lighter setting the verandah on fire.

  The raider in the net underneath stirred and raised his head. I hurled the burning lighter into the room. It hit the spilt whiskey on the wall. A blue flame licked the wood as it spread toward the bench and ran across the floor before climbing the rattan screen.

  "Fire!" I shouted, then took in a chestful of air and yelled, "Fire!"

  I climbed the railing, kicked free from it, crossed my arms on my chest and entered the water feet first.

  By then, Wong and Wladas had climbed out onto a jetty and were running toward the pier, waving their hands to the sailors in the motor boat.

  I looked up. Smoke belched from the verandah. Stevedores stopped with bails on their backs and pointed at McLean's estate. No one looked at the pier.

  I couldn't see the motor boat for the jetties around. I decided to take my chances by not swimming ashore. Georgie and Grunt would surely try to use the commotion to leave the harbor unnoticed, and my men would tell them where to look for me. I swam to the seaweed farm.

  The water was murky and thick with a noticeable stench. A few times my body brushed something soft and slimy - most likely, the seaweed rippling just under the surface.

  When I had swum far enough away from the cliff, I turned to a jetty one side of which faced the ocean. The engine of the approaching boat roared as it sped up.

  Then my hand hit an obstacle. I stopped and waded up to my chest. A fishing net was stretched under water next to the jetty, its floats rocking on the waves. A few feet further, I saw another one; and a yet another.

  Shit. The last thing I needed was to get stuck there in full view.

  The engine approached. The boat must have passed the pier and headed for the seaweed farm at full speed. I climbed over the floats trying not to get caught in the net. Why did they need all these nets here? I moved toward the next one. The engine started to die away, and its wake reached the jetty causing the floats to move and push me up. My hand got stuck in the net. I moved back and immediately regretted it as my feet got caught up. My head was still out of the water but now I couldn't go anywhere, spread-eagled between the nets.

  I heard voices. Wong and Georgie came onto the jetty, Wong pointing at me.

  "Jim! Get the pole!" Georgie shouted.

  He caught the pole thrown from the boat and grabbed its other end, crouching.

  "Hold it!" Georgie shouted as the sharp tip nearly pierced my shoulder.

  Wong went down on one knee and held the pole tight as I clasped my end. They pulled it, and I cried out in pain as something snapped in my trapped foot.

  "Don't! My foot!"

  The Chinese and the crane operator leaned forward together.

  "What the fuck's keeping you!" Grunt's voice came from the boat.

  Georgie waved him off. He pulled out a knife, balanced it in his hand and hurled it to me. I nearly missed it, catching it by the blade. My cut-up fingers stung but I managed to get hold of it with my other hand that was caught in the net. I cut through the mesh until I'd freed it. Only then did I check the cuts. Blood ran down my hand to the wrist. Why did it hurt so much? It stung worse than that damn software in my brains. Could be the salt in the water, but still.

  I wriggled myself around and cut through the net by my feet. Now I could move again.

  "The pole!" I reached out toward the jetty and grabbed the pole's sharp end. "Pull it!"

  Georgie and Wong stood up pulling the pole like a fishing rod. They raised me out of the water and lowered me onto the jetty.

  "Come on!" Grunt shouted. "Move it!"

  Wong helped me onto my feet. With his assistance, I jumped into the boat. Jim sat astern next to Wladas.

  "Welcome aboard," Grunt eased the throttle forward and lowered his hands onto the steering wheel.

  The engine spat a jet of water from its cooling box. A wake began to foam on both sides of the boat.

  "Hold on tight," Grunt took a tight turn around the jetty and headed for the cliff.

  "Why there?" I slumped into the seat behind him and winced. The palm of my injured hand was burning. I could barely move my fingers. For a moment, I had the impression that the blood vessels under my skin glowed red.

  "Shut the fuck up," Grunt said without looking at me. "I'm the boss here."

  We were approaching the cliff leaving the seaweed farms to our right. Next to it, McLean's house on the cliff emitted clouds of rancid smoke. The ocean spread away to our left.

  "Where do you think-" I didn't fi
nish.

  Right in front, I noticed a narrow ravine. From the shore, it could easily have been mistaken for a wide crack in the cliff. Still, it was a passage opening into a large grotto.

  The moment we entered it, Grunt shut the motor down to near idle, its purring echoing from the tall domed walls in front. Jim and Georgie moved to the fore and started paddling with their hands, each on his own side, to prevent the boat from scraping the stones all around.

  "Where now?" I asked when the boat grated against a rocky ledge turning a corner. "I can't see jack shit. We'll hole her!"

  Grunt turned and gave me a meaningful look.

  "Kill the engine," Georgie said.

  I looked forward nursing the wounded hand at my chest. Daylight streamed from around the bend, lacy shadows dancing on the surface.

  "Oakum, take some soundings," Grunt handed him the pole. "Georgie, take care of the motor."

  Instead of doing what he'd been told, Jim opened a hatch on the prow and produced a lamp similar to the one we'd seen in the hotel the night before. He turned a knob on its base, filling the cave with a soft white glow.

  "What if they sent someone after us?" I peered into the darkness, listening.

  "Shut up," Grunt dropped.

  He took the lamp from Jim and lifted it overhead while Jim lowered the pole into the water pushing the boat deeper into the cave. In a low voice he reported the approximate depth. Georgie got Wladas to help him dismantle the motor. When they secured it in a horizontal position, the crane operator sat down next to me.

  "Show me your hand," he said.

  He grabbed my forearm and turned the wounded hand to the light.

  "What is it?" Grunt asked.

  "Not fucking good," Georgie wrinkled his nose. "He cut it real deep."

  "What are you talking about?" I looked up at him. My hand was so numb I didn't feel my fingers anymore. "Is it dangerous?"

  "Carula," Grunt answered. "It secretes a strong toxin. If it gets into the bloodstream..."

  Jim reported the depth again, and the captain told him to steer starboard in order to avoid a shallow patch. We sailed around a cluster of rocks protruding from the water. Past them, the cave split into two, one side overhanging so low the boat couldn't take it.