I love sailing. So many years of exploring the seas, and I never get tired of it. The wind, the sea, the new lands; I always get a kick out of something new.
I guess part of the reason I love the sea is because there wasn't a lot of it where I grew up. Angel City's only concession to it, really, is down by the docks, and those aren't much. I've seen a lot of the usual. Something Street. The Endless Building. All that stuff. But nothing beast the sea.
Especially this sea.
It's got a new name on every cluster of islands. The Forever Sea. The Endless Ocean. Island Waters. Graveyard of Forgotten Atolls.
Some of the folks get melodramatic. They wish they had a mainland. Me, I think they're crazy. Forget Angel City. I'll take the Endless Ocean any day.
The best part is, not only is it ocean, but it's full of islands. Single islands or whole groups set free into the interreality world that we Nexans live in. It's that unique twist that I love. I've seen Tokyo 7281 AD. I've seen enough haunted islands to fill a grimoire. There are archipelagoes full of things that look like mutated cartoon creatures and volcanic chains where the rocks themselves will chat with you.
I take a sailboat. Works almost everywhere, unlike a motorboat. Just in case, I keep a pair of oars handy. After all, in an ocean, there are doldrums.
Anyway, I've seen the freaky and the funny out here, and I've got stories to share. Let me tell you about the time...
... I came upon this one deserted-looking island. It had an inviting beach, though, and my curiosity was in overdrive.
In any case, I had time to kill, like I always do, so I went exploring inland. After about 5 minutes of walking, I came upon the remains of a paved path, slowly being reclaimed by the jungle foliage. Letting my curiosity lead me, I followed the remains of the path, eventually coming upon a ruined city that must have looked, when new, something like what those futurists of 1930's Solon said cities would look like. Towering chrome, windswept lines, as if even the buildings were meant to move fast, and gadgets beyond belief, all falling to rust, the remains of aircars tilting up at all kinds of angles, as if they'd crashed en masse. Decorating the taller buildings were even more aircar hulks, as well as the occasional aircraft, looking like something straight out of Buck Rogers.
It was then I heard it.
"Leave this island," a ragged crone's voice whispered. "Do not stay, if you value your life."
I looked nervously around, trying to locate the source. Not that I'd be able to do much more than run, mind you. I wasn't armed with so much as an electronic sausage. In many of the realities of the Nexus, weapons were a fast route to a permanent siesta, and besides that, they weren't my bag. The value of my life aside, my curiosity was piqued even further. Besides, I'd not let the haunted disembodied whispers of other islands deter me, and I wasn't inclined to start now.
Further exploring, I came upon what appeared to be a newspaper rack, its latch rusted away. Its hinges, too, I found, as the door fell off under the touch of my fingers, revealing a couple of aged sheets of some kind of plastic. I picked up one from the bottom, noticing that it was the least abused of the contents of the box. "Atlantean Journal," I read aloud. "Wonder when 52 Shakiul, 2931 is. If that's even the date," I snorted in mild disgust at my unfounded assumption.
"That was the Eve of the Plague," the voice said, seemingly coming from directly behind me.
I whirled around, only to face open air, the only thing behind me being the remains of what seemed to be a hoverbike of some sort.
That was when my head exploded.
Images of a bustling metropolis run through my head, zipping by as if a movie running at many times its intended speed. A silent flash at dawn, and the world ended. Cars fell from the sky, aircraft crashed, and wherever vehicles fell, vaguely avian people -- who I knew were the locals, though the source of that knowledge I couldn't fathom -- died horrid deaths, crushed beneath their own devices. A month later, in the image, and civilization collapsed. The few surviving the Fall fled to the interior of the island, abandoning the ruined city.
I eventually rose to my feet from where I fell, and cradled my head in my hands, trying to comfort my aching head.
After the pain had subsided, the spectral voice spoke again. "Our sin was pride, thinking ourselves the equals of gods. The death of our people was our punishment. If you remain, your life is forfeit."
To punctuate the comment, a thin silver bolt struck the ground next to my feet, flaring briefly to a white-hot rod of flame, the heat driving me back. "Ok, you made your point. I'm not welcome here," I said to the air, and quickly returned to my boat. Save a few minutes to grab some of the apple-like fruits borne by bushes near the beach, I wasted no time in returning to the sea.
*****
"Whoa. Kinda spooky. Is that all?"
"Not even close to 'all.' Let me tell you about the time..."
*****
So, you're planning on sailing the Forever Sea, are you? Got the call of the waves thrilling through your blood? I hear tell the Captain of the Mary's Pride needs a new lookout... he's a good man, that Jack Ellingsworth. A little bloodthirsty when it comes to Spaniards (picked it up from some Drake fellow), but a good captain nonetheless. How do I... well, I served with the man until I scraped up enough for my own boat. Lot of stories there, I tell you.
I was there when he lost his left eye to K'trallian pirates. Nasty business. We were just a few days out of the Sunrise Isles - we'd just had the ship repaired after running afoul of the Devil's Reef - and were scouting for some Spanish merchants to plunder. Jim MacDougall, our lookout, had picked us some easy marks, and we'd set a course to intercept them. We got close enough to see they were sitting low in the water, so Jack figured they had plenty of goods on board, stuff we could take for ourselves and make a tidy profit. He was also hedging his bets that there'd be some gold aboard, and that we'd keep for ourselves.
We never had a chance to fire a shot before the bastard K'trallians were on us. We got maybe close enough for the merchants to see our flag - no, not the Jolly Roger. Jack insisted on flying the Union Jack, even though we had no real contact with the Queen's Navy. Jack had some kind of deal going on with an Admiral - I'm digressing. Those lizard bastards were on us before we knew what was happening.
The K'trallians travel in big fleets of small boats, fast little buggers, maybe six or seven men on each. Not as much weight as a schooner like our ship was, and sleeker, so they could sail faster than us. Bastards. Anyway, we saw them, the first group, about the same time the merchants saw us. They were coming on fast on the port side. The captain ordered us to get our cannon ready for a fight, but then MacDougall spotted a second group coming on from the starboard side, flanking us.
Jack didn't panic as a rule, but facing two groups of K'trallian pirates (most likely working together) must have made him worry for a second. The crew, me included, was scared for sure; we'd heard stories about other ships that were beaten and sunk by K'trallians for sport, but that just made Jack mad. He had no intention of losing the Mary's Pride.
We knew we wouldn't get to use our cannon, so we got as ready as we could to repel boarders, and waited for them to attack. And attack they did. Dear God, you probably have no clue what a K'trallian really looks like, do you? I think Captain Jack's got one stuffed in his cabin; if you're lucky to live long as a privateer, you might see it some day. Or you might fight one.
Anyway, they're nasty things, lizard men with mottled scales about six feet tall, thin, and have a way with rigging and those small boats that defies description. Humans can't pilot their boats, the way the K'trallians have them built. They fight with two curved swords, light weapons that move nearly as fast as those boats. And oh, but they hate us upright mammals with a passion. Think we're unnnatural creatures, that's what I heard one of them say.
We fought for maybe ten, fifteen minutes, but it seemed like an age. Don't get me wrong when I talk about those lizards - we fought them off the ship, but they hurt us pretty bad. Jack likes his crew to be able to fight as well as they sail, you see. I still have all my limbs, so that's a testament to old Jack's philosophy. We killed just about everyone of them, but we lost a few too, and they cut some of our lines, so we were stuck in the water until we rigged some new rope. Jack lost his eye in that fight - got slashed across the face when he got distracted by a pistol shot. The ship's surgeon had to cut the thing out when it got infected later.
The damndest thing is that the merchants escaped us. I don't care one way or the other about Spaniards; I think some are fine sailors, and I like that music of theirs too. But losing a mark, that's like a wound. It makes you cry when easy marks like that get away, especially when you had no choice about it. By the time we'd patched ourselves up and got the Mary's Pride back in sailing shape, the merchants were long gone. Probably preyed on by someone else, but still, it was a shame we didn't get them.
That's my story for today. Don't believe everything I say, though. It's been a few years since I last sailed with that crew, and I'm sure there're plenty of variations on that tale, all equally true. But listen, you come on back sometime, because I have plenty to tell. And remember me to Captain Jack.
*****
I tell you what, though, when you're feeling whopped up on, there's no place any better than Arriga Island. I kid you not, it's the sweetest little spot, and cushy! There's nothing like it. Vacationland for the stomped on, ya know?
The natives there are pretty much like us. A little slighter, a little more graceful. Maybe a race of their own, but pretty much like you and me, except for their attitude.
It's a crowded place. But they got a whole island, and it's a big one, with cabins you can take any time you want. No fees either. I know - it doesn't make any sense. But they like it that way, I guess, because they keep on doing it that way. And they'll feed you and feed you. So long as you keep eating, they keep serving it up. Always with a smile. Weird, those smiles. Always smiling, always nodding. "Yep, yep, yep." It must be their state motto or something. If one of them ever said no, I never saw it. And I've been there quite a bit.
Funny thing that. Since I always say I'm never going back. But I always do. Or did, anyhow.
I remember the first time I went there. I was alone and had been that way for a couple of months. Solitude is a fine thing, but you know how it weighs on a man. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven when I tied in at Arriga's south port.
There was a scattered lot of drop-ins like me, but mostly Arrigos everywhere. "Did Sir", (that's what they call you - the Arrigos - Sir or Madam or whatever else you tell them to call you) "Did Sir want fish or meat? Roasted or broiled?" "Does Sir prefer one pillow or two?" Whiskey, champagne, lemonade - I swear to God they'd find you a Flaming Flamingo's Egg Juice if that's what you wanted to drink.
And that was the longest I've ever stayed there, too. On account of Luna. Man, she was pretty. And sweet. She was crazy about me. At least, I thought so.
I say "was" like she's gone or something. She's not, so far as I know. Still there. Still sweet, too, I imagine. And willing.
Arrigo's are willing, you can say that about them for sure. Not willing like the professionals here. Not after anything. Not even hungry or trying to get a hook into you. I've seen Arrigo's laugh in puzzlement at the idea of shackling a poor schmuck with marriage.
Matter of fact, they laugh off pretty much everything.
I saw a Skanvadian once - this guy really lost his grip - smashed an Arrigo all the way into the dirt floor of a cafe there. I mean, he started pummeling and didn't stop. And the Arrigo never lifted a hand, never uttered a protest.
Of course, I made a move. It was disgusting.
But by the time I was out of my chair, there must have been a half dozen Arrigos all over me. Petting me and cooing like they do. I don't even know what they did. I never did quite figure that out. But by the time I looked up, they had cleaned up the mess. Four Arrigos were ushering the Skanvadian bastard out the door and he was sobbing, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He was a sorry bastard all right. And the dead Arrigo (he had to be dead) was gone. And the Arrigos just laughed it off, apologetic mostly.
When you consider the state society's come to, I guess it's surprising it doesn't happen more often. But it doesn't much. Most folks love Arriga. Right up until they get their fill of it and light out again. I know I did. Get my fill, I mean.
It starts to prey on you, all that "yes, yes, yes."
I mean, if Luna's always saying yes to me, is she ever saying no? Not damn likely. And it's not that I begrudge another man any comfort. I don't. But somehow all that "yes" loses its flavor after a while.
Ugh. Gives me the creeps just thinking on it.
And I remember, the last time I left there. I went straight to the first crowded Skrill bar I could find. Got in a fight.
Yeah, it was my fault. What of it? I don't care if it was stupid, that was the whole point somehow. Five or six of them beat the tar out of me, and would have stuck me for good if I hadn't been tossed by the bouncer. As it was, they got my wallet, with a bundle in it. And I was pleased at the price. I'd gotten a few good licks in. So at least those Skrills knew I'd been there. That's more than I can say for ... ah, hell. Nevermind.
But for God's sakes, stay away from Arriga. It'll mess with your mind.
And another thing. They don't let go, either. Just won't let it drop. I got a letter last week from Luna's cousin. All perky and crap. Asking when I'm coming back. I don't know how they find me, to write to, I mean. And call. Sweet little messages on the machine.
Pisses me off, but I guess I oughta drop back in there and see how they're doing sometime soon.
Dammit.
*****
Ah, you're back again! Didn't the Mary's Pride weigh anchor a few days ago? Oh. I'm sorry to hear that; I'd have thought sailing with Captain Jack would've been a fine experience for a young lad like you. Hmm? What's that? Oh, true. Bit of a catch-22 really: they won't sign you on without experience, but you can't get any if they don't sign you on. Most crews are disaffected navy, you see - at least Jack's lot - so they don't like having green blood on aboard too much. You wouldn't have any trouble out on Mad Island, they'll take anyone who can walk. Here, it's a little tougher.
Well, listen, if you're dead set on getting out on the sea, finding your fortune and all, you know what I recommend? Stow away on some privateer's vessel - if they don't shoot you the moment they see you, you've got a chance at a real start to the sailing life. Jack's gone, so... well, you might try Frederick Trenchard's ship, the Dagger. He's a little unpredictable, but that makes for some exciting voyages.
Oh, I know a bit about being a stowaway. Last time I had to do it wasn't too long ago either. I was sailing down south near Cuba Nueva, having just had a taste of some of that great jazz they play down there. I got to feeling restless after awhile in New Havana, and I needed to feel the salt spray on my face. Well, this old sailor headed out into what turned out to be a major hurricane, big even for the area. My little ship got trashed, just trashed, and I washed up on some shore hanging on to nothing but a broken spar. Didn't have a clue where I was, either. Just tropical beach and palm trees, but I did find a bit of a foot path, so after I cleaned myself up, I headed down the path to see what I could see.
To make a long story a little shorter, I found some folks with a sort of cabana, who took me to the nearby port so I could find a ship to board. Nice folks, really - how many people do you know who would help out a bedraggled fellow, wet to the bone, who didn't even speak your language, just Carib patois? Oh, that's kind of like Spanish and Portugese all shuffled together in an untidy heap. Anyway, there I was on the docks of this city, Porto da Sol, looking for a crew to sign on with. Hell, I figured that a guy with my background would be welcome on just about any ship.
I figured wrong. Turns out that they didn't get too many privateering vessels in this place, just big haulers, diesel powered monsters, owned by some of the Carib merchant companies. I got really frustrated sitting in this bar for something like five hours trying to get information about ships from people, until I got desperate and decided to stow away on one of these haulers. I picked out one I liked, the S.S. Madrid, and began formulating a stow plan.
Getting on the ship was the easy part. I simply hopped in a half-full crate of bananas and made sure I could lift the lid from inside. They loaded the crates on, closed the cargo hatch, and pulled away from dock. The hard part was explaining to the guy who'd decided to inspect the holds why exactly I was peeing in a cleaning bucket I'd found below after I left my hidey-hole in the crate. That didn't work, so I needed to convince the captain that I wasn't an evil spy from one of the other trading companies, out to sabotage the holds.
When they extracted the fact that I had sailed with Jack Ellingsworth, they nearly threw me off the ship. These guys were Spanish, you see. I wheedled and acted very pathetic and I got away with being tied to the bow of the ship for most of the voyage. I got to a port where I had a bit of a stash, bid them a not too sorrowful goodbye, and set out to buy a new boat. And here I am.
I'm not scaring you off, am I? Good, glad to hear it. You'll be a fine sailor, lad, if you keep up that attitude. Even if you have to suffer through a week of nothing but bananas.
*****
The ship slowly closed onto the pier, and the lone man threw a hawser cable to a figure on the pier, adding a silver coin to the throw.
"Tie up for me?", the man asked, in a voice rough with disuse.
The sailor on the pier blinked, then bent to tie up the ship. Anyone who gave him silver got service. "There, sir. Thankyou, sir. Where are you from?"
The lone one looked at him. "Far away." //None of your business.// "Who buys spices, here?"
The sailor grimaced. //Another one of the silent types.// "Farnum in Five Alleys does. Down there and to the right. Begging your pardon, better take a knife with you."
The man nodded, then disappeared belowdecks. After a few minutes, he came back up. He was now dressed in a clean linen shirt, brown trousers and a brown long coat. He was holding a small chest in his left arm.
"You still here?" //I might be able to make a lot selling spices, if things are so slow here...//
The sailor shrugged. "Nothing better to do, sir. Staying long?" //Maybe I could make some money... he looks like he could share his.//
The man opened his long coat for five seconds. A matte black, obviously well cared for shotgun was velcro'ed to the inside. "No."
The sailor shuddered, then ran off with his silver. "If you want to hire me, I'll be at the Red Dog Inn!"
The man frowned. //Dock rat...//
He locked the hatch with a complex steel lock, incongruous on the archaic wooden ship. Then he neatly coiled up the ropes on deck, keeping an eye on the weather beaten chest.
Straightening from his task, once it was done, he looked at the dock. There was now another two dock rats. He picked up the chest, and walked down the gangplank.
"Move."
The two moved aside, and he followed the previous sailor's instructions, noting the faded buildings and the bright washing. //A town contented with what they have...//
He came to a small shop, which had a sign outside with some plants and a bowl of food, and walked in. A small bell tinkled.
The skinny older man inside peered at him. He was dressed in a simple, but well cared for suit. "Hello sir, what can I do for you?"
Placing the chest on the polished counter, the lone man silently opened the arched lid, exposing the many bags of spices. "How much?" //This man might be willing to buy for a high price...//
The shopkeeper lifted a small bag from the chest, read the writing on it. "Five spice. Hmmm. I'm Yersha. And you would be, sir?"
"Datar."
Yersha opened the bag, and tentatively sniffed it. "Impressive quality, Datar. Would five silver be enough?"
"Six."
"Five and a half, sir?" //I wish he would not be so rude...//
Datar nodded. The shopkeeper carved five nicks in a long piece of wood, and another on a shorter piece. They proceeded through the rest of the contents of the chest in a similar fashion.
Yersha sat back. "It has been a pleasure buying from you, Datar." //It would have been better if he said more, though.//
"It has been pleasurable selling these", Datar replied.
Leaning forwards, the shopkeeper said, "It would be advisable to use more manners, in this town. There are some who are easily offended."
Datar nodded again. He took his chest, now filled with money, not spice, and walked out the door. He placed the chest in his quarters in his ship, and then went to find a beer.
*****
"This seat, taken? No, no one's taken the seat by me in fifteen years, son, but you're welcome to it. Did Old Kresge putcha up to it? *cough* What'd 'e say, 'Don't bother with ol' cantank'rous Bill--'e'll run ya off with that sour puss a 'is?'
"Oh, a _dare_ was it? Well, at least you're honest. Hmmm...but I see you took the bet for another reason; one 'a your own. ...well, son, get me another pint an' I'll make it worth your effort.
"Ahhh, that's the way Kresge serves it up--so thick you can cut it. Well, I guess that's the way I was, fifteen years ago when I first put in. That's what they call it, when you come ashore for good. Puttin' in. Didn't want nothin' to do with nobody. Took a job up in the mines, as far from here as I could, far from the sea as I could get. *cough*
"Nah, don't bother with me. That's the lungs of a miner, son. That's why I'm not under the earth any more--at least not for a while more.
"I was bitter then. Didn't realize that what I really wanted was to kill myself, but too gutless to do it with my own hands--thought I'd let the mines take care-a that. Ha! Now don't go all nervous on me, son--time and coal have taken care-a what I couldn't long ago. Just a matter of time now. But I wanted to come back here, make my peace with them, 'fore I quit. *cough-hack*
"I was born there, see, on the Flotilla. Never set foot on dry land until I was fourteen, and then only for a few minutes; made me sick. Over the years I visited every port of call on our route, and I did a fair amount of trading with the dry men--that's you, f'r example, son--but it was always best when they came out to us. We could always take 'em for twice what we could get ashore, ha, ha! What you dry men never realize, even those-a you with sea legs, is the bond between us. We'd play off each other, make the sale at twice the market price, and split the proceeds. 'Brother' doesn't even begin to describe it--not when you depend on each other the way the Flotillans do.
"Leave? You can't just up an' _leave_ the Flotilla, boy! Once you commit, you're bound, and I don't just mean by blood! *cough* Your boat's rigged in with the others with a complex bridging system; flexes and sways with the seas, but only so much. Do you realize that the Flotilla is larger than the entire city of Rock Haven, in population, perimeter and decks? Er, floors?
"How _many_? ....thousands, son, thousands of ships. Some of them so altered that they don't have a single beam remaining of their orignal hulls; oversized, hulking monsters the size of a keep. Now you see; once the Flotilla grows around you, you can't any more _leave_ than you could take this here 'stablishment and say you want it to be part of downtown Heisha Falls! *hack*
"Oh sure! You can walk around all over the open decks. There are multiple gangs per hull, even. On different decks, too. Some schooner next to a trawler, f'r example. You're not going to want to climb a ladder to get over there; so you have a couple-a options: either build up the schooner a few decks, or make a gang to a lower deck. Course, you can't just walk through someone's living room, either! But it works out.
"Well, why don't everyone in Rock Haven build themselves a manor, son? Use your head! You join with what you've got--or you're born there and inherit what your dad had. Or you acquire or build.
"Hmm. Now that's a good question, son, and the answer isn't simple. First of all, there's two things that EVERYONE is responsible for--floatation and fire prevention. Then you dicker over right-a way and drinking water.
"*Cough* Flotillans buy and sell floatation to each other like dry men trade money. You gotta have your weight accounted for, see? The Crew always wants to be at 80-percent floatation or more. The more weight you got, the more floatation you need.
"No, the Crew is like the government--Skipper is elected. Now, when you talk _movement_, well, that's another story. You ever tried to move a city by sail? Not easy. Takes everyone working together. All the Riggers, I mean. That's what I did; I was a Rigger for thirty-three years.
"Ha! Storms; that's what all the dry men ask. Well, right off, we avoid 'em. When you live your life at sea, you learn the seasons and the weather well. Our route stays out of the storm seasons; you won't find us in the Sea of Gales come spring. But sure, you'll get caught in a squall, and then it takes every Flotillan working together, from Riggers to bilgers.
"Heh, heh! Well... it's not like the whole damn city is gonna sink, son, but a lot-a people and property could go straight to the bottom. *cough*
"That's what all the dry men want to know...the fact is, when you ain't a Flotillan, you just don't know where they are, an' I haven't been a Flotillan in fifteen years, but I could prob'ly make a decent guess.
"Why not? Well, that's another story, for another pint...."
"...and so I went down
to the ocean one morning
the red sun was glinting
like scales on the sea
and I saw it there clearly
and you don't believe me
and how can I blame you - I
don't believe me!"
All the people, humanoids and merfolk over in their pond in the corner and grizzled New Maine lobster-men with claws, joined in on the chorus with an enthusiasm brought on by too many nights out of port and too many drinks.
"Hey-up
away
a splash
and away
and there she
dives, m'lads -
Hey-up
oh 'ey
a crash
and away
and there she
died, m'lads!"
I winced and set down my glass gently on the driftwood countertop. The sound it made was more like a galleon splintering into a million upon million pieces than a gentle tinkle of ice and the swishing of a few drops of killian's blooddog with extra salt.
I, I thought, need to go back to the hotel.
"Hey, boy!" Just as I had made my way down off the stool and stood, wobbling, a hand that was trying to be friendly reached down from the neighboring stool and slapped me on the back. I slumped, gracefully as one could slump, to the floor and stared up at the person who'd been drinking next to me.
"Um, help," I murmured, hoping that anyone else beside myself could now understand me. "Floor?"
"Oh, right." He grinned, and put his glass down on the bar, then reached down a hand to help me up. I was an idiot and took it. By the time I was upright, the floor no longer was.
"How're you? Wow, you look sloshed. Janice!"
A voice, overworked and female, apparently related somehow to the monument-worthy pile of moussed red hair and faded "Shamu's a sell-out: Sentient Cetaceans Against Exploitation" t-shirt that now swam in my vision, yelled out: "Charlie. Whaddya want?"
"A little hair of the wolf for our friend here."
"It's *dog*, Charlie, and I think you mighta had a bit too many yerself. For you, bar's closed from now on."
"Aww, but Janice. Who's your best tipper of the night been, huh?"
"That guy." She pointed down the bar to a man who looked like he'd been an extra in one of the early technicolor movies and forgot to leave the set behind. It hurt my eyes just looking at him.
Newly deprived of his beer, he did what I feared the most: he turned to me.
"What's your name?"
"Um. I - "
"Umi! Good name. Sounds kinda eccentric. But it's short. Good name."
I shrugged, then stopped when it made the world decide to wave itself around me. I would have walked away, but by this point I knew that would have landed me back on the floor again, where a gengineered human 'gilly' and an American tourist were dancing about wildly, and none too carefully, to the strains of some music that sounded like it was made from resampled whale calls.
Come to think of it, maybe it was.
Or maybe I was just drunk.
"So I noticed you weren't singing along to the chorus, Umi."
"No." It was amazing how one simple word set off a new round of headaches.
"Do you know it?"
I really didn't want to answer, but when he asked his question again, louder, I decided it would be better to cause myself less pain than his next-loudest volume surely would. "Yes."
"Then why weren't you singing?" he asked in an indignant tone. "You know what we do to the people who don't join in the chorus here, don't you?"
"No."
"We dunk 'em in the mer pool."
I turned my head slightly and looked at the mer pool. If I had been sober, I would have volunteered to hop in in a second; some of those mers had curves that would've put a Rembrandt to shame. But I was just worried at that point about drowning. "Oh." One-syllable words had become my mantra. I took a step away and nearly fell over.
"Hey, where're you going? I was going to tell you the story behind the song."
"Ok." Some non-alcohol-fogged part of my brain asked: he was? But I shrugged it off. I was a reporter. Since I had gotten beat to the real story that I'd been sent to get by a day and a tsunami, I figured I'd better come back to the office with something. It'd be a real 'local interest' story, I managed to convince myself. I crawled back up to the barstool and sat down.
"I've lived here all my life, grown up on the sea and the gales and the greenfish."
"He's lying, you know." Red-hair whale-shirt lady was back again. "Greenfish ain't been around here for centuries."
"Ah, you don't know anything," my captor said, and continued on with the story as Janice filled another tankard. "Just so's you know I got *credentials* to tell this story," he said with a conspiratorial wink at me. "Well, when I was 18 - the age of reason, you know - I left the land and signed on with a ship. The Pisces, she was called. A faster, sleeker ship you'd never seen. Like a liddle minnow among the big whale's worth of ships that was popular at the time. And when the sails were spread, they'd hide the moon."
He grinned. "She didn't hold a lot of cargo, true, but she didn't need to. All she needed was to be fast. And while them other ships were off chasing the greenfish in the sulfur vents or going into the hyperpools to import jumptime, we were gonna go after the plesies."
He picked up someone else's empty mug, peered into it, and then set it back down. He looked at me. "Plesiosaurs. You know. Loch Ness? 'Here there be monsters?' "
I was confused, and must've looked it too.
"Ah, but you're young, I bet you ain't got your memory library permit yet."
"I have a trial permit." I frowned. I was considered very responsible for my age and always remembered to return the memories once I was done with them. Early memory library membership was one of the job perks. If, I reminded myself, I salvaged some story from this and kept the job.
"So you know about dinosaurs?"
"Some. But that's not from my planet. We concentrated more on current events." Big lizards. Weird. I had to admit I'd kind of skipped over that part.
"Well, there were ones in the water too. Those are the plesies."
"Uh-huh. Yes, I know them." I tried to remember them. To this day, I'm not sure if I actually remembered the picture I thought I'd seen, or if the salt in the blooddog had done something to my biofeedback. Both, probably. "Weren't they dangerous?" I managed to complete a sentence without the world flipping itself upside down, and congratulated myself.
"That was all part of the thrill, Umi!" He grinned. "There were only a few left then. The oceans'd got too basic by then, all the salt leached out for manufacturing. The ones that were left hid in the trenches and were crafty. But they were worth it."
"Why?" There hadn't been anything in the memory banks about the economic value of dinosaurs, dead, alive, or otherwise.
"I just went after it for the danger, m'lad," he confided in a low whisper, "and didn't believe any of the stuff I was told by the rest of the crew." He frowned. "But this one guy, Chibi-something from Under-Tokyo, told us this story about these people who'd eaten mer-snake - apparently the Japanese version of the plesies - and lived forever. And most of the crew went for that. I shoulda, too, because the hunt was anticlimactic." He frowned. "The sonic locators pinpointed the lair, and we dashed in with robots and sulfur-gas torches and lights and killed it."
I ignored the slur - I hadn't had a father, nor mother - and would have laughed if I hadn't been afraid of puking on the floor instead.
"I thought it all seemed too easy, and told the fellas so when we were eating our catch that night, in sushi rolls and steak and burgers with organo-lettuce, after the meat'd been cleaned by the machines and blessed by the priests. Then I took my first bite, and knew why. It'd been old, and sick, and let itself be caught. No one else felt it - damned latent genetic empathy - but I've had to live with knowing that for the rest of my life. Actually, the best part was the ride back. We composed songs, that one you heard among 'em, and came back cult heroes. Especially after we passed the 150-year mark. You know that guy Rawlkins who just won the Nobel II after finding the cure for hyperorganic sickness? He's been working on that for 220 years, but covered over the truth a bit for the application. He was on the crew."
I snorted and stood up. "Well, it was a great story. Maybe you'll see it in the paper next week, ok? I have to get your name and number in case they decide to use it." Long chance on that crackpot story, I thought, but maybe it'll keep me my job another month.
"You won't join me for a birthday drink?"
"No, thanks." Thank Felia, I thought, and stood up. I wobbled a bit on the way out the door, but managed to make it to my hotel ok.
It surprised me a bit when they used the story.
But when my editor called me in to check the facts, it surprised me more. Apparently, the guy was so old that the format his birthdate was stored in wouldn't interface with the computers, and we had to use a museum piece to verify it, which was another story in itself. I, of course, got a promotion and another byline. I liked that. I hope I meet more weird ones with good stories to keep me in the new body to which I've become accustomed.
Fish-burger sales dropped after that other article I wrote that showed they don't really have a clue if it's all fish that they're putting in there anymore.
Now I eat one every day. I'm hoping for good luck - and, maybe in a few hundred years, a Pulitzer.
She played with the locket and felt the oranges and reds of sunset stream about her. Heat and light enfolded her in all directions; the sand was giving up its store of daylight, the wind carried only hot murmurs about in the dying day.
She opened her eyes, and there he was, just as he had promised. They embraced and she felt the brush of his close-clipped beard and smelled the deep touch of salt he always bore. He, too, was warm from the sun. They swayed together for an age, until night reached out with a breezy finger to tap them on their shoulders and gently urge them to leave.
They walked ahead of the darkness and drank drops of sunlight to keep it at bay, but the night finally escorted them inside. A soft fire welcomed them into their own dim twilight where they stayed while the sea hushed all those who could hear it.
In the morning, he was gone and another bracelet was left behind. She fingered the coral before slipping it on to join the others, then picked up her locket and put it back around her neck. The fresh rays of sunlight caught a few engraved words across its silver front:
"To Brandi, a fine girl"
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