The Simmering Seas Page 3

  Forsythe drones monitored violations from a discrete distance, reporting data to Island Traffic Discipline. Though northern stretches of the UpWay saw little disruption to the mandated flight patterns, the thoroughfare became increasingly unpredictable. Impatient navigators tested ITD’s speed and flight lane restrictions, both of which had tightened after fatal collisions doubled in the past year. A few accidental, but some rumored to be mechanized assassination. The biggest danger, every safe nav agreed, were jackasses chasing lanes in modified rifters. This was no place for daredevils, but young Hokkis with too much time, money, and imagination couldn’t resist the allure of the UpWay.

  Kara admired these disruptors. They weren’t children of Haansu and therefore not locked inside the grip of scripted lives founded in family legacy and prestige. They had fun on their own terms, risking their lives for a few moments of exhilaration. Criminals, all of them. A danger to others, certainly. But they thought the gamble was worth prosecution or death. Were they fools? Rogues? Or just bored? What would they have given to experience an hour among the Kye-Do rings like Kara?

  Her sedan faced no physical danger from another vehicle; the deflector bubble guaranteed her safety. It did not, however, exempt her from UpWay traffic laws. Though she and Chi-Qua held perfect nav records, ITD treated all violators equally. Kara wasn’t about to risk trouble en route to her meeting.

  In the back seat, she changed into the dress Chi-Qua snuck onboard earlier. The one-piece Sally hung by a pair of centimeter-wide straps, exposing Kara’s neck and chest, including a seductive third of her breasts. Beneath, the feathery design featured sequins in gold and red. The dress tapered off inches above her knees. It was showy enough to tell the world she was a doll but not too dazzling to draw suspicions. If any colleague from Nantou recognized her while slumming in Zozo, she’d be up before the Standards Board in the morning.

  She extended the disguise with candy green lipstick featuring extra gloss. The bleached wig included streaks of green to match her lips. Classic doll.

  She felt as adventurous as ashamed to wear the uniform of a sex worker, but at least the shoes were comfortable. Easy slip-ons, pillow-soft padding, firm heel. Logical for someone who walked the long, stone streets of the old districts like Zozo and Umkau.

  “What do you think, Chi?”

  Her oldest friend laughed. “You’re coming up in the world.”

  “Can you imagine if Honorable Mother saw me now?”

  “I’d pay to be there. Don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry.”

  “Who has? Not me. Not even after Lang. I never saw a tear.”

  Perhaps Li-Ann Syung sobbed behind closed doors, but Kara became dismayed in the days after her brother’s death to see little evidence of outward grief beyond grim, pallid cheeks and shaded eyes. Strength for the family, Li-Ann might claim. But even Kara’s father, Perr, gave in openly to sobs, his tears running free at the funeral.

  “But seriously, Kara, you look good. You look authentic.”

  “Thank you. Now, your turn. Get back here, and I’ll monitor nav.”

  They switched positions, and Chi-Qua transformed herself.

  Kara mentally reviewed the plan again, looking for any oversights. She spent weeks following leads, butting up against classified data systems and nob-headed colleagues who didn’t or wouldn’t see the larger picture, and arranging a meeting with one of the few people on The Lagos who might open necessary doors. In the meantime, almost every Hokki she knew went forward with a steel determination that the danger was overstated or based on conspiracy theories. To their way of thinking, the seamasters would forever bring riches to the islands, and the environmental disaster gripping the continent would never make its way across the sea.

  What of the infiltrators who came to the islands to create terror and sow chaos? What of the Freelander philosophy corrupting youth and threatening to unravel the clan system? What of homebred nationalists like Green Sun and Ocean Beast who killed each other in the streets? To all the naysayers, these were nothing more than rogue radicals destined to be snuffed out. The new KumTaan units would restore order and discipline. You’ll see, the eternal optimists might say. When all the new recruits are trained, they’ll be stationed on every corner. They’ll remove the cancer as soldiers of the Guard once did. You’ll see.

  Ya-Li Taron was one of those optimists. On a rare occasion when she opened up to him, Kara said:

  “We can’t put our faith in KumTaan. They’re not Chancellors. They’re not invincible. Worst yet, they have a conscience. They won’t be as ruthless, and many will die.”

  Ya-Li, tall and slender, but at age twenty-two with features teasing him as a teenager, said he had faith in the KumTaan.

  “Honorable Father employs many who train the units. They are using battle techniques devised by the Guard. They might not have the physical stature, but they have the heart. You’ll see.”

  And there it was again. You’ll see.

  He was no more a fool than the rest of them, but Kara wondered why so many dared not see the truth. Had centuries of uninterrupted privilege and certainty of the seamaster way blinded them to the coming nightmare?

  Outside the sedan, evening neared as the sun fell behind the shimmering Pinchon skyline. The city that stretched for twenty miles and encapsulated almost the entire island was the same smiling, ebullient metropolis that the rest of Hokkaido envied for generations. A city which rose in perfect harmony with the natural beauty of its island, Pinchon reaped the benefit of its home industries controlling the oceans and by extension, the planet’s primary source of food. The hundred million who lived here and on the other fifty-six islands of The Lagos considered themselves the luckiest of all Hokkis, for even poverty was relative wealth to the slowly disintegrating cities on the continent.

  No denying the truth: It was beautiful. It was the height of Hokki glory. And it was, Kara thought, hanging by a tattered thread.

  Kara stared out beyond the city, past the island and toward the cloudless horizon. There, the Kye-Do rings arched at thirty degrees high from north to south. Quadrillions of acenomite rocks as old as the planet, orbiting voiceless in a symmetrical parade millions of years long. The most distinctive natural feature among all the worlds of the former Collectorate. Once a target for the wealthiest colonial tourists and the most ambitious miners.

  And now, after all this time, killing Hokkaido in silence.

  “I don’t want to be a hero or a martyr, Chi. I just want to give our people a chance. Nobody’s going to help us this time. Certainly not the Chancellors.”

  Chi pointed to the nav panel. “OutPass 15 coming up.”

  “That’s ours.”

  Kara ordered the AI to initiate the lane-shift protocol and prepare to drop off the UpWay. Outside, the corporate cluster – the city’s largest, most dazzling and curvaceous skyscrapers – blocked the sun. Among the buildings was Nantou Global Center, where Kara worked on the fortieth floor. She spent half her childhood dreaming of the day she’d join BRED and most of the past three years regretting it.

  When Kara swiveled back around, Chi-Qua held up the open black case, displaying a pair of snub-nosed laser pistols.

  “I know you think we’ll be safe,” Chi-Qua said, “but I’d be neglecting my duty to you if I didn’t bring these along. Just in case, Kara.”

  “How did you …?”

  “My family might be on the outs, but I’m not without friends.” She shrugged. “Truth is, it’s easy to buy weapons these days. I hear they’re flooding the market. Take one, Kara. It will fit in your bag.”

  She grabbed a pistol. It couldn’t have weighed six ounces.

  “I’ve never fired a weapon in my life.”

  “Not much to it. Aim. Press.”

  “Huh. That easy to kill a Hokki, is it?”

  “Apparently.”

  The sedan reached OutPass 15 and swerved down into the city.

  3

  T HEY LEFT THE SEDAN IN A PARKING lodge on the o
utskirts of Zozo, half a kilometer from their meeting place. Kara thought it best. A vehicle like hers might draw undue attention in the wrong neighborhood. She factored the ground pounding into her calculations.

  A few eyes turned, half-hearted offers arrived from both men and women, but Kara and Chi-Qua heard no sneers or profanities. In truth, most Hokkis walked past without a second’s glance. The further inside Zozo, with its broad mix of revelers, outcasts, misfits, drunken seamen, and shouting vendors, the more anonymous they became. They passed other dolls who seemed unconcerned about the additional competition or the dazzling finery. Perhaps they recognized novices. After all, the professionals carried themselves with a notable swagger.

  Zozo breathed a mad stew of fish rolls, sea cabbage, seared Kohlna sticks, and deep-fried mango bombs amid intermittent clouds of sweet poltash smoke. Bursts of hardy laughter followed every time a bar’s door opened.

  These narrow streets, once a tourist destination before the recent crime wave, struck Kara as being wholly out of place with the rest of Pinchon. The first Hokki colonists arrived in Zozo almost a thousand years ago, and little seemed to have changed. The original structures remained, built from stone quarried along the coast. The first few decades, Zozo existed as a town of isolationists who thought they found paradise – until they realized the greatest treasure lay deep beneath the sea. The founders of what would become the great seamaster corporations then arrived with a new vision called Pinchon.

  “I should have eaten a bigger lunch,” Chi-Qua said. “They’re cooking F’heldabeast on spits.”

  “I know.”

  Kara rarely tasted from the open grills of the old-timers. Despite a nervous gut, she couldn’t help but salivate. Corporate chefs and Len Forr, the Syungs’ private chef, were creative but not nearly this interesting. Yet time was short. They didn’t need to stop, to risk being recognized or worse, propositioned.

  They reached their destination: Mal’s Drop, a tavern one block from the oceanfront. Kara’s research turned up a long, colorful history. It began business centuries ago as a supply depot for fishing wares, converted to a hostel, and finally to a full-service tavern with nightly entertainment. The owners rented rooms, mostly on a per-hour basis. That’s when Kara decided on their disguises. No one would pay special notice to a couple more dolls.

  They entered to a raucous, smoke-filled din. The tavern’s congested bar wrapped along the left wall. Patrons drank and pulled on their pipes three to four deep. To the right, a single row of tables sidled up to a continuous wooden bench built into the stone wall. Every table was occupied. Dolls mingled among the patrons, most carrying the strong musk of men who spent most of their lives at sea. The narrow tavern stretched back some distance before taking a pair of ninety-degree turns, extending onward toward the ocean. A strong bass echoed from the rear, where the entertainment performed.

  Kara saw nothing quite like it. Privilege kept her away from this part of the city. She was as terrified as she was exhilarated. Everywhere she looked, smiles and laughter. Some perhaps alcohol-induced, but a sea of joy. Still, these were Hokkis of a different breed. Less refined, less inhibited, less predictable.

  The latter gave her pause.

  Chi-Qua leaned in close, whispering at first before realizing her mistake. She shouted her query in order to compete with the chaos.

  “Are we sure about this? It’s very public.”

  “That’s the point. Follow me.”

  Though she possessed no photos of the man, Kara received enough description from her sources to spy the contact. As a former Chancellor, he’d tower over most Hokkis. Then there was the easiest identifier: His Anglo-European features. Out of a hundred million humans living on The Lagos, only a few dozen were ex-Chancellors who “went native” before the Collectorate collapsed. The chance of seeing more than one in Mal’s Drop was remote.

  She recognized him on a bench seat at the eighth table, alone, sipping soup. Exactly as described: Broad shoulders, lean build, thick but well-manicured black beard, hair pulled back into a flowing, knotted ponytail. He wore a Sak’ne suit – gray with a red sash above the waist. Pinned above his heart: A lancet butterfly dipped in wax. He took the word “native” to its literal extent. This was traditional dress rarely seen, and even then among Freelanders who ascribed to the old ways of Hokki culture, dating back to the Korean Peninsula on Earth. Among this common rabble, he resembled a high priest for a religion long dead. The most and least Hokki in the room.

  She tapped Chi-Qua and nodded, pointing to the empty chairs across the table. They took their positions. He did not look up.

  “May we join you?” Kara said.

  He dipped bread into his soup.

  “A timid request,” he said. “You’ll never make a living as dolls.”

  “We don’t wish to.”

  “Of course not. But if you’re going to enter Mal’s playing dress-up, I recommend you take the part seriously. These people have little use for pretenders. Sit.”

  He bit into his bread as they pulled back the chairs and made themselves comfortable. He drew a napkin from his lap and tapped his beard. When he finally made eye contact, his condescending grin suggested he was dealing with idiots.

  “Do you know what this is?” He asked, pointing to the soup.

  “Should I?” Kara said.

  “It’s a bisque of yellow crab with shailin vinegar. An ill-tempered affair. This,” he said, lifting a small glass of green liquor, “is sanque. When the bisque arrives, I stir in a spoonful of this green magic. It cuts the vinegar. Adds sweetness. Sanque is served on the side. How much to add is customer preference, but it is always added. It is tradition. It is authentic. Around these parts, those who don’t know tradition draw long eyes and suspicious hearts.”

  “Your point?”

  “Dolls never sit across from a client. They choose the closest possible seats. I recommend you fix your error. Now.”

  Kara didn’t wait to find out whether they were already drawing attention. She nodded, and Chi-Qua understood. They took a spot on the bench to either side of their contact.

  “Thank you, Honored Miss Syung,” he said, turning to Kara. “I assume she is your personal aide. Baek family. Yes?”

  “She is. Chi-Qua.”

  “Apologies owed to the Baeks.” He turned to Chi-Qua. “Too many scapegoats during refinery. Yes?”

  “Enough,” Kara said. “That’s not why we’re here. Honored Hamilton Cortez, I hope you’re prepared to help us.”

  “Please. It’s Ham. Just Ham. There’s no honor in my business.”

  “But apparently, respect. I’m told you work off-book for every seamaster. My source said if anyone can piece together the entire picture, it’s you.”

  “Ah, yes. The aspirational ‘big picture.’ The ambition of the confused and disoriented. I’ve been there. Seen it. Then I turned tail. Lived here ever since. No, Kara Syung. You want to expose secrets and lies to justify your agenda. You’re less interested in motive, means, and consequence. Without those, you’ll never see the entire picture.”

  “How do you know what I’m …?”

  “Closer,” Ham said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you wish to pull off this ruse, charm me. Closer in. Whisper sweet nothings. And for the love of Kohlna, smile like you can’t wait to gorge my penis.”

  She did as told, though his instructions gave her chills. Chi-Qua followed suit.

  “Good?” She asked. “Now, about this …”

  “A barman is coming to refill my sanque. He will make a crude joke. Humor him.”

  Seconds later, a short and stocky man – gray and haggard – arrived with a bottle of the green liquor. Ham lifted the glass for another round. The barman offered a lecherous grin as he poured.

  “Double your fit?” he asked, eyeing the dolls. “Even a Randall needs a spat of the wet from time to time.”

  Ham threw back the sanque. “Can’t control the beast, Mal.”

 
The barman shook his head and returned to his duties.

  “If he’s satisfied, I think you’ve pulled it off, young ladies.”

  “What did he mean?” Kara said. “He called you Randall.”

  “Correction. He called me a Randall. You’ve never heard one of us rogue Chancellors referred to this way? It’s popular among the xenophobic set.”

  Chi-Qua said, “That was Mal? The owner?”

  “No, no. We refer to all the barmen that way. It’s a joke or a sign of respect, depending upon who’s speaking. The original died a good century ago. Now, to your business. We won’t be conducting it here, of course. That would be foolish beyond measure. I secured a seafront room. Dolls of your beauty deserve no less.”

  “Let’s be clear,” Kara said. “We’re exchanging information. Nothing more.”

  Ham laughed, reached for his spoon, and indulged in the bisque.

  “I don’t find my pleasure in dolls – or poor substitutes. Besides, you’ll be marrying Ya-Li Taron within the week. I’d never wish to shame you, Miss Syung.”

  “Wait. What? How did you know about …?”

  He reached inside a pocket and revealed a hand-comm. The forward screen featured portraits of Kara and Ya-Li.

  “It arrived on the IntraNex ten minutes before you did. Social notices. I find some of my best intelligence on this channel.” He discreetly concealed the device. “You two will be quite the talk of the town. Strange, their decision to alter the date. The elites are typically consistent to the announced calendar. Judging from your pallor, I’d say you did not welcome this news.”

  “It’s not your business, Ham. Speaking of which, might we go now? I’ve put too much at risk to be here tonight.”