“Sorry, Beth. Bessies on our tail. You’d better close the door behind us.”
The woman didn’t argue as Bill brushed past. “Excuse us.”
“Of course.”
The fleeing pair trotted through the hall into a lobby with a few upholstered chairs and a leather sofa. Two men and a woman sipped glasses of wine at a table. Micah stopped at the establishment’s front entrance, checking the street, Bill presumed, for bad guys.
Bill’s curiosity was piqued. “Do you know those people?”
“Friends from a long time ago. I drop in now and then.” The neighborhood was dark and quiet. “ Cops’ll be here any minute. We need to get to the ship.”
Micah marched into the darkness, compelling Bill to trail her. Micah followed alleys and side streets, heading in the general direction of the water. A sense of disorientation returned to Bill, though not as frightening as the seconds after the raid. Keeping one eye on Micah, he picked out a mist gallery, a seafarer’s mission, and a lawyer’s office. Only the god-house was familiar. After a quarter-mile, the pair came out to a thoroughfare, empty of traffic, except for an automated trolley trundling toward them.
Micah halted near a trolley stop, keeping to the shadows. “I think we’re safe enough now.”
Uncertain whether to believe Micah, Bill scanned the area. When the trolley was within a hundred feet or so, Micah stepped over to the pickup zone, and the machine slowed to a halt, its wet brake pads screeching. Christ! Every green-shirt within ten miles heard that. Micah dropped a couple of renminbi coins into the fare box.
“Destination, please.” The disembodied voice came from a speaker in the box.
“Terminal 53,” Micah said. “For both of us.”
“Please take a seat.” The trolley’s voice was friendly, if impersonal. “Would you like a narrated tour of the sights as we travel, ma’am? I entertain many visitors like yourself. Does your com have visual enhancement features? I can show you some interesting images as I narrate. Port Simpson is very historic and has many interesting shops and entertainments. I note you speak English. If that is not your first language, I can deliver narration in Chinese, Japanese, Urdu, Hindustani, Arabic, Russian, Polish, Swedish, Inuit…”
“Belay that.”
The voice paused a half-second, as if translating. “Yes, ma’am.”
Bill stifled a laugh at the nautical order given to a bus. For a moment, he felt as if he’d come into a temporary safe harbor.
Micah nudged Bill, eyeing a plastic globe in the ceiling, reminding Bill of the danger. “The cameras. Cover your face.” Bill pulled his coat hood over his head. He eyed the graffiti-marred windows, looking for other travelers in the reflections. The trolley was empty save for the fugitives. The clack of the trolley wheels marked time and distance. An overhead light flickered, casting shadows as bolts of lightning would in a storm.
“Terminal 53.” The trolley announced the stop as it ground to a halt.
They exited and Micah led them back the way the trolley had come.
“Wait. There’s no ship here.” The empty berths rattled Bill. “Where are you taking me?” Could she be working for BES?
“Relax. We’re backtracking.” Micah pulled Bill by the arm. “Someone’s going to review that recording and know where we stopped. The ship is back a ways toward town.”
Bill regretted his obsessive doubting. Micah was always cautious ashore and aloft.
Huge automated cranes loaded containers onto wind ships. The cranes’ winches whined in the cool marine air. Robots—smaller, more benign versions of the BES models—patrolled the inside of a fence. The popped in and out of view as they passed under the security floodlights. Bill didn’t see another human until he turned onto a concrete pier. At the end of the pier was another ship, and Bill’s heart swelled. The lights from the pier shone on the sweeping hull of a big three-master, like something out of the nineteenth century. The new wind ships took in their masts and yards to make cargo loading easier. Before the new designs took hold, a few companies, hoping for a competitive edge, brought back the older style.
Bill forgot his troubles as he cast his eyes along her flowing lines. Red and green navigation lights marked port and starboard. A white lamp shone at her stern. Another white lamp, paired with a red aircraft warning lamp, blinked at the head of the main mast. Bill remembered pride in similar vessels he had crewed two decades past. I wish I had brought Anne here more often to admire these beauties. Awed by the vision, Bill followed Micah, feeling his way up the aluminum gangplank.
A human voice, rasping and whispery, from a man restraining himself from screaming at the top of his lungs, pierced the night. “ Panang, where in hell have you been.” It grew louder as the owner drew near. “You’re hours late. We’ve missed the tide. If it weren’t you, I would’ve sailed.”
“Sorry, Jay.” Micah displayed a respect Bill didn’t remember from the old days. “We’re one step ahead of the green-shirts. The tip we got was right.”
A bearded man at least six-foot-three and a hundred kilos, maybe more, in his late forties, stood at the head of the ramp. The cap and coat made him look twice as tall and heavy. “Who on God’s green earth is this?”
“This is the seaman I told you about.”
“Damn you, man.” The officer addressed Bill with a commanding directness, but his tone was friendly. “Are you signing on?”
Bill wondered if a decision to stay would mean worse trouble than he was already in. Then he remembered Kilel’s face back at the Brass and Canvas. “I am, sir.”
“Fine then.” The officer extended his hand. “I’m Captain Jaydon James McMadden. Welcome aboard the barque Aganippe.”
CHAPTER 12
♦ ♦ ♦
MOLLY RETURNED TO HER CABIN aboard the sailing liner Aurora Borealis at midnight—earlier than usual when she was working with a high-powered client—though Nordland was happy to fall asleep after his drinking and their session. She was glad for the extra hour before her usual bedtime, though she took a moment to enjoy the twinkling lights of Churchill’s northern suburbs on the western shore of Hudson’s Bay. The ship was well on its way to a passage of the Arctic Ocean and the new Russian ports. She had to prepare for the next day’s meetings. All that remained of the Cyprian Association negotiations with Nordland’s company and the other big players in the AFEZ was crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, as well as the final signatures. All her work since her conviction at the Spike Trials was within a few strides of the finish line. I wonder what Martin Scribb—that devil in a business suit—would say? He was always chintzy with praise. Despite her confidence, anything could derail her dream, and preparation was the best defense.
She slipped off her dress and jewelry, except for her com-bracelet, which she preferred over the ear studs fashionable among young people. She was two decades past that hormone-ravaged time.
“Service: Bath, temperature 104 degrees Fahrenheit. Salts, lavender, a quarter cup, English measurement.”
The room servbot lifted itself from its bay in the wall and navigated to the bathroom on its three legs. Its glossy, cerulean finish over its humanoid body echoed the New Ocean logo in the corner of the Egyptian cotton linens and towels. Nordland may be a drunkard, but his hirelings have good taste. Molly heard water flow into the tub.
Molly donned a red silk robe and logged in to one of her Swiss accounts. With a satisfied grin, she verified the €12,500 deposit from Nordland. She normally verified deposits before a session, but Nordland had proved trustworthy. She also arranged the transfer of €6,250—New Ocean’s cut—from her account to the company.
“Safe: Bain Cabin 114. Open.” The room safe’s door clicked and she placed her jewelry and Nordland’s $1,000 cash tip inside. A true businessman.
A dozen emails and newsloop notifications had arrived since her last check. News headlines: a spate of out-of-control forest fires in Pacific West; a cargo ship captain sentenced to 25 years for petroleum smuggling; a marc
h on Ottawa by veterans of the Three Degrees North War; the launch of the world’s largest sailing cargo ship. A few referrals by regular clients. Most of the email was from Ginny Magante, her second in the talks with the Committee of the North, which managed the International Arctic Free Economic Zone. The impatient called it the AFEZ.
“Coffee, madam?” The servbot waited for Molly’s response. The machine’s eyes—a hollow black and ringed with polished chrome—stared ahead. Its voice was male and deferential.
“Hmm?” Molly said. “Oh, no, chamomile tea, please.” The servbot walked to the kitchenette. “Put the tea in the bathroom, and then you may un- deploy and shut down.”
“Madam.”
Molly called up her minds-eye address book from the com and selected Ginny as she tested the bath water. The bracelet linked into Aurora’s net. Her friend’s location was noisy. “Where are you? Can you talk?”
“I’m on the dance floor.”
“Are you working, too?”
“I’m a workaholic.” Ginny sounded sharp and energized.
“Can we talk about the latest from the Committee? Go someplace private.”
“Give me a sec, Mol.” The background noise died away. “What’s up?”
The women went over each of the Committee’s final points and they decided how to respond.
“Gut check, Gin. You’re my best friend. Tell me the truth.”
“Mol, this is it. It’s what they want. Another island of stability and predictability after the war. The Wild North a little tamer. It’s what you want.”
“A monopoly on personal entertainment services in the AFEZ. It’s what the Cyprians want.” Molly rose from her seat and paced the floor of her cabin. “Fair treatment. Good wages. Good conditions. Good benefits. Pensions. Medical. Never been done before for sex work on this scale.”
“You know it, Mol.”
“Not to mention dignity. Respect. For us. It’s been three thousand years since we’ve been taken seriously.”
“Mol, I also got a call from the Committee staff about an hour ago. They want to close the deal when we get to Pole Station. Two of the reps are leaving on the helo right after the signing.”
“What’s the rush?”
“Some of the government reps are getting nervous about the politics.” Ginny said. “Signing contracts with ladies of questionable reputation is unseemly to voters back home.”
“Their leaders were happy enough to turn a blind eye to the traffickers before the war.” Molly turned off the bath faucet. “The New Valleys in Greenland were full of debt-bonded women. It took the war to stop it, but the demand is still there. We’re offering a preventive solution.”
“What if these guys get cold feet?”
“I’m not worried.” Molly slipped off her robe. “Kristian Nordland said he’d play Pied Piper, if needed.”
“Why would he help?”
“He’s a smart guy,” Molly said. “His company just launched a big new sailing cargo ship. The other lines are scrambling to catch up. He’s also planning another new port in the AFEZ. He needs to keep his employees happy. Six months of cold, dark winters are tough.”
“I’m being hailed, Mol. Call you later.” Ginny closed the connection.
Lowering herself into the tub, Molly lay still as she let the water’s sloshing subside. The surface tilted a few degrees to starboard, reflecting Aurora’s heel as her sails embraced the freshening Arctic breeze. Collections of bubbles floated like icebergs in the bath. Tiny wavelets ruffled the water, kissing Molly’s skin where it broke the surface.
Molly closed her eyes, waiting for that juncture when her body temperature matched the temperature of the bath water, the point where she melded with her corner of the universe. Random images and thoughts flowed through her mind: Nordland’s praise of her trim, athletic body; code fragments from forgotten projects scribbled on whiteboards; her client’s compliant agreement to her demand of orgasm first; chapters and paragraphs and subparagraphs from the Committee contract; the booming music in the background of Ginny’s call; the beautiful face of a young man she had loved once and married.
At first Molly thought Bill Penn was full of himself, too proud to know Able Seaman’s papers were just that, paper, and the thing that mattered was whether he was brave enough to go aloft in a force ten storm and come down alive. Three days after they met on Chelsea, he volunteered to climb to the main royal yard and clear a fouled block. She watched him in his blaze orange rain gear and harness head up the shrouds like a monkey, managing the ship’s 30-degree rolls as if the sea were flat as glass. Her breathing quickened as he edged out to the end of the yard, cleared the tackle, and gave a thumb’s up. When he dropped to the deck in front of her and gave her a huge smile, she had to fight for the customary emotional distance cultivated with all her shipmates. I wanted him right then and there. She kept much of her true self to herself, knowing that friendship in the foc’sle did not always carry over to life ashore. An unwelcome voice told her it would be harder with Bill Penn. The next day, they were lovers. Leaving him was the smartest thing I’ve ever done.
Molly brushed her face with a water-soaked hand, as if washing away a thought that led to unpleasant recollections. She was in a good mood, and memories of Bill were likely to ruin it. A musky fragrance encouraged her good feelings.
The perfume was too strong to be a fantasy, and she lifted her face over the rim of the tub to find Kapitan Gorov standing at the door to her bathroom, his tux tie loosed and his shirt open. He stroked his chin with his hairy hand; the resemblance to a house cat grooming itself striking to Molly. “Gore, you might’ve knocked first.”
“I did, but you were talking to someone. I let myself in. I’m not a patient man.”
“Can you still call yourself a...man...after what you’ve done to yourself?”
“My heart is still a man’s, and other parts of me function the same way as before.”
Her face flushed as she let his desire cast its spell. “Hand me my wrap, will you?”
Gore lifted a thick terrycloth robe from a hook and handed it to Molly. She stepped out of the bath, aware that she was allowing him a glimpse of her. The Mother of All had blessed her with a body that opened doors and gave her command of powerful men, and a few women. As she pulled tight the robe’s belt, Gore stepped forward and wrapped his paw around her wrist. His grip was firm but not painful. She remembered that touch as if his last touch were yesterday, and it lit a fire in her. When she let go of the belt, the robe fell open. Gore’s slit eyes roamed over her.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the Arctic, Mrs. Molly Bain.” Gore’s growl was comforting rather than frightening. “Every centimeter of you should belong to me.”
“I thought you wanted to talk about old times.”
“I want you to join me in my universe. The treatments are not painful, and you can’t imagine the sense of power they give you.”
Molly knew what she wanted, and that wasn’t part of it. “I’m building a life of my own in the AFEZ, Gore. Let’s be friends for now. Maybe business partners in the future.”
Gore’s voice took on a new hint of aggression. “I will have you.”
Molly let a laugh escape as she dropped the robe. “Maybe for a little while.”
Gore followed her into the bedroom and took her, like a tom. A half-hour later, he was gone.
Yes, that’s what I wanted. Nordland was a client. Gore was a lover, and one of a few men—creatures—who could sate her. Her mind drifted as the sheen of sweat from their lovemaking evaporated. Only one other man came close to Gore, Bill Penn. He was better in some ways. Molly and Bill’s passion was closer to the surface, innocent of the calculation that comes with experience. Like the moisture on her skin, however, their passion dimmed after their marriage, and it disappeared after Anne’s birth. Molly touched her belly, remembering the sickness and difficulty of pregnancy, and her satisfaction when she had the stretch marks removed. She knew of other women who ha
d given up their children. They pined for them, but not Molly. I am mother to no child. I am mother only to myself.
CHAPTER 13
♦ ♦ ♦
THE SKIES OVER PORT SIMPSON opened up as the first milky morning light touched the three masts and white hull of the Aganippe. Donning foul weather gear, Bill wondered if the light rain might move inland and ease the forest fires in Brier Valley and the eastern slopes of the Cascade Mountains. He convinced himself Anne was safe, though he had no way to knowing and couldn’t go on the net to find out. He and the other two dozen crew of Aganippe loaded the last boxes of food and supplies, lashed down crates of ionic nanotube batteries in the engine room, and stowed the mooring gear after the ship cast off. Bill found Micah at the arms locker, cleaning the barrel of a high-powered rifle. “Do you think we’ll need that?”
“If the sea lions get nasty,” Micah said casually. She had been a sniper in the Navy. Bill knew that worse animals prowled the Arctic Ocean as well, and self-defense was often the last recourse for a cornered ship. What would I do if Kilel cornered me? Could I kill her? He dismissed the idea as senseless.
Bill checked in with McMadden. His ship’s nav AI nursed Aganippe’s twin props and bow thruster, and the ship crawled like a slug. If the skipper could whip the marine electrics like pack animals to spur them, he would, Bill sensed.
“God give me a bootlegged diesel that could get me somewhere before I die of boredom,” the captain swore.
Bill watched the lights of the pier flicker on the river’s rainy chop. “What’s your rush? Not that I’m interested in hanging around.”
McMadden’s sneer in the cool light of the instruments made him look demonic. “This place stinks of green.”
A man carrying a tablet so dirty Bill thought it had sat on the bottom of the river for several days called to him. “You there. I’m Stubbs, the mate. You’re the new crewman. I need you to sign this.”
Stubbs had a five-day beard, a deep tan, and a receding hairline. His face belonged to someone who had heard a thousand life stories, most of them bullshit. The tablet displayed the ship’s articles, Bill’s employment contract, which made him a topman, like most of the line crew. Lowest paid, hardest working. He used the same alias as for the hotel. Now I know why officers always think crew are liars. We sometimes are.
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