FIVE
Ostensibly, our mission was an intelligence-gathering assignment, but I had been party to enough cluster-f*cks designed by an armchair committee to know the signs. We were being exiled, and the Grove wouldn't be terribly saddened if none of us returned. I suspected my previous incident with Meredith was the reason I had been chosen—and it was starting to occur to me that her presence on the boat simply made things easier if the Grove was attempting to purge weeds from the garden. It had been a couple of decades since I had seen Phoebe, and it had never been easy to tell what she was thinking. She was like that though—perpetually inscrutable. In many ways, it didn't matter if we were talking to one another. She and I were bound together. There may be more animosity than love between us, but there would always be respect.
I had heard stories about Talus—the man had a hair-trigger and a history of letting the bloodlust rule him. Nigel was the odd man out—nothing I had heard suggested he was anything other than a perfect soldier—and perhaps his secondary objective was to push the rest of the team overboard somewhere below the sixtieth parallel. By the time we managed to return to Arcadia, we'd crave Mother's embrace so much that we'd agree to anything. She'd strip the incendiary memories from our heads while we lay in her arms—the revolutionary zeal, the incessant need to question authority—and when we were born again, we'd be resplendent with the pure spirit of Arcadia.
It never worked quite right with me, and I suspected it had something to do with the auguries I had performed before coming to Arcadia. I had seen the world differently than the rest. I remembered more than I was supposed to—I knew there were holes in my history that weren't entirely the result of decades-long slumber. I could remember the way Arcadia used to be. We used to not fear the sun. We used to be able to breathe the air. We used to be able to sleep anywhere.
But so much has changed in the last two hundred years.
The seed of our panic had been laid by the Romantics and had been steadily nurtured by the Modernists and their hyphenated children. Stir in the nihilism of Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky, Lovecraft, and Camus—as well as the brutal reality of two World Wars—and the resulting harvest was rife with fear, despair, and a mad yearning to be coddled. Capitalism, Communism, and a few other -isms tried their best, but it took corporate greed to finally figure out how to yoke humanity, and once yoked, they were easy to lead.
We became the bogeymen, the terror that threatened everything they were told they needed. The message spread, always the same. At first it was just the Internet, magnified by the vitriolic half-percent that purports to be the reasonable voice of the popular consensus, and then talk radio, in all the big markets, began to treat it as something other than a bad Internet meme that wouldn't die. Eventually, the networks discovered there was money in fear-mongering and the modern monster was given a face and a mission statement: we were the children of anarchy, the sons and daughters of Free Love radicals who wanted to turn the world into a socialist prison camp; the world was a free market economy, and we were the barbarians who only wanted to pillage and plunder the marketplace.
All the while, their dark Satanic mills kept pumping poisons into the air, earth, and water. We didn't stop them because we were afraid to, and that fear has started to seep up from Mother's roots.
There is whisky in Captain Morse's mug, and the alcohol blurs his eyes and taints his breath. It gives him strength too, a ruddy flush in his cheeks, and his gestures are big and exaggerated. As if he were playing for a television audience, the one he imagines due to him for his courageous stance against corporate malfeasance and ecological destruction. “They're going hunting,” he tells me as I enter the bridge. He points out the curved window at the two narrow shapes on the water. “Both of them.”
The harpooners are moving away from the factory ship, heading in an easterly direction. Hugging the edge of the persistent storm that never quite breaks. I don't see the patrol boat. “Any whale sign?” I ask.
Captain Morse's mouth flaps for a second and then he gestures off toward port, mumbling something about radar echoes. He strides across the deck and jabs the sailor standing in front of the navigation console in the shoulder. “Get in front of them,” he commands. “We need to be beat them to the pod.”
The man, one of three able-bodied sailors who came with the boat, glances at me briefly and then nods. “Aye aye, Cap'n,” he replies as he complies. The growling sound beneath our feet grows louder, and the persistent tremor in the deck increases. In my gut, I can feel the slow twist of our changing aspect as the Cetacean Liberty responds to the sailor's commands. The factory ship begins to drift to starboard, and I finally spot the thin blade of the patrol boat peeking from around the bow of the bigger ship.
The pair of harpooners stay squarely in front of us.
“Tuna,” Captain Morse says.
“Excuse me?” I inquire.
“It's not ‘chicken' when we're on water. Right? So, what's the ‘chicken of the sea'? Tuna.” He laughs, a bray of open-mouthed laughter, punctuated by a long pull on his mug. “Let's go show these bitches how to play tuna.”
I wonder how long he's been waiting to say that, and as I watch the factory ship and its armored shadow grow smaller and smaller, I also wonder if there's another game being played. A wild what? A wild salmon chase, to keep with the captain's nautical vernacular. Both harpoon boats make sense if they are actually trying to harvest a whale. Realistically, we can only engage one boat at a time, leaving the other to go about its bloody business. But if that were the case, they'd be splitting up, trying to put as much distance between themselves as they approached the pod. Making us choose one or the other. Why the tag-team approach?
I sense another presence behind me. Mere. Her scent is easy to pick up in the close quarters of the bridge.
“Is your girl going to be ready?” Captain Morse asks. “If any of those bastards even think about shooting at us, I want to know before they get the courage to try it. Okay?”
“Aye-aye, Cap'n,” I echo. “She'll be ready.”
“Was that little show for my sake?” Mere asks me a few moments later as we navigate the narrow hallway outside the bridge.
“No.”
“Is she actually going to shoot first?”
I stop, and turn on her, showing her my teeth. “We never shoot first,” I snarl.
She holds her ground. “What if they don't miss?” Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are bright.
“Then—” I break off, looking away from her face. Then, there will be one less whisky-tainted mouth-breather to leech off her resources. Then, there will be more for the rest of us.
“Why are you here?” I shake off the other thoughts. Remember your priorities.
“This is where the action is,” she says.
“There's action in Afghanistan, too.”
“Not the same sort.” She shakes her head. “Besides, I don't care for the heat. Nor, I suspect, do you.”
“You don't know me.” Still on edge from my conversation with Talus, from the threats and accusations rumbling beneath his words.
“I think I do.”
A bark of laughter escapes me—a hyena-like bray of noise. “Do you now?”
“The Beering data. It wasn't an accident that my guy found it. He was supposed to give it to me.”
The laugh dies. “Who?” I try.
“Not ‘what?'”
“What?” It isn't hard to be confused.
“You asked me ‘who,' not ‘what.'”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about you're not as clever as you think; I'm talking about how much danger you're in, and how this little excursion had better be worth a great deal to your people because it is going to cost you.”
“You have no idea what you're talking about. What do you know about costs?”
“You tell me.” She lifts her chin, and the scar is like a serpent coiling down into the hollow of her throat. “You killed him, didn't you?” she asks. “You killed Kirkov.”
I look away again, unwilling to let her question in. Talus's accusation echoes in my head. I have lied to him, as I've lied to everyone since that night.
Up the old fire escape outside the run-down apartment he's lured her to. The old Chechen gangster, Illytch Dmitri Kirkov, wanting revenge for the damage her story has done to his organization—not Beering Foods, but the other organization that was piggy-backing off Beering. Kirkov limps, an old wound from the First Chechen War, but his grip is strong and secure. He's got a knee in the small of her back, and he's pulling her head up. The knife is the only thing he's kept from his old life, back in Chechnya, and it's worn with age and use. He goes to cut her throat, and he almost makes it.
But not quite.
The first lie—the one that has set me on this path—is the one I tell myself that night: She didn't see anything.
I tried to forget. But we're not good at letting go of memory. It's so fragile. We can't help ourselves.
And so we lie instead.
The captain plays tuna with the harpoon boats for the rest of the day, completely oblivious to the fact that we never spot a single whale. Whoever is in command aboard the factory ship knows we're hiding in plain sight onboard the Cetacean Liberty. They know we're somewhat at the mercy of the captain's whims. By catering to his blind desire to be the man who saved the whales, they've lured us away with the two harpoon boats.
Eight hours, spent watching three boats engage in a clumsy game of Chase Me! Chase Me! The captains of the harpoon boats clearly have orders to lead us on, and they participate in Morse's game just enough to feed his ego. Just enough to keep his adrenaline up. To keep his focus on them.
Phoebe is frustrated too. She stalks along the starboard railing, her hands clenching and unclenching as she strides back and forth. All the way, watching the nearest boat for any provocation, any sign that they're going to do anything other than tease us. But they won't, and everyone knows it.
Everyone except Captain Morse.
I know something is wrong when Talus appears on deck. He staggers slightly in the half-light, his optics darker than necessary against the wan sunlight. He walks slowly, like the deck is slick beneath his feet or like a man who has been shaken from a long slumber. I get Phoebe's attention and we meet Talus in the lee of the bridge.
“Nigel's gone,” he says. He shakes his head when Phoebe starts to say something. “I've already looked. He's not there.”
I look out at the nearest ship, trying to gauge the distance. “How long?”
“I don't know. An hour, perhaps. Maybe more. I thought he was meditating.”
I cast my mind back over the last hour, trying to map the relative positions of all the boats during that time. There had been a near miss with the smaller of the two harpoon boats—the one known as the White Egret—close enough we could see the expression on the faces of the half-dozen crewmen who had gathered at the rail to stare, mouths open, at our fancy boat. Since then, the White Egret had fallen behind, and the captain had claimed a victory—“she's lost her nerve!”—but now I wasn't so sure.
I use my optics to zoom in on the trailing vessel. There isn't any activity on the upper deck. Not that that means anything. As there were no whales, there was no need to have any of the harpooning stations manned. Yet another sign that this was all a ruse. I scan the tiny rectangles of the bridge windows, but the sun is behind me and all I can see is glare, even with the light reduction lens on my optics.
White Egret's aspect begins to change, her nose drifting to port.
A door slams open on our ship, metal against metal, and we all hear the chatter from the bridge. From the upper deck, the first mate whistles, a piercing shriek of sound, and we flinch as one. Having gotten our attention, he waves frantically, and Phoebe—understanding more intuitively how badly the situation has deteriorated—moves faster than the human eye can track. Talus and I cling to our fraying illusion of normalcy, and by the time we reach the bridge, Phoebe has come and gone.
Captain Morse is slumped in his chair, shivering violently. He tries to make himself even smaller as Talus and I enter the bridge. The first mate's knuckles are white on the wheel, and he won't look at us. The young man manning the radar is trying to hide his fear by being helpful. He knows Japanese, and he's translating the radio signal as quickly as he can.
Talus speaks the language too, but he lets the boy translate. Something for his brain to focus on.
“Over and over, he's saying ‘Kyuu—'…‘Kyuuketsuki.' And: ‘they're all dead…'” He trails off. Talus doesn't bother translating the one word. The boy's imagination is doing a pretty good job already.
“Come about to port,” Talus instructs the first mate. “Bring us close to Cherry Blossom, the other boat.”
“The other boat?” The captain finds his voice and some of his courage. “What the f*ck are you doing? We've got to—”
“Do what?” Talus interrupts.
“The White Egret. They're in trou—” The captain's gaze flickers back and forth between us. “We can't just…”
“You heard him. There's no one to rescue.”
“There's one guy,” Captain Morse tries. “Listen to him. He's screaming for help.”
“Cherry Blossom,” Talus repeats quietly, and the first mate spins the wheel. The engines groan and grumble with the sudden strain, and our boat begins to turn away from the drifting harpoon boat. The other boat has already begun to flee, and the gap is widening between us. In a flat-out race across the sea, we might not be fast enough to catch them.
Phoebe is in the forward observation blister on the boat. Her blonde hair is tied back in a pony tail so the wind can't play with it. She ignores the spray of water coming up from the sea as the boat churns across the ocean. Her rifle, a Sako TRG-42, is set up on a plinth, and she's completely focused on what she sees through the rifle's optics.
When the man on the radio begins shrieking incoherently, Talus tells the boy to turn it off.
Kyuuketsuki. Vampire.
Our cover is blown.