even more rapidly. The Kowloon can't decide whether to sink, bum, or simply disintegrate, so it does all three at once. By that time, most of the people who were on it have made their way onto a life raft. They all bob on the water, zip themselves into orange survival suits, and watch the nukesub.
Raven is the last person to go belowdecks on the submarine. He spends a minute or two removing some gear from his kayak: a few items in bags, and one eight-foot spear with a translucent, leaf-shaped head. Before he disappears into the hatch, he turns toward the wreckage of the Kowloon and holds the harpoon up over his head, a gesture of triumph and a promise all at once. Then he's gone. A couple of minutes later, the submarine is gone, too.
'That guy gives me the creeps,' the man with the glass eye says.
47
Once it starts coming clear to her, again, that these people are all twisted freaks, she starts to notice other things about them. For example, the whole time, no one ever looks her in the eye. Especially the men. No sex at all in these guys, they've got it pushed so far down inside of them. She can understand why they don't look at the fat babushkas. But she's a fifteen-year-old American chick, and she is used to getting the occasional look. Not here.
Until she looks up from her big vat of fish one day and finds that she is looking into some guy's chest. And when she follows his chest upward to his neck, and his neck all the way up to his face, she sees dark eyes staring right back at her, right over the top of the counter.
He's got something written on his forehead: POOR IMPULSE CONTROL. Which is kind of scary. Sexy, too. It gives him a certain measure of romance that none of these other people have. She was expecting the Raft to be dark and dangerous, and instead it's just like working where her mother works. This guy is the first person she's seen around this place who really looks like he belongs on the Raft.
And he's got the look down, too. Incredibly rank style. Although he has a long wispy mustache that doesn't do much for his face. Doesn't bring out his features well at all.
'Do you take the nasty stuff? One fish head or two?' she says, dangling the ladle picturesquely. She always talks trash to people because none of them can understand what she's saying.
'I'll take whatever you're offering,' the guy says. In English. Sort of a crisp accent.
'I'm not offering anything,' she says, 'but if you want to stand there and browse, that's cool.'
He stands there and browses for a while. Long enough that people farther back in line stand up on tiptoe to see what the problem is. But when they see that the problem is this particular individual, they get down off their toes real fast, hunch down, sort of blend in to the mass of fishy-smelling wool.
'What's for dessert today?' the guy asks. 'Got anything sweet for me?'
'We don't believe in dessert,' Y.T. says. 'It's a fucking sin, remember?'
'Depends on your cultural orientation.'
'Oh, yeah? What culture are you oriented to?'
'I am an Aleut.'
'Oh, I've never heard of that.'
'That's because we've been fucked over,' the big scary Aleut says, 'worse than any other people in history.'
'Sorry to hear that,' Y.T. says. 'So, uh, do you want me to serve up some fish, or are you gonna stay hungry?'
The big Aleut stares at her for a while. Then he jerks his head sideways and says, 'Come on. Let's get the fuck out of here.'
'What, and skip out on this cool job?'
He grins ridiculously. 'I can find you a better job.'
'In this job, do I get to leave my clothes on?'
'Come on. We're going now,' he says, those eyes burning into her. She tries to ignore a sudden warm tense feeling down between her legs.
She starts following him down the cafeteria line, heading for a gap where she can exit into the dining area. The head babushka bitch comes stomping out from in back, hollers at her in some incomprehensible language.
Y.T. turns to look back. She feels a pair of big hands sliding up her sides, coming up into her armpits, and she pulls her arms to her sides, trying to stop it. But it's no good, the hands come all the way up and keep lifting, keep rising into the air, bringing her with them. The big guy hoists her right up over the counter like she's a three-year-old and sets her down next to him.
Y.T. turns back around to see the head babushka bitch, but she is frozen in a mixture of surprise, fear, and sexual outrage. But in the end, fear wins out, she averts her eyes, turns away, and goes to replace Y.T. at vat position number nine.
'Thanks for the lift,' Y.T. says, her voice wowing and fluttering ridiculously. 'Uh, didn't you want to eat something?'
'I was thinking of going out anyway,' he says.
'Going out? Where do you go out on the Raft?'
'Come on, I'll show you.'
He leads her down passageways and up steep steel stairways and out onto the deck. It's getting close to twilight, the control tower of the Enterprise looms hard and black against a deep gray sky that's getting dark and gloomy so fast that it seems darker, now, than it will at midnight. But for now, none of the lights are on and that's all there is, black steel and slate sky.
She follows him down the deck of the ship to the stern. From here it's a thirty-foot drop to the water, they are looking out across the prosperous, clean white neighborhood of the Russian people, separated from the squalid dark tangle of the Raft per se by a wide canal patrolled by gun-toting blackrobes. There's no stairway or rope ladder here, but there is a thick rope hanging from the railing. The big Aleut guy hauls up a chunk of rope and drapes it under one arm and over one leg in a quick motion. Then he throws one arm around Y.T.'s waist, gathering her in the crook of his arm, leans back, and falls off the ship.
She absolutely refuses to scream. She feels the rope stop his body, feels his arm squeeze her so tight she chokes for a moment, and then she's hanging there, hanging in the crook of his arm.
She's got her arms down to her side, defiant. But just for the hell of it, she leans into him, wraps her arms around his neck, puts her head on his shoulder, and hangs on tight. He rappels them down the rope, and soon they are standing on the sanitized, prosperous Russian version of the Raft.
'What's your name anyway?' she says.
'Dmitri Ravinoff,' he says. 'Better known as Raven.'
Oh, shit.
The connections between boats are tangled and unpredictable. To get from point A to point B, you have to wander all over the place. But Raven knows where he's going. Occasionally, he reaches out, grabs her hand, but he doesn't yank her around even though she's going a lot slower than he is. Every so often, he looks back at her with a grin, like, I could hurt you, but I won't.
They come to a place where the Russian neighborhood is joined to the rest of the Raft by a wide plank bridge guarded by Uzi dudes. Raven ignores them, takes Y.T.'s hand again, and walks right across the bridge with her. Y.T. hardly has time to think through the implications of this before it hits her, she looks around, sees all these gaunt Asians, staring back at her like she's a five-course meal, and realizes: I'm on the Raft. Actually on the Raft.
'These are Hong Kong Vietnamese,' Raven says. 'Started out in Vietnam, came to Hong Kong as boat people after the war there - so they've been living on sampans for a couple of generations now. Don't be scared, this isn't dangerous for you.'
'I don't think I can find my way back here,' Y.T. says.
'Relax,' he says. 'I've never lost a girlfriend.'
