Tides of Maritinia (10 page)

The chant started slow, but quickly built momentum.

One of us.

One of us.

One of us!

I looked down at the water. Cuda were everywhere, water roiling and frothing, the blood in my veins doing the same.

The Falali Mother came close and whispered in my ear, her voice soft but steady. “Soon the cuda will have had their fill. Dive deep and stay below until they move on.”

I nodded and clumsily stepped to the very edge. Stones swung from my hips, and my neck worked to keep my overloaded head upright. My toes hung off the stage. I tried for a deep breath but couldn't suck air faster than the octopus's regular offering.

The crowd's chanting picked up pace.

One of us.

One of us!

The volume rose until the deafening chorus drowned my ears.

The speed of the chants continued to accelerate until the words rolled into one, the noise building to a crescendo.

It was time.

I stepped off.

 

CHAPTER 12

“When you thnk hthe limit o f human suffering has been reached, that's when the unidverhse reminds you theire is no limit.”

–
J
AKOB
B
RYCE

M
y feet plunged into the chummed water, then my legs, hips, torso, and octopus-­topped head. I kept my eyes open but couldn't see through the thick screen of air bubbles rising through the agitated seawater. Something bumped my foot, and I reflexively kicked at whatever it was. I swung the machetes, left then right, chopping at bubbles and kelp fronds, my heart pumping frantic beats.

I sank fast, my view clearing as I passed below the churning frenzy of cuda. Relief surged through me, but only for the briefest of seconds before the salt water attacked my wounds. Liquid pain flowed into every scratch. Every slice. Every crevice. Burning. Searing.

Dazed by shock, I barely noticed when the machete in my left hand fell from my grasp. I concentrated on my breathing. On keeping the second machete firm in my fist.

I descended through the warm surface water to the cool layer below, the chill helping me focus, helping me notice a different pain, this one stabbing at my eardrums, the pressure rapidly building until ice picks stabbed for my brain.

I squeezed my nose tight, sealed my lips around the octopus's breathing tube, and blew as hard as I could until my ears equalized. I blew again every few feet as I sank deeper into the kelp forest, shoulders bumping against stalks, my feet plunging through sprawling fronds and leaves the size of kites.

The salt chewed deeper into my lesions and ate from every scratch and cut before licking the length of each wound with urchin spines.

I swiped my free hand across my chest and stomach, thighs and shoulders, neck and calves, my hand moving fast, as if I were trying to tamp out a fire. But this was a fire that couldn't be extinguished, my body engulfed by flames of pain.

I wanted the cuda. Wished they would rip me apart and end this torture. I looked up, but my view was blocked by dense foliage. As promised, the angry souls must've stayed on the surface, sticking to the ample food being dumped into the water.

My feet touched the bottom and sank into the silt, the soothing chill of mud erasing the pain from my feet and toes. I wanted to bury myself in the silt, coast through it like a carefree ray. But I stayed where I was, suffering from wave after wave of throbbing, pulsating agony.

A voice came from the rabbit hole.

I managed to send a response.

I closed my eyes.

They gave the bastard my sight and my sound but spared him my pain. The unfairness of it was too much to take.

I cracked my eyes open, the sting of salt mild compared to the wildfires raging over the rest of my body.

I had a job to do. Cut the stick figures free. Had to concentrate. Had to conquer the pain.

I gripped the machete tight and bit down on the tentacle in my mouth. I was ready.

My lungs went still. Dead still.

A momentary flash of panic gave way to annoyance when I realized I'd pinched off my air. Sire, must you rob me of every comfort? I relaxed my jaws, and air thankfully flowed back into my lungs.

I turned around, searching the dark. The glowgrubs strung across my chest afforded a short, murky range of view. Ignoring the pain, I pushed forward, machete first, my feet kicking against the ocean bottom as I ducked under a leaf as big as a tent flap and took hold of the kelpstalk's woody trunk.

I hefted the machete and chopped at the thin stem holding the lowest leaf. The blade didn't cut all the way through but did enough damage to make the leaf hang like a broken wing. Having marked my starting location, I slogged ahead, feet dragging through silt, my eyes straining at the black fog beyond the light.

The kelp forest slowly swayed with the soft current. Stalks, thick as my arm, reached for the surface, their broad leaves drooping like mammoth ears. Imagining cuda behind every leaf, I gently brushed the leaves aside with my machete. Slow. Careful.

I moved from stalk to stalk, counting as I went. Tiny fish swam in and out of view. Crabs dodged my footsteps.

No sign of the stick figures.

Reaching kelpstalk number ten, I stopped and turned back, eyes moving on a swivel as I worked my way back to the broken wing.

When I arrived at my starting point, I took a ninety-­degree turn and set out on another foray into the bleak darkness while the salty ocean scoured my raw skin like a wire brush.

Ten stalks out.

Nothing.

Again, I returned to the broken wing and took another perpendicular turn. Four stalks out, I spotted a light behind a cluster of leaves. A dim yellow moonglow against a midnight background.

Moving closer, brushing more leaves aside, I could plainly see the stick figure now. The quartet of fishhooked glowgrubs hung from the figure's bamboo limbs, which stretched for the surface like the family of Mmasa the diver must've done so many years ago.

I grabbed the rope mooring the figure to the stone and raised my machete for a hack. I swung, but the drag of water slowed the blade until it harmlessly bounced off the rope.

I turned the blade over and sawed back and forth, back and forth, until the rope cut free and the figure rocketed for the surface.

One down. Four to go.

Moving just a few feet in the same direction, I located the next stick figure and, like Mmasa, I cut it loose.

I found the next two with ease and cut them free. I imagined the cheers of the crowd above, pictured their mounting suspense as each stick figure popped to the surface.

The pain wasn't so bad now. Just a bunch of scratches. Nothing the Hero of Maritinia couldn't handle.

I located the fifth nestled between a pair of stalks. I took hold of the rope and waited. Had to wait as long as possible. Had to wait for the cuda to move on.

I'd done it. I felt a rush of euphoria, felt it tingle up and down my arms and legs. My eyelids felt heavy with contentment. I should lie down for a minute. Lie in this cool mud. Bury myself like a ray.

Right. Had to cut the stick figure free. Had to get to the surface. I'd get to it in a little bit.

My eyes snapped open. Alarmed heartbeats rammed my ribs. I tried to fill my starving lungs, but all the octopus could provide was a slow stream of weak air.

Where was my machete? Must've dropped it. I swept my fingers through the silt, once, twice, and struck something solid on the third try. Nabbing the machete, I went to work on the rope, the blade cutting rapidly through. The stick figure broke loose and soared for the surface. Exactly what I needed to do.

I jumped upward, but sank back down.

That sounded like a lot of work. I jumped again.

Another jump. Why wasn't I rising?

I dropped the machete and reached for my right hip. Fumbling for the net, I dropped my hand inside and grasped a round stone. I lifted, but the stone slipped through numb fingers. Slippery little bugger.

I took hold of the stone, clamping my fingers tight and yanked it free. Dropping the rock, I nabbed another, and another, my feet lifting slowly off the ocean bottom.

I went to the net on my other hip and shed two, three, four more stones, my upward momentum notching upward with every dumped weight.

Sapped of every last morsel of energy, I rolled onto my back and let my arms and legs hang limp as I rose. Staring upward, I watched leaves drag over my face while starving lungs wrung foul air for every drop of oxygen.

The forest thinned, affording me a limited view of the surface. I stared at the hazy, ripple of light, watched it dance as I rose closer and closer.

Shadows coasted into view, dozens of them moving into the light. Long narrow torpedoes with fanned tails. I watched them glide, the entire school moving as one.

I was too tired to be scared. Too drained to care. The surface was close, just seconds away.

The cuda showed no interest in me, the school coasting slowly away. They'd had their fill as the Falali Mother had promised.

But then they turned.

All as one.

Time seemed to slow, milliseconds dragging into seconds, seconds stretching into lifetimes. They stared at me, heads like the tips of silver bullets, eyes black as abandoned mine shafts.

I glanced at the surface. So, so close.

Eyes back on the cuda. The slow billow of gills. Watching. Waiting.

Fishtails flicked, and the cuda charged like darts.

Fear jolted through me, my body going electric with desperate energy.

Time collapsed. Seconds compressed into each other.

Instinct propelled my arms and legs. Rapid strokes pushed for the surface. Cuda bore down, hinged jaws spiked with teeth.

My head and shoulders burst out of the water. I caught a glimpse of the stage, barely ten feet to my right.

I turned and stroked, knowing it was too far, knowing I wouldn't make it.

The cuda struck, needle noses punching my ribs and hips. The impact pushed me under, and I rolled, arms flailing, legs kicking. Fish tumbled over me in a blur of snapping teeth and slapping tails.

I forced my head out of the water and tried to scream for help, but the breathing tube in my throat snuffed my shouts. I spun around, fists swinging for cuda but failing to land. I spun the other way, and chopped at empty water with my hands.

Confused, I stopped fighting and bobbed quietly in the water. Where did they go?

I spotted a fin moving away from me, cutting for open water. It disappeared, replaced by two others heading in the same direction.

The octopus retracted its breathing tube. I gagged as it slipped out of my throat, then out of my mouth.

I sucked air. Sweet, sweet air.

The octopus disengaged and sloughed off my head and into the water. I watched it swim for the stage, tentacles fanning out like rubbery umbrella spines, then squeezing together in an eight-­way thrust.

Lungs huffing, I noticed the cheers of the crowd, the sound muffled by the water in my ears. I looked to the stage. Sali knelt on the edge, hands beckoning for me to come. The Falali Mother stood behind her, a smile on her face. Dugu waited off to the side, filming as always.

I checked my hands. Ten fingers. I ran my hands down my chest. Didn't feel any bite-­sized divots.

Pol didn't answer. There was no answer.

I swam for the stage, exhausted muscles straining with the effort. Reaching the stage, I lifted my arms like a tired toddler and allowed a pair of Jebyl to pull me out of the water. I tried to stand, but wobbly knees betrayed me. The Jebyl looped my arms over their shoulders and lifted me upright.

Sali's hands clapped onto my cheeks, her eyes staring into mine. “Are you okay?”

I tried to speak, but my heaving chest was still making up for lost time. Instead, I held her gaze and gave the slightest of nods.

“He's okay,” she shouted, her words carrying from crier to crier around the caldera to a chorus of wild cheers. With a broad smile, she pulled her hands off my cheeks and looked at the palm of her left hand.

“What is it?” I croaked.

She held her palm up for me to see. Blood.

But she'd only touched my cheeks. My face hadn't been scored by the shells.

Sali turned to the Falali Mother and pointed at my right cheek. “He's been bitten.”

The Falali Mother stepped close for a look. She touched my cheek with her finger, and I winced from a pain I hadn't felt until now. She studied the blood on her finger, then backing up a step, she dropped to one knee.

As did Sali.

As did everybody else on the stage except for the pair of Jebyl who held me.

And Dugu who kept filming.

The crowd hushed, silence descending like a burial shroud.

The Falali Mother bowed her head. “He wasn't bitten,” she called.

I waited as her words circled the crater.

She lifted her face to me, eyes wide with awe. “He was kiss-­ed.”

 

CHAPTER 13

“Comfort isan illusiion. Find yourself a comforttable place andyou'll eventually discvoer you were really in a waiting room for rhte next disaster.”

–
J
AKOB
B
RYCE

I
hurt.

Everywhere.

Especially my cheek.

I remembered boarding the boat in the middle of the night. Wrapping myself in silk cloths. Climbing into this fishnet hammock.

Not much after that. Mustn't have taken long for the bliss of sleep to take hold.

But I was awake now. And it was daylight. I could feel the sun warming my exposed face, could feel it soaking through my silk cocoon. I kept my eyes closed, preferring to let everybody—­even Pol—­think I was out. I needed to rest. Needed to heal. Needed to let the boat's gentle sway rock away my pain.

A voice whispered near my ear. Sali. “You need to eat something, Drake. The Ministry is only an hour away.”

An hour? I'd been sleeping all day.

Still, I didn't open my eyes. I didn't want to eat. Or talk. I didn't want to crack my little bubble of peace and solitude.

She put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. “Drake, you need to wake up.”

I opened an eye.

A simple Jebyl-­style body wrap came into focus, her curves hugged by long pink and green stripes. I angled my gaze up to her face, concerned by what I saw. She had bags under her eyes and a pair of black curls poked from unruly hair like springs from a smashed wristwatch.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Just woke up myself. Couldn't sleep last night, so I took a little nap.” She held out a bowl of boiled kelp shoots.

I fought stiff muscles to sit up. Silk cloths slid off my bared shoulders, which were crisscrossed with long scratch marks. I poked my feet out of the silks and dangled them over the side of the hammock.

Taking the bowl, I dropped my fingers in to pick up a kelp shoot, a pale yellow stalk with a curlicue of new growth on one end. Gingerly, I opened my mouth and bit off the end. To avoid my wounded cheek, I chewed on the left side of my mouth, tangy and salty.

“You're bleeding,” said Sali.

I touched my cheek. Fingertips came away bloody. “Must've opened back up.” I touched again. My cheek was puffed, like I'd stuffed my mouth with cotton. I ran a careful finger over the bite, a trail of puncture wounds, from chin to ear. I swallowed the kelp shoot and explored the inside of my cheek with my tongue, tasting blood where a few of the holes had punched all the way through.

Damn cuda kissed me good.

“You frighten-­ed me,” said Sali.

“Is that why you couldn't sleep?”

“Yes. Plus you know how I get before I go to see Father.”

I didn't, but I could imagine. “I do.”

Using one of my already bloodstained silks, I wiped my face and fingers, then put the thick end of the kelp shoot in my mouth.

She climbed onto the hammock and sat next to me, gravity mashing our hips together. “I've attended many of those ceremonies. The cuda don't normally stay after the chumming. They could've kill-­ed you.”

I took another kelp shoot, beginning to realize how hungry I was.

“The kiss was a powerful symbol,” she said.

I stopped chewing. I wished I knew how Kell would have responded. Chide her as superstitious? Or was he a believer himself? “Felt like a bite to me.”

“But only one. And it was on the right cheek. Just like Mmasa.”

“Maybe the cuda didn't like how I tasted.” I touched her knee. “Tell me the rest of Mmasa's story.”

“You've heard it before.”

“I want to hear it again.”

She sighed and rested her head on my shoulder. “Mmasa cut them all free. Every last one of his sunken family. Some survive-­ed. Others had already drown-­ed. But he still free-­ed them all. Nobody will ever know how he manage-­ed to stay underwater so long. They say it was the kiss of the cuda that kept him going.”

I snapped.

My pulse beat inside my temples. Sali was still talking, but I wasn't listening anymore. My entire focus was on the rabbit hole in my head. I sent the words through. One at a time.

I kept my inner voice level. Professional.

Sali bumped my ribs with an elbow. “Did you hear me?”

“Of course I did,” I said. “Go on.”

“I asked you if wanted some water.”

“Um, sure.” She started to rise, but I held her back. I didn't care how much Pol griped. I knew what I was doing. I was in control. “Finish the story first.”

Sali gave me a quizzical quirk of her brows. “You've been acting strange lately. You know that?”

I tensed. “Strange how?”

“I don't know. It's like you're a different person.”

I swallowed and shook my head at another conversation taking a bad turn.

“Relax.” She put her hand on my thigh. “I didn't say that was a bad thing. Since I've known you, you've always been so driven, you know what I mean? Always so sure of yourself. You seem so much more uncertain now.”

“Like I'm lost?”

“I prefer to think you finally found some humility.”

I picked out another kelp shoot. “I'm just trying to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Everything.”

“See. That's exactly what I mean. When did you get so deep?”

“About the time I met you.”

She gave my leg a slap.

“Ow!”

With a chuckle, she said, “That's what you get for saying stupid things that aren't true.”

I laughed and rubbed my thigh. “Tell me the rest of Mmasa's story.”

“Where did I leave off?”

“Start where he gets out of the water.”

“Well, he couldn't stand when he pull-­ed himself onto the stage. His eardrums had burst, and he was suffering from the blinding pain of depth sickness.” She pointed at my face. “And his right cheek was bleeding.”

“Then what happened?”

“Mmasa had dropped his machete, but he had a smaller blade strapp-­ed to his hip, and when Governor Greyson came to him, Mmasa beckon-­ed like he want-­ed to say something. The Governor leaned down, and from somewhere deep inside, Mmasa summon-­ed the strength to make one last harvesting stroke.”

“He killed Greyson.”

“He sliced his throat open. The monster die-­ed within a minute.”

I put the last kelp shoot in my mouth, this one bigger than the rest.

Sali let out a sigh. “Mmasa and his surviving family were execute-­ed that same night. But he inspire-­ed all of Maritinia. He struck the first blow in a revolution that took centuries to complete.”

She put her hand on my chin, turned my face to hers. “You finish-­ed the revolution, Drake. You and my father. I've been thinking about it all night. That's the link between you and Mmasa. He start-­ed it, and you end-­ed it.”

I chewed on a stringy knot of kelp, my mind chewing on a stringy knot of its own.

The symmetry of her interpretation was beautiful.

Except I hadn't ended their revolution.

Yet.

I
jumped down to the dock and held up a hand to help Sali, my uniform scratching my scraped skin. She waved my hand away, making it plenty clear to all who watched that she didn't need any help.

Next came the Falali Mother, who did accept my assistance. The shells in her headdress rattled as she made the short jump down.

Together, the three of us walked along the quay toward the Ministry's ringed island. Dugu backpedaled before us, his camera transmitting a live feed to the skyscreens. The Ministry domes stood ahead and to the left, silver tiles afire with the glow of the setting sun.

We stopped halfway up the quay, where a small welcoming committee waited. Admiral Mnai stood at the center. His wife—­Sali's stepmother—­on his left elbow, the beak-­faced Captain Mmirehl in right-­hand-­man position. Standing off to the side were the two lieutenants I'd met in the conference room, and behind them a large man in an oversized business suit.

The weapons dealer. Still had no idea what his name was.

We touched our fingers to our hearts, our greeters returning the gesture. The admiral said some words into the camera. How honored he was to receive the Falali Mother. How proud he was to call Colonel Drake Kell, the Hero of Maritinia, a friend. He thanked us both for our dedication to the ­peoples of Maritinia and wrapped it up with promises of productive discussions.

Dugu lowered the camera to fiddle with its control screen. “It's off,” he called.

The whole group relaxed. Except for Sali, her smile fragile as a quilt of rose petals. He hadn't even mentioned her.

“Come,” said the admiral to the Falali Mother. “You must be weary after such a long journey. We must get you to your room. We can talk after you've had a chance to clean up.”

They headed for the Ministry domes. Not even a hello for his daughter.

I searched for something to say to her, something that would make it okay. I opened my mouth but never got the chance to speak.

“Welcome back, Colonel,” said Captain Mmirehl. “Can I borrow you for a bit?”

Biting off whatever I was about to say, I looked at the captain, a thin-­lipped smile bridging the hollows in his cheeks.

“Certainly,” I said.

“Walk with us.”

By us, he meant him and the weapons dealer. I fell in step between the two men, the lean-­faced, rail-­thin Mmirehl on my left, the broad-­cheeked, ample-­bodied weapons dealer on my right. Cuda and blowfish.

I stole a look over my shoulder. The entire group had dispersed. Except for Sali. She stood in the same spot. All by herself.

A string tugged on my heart, but only for a second before Captain Mmirehl snipped it with his sharp tongue. “I quite enjoyed your little show last night. Am I right, Mathus?”

“I've never seen anything like it,” said the arms dealer with a tentative tone. Probably trying to figure out if Mmirehl was trying to insult me.

The captain eliminated any doubt. “I love a good piece of theater, Colonel. Thank you for that.”

My voice was cold. “That's not makeup on my cheek, Captain.”

Mathus kept me from saying any more. “Mind if I take a look at that wound?”

I stopped so he could lean close, his nose speckled with dewy sweat.

“That's quite a bite, Colonel. But I suppose a decorated soldier like you has had worse. Like that hunk of shrapnel you took in the Secession Skirmishes. A bomb, right?”

“Land mine.” So said the battle reports.

“Nasty little things, those land mines. I'd be happy to sell you some, but”—­he swept his hands before the vast swaths of ocean—­“I don't think you'll find a use for them here.”

We started moving again. Silently.

Reaching the end of the quay, my eyes went to the lagoon. The quiet water flowered with abundant bouquets of coral. We turned right, moving away from the domes, but I kept gazing at the water. Sea snakes propelled themselves with a whiplike swim stroke. Cloud-­shaped shoals of sparkly fish moved to and fro like shimmering mosaics constructed of living tiles.

“Speaking of explosives,” said the weapons dealer.

I peeled my eyes off the lagoon to follow the direction of his pointing finger. A short tower stood on the far side of the atoll. I was surprised I hadn't noticed it already. Bamboo beams and struts supported a small platform with the beginnings of a spiral staircase attached to one side. A dozen or more Jebyl workmen hustled about. Not much time before they'd have to quit, along with the sun.

“That will be your launch tower,” said the arms dealer. “Fifteen feet tall. When it's done, we'll mount the missile launcher on top. I'll have you operational by the end of day tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” I said, trying to sound like I meant it.

We reached a narrow bridge that crossed a gap of collapsed stone. I went over the bridge first, bamboo slats with rope railings. Below, shallow water channeled into the lagoon across jagged slabs of barnacled rock. Mmirehl came over second, the bridge bouncing with each long, lanky stride. Finally, the arms dealer started across. He went slow, worried hands on the ropes. The creaky bridge bowed and strained against his bulk but held.

When he stepped down to solid stone, he smiled broadly, his gold tooth glinting in the late-­day sunlight. Reunited, we passed a group of well-­armed guards and walked toward the tower, a barge moored next to it. One of the Jebyl workmen noticed our approach and gave his coworker an elbow. Another stopped sweeping. Yet another came out from behind the tower to watch our approach. Soon, the whole group had stopped their cleanup, every eye on us. On me.

I followed Captain Mmirehl onto the gangplank leading to the barge but stopped halfway across and turned to face the workers. “Please,” I said. “Don't stop working on account of me.”

They stared, tools of stone and bone in their hands, skin slick with sweat. The closest man dropped his tools and put one hand then the other over his heart, the skin on his weather-­beaten face wrinkling and bunching around a bright smile. The others followed suit, hearts hidden under hands over hands.

Unsure what I was supposed to do, I touched my fingers to my heart and offered a smile that hurt my cheek. They seemed satisfied, so I left them to join Mmirehl on the barge.