By dusk on the second day, they’d reached landfall. Dot climbed out of her cockpit and helped pull the baidarka farther onto the beach. The kayak slid up the gravelly sand alongside and Ooligan stepped ashore. “Lasqueti Island, here we are!” she announced “We oughta scout around and find a good place to stow these boats. This island has a lot more people than the others—remember, from here on out, the people are mostly Wáasdan Ýaat'áay.” Oolie grabbed her gear in one arm and hoisted the forward end of the kayak onto her hip. Kai followed behind with the aft end as they trekked toward the embankment.
They located a secluded site to make camp near Spring Bay. Several sailboats lay at anchor in the middle of the harbor and Dot overheard noises from kayaker camps in the woods close by. The presence of so many others in the vicinity put Táan and Ooligan on edge. It occurred to Dot that her Haida friends were unaccustomed to populated areas. She realized that, although her childhood town of Astoria had been relatively small—only 15,000 residents before the quake. It was far bigger than the tiny village of Old Massett where everyone either knew, or was related, to everyone else. Dot pondered the ramifications of this culture shock while she gathered wood for their fire. Oolie and Kai would return to the Greenwood tomorrow, so it wouldn’t impact them—but for Táan, who grew up on Haida Gwaii his entire life, and up until now, had only been as far south as Skidegate village… He’s in for a bit of a surprise once we cross into the States. Dot tried to conjure up details from her past, but her memories were those of a child’s. The only impressions of the city that remained were of the traffic, dense crowds and skyscrapers—too overwhelming to be of any real use at this point. By the time we arrive in New Seattle, I’ll likely be as shell-shocked as Táan is right now.
At sundown, the travelers gathered together around the campfire for their final meal together. Kai unrolled the charts and went over their options for the safest routes. He cautioned Dot about the military test grounds and pointed out where they were most likely to run into the HighTower and Customs offices on either side of the border. Finally, he asked Dot to produce her old ID chip. She brought it to him, carefully wrapped in Marta’s folded note. Kai took the chip and said, “Reba reckoned there’d come a time when you’d need this thing again… I’ve been thinking about how best to reattach it. I guess the only way to make sure it stays put, is to put the damn thing back under your skin.” Kai held the microchip in front of his eyes, turning it over and over as he spoke. “I could do this for you—I’m pretty sure. What do you think, Dottie Rose? It’s up to you.” Dot pursed her lips as she stared at the chip Kai held between his fingers, a relic from her previous life. She wasn’t bothered by the thought of the procedure so much as what it symbolized. Placing that tiny transmitter back inside of her was to reabsorb her old life—the one the Tyee had washed away. She drew a breath and nodded. Kai moved closer and asked Dot to expose her upper arm. As she unbuttoned her blouse, Kim placed his hand on her wrist, “Would you allow me to do this, please? I think I might be more capable—I mean no offense, Kai.”
“Ta, mate. I have no ambitions to become a field surgeon at this stage.”
Inspecting Dot’s arm, Kim asked. “Where do the Americans usually place these chips?” Dot pointed to the muscle of her upper arm. Kim leaned in a little closer and squinted. “Ah, there is a little scar right there… Very good.” Ooligan squatted beside them and handed Kim the first aid supplies. He laid the kit across his lap and pulled out a razor, sutures and iodine packet from the bag. Dot took a fleeting look at the instruments, drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. Kim first sterilized the chip and blade then, with great skill, made a tiny vertical incision in Dot’s arm. He replaced the chip underneath her skin and stitched up the wound. Patting her shoulder, he whispered, “You’re fine—I’m all finished.” With a look of astonishment, Dot opened her eyes and looked at the incision. Kim had completed his surgery so quickly she was unaware he’d even started. She smiled with relief and Kim nodded, “You’re welcome.” He stretched a bandage over the site and said, “This is the least I can do. That you would put this chip back under your skin means a great deal to me.”
Táan returned with the gear from their boats. He dropped the pile of bedding and tents near the firepit and looked toward the woods with apprehension. “I don’t like being this close to so many strangers. Shouldn’t we keep a watch tonight?”
“It’s all good. They’re just some weekend warriors, tramping out in the wop-wops for the night, cuz,” Kai replied, buckling the first aid kit. He thought for a moment and added, “But you may want to set watches once you leave here and have a good story at the ready—you’re bound to run into other travelers as you head farther south, it can’t be avoided.”
Táan frowned and began to set up one of the tents. Ooligan grabbed the other tent and nudged him with her elbow, “Buck up, Little Bear. I know it’s sort of weird, seeing all these big towns and new places and everything… Hell, I can’t wait to turn around and get back to the wild, myself.” As she secured the tent battens, she paused, and added softly, “You can’t ever let it get to you. Dot will need your help now. She’s got the balls to pull this off—no doubt, but what she doesn’t have is the voice—that’s where you come in.” Oolie grabbed her stack of bedding and ruffled his hair as she stood up. “After all, you’re a Haida, and that means tláats'gaa. Relax—you got this.”
“Áang—hláa gudáng.”
Oolie grinned, “'Láa. I know you do.” She crawled into her tent and shut the flap. “G’night, Bear.”
The next morning, they woke to a steady rain. The group packed away their gear and crouched under a canopy of evergreens to eat a cold breakfast. Monk huddled against the trunk high above them, his head tucked under one wing for warmth. Conversation was sparse and the mood was gloomy while they ate—no one wanted to be the first to admit that the time to leave had come. Eventually, Kai sighed and nodded toward Ooligan. “We’d better get on with it.”
“I suppose you’re right—there’s no sense delaying,” Oolie mumbled. “Come on gang, let’s do this from the boats.”
The companions trudged back to the beach. As Kai and Ooligan stepped into their kayak. Táan reached over and grasped the Maorian’s forearm, saying, “Húus dáng hl ñíngsaang.”
“Ka kite ano, teina,” Kai replied, locking arms with the Haida. Then, nodding toward the baidarka, Kai called over to Dot, “We’ll be watching for this boat’s safe return. Now, take the lead, kajáa.”
Dot felt her throat tighten as she stepped into the water. She nudged their kayak off its settlement and waved farewell to the fetchers. Ooligan said, “Don’t worry, Dot—we’ll see each other again, I know it.” Kim clumsily waded into the tide and helped steady the boat until it became fully buoyant. Oolie slapped his leg as they passed him by. “Hey, science-man—I’m counting on you to earn this. Do us proud!” Digging her blade into the water, Oolie pushed their boat backwards. Kai swept forward with a mighty stroke and the kayak’s bow turned northward. They raised their blades in unison as a final salute and paddled into Sabine channel. The remaining trio watched from shore as the kayaker’s outlines dissolved into the misty rain.
30 The Smallest Price
North Harbor San Diego Bay. Aug 17. 2033
32°41'22.0"N 117°08'41.3"W
Garance studied the digital street signs as the autonomous light-rail progressed down Harbor Boulevard. She had always taken great pride in her English, but the speed at which the signs blurred by made it almost impossible for her to interpret. She pressed her face to the glass, focused on the upcoming intersection and recognized the words for “East Harbor Drive” and “Cesar E. Chavez Parkway.” Yanking the cord for a stop, Garance gathered her few belongings and prepared to exit the light-rail. As she set foot on the steps, a mechanized female voice said, “Thank you for riding with us. Please, enjoy your day.” Garance jumped at the sound of the computer—her concerns about the newly forged RFID chip still not comp
letely alleviated.
She’d arrived in San Diego two days ago, via tourist bus from Edmonton, Alberta. Christoph had hacked the data of her original chip enough to get her on a plane to Canada, but she was obliged to abandon her own identity in favor of a counterfeit one after she cleared. Christoph ’s new connection in Point Roberts had provided fake documentation and an implant to override her own chip, and although Christoph believed that this unknown hacker who went by the user name of “Sithlord07” was legitimate, Garance clung to her usual skepticism. However, with few other feasible options available, she injected the implant and assumed the alias of “Josette Lefèvre.”
The August heat in southern California was oppressive and Garance felt perspiration collecting at the back of her neck. She looked around and noticed that she was the only pedestrian in sight. Vehicles raced by with their tinted windows rolled up, and yet no humans were visible out of doors—nor any animals, for that matter. “Merde, il fait chaud,” she muttered. Glancing at the compass on her new mobile, she gave an exasperated sigh and tried to find her bearings. The slight breeze from the west smelled heavily of fish and seaweed, Garance assumed the harbor must be in that direction. She hoisted her pack and set off down Cesar E. Chavez Parkway. After several lengthy blocks, she found the entrance to East Harbor Marina at a dead end of a narrow alley. The chain link fence was in bad repair and the “No Trespassing” sign swung loosely from the gate. Garance checked her notes to confirm that this was indeed the address. She pushed the squeaky gate open and walked down the main dock of the marina. “Hey—you there! This is a private marina. Do I know you?”
Garance turned to see a middle-aged, pudgy man in denim overalls. He leaned out the doorway of what she had initially assumed was a portable restroom. On closer inspection, she realized that the tiny metal shed had a hand-painted sign above the door that read, “Marina Office.” She flashed him a phony smile and replied, “Ah, pardon me. I should have perhaps checked in with you first. My apologies, sir.”
The manager looked her up and down and grinned; won over by Garance’s thick accent. “You aren’t from around here are you, ma’am?”
“No, I’m Canadian actually—uh, French Canadian,” she hastily replied. “Perhaps you could help me… I’m trying to locate an old friend. His last name is Corbett? Do you know of this person?”
Before long, Garance had secured not only the gate location of the Persephone’s first officer, but several items of gossip concerning the mate’s newest houseguest—a youngster of about three or four-years of age. “He’s pretty close-mouthed on that matter. My guess is some ‘wild oats’ he sowed came home to seed, if you know what I mean.”
Garance thanked the manager and took her leave. She followed his directions; turning left down the fourth pier and again at the second-to-last boat underneath the covered moorage. Pausing at the gangway of a fifty-foot Chris-Craft vessel, she searched for a doorbell or knocker—unsure as to the proper etiquette for calling on someone’s boat. “Bonjour?” She leaned across the water and rapped on the hull. “Hello, is anyone at home, err… onboard?”
Garance felt the boat move and saw a man’s shadow pass by one of the ports. Eventually a door on the fantail opened. A man in his early 30’s stepped on deck. His hair was tousled and he wore no shoes. “Can I help you?” he asked Garance.
“Yes, I am looking for Daniel Corbett—the first mate on the ‘Persephone,’ you wouldn’t be him by chance?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Who wants to know?”
“My name is Josette. I wonder if we could talk for a few minutes about the incident last month—with the refugees?”
“I’m done talking with you people about that. I’ve said everything there is to say.” Daniel backed into the cabin and started to close the door. “You people should just leave us alone.”
“They were very sick weren’t they—your survivors?” she shouted. “Did they have any frothing blood coming from their mouths?”
The mate stopped with the door partially closed. “How would you know this? Nobody ever mentioned it.”
“Because they aren’t the first to have this type of sickness. I’ve been tracking it for some time now.”
Daniel looked up and down the length of his finger-pier and squinted into the water that surrounded his boat. “So, who are you with?”
“Nobody—I am on my own now. My editor was murdered when we started digging too deeply into this matter. May I come aboard and talk with you?”
Daniel was silent for a few seconds, then the hatch door opened a crack wider. Garance seized her opportunity and scrambled over the gangway. She followed Daniel into the small cabin and shut the door behind her. Dishes and bottles were piled on shelves and clothing strewn across the sole. Daniel noticed her observation. “Pardon the mess, this isn’t my usual living quarters. I’m kind of laying low from prying eyes… and other entities.”
“Perhaps HighTower?”
“You shouldn’t say that word too loudly these days.”
Garance cleared a spot on the sofa and sat down. Daniel returned to the door and looked outside before pulling up a stool across from her. “What exactly do you know?”
“Well, I know that the Persephone rescued 43 survivors—it was recorded in your vessel’s digital log—by you.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“The official count, per HSA Customs office that met your ship on August fifth was exactly 37 refugees.” Garance pulled up an article on her mobile and placed it on the table. “And, I know that the number HighTower accounted for at their press conference on the eighth of August was only 30.”
Daniel perused the article and then shoved the mobile back toward Garance. “OK, yeah. ‘No comment’.”
“Listen, I’m not wanting an exclusive story or anything—I’m done with that. I am simply trying to link these unexplained death tolls to HSA and I need some hard evidence to do it. Your survivors were not the only ones made sick by this disease.”
“Sorry Miss, I’d like to help you, really I would—but I’ve got to watch my back on this one. Our entire crew has gone into hiding—most of ‘em have sought refuge at the ATHENS facility; Seems to be the only place HighTower can’t penetrate.”
“Why have you not gone there?”
“I’ve just got some stuff… Some things I’ve to take care of, that’s all.”
A cough echoed from the passageway. Daniel turned and looked down the hallway. Garance watched his movements, he seemed preoccupied. The hoarse coughing spell occurred again. “Is someone ill?” Garance asked.
“No. It’s nothing—look, I really have to ask you to leave now.”
Garance rose and tried to look past him. He blocked her view and began to usher her out the door. “Please, go now.”
“Danny?”
Garance and Daniel spun around to face a tiny child wrapped in a blanket, staring at them. His eyes were sunken, his skin looked damp and pale. “Danny?” he repeated.
Garance moved toward the boy but Daniel grabbed her by the elbow. “Don’t... he’s probably contagious.”
“How long have you had him?”
“Since we picked him out of the water… almost 23 days.”
“If you haven’t become sick by now, then the boy isn’t contagious,” Garance replied, removing his grip from her arm. She bent down in front of the child and looked into his face. “Has he spit up any blood?”
Daniel nodded his head. “Not a whole lot, but yeah, after a bad coughing spell, sometimes…”
“Why did you not report him to the Customs officers when you arrived?”
“Lady, Customs is HighTower. You are aware who fired that missile, aren’t you?” Daniel sat down on the stool and the little boy waddled over, climbing onto his lap. “I just couldn’t hand him over—not to them.”
“I understand.”
“Are you going to say anything?” he asked, hugging the toddler closer. “Listen, I’ve been treati
ng his cough—it may need stronger meds than I’ve got, but I have a source who can get me…”
“Non—I mean, no. It would do no good to report this.” Garance sat back down on the settee and folded her hands together on top of her lap. “I can see that you are very fond of him. Tell me, does he speak any English?”
“I’m not sure how much he comprehends, really. He’ll say a few sentences every now and again, but for the most part I have to make simple gestures to get him to understand what I’m saying.”
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