|
art by I. Khivrenko |
Chapter 3
Questions
Colored circles
flashed before my closed eyelids. My lungs burned, about to explode. I pushed
with my elbows struggling to force myself free from a stranger gripping my
back.
I couldn't. I could
barely tell top from bottom as I kept hitting and kicking. Pointless. The bulk
of the water around me absorbed the impact.
My fingers brushed
the bars. I grabbed at them, pushing myself up, and started climbing up toward
the light, hoping that the inmate who clung to me would loosen his grip once we
were out of the water.
When we surfaced,
his fingers at my throat slackened. I took a swing and elbowed his temple. His
nails scratched the skin on my neck as he went underwater.
Every second could
be my last, the thought pulsated in my head. I climbed further up, higher, as far
from the water as possible.
Once I’d climbed
about six foot up, I forced my hand between the bars and gripped them tightly,
pressing my side to the grate. No one was going to pull me away from it. I'd
make a quick job of anyone who tried.
Turned out, I wasn't
the only clever one. About a dozen more people, Wladas included, hung along the
perimeter of the cage clinging to the bars. The deck was now to our left and
the ceiling to our right. The ferry had to be lying on its side... sinking.
Below in the water,
people struggled and screamed, calling for help and drowning each other.
I looked around. I
had to get out of there. The ferry was about to become a mass grave.
"Over here!
Help!" voices came from my right.
I turned my head to
the bars. The guard boat rocked on the waves nearby, heading for the island.
The deck was empty.
"Hey!"
"Come
here!"
"Help!"
Our screams followed
the boat. Apparently, no one was going to help us. They weren't interested.
Someone tugged my
ankle. A gentle pull - not an attempt to grab my foot and drag me down. Someone
was trying to get my attention. I looked down, prepared to kick a wet face, but
reconsidered. Hanging below me was a Chinese. He looked like the one who'd just
lost his buddy in the airlock. He pointed down, nodding.
What the hell?
"Why
down?" I asked.
The Chinese started
climbing down.
"Where are
you-"
"Mark!" Wladas
called.
I turned my head.
"Jump!"
The guard boat
slowed down, the feathered waves in its wake settling. The turret on the stern
turned its twin guns toward the sinking ferry.
I let go of the bars
and kicked myself away and down.
What's better, the
hydrodynamic shock or being showered with shrapnel? It depended on the gunners'
aim, and I had a funny feeling they were about to target the emerging part of
the ferry. Otherwise, the Chinese wouldn't have-
The bang came from
the ferry's bow. It felt as if someone had put me into a barrel filled with
water, covered the lid and started pounding it with a sledge hammer.
I surfaced, mouth
wide open, trying not to scream from the earache. I nearly hit the Chinese when
he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me in the direction of what seemed to be a
gap in the grating. The explosion had bent its torn and twisted bars inward. On
the foredeck, water gushed in amid billowing smoke and fire.
" Wladas!"
I snorted and shook off the Asian's hand. "Where are you?"
The Asian pushed
away a dead body drifting toward us and dived down. Lots of bodies around. And
blood. The water was dark with it.
"Wladas!"
"I'm
here-" the neurotech choked.
I made a stroke toward
the gap and looked up. The bars drew closer. The ferry was about to go down
hook, line and sinker.
If we wanted to stay
alive, we had to get out as quickly as possible.
"I'm here!
He-help!"
Wladas' head
disappeared under water within a meter from the gap. A disheveled burly man held him down and grabbed at the bars,
pushing himself up. The Asian resurfaced nearby and grabbed his feet. Before
the burly man had time to react, the Asian climbed his shoulders and locked his
hands under the man's chin. Then he kicked hard at the man's shoulders, straightening
his legs like a deadlifter.
Vertebrae crunched,
and the dead man collapsed on top of me. I recoiled. The Asian dived into the
gap, and Wladas showed his head again.
"Out!" I
gasped. "Quick!"
I looked back. A few
more men swam toward us, including the miner who'd fathered the cloned
triplets.
By the time I looked
back, the neurotech had already escaped. The gap was now halfway in the water,
sinking. Or should I say, the entire ferry was sinking. Quite rapidly, too.
I took a deep breath
and dived in, praying that no one else would catch up with me and grab my foot
hoping to survive. Either that, or I could go face first onto a jagged bar. Or
just miss the opening.
In front of me, the
gap's uneven outline came into view, its bent broken bars barely visible. I stretched
out my arms, put my legs together and slid, dolphin-like, through the opening.
I surfaced and tried to get as far from the ferry as I could before the vortex
pulled me under.
My heart pounded.
With every third stroke, I made a quick gasp and kept going. I took another
stroke and my hand bounced off inflatable rubber. I didn't have time to slow
down. Face up, I’d collided with the orange side of the safety raft.
"Where d'you
think you're going?" I heard overhead.
"He looks
strong enough. Georgie, Oakum, get him out. Put him with the rest. And
let’s pick up the others."
I raised my arms.
They grabbed my elbows and pulled me out.
The raft was a
six-seater. The bald fatso, a.k.a. the ferry captain, sat on top of a
waterproof personal survival kit. He was in his fifties, a round red face, a
smooth suntanned skull, and bushy gray eyebrows. His shoulder sported a tattoo:
an anchor with a towline wrapped around it and a spike-headed combat dolphin
below. Military geneticists had developed those dolphins in order to destroy
underwater saboteurs. From what I'd heard, the spikes on their heads were sharp
and strong, and also venomous.
On either side of
the captain sat the young sailor and the crane operator with his machine gun.
The crane operator,
dark-haired with gray temples, looked older than the captain. His thin face,
wrinkled and wizened, was covered with three days' worth of stubble. By the
confident way he held the machine gun you could tell he'd been in a scrape or
two.
I looked at the young
sailor. His strawberry hair was tufted together making it stick out like...
like oakum. That's how he must have gotten his nickname.
The youngster handed
me a short paddle that looked more like a trenching spade.
"Take it and
row," the captain said.
"Give me a chance,"
I leaned against the bulwark catching my breath.
"Georgie,"
the captain said.
The crane operator
pointed the gun at me.
"You fucking
clone's ass," he grinned showing gapped yellow teeth, "Shut your
mouth and row!"
I grabbed a paddle
and straddled the rubber float. The ferry boat was gone. Jetsam floated on the
surface. Amid the growing oil slicks, two bodies rocked in the waves. The murky
mist over the jumpgate base had dissolved, and the bright white sun blazed in
the clear sky overhead. The silhouette of the guard boat was barely discernible
against the steel-and-concrete island.
"Why did they
shoot at us from the boat?" I asked.
"Just
row!" the crane operator said in a coarse three-packs-a-day voice.
"The Feds have their own orders."
"Where do you want
me to row?"
"Over
there," Oakum pointed behind my back.
I turned around. Wladas
and the Chinese were rocking on the waves a few meters away. Neither of them
spoke. I didn't like it. The neurotech lay on his back, arms wide apart,
staring into the sky.
I sat down with my
back to the machine gun, lowered the paddle into the water and pulled
violently. Oakum on the other side countered, trying to make sure the raft
didn't turn. We soon reached the two heads bobbing in the water. I glanced over
my shoulder. Several large bubbles billowed up: all that remained from the
ferry boat. A few more bodies resurfaced.
Wladas was pale -
unconscious, by the looks of it. With the boy's help I dragged him on board.
The Chinese climbed in with ease.
"Is he
alive?" the captain asked as I bent over the neurotech. "I don't need
no stiffs here."
Wladas coughed. I
turned his head to one side and water spasmodically gushed out of his mouth.
"You're in
luck," the crane operator grinned. "If it wasn't for..."
His stare met with mine,
and the gun's barrel pointed at my chest.
"Now," the
captain said. "Don't even think of rioting. I'd rather have a chat with
you before we reach the shore. I don't care about your names or sentences. But
if you can tell me what's going on back on Earth... Having said that, any of
you got sea legs?"
I shook my head and
glanced at the Chinese. He sat straight, hands on his knees, smiling and
looking much like a votive statue.
"What's wrong
with him?" Georgie pointed his gun at him. "What's there to smile at,
Chink?"
"He doesn't
understand you," I said.
" He will when
I shoot him!"
"Shut up,
Georgie," the captain shrugged. "Give me a chance to talk to the people."
He sat up as if
nothing had happened and went on.
"Any mechanics
among you? My engineer's dead. I need someone to replace him."
Once again I shook
my head. The Chinese kept on smiling.
"Shame,"
the captain scratched his tattooed shoulder and squinted at the boy. "I'm
afraid, it'll have to be Oakum."
The kid's eyes lit
up. He spread his shoulders and stuck his chin out.
I didn't like the way
he spoke. Asking about the Earth and new engineers so matter-of-factly as if
nobody had just died during the sinking. Okay, they were only deportees, but
they were still human. Lots of them, turning into fish food even as we spoke.
He didn't seem to care. Death must have become mundane here on Pangea, to the
point where no one cared about the dead.
"Quit
glaring," the captain lowered his hands. "Think about those who've
survived. About yourself and your future. You can't bring the dead back to
life."
"You
can't," Georgie butted in.
"Ferries sink
all the time," the captain went on, like an old grunt telling war stories
to rookies. "Last year, one just disappeared. Like that," he clapped
his hands. "A bolt of lightning, and it was gone. Had to be Pangean
devils."
Wladas finally
caught his breath. He lay on his side wheezing and clutching at his throat. The
Chinese sat with his back straight, smiling.
"So! No new Civil war out there, apparently?" the captain asked.
"Apparently not,"
I picked up the paddle and straddled the float.
"How about
Siberia?" the crane operator perked up. "They haven't sold it to
those slant-eyed clones, have they?"
"In your
dreams."
"Good,"
Georgie grinned. "They've pissed away the rest."
"How many times
have I told you?" the captain jumped up. "What do you want with that radioactive
waste pit? Siberia! It won't change just because you ask!"
The crane operator
sulked. Clutching his gun, he looked at the Chinese. His knuckles turned white.
"Georgie is a
Siberian, see," the captain said. "A Baikal conflict volunteer. So
he's one of our old-timers."
A Baikal conflict veteran. I see. I hadn't even been born
when this Georgie was fighting for Siberia's independence against the Chinese
clone settlers, razing their Irkutsk settlements to the ground. No one knew for
sure but apparently, Siberian independence was the real cause behind the Civil
war in Russia. A year after, the newly-formed Federal Security Agency had started
mopping up. It took them several years to properly establish the new
totalitarian regime. That had been their hay day - purges and arrests - right up
until the Coup of the Seven Generals.
"Okay,"
the captain slapped his hips and turned pointing to the direction of the
mainland. "Course north west, fifteen degrees starboard from Elephant
Ridge.”
"Leave them, Grunt,"
Georgie spoke. "Just look at them: they wouldn't tell north west from a
shit sandwich. And that slanted-eye monkey don't speak no Russian."
The captain sighed. "In
other words, row till you hit the shore. Oakum! You on lookout, make sure we
don't lose the current. Keep an eye on the wind, too. Give your paddle to the
Asian. Let him work for his rescue. Georgie, keep a bead on them-"
"Depend upon it!"
"... it would be safer
for us all," the captain concluded.
The
kid passed his paddle over to the Chinese and sat in front next to the captain.
I nodded to the Asian. We made a couple of strokes adjusting to each other and
paddled away. Luckily, the wind was at our backs otherwise we'd have to drift
and no amount of paddling would have helped, not with all this windage. Now I
understood why they'd rescued us: they’d needed someone to paddle. I glanced
back again. The island and the Fort receded slowly but surely, and I couldn't
see the debris any more.
"Permission
to speak," the captain clutched his hands on his belly and reached out his
legs. "Rookies have lots of questions."
Georgie
snorted.
I
looked
at
Wladas.
He sniffled with his head
dropped onto his chest. The dumping and the shock had been too much for him.
"Why
didn't they rescue us?" I pointed my paddle at the Elephant Ridge with its
beam trawlers. "Couldn't they come and help?"
"Trawlers
have no business in the Fort area," the captain said. "They'd be sunk
straight away. And during these vortex incidents," he raised his eyes to
the sky, "the Fort closes the channel and tells them to leave at full
steam."
"How
big is the base water area, then?"
"About
five miles south from the Elephant Ridge. Right up to Cape Fang."
He
pointed over Georgie's head to the east where a crooked black cliff hung over
the shore. Far beyond it, mountain tops barely showed through a gray mist: that
was the beginning of the mountain range that encircled the continent's east
coast. The swamps had to lie by the northern foothills.
"The
only way to get to the base is by ferry boat," the captain waved his hand,
"and only when they're expecting a new shipment of convicts. We take
carula on board, then wait for the go-ahead from the Fort commander and approach
the base. Then we unload, ship the men on board and go back."
I’d
barely heard his last words as the Information clicked on again in my head,
Herba Cearula, or blue seaweed, commonly known as
carula, grows exclusively in the New Pang area. It is the only source of biocyne.
Biocyne?
I thought, thus activating a new page:
Biocyne is a biologically active substance produced by
the seaweed species herba caerula. It facilitates DNA breakage repair resulting
in improved environmental tolerance and longevity...
"Quit
gawking and row!" the captain shouted.
The
Information finally shut up allowing me to paddle with renewed vigor. I glanced
at the unconscious Wladas and the silent Chinese. What was going on here?
Nothing but riddles. First the chain of accidents at the jumpgate, then this
Chinese who looked as if he was keeping an eye on me. Now this complex
informational software in my own head, and when had they ever had time to
install it? I could only think of one instant when they could have done so: after
the tribunal when army surgeons had removed my combat implants. They'd had to
put me to sleep. But if the surgeon had installed the software, he couldn't
have done it on his own accord, could he? He couldn't have cared less about me.
Which meant he'd been forced into it - why else would he risk facing a court
martial?
But
what kind of force was it? Who'd care about a soldier and a murderer on his way
to life in exile? And had the Chinese been sent here by the same force? And how
about the jumpgate accidents, had they been arranged, as well, in order to
distract the Fort operators and slacken their vigilance? True that they hadn't
looked too deep into my mental scans - not deep enough to discover the
unauthorized software, anyway.
My
head was spinning. The Chinese, Information, jumpgate accidents... biocyne.
"What's
carula?" I asked.
"Just
some slimy shit," Georgie muttered. "Stinks to high heaven."
I
looked at the captain. "Why do you send it to the Fort?"
He
shrugged.
"God
knows. They process it, like, to use as a food supplement. To
help with overpopulation. According to them, we deliver food shipments."
"How
often?"
"How
can I say..."
"Regularly
enough," Georgie grumbled.
"Exactly,"
the captain nodded. "We send, like, one shipment a month."
"How
do you harvest it?"
"It's
cultured. Once it blossoms, divers go down and filter the muck... Why would you
want to know?"
I
didn't say anything.
"Shitty
job," Georgie winced.
"Not
nice, no," the captain said. "But it's McLean and his people who deal
with that. Virtually no Russians on his farms. And I shouldn't think of
becoming a diver. They're dog meat, no one cares if they live or die. Worse
than
clones."
I
stared in front of me. I'd just realized that the Information's data was
classified. Here on Pangea no one seemed to know anything about biocyne. The
deportees seem to think that the Earth needed the blue seaweed as a handy
nutrient to add to cheap synthetic food they sold to the poor. Even on Earth,
few knew about biocyne's precious properties. It was used to make medications
to reverse aging, affordable to a select few like our President and corporate
top brass. Had the common people learned that the authorities manipulated them
in more than one way, achieving immortality while the deteriorating environment
cut the average lifespan further with every year...
That
was all well and good, but the average soldier like myself wasn't supposed to
know these things. The Information had told me... no. It had only repeated
something I'd known for a long time. This was no Information software - the
installation seemed to help surface suppressed memories.
I
got out of synch again, rowing slower as I got lost in thought. It looked like I
was caught in a weird and disturbing situation.
I
glanced at Georgie and the captain,
"I
understand the Earth needs the seaweed. But what's in it for the
settlers?"
"All
our machinery," he explained, "is exchanged for carula. All the
generators, spare parts, guns and ammunition... It's old: nothing digital, no pulse
guns or computerized lathes. Even the gun cartridges are analog."
"And the fuel? There're no mineral resources here, are there?"
"There
aren't," the captain grinned. "But we do have the Tanker."
Information
butted in again. The Tanker is the oil
riggers' base. It includes the supertanker Samotlor, an oil rig, a supply vessel and the icebreaking tug Svyatoslav
Norg which were teleported to the
Continent as a result of Boris Neumann's bomb test disaster.
"Heard
about the Samotlor disaster?"
the captain said. "You must have, it was all over the news. A whole convoy
disappeared on its way from the Arctic oil rigs."
"I
see," I mumbled.
"The
tanker was full to the brim," the captain perked up, gesturing away.
"When Neumann first discovered Pangea forty years back, we kept finding
all sorts of shit caught in the jump. Raiders make good money out of it,
seeking and selling their goodies on the New Pang market."
The
crane operator nodded.
"Our
Georgie here was with the raiders for quite a while. He used to work with
Neumann himself before Earth pulled the plug on his research," the captain
raised his bushy eyebrows wrinkling a sunburnt forehead. "You don't know
what I'm talking about, do you? Neumann is the old egghead who went missing two
years ago, but not before he talked the whole of New Pang senseless with his
swamp stories and Continent mysteries. He'd researched all of Pangea by then, from
top to bottom, and he had a good team to help him, too. But
then-"
A
wave hit the board. The raft jerked, showering me with briny froth.
"The
wind's changing," Oakum said.
"Easy
all," the captain ordered. For a few seconds he sat still watching the
sea. Then he elbowed Georgie,
"Not
good. There's a storm brewing from the Fang. It'll be here soon. The shore is a
stone's throw away, but if we try to land, the waves will beat us to fuck on
the rocks.”
The
crane operator didn't answer. From out of the corner of his eye he watched the
Chinese who didn't avert his gaze from the cape.
I
could see the Asian's anxiety, too. Did he understand Russian or was he just
second-guessing our risks? I'd have loved to have known that.
The
raft rocked harder, spattering Wladas with froth. He
perked
up.
"What's up?" Blinking, he turned his head and tried to sit up. "What's going on?"
No
one answered. The Chinese turned to Georgie, feigned a smile and froze again.
The
captain sized us up, gloomy, munched on his lip and said,
"Now, guys. It's better if you jump overboard. Off you go."
Georgie
tensed up and grasped his gun tight. The young sailor bit his lip, looking
scared.
"Don't
move, Oakum! I'm talking to the deportees. We need to increase windage. This
way
at
least
some
of
us
survive.
You
hear
me?
Jump!"
"Did
you hear?" Georgie raised his machine gun, its butt hard against his
shoulder. "Out, now!"
A
shadow moved out of my field of vision. It looked as if the Chinese had simply
turned, but Georgie emitted a stifled scream and dropped the machine gun. I
reached out, grabbed the gun by its holed barrel shroud and pointed it at them.
The Chinese was already undoing the slackened crane operator's pants belt while
holding the sharp end of the paddle to the captain's throat.
"Hey,"
I called him, "what's your name... Enough for the time being."
The
Chinese released the belt and grabbed it with his teeth. He pushed the belt's
end through the buckle to make a noose and lifted his face.
"What's
your name?" I asked staring into his expressionless slanted eyes. "Do
you speak a word of Russian or not?"
He
answered with a volley of gobbledygook stressing the word Wong.
"Wong. Is this your name?"
He
picked up the noose and turned away.
"Wong. Please don't," I poked him with the gun and
commanded, "Sit back down."
Wong
turned to me and shook his head, disapproving. Still, he sat down next to the
captain, barging the boy aside.
"What
now?" the captain kept squinting at the paddle in the Chinese's hands.
I
began unloading the gun.
"We'll
split into pairs. There are six of us so we can take turns rowing. You and
Georgie, take the paddles."
Wladas
stirred. He apparently didn't look forward to straddling the dangerous rubber float.
"Move
it," I dropped the ammo belt onto the raft, removed the buttstock and the
return spring and began to remove the bolt. "Hear me, Grunt? Bring Georgie round and get rowing."
"Oakum,"
the captain rubbed his neck, "get some water out of the survival kit."
The
kid bit his lip again and stepped toward the captain, undecided.
"How
do you expect him to do it?" I said. "You're the one sitting on the
bag. Another thing. I suggest we drop these stupid monikers, or not? What's
your name, sailor?"
"Jim,"
the boy said.
"That's
not a Russian name," Wladas raised his eyebrows. "What did they send
you here for?"
"He's
one of the locals," the captain rose and started undoing the survival bag.
"Born here. What are your names?"
Wladas
and I exchanged glances. Over the last thirty years or more, Russia had signed
quite a few international agreements allowing other countries to get rid of
their undesirables by sending scores of them to Pangea. About a decade ago, an
epidemic had wiped out a large part of the Continent's population, but by now a
new generation had replaced it: young men and women who had grown up in their
prison world without once setting foot on Earth.
"I'm
Mark," I said.
"Wladas,"
the neurotech added.
The
captain had produced a flat water container, unscrewed the top and took a large
swig.
"I'm
Trophym," he wiped his mouth with his forearm. "Trophym Pavlovich
Kuznetsov. But I'd rather you call me Grunt. I'm used to it."
"Georgie
needs water," I reminded as I put the disassembled machine gun aside. I
showed the bolt to the captain.
"I'll
keep it for the time being. Now get on with it!"
I
put the bolt into my breast pocket and glanced at Georgie as the captain
splashed some water into his face. Apparently, Wong had overdone it. The crane
operator didn't look as if he would recover any time soon. I ordered the
Chinese to join the captain and row and told the others to be ready to replace
them.
At
first we didn't do too badly. According to Grunt, we'd reach the inshore
current at any time which could take us to the shore before the storm.
But
the wind grew stronger, the waves bigger, and the swell heavier. Finally, I
told the rowers to ship their oars for fear of one of them ending up overboard.
"How
far to the shore?" I asked panting.
"Less
than a mile," Grunt stood up looking to the east. There, the blackened sea
hung over the blurred horizon. The white sun behind our backs turned crimson as
it set, its light covering the rocky Cape Fang with blood-red spots.
"It'll
smash us against the rocks," Georgie pointed out.
"How
much time do we have?" I opened the survival kit and looked inside.
A
torn blanket, two flat water containers, some purification tablets, a signaling
mirror... but no sign of a first aid kit. I lifted the blanket and pulled out a
sheathed machete by its leather strap.
"A
bit more than an hour," the captain answered. "Provided we don't get
flipped over."
I
tied the leather strap around my waist and turned back to the bag. I handed Wladas
and Jim a water flask each. Then I discovered a plastic container with a pair
of field glasses inside, their ribbed case peeling with age.
I
was just going to train them on the rocks and the thunder clouds above them
when Wong exclaimed and pointed his paddle toward the north. I focused the glasses.
A
truck drove along the shore.