What little light there was emanated from a lantern that was hanging a good ten feet away. So, as the fi? sherman looked upward, and saw the man-shaped image shimmer, he began to fl?ail his arms and kick with his legs in a futile attempt to escape what could only be a spirit. A murdered phib, perhaps, returned from the depths, ready to cut his throat. But when Phan threw a full bucket of water in his face, Harluck’s head began to clear. “Who are you people?” the pirate spluttered.
“And why pick on me? I ain’t done nothin’ to you.”
“No,” Shaz agreed, “you haven’t. But this is your lucky day. . . . We want to hire you, your crew, and your boat. Not the cutter—but the sailboat. The one you stole from the phibs.”
“I didn’t steal it,” the local objected hotly, “I found her. Empty she was, just drifting, pretty as you please.”
“That’s not what your brother-in-law told us,” the combat variant responded. “But save it for the local constable. We don’t care how you came into possession of the boat. What we do care about is an early start. So stand up, pull yourself together, and round up your crew.”
Harluck stood, made a futile attempt to brush some of the fi?lth off his clothes, and looked from one person to the other. He had scraggly hair, furtive eyes, and a pointy chin.
“I don’t believe I caught your names.”
“I’m Shaz,” the variant replied, “and this is Phan.”
“Well, Citizen Shaz,” the fi?sherman said offi?ciously, “my services don’t come cheap.”
“No,” Shaz agreed sardonically, “I’m sure they don’t. This coin was minted elsewhere, but it’s solid gold and worth more than you would normally make in a year.”
Lanternlight refl?ected off the crono as it arced through the air. Harluck intercepted the gold piece and weighed the object in the palm of a callused hand, before running a cracked nail across the face of a man who had been dead for more than two hundred years. Then, not having detected any lead, the pirate tucked the coin away. “So what kind of contraband are you smuggling?” he wanted to know. “And where are we headed?”
“There isn’t any contraband,” Shaz replied evenly. “As for our destination, that’s the island of Buru.”
The pirate turned pale. “Buru? No, way! The phibs will kill us.”
“Maybe,” the combat variant allowed. “But that’s the chance we take.”
Harluck looked from one hard face to the other. “What if I say ‘no’?”
“Then I’ll kill you,” Phan replied cheerfully. “Take your pick!”
Both of the strangers thought that was funny and laughed out loud. Harluck wanted to run, but knew they would catch him, and cursed his miserable luck. Because even though the gold coin lay heavy in his pocket—there wasn’t much chance that he would live to spend it.
The city of Esperance
Viewed from water level, out in the bay, the city of Esperance glittered like a necklace of diamonds laid across a piece of black velvet. It was nighttime, and had been for hours by then, but most of the city’s residents were still up and blissfully unaware of the raiders who had already penetrated their defenses. Fortunately for them, the sleek webfi?ngered commandos had no designs on the city itself. Their goal lay twenty miles upriver, where a short hike would take them to the village of Prost, where three warships rested on specially made rail cars, waiting for their trip to the sea. Like young people everywhere, the phib warriors were eager to begin the journey.
But Rebo felt different. Unlike the genetically engineered phibs, and in spite of the skin-suit they had given him to wear, the runner was cold. More than that he was tired. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the powered sled on which his body rested, Rebo knew he would never have made it that far. Now, as he and his commandos lay doggo among the swells, a team of scouts were probing the point where the Otero emptied into the bay. The mouth of the river was sure to be guarded, or so it seemed to Rebo, so he wasn’t especially surprised when a bright-eyed phib arrived to tell him as much. What little light there was emanated from the city beyond—and both men rose and fell with the swells.
“They have a net stretched across the Otero,” the youngster whispered. “And guards on both banks. It would be easy to kill the pigs though . . . just give the word.”
“No,” Rebo said emphatically. “No killing. . . . Not unless absolutely forced to do so. The bodies would be discovered—and the norms would rush to protect the ships.”
“Then what should we do?” the scout wanted to know.
“Stay in the water,” the runner instructed. “And cut two holes in the net. Keep them small, no larger than a sled, and mark them with radio beepers. Then, once everything is ready, let me know.”
The youngster said, “Yes, sir!” and sank below the surface. Then, as Rebo and the rest of his raiders continued to bob up and down, a light detached itself from those that lined the shore and gradually grew brighter. That was accompanied by the rhythmic splash-creak of oars and the low rumble of conversation. A noncom surfaced next to the runner, whispered, “Guard boat!” and hooked his thumb downward. The runner nodded, took the rubber mouthpiece between his teeth, and goosed the sled’s electric motor. It purred softly as short wings cut into the water, and the sled slid beneath the waves. Because he didn’t have gills, Rebo was forced to rely on oxygen stored within the cylindrical sled, and had already grown used to the metallic taste. The tiny instrument panel in front of him glowed green, and once the submersible was about fi?fteen feet under the surface, the runner leveled out. Other green lights could be seen to the right and left, but none was bright enough to be visible from above, as the guard boat passed over their heads.
Fifteen long minutes passed after that—a near eternity in which there was plenty of time to wonder whether the scouts had been discovered, the alarm had been given, and the entire plan revealed. Time, too, in which to wonder how much oxygen he had left and feel the relentless cold creep into his bones. But fi?nally, with the surety of someone who had practiced underwater navigation his entire life, the scout appeared out of the gloom. And, at the young man’s urging, Rebo directed the sled upward.
There was a feeling of relief as the city’s slightly blurred lights appeared, because even though it was dangerous on the surface, it felt good to be in his rightful element again. The scout had extremely white teeth, and they appeared to glow in the strange half-light. “We’re ready, sir!” he proclaimed. “Follow me.”
So Rebo followed, and it wasn’t long before the lights grew brighter, and were split by a canyon of darkness
