She cleared her throat. "It makes sense, anyway, is what I'm saying. That the Gells would be out for your head. Mine, too, although they haven't caught up yet."
"I'm just too pretty," he said.
"Careful, or I'll call them here myself. But what I don't get is this business with the contest, and your brother. It seems too weird that the Gells would come after you at the same time as some other slub trickler would kidnap your brother. And as for one of these dudes," she waved the pancake slice in a lazy sweep, to take in all the other contestants sitting at their tables, eating their breakfast. "They didn't get to play at this level by breaking stuff and snatching folks. They're professional photographers, with famous names. Their photos have world recognition. I mean, I can't name all these people, but that guy with the leopard scarf shot the photo of the island girl shark fishing, you know, the poster for that massive Polynesian tourism campaign. And that blonde woman, she did all those muscle man covers for Vogue."
"Oh, I know all about muscle man covers on Vogue," he said, tongue in cheek, "but what's this business about island girls?"
She scowled at him. "Look, if some sunken kunk wanted to keep you out of this competition, he wouldn't kidnap your brother and then forget to tell you."
He stiffened, leaned his arm on the table, and rubbed his furrow brow. "I don't know what a real hoodlum would or wouldn't do," he said. "I don't know how he'd think. But I can't get in touch with Sam, no one's heard from him since he left for Peru, and this," he banged the camera on the table, "and this," he tapped the bruise on his temple, drawing a sympathetic wince from Arima, "tell me someone here is not my friend."
"But it doesn't make sense-"
"Neither does life," he said, frowning at her. "A billion suns in the galaxy, and we're wiping maple syrup off our fingers. What the hell? Can't explain it. Can't understand it. Gotta run with it."
She bit her lip. "I'm sorry," she said. "I forgot how real this is for you, how painful it must be-"
He waved his hand, eyes half-closed. "Forget that.”I'm stuck on this train." He laughed. "Boat. Cruise ship thing. You don't have to be. You can... Uh, take a life boat, or something."
She caught his hand, and held it in her cool, soft palm. "No way. I'm with you. Tell me the plan."
The feel of her hand in his raised all kinds of sensations he didn't want to think about just then. He eyed the camera. He disengaged his hand from hers, with regret, and picked the device up. "We got some lost property here. Let's find the owner..."
"And see if there's a reward," she finished for him.
They both grinned.
"Your professional ethics still suck," she said as an afterthought. Then her expression softened. "But that could change."
***
When he thought of a ship's captain, Soro pictured a dashing, handsome man, no longer young, but rugged and stern. He'd wear a pristine naval uniform, and stand bolt upright, with never a sign of fatigue or strain to dim the light in his eyes.
Captain Fiddler was not what he had imagined. If you took Santa, stripped off his red outfit and stuffed him into a pair of shapeless iron grey trousers, and a knitted blue sweater a size too big, then gave him the swollen red nose of a man who swigged gin at every meal (for digestion), and before every meal (for appetite) and before bed (for sound sleep), then you'd have a good description of Captain Fiddler.
"And now," he bawled, in a voice that warbled and quavered, "the high point of the morning. You've waited for it. You've been up all night anticipatating it... It's time to find out... Our first destiny- Destino- Destination! Mr Crawken-snifft, the hat, if you please!"
"This ought to be good," muttered Soro, watching the show. In moments the captain would announce the ship's first destination, and the New Dawn would change course to carry her passengers to the first city of the competition.
It seemed a bit too much of a production to Soro, but he hadn't planned the thing.
Captain Fiddler reached into the hat. "And our first destination is...
***
Soro wanted to pick out the night's intruder by passing around the camera, asking if people recognised it, and watching for shock, anger, or more subtle telltale reactions. Arima disagreed. They could wave the camera under people's noses, yes, but what if someone asked them where they'd got it? Was he going to tell everyone about the intruder? Someone was bound to ask why he hadn't reported it to the crew.
"We'd start to look mighty suspicious," she said.
He couldn't argue with that, but he needed more than good critique. "Got a better idea?"
She had, at that. "Everyone's sitting here watching Captain Fatpants mess around with that old magic show prop. Let's slip out, and get ready."
"For what?" he said, but she was already on her way, and he had no choice but to follow her.
She led him out of the restaurant, and then she paused, a frown marring her features.
"Your plan fall apart already?" he said.
She pouted at him. "You're mean."
"Tell me what you need," he said.
"I want to print some pictures off this camera, and paste them up outside the restaurant. Then we can..."
"Set up in a good spot and get reaction shots as they come out," he finished for her.
She nodded. "Right, but we need a printer."
He thought of the postcards he would have sent, if Sam had been able to receive them. "No problem," he said. "I've got one in my stateroom."
She chuckled. "We make a good team. I'm the brains. Now go. Run! I'll make sure no one leaves until you get back."
He didn't ask how she'd manage that, although it made his imagination do interesting things. He ignored it, ran as fast as he could, wishing he'd eaten a few less pancakes, and soon he was back at her side.
"Sweet kit," she said, handling his printer. They hooked it up to the Moniker, and in seconds they'd printed off a glossy, full colour print of the woman with sad violet eyes.
"It's not very big," said Arima. "I don't even know how we'll stick it up."
He waved a packet of adhesive gum. "Here. And who said we had to print just one?"
"Great! Let's cover the whole wall opposite the doors, then we just need to pick a spot to shoot from."
As they stuck up the pictures, he thought some more. "There aren't many good spots to wait in this hall; there's the staircase over there on the right, and the gift shop on the left. As they come out, they're bound to pass by the spot, and I don't want everyone to know it's us doing this."
"Nah, we'd look wacky strange. Okay, let's do both. Rock paper scissors."
She won, and chose the gift shop.
"Guess I'll get comfy on the stairs," he said.
They shot off to their positions, he to loiter on an upper landing of the stairwell, looking down at an odd but serviceable angle, she to browse the rotating stacks of key chains, fluffy pandas, picture postcards, lip gloss, butterfly earrings, and other bits of bric a brac sold by the gift shop.
They got in place none too soon. The other contestants began to slip out of the restaurant in twos and threes. Some of them missed the wall of photos opposite the doors, but one of their companions would always draw their attention to it. The reactions varied; some gasped, some laughed, several shrugged, and more than a few began to critique the quality of the picture. Surprise showed on many faces, but not the anxiety, fear, or recognition that would mark their target.
Soro and Arima had to be careful to look nonchalant, and hide their cameras when anyone passed by. It proved difficult to get all the pictures they wanted, but by working together, they doubled their chances.
At last, the restaurant had emptied, and still no one had shown obvious guilt, or anything else they could use. Arima beckoned to him, and he joined her at the gift shop, where they pretended to browse the shelves, while they talked.
"If I get a good caption writer," he said, "I've got material for a whole archive of funny photos."
"I got nothing too," sh
e said, the corners of her mouth and eyes drooping.
"I was sure it would work," he said. He patted her shoulder. "It was a good idea."
"It was a great idea!" she said, glaring at a purple penguin doll holding a tiny guitar.
"It didn't work-"
"It didn't work because your midnight ninja wasn't there."
"But we watched everyone come out."
"No we didn't. Either you had a visit from the ghost of Daguerre, or we missed someone."
He pursed his lips, and nodded. "You know what we have to do."
She gave him a glum nod. "We gotta look at all these pictures..."
"And find who's missing."
"There's something we have to do first," she said. "It's important."
He raised his eyebrows.
"I've been here so long... You gotta buy me this penguin, or the shopkeeper's gonna have a stroke."
As they left, they passed a member of the ship's crew ripping their pictures off the wall.
***
"We've got a lot of pictures here," said Soro, as they took seats by the window on one of the upper decks. The day was brighter now, and the waves sparkled as they rose and fell in the sun, and the ship left a widening wake of shimmering wavelets and ripples in the water. Indoors, they were insulated from the cool breeze that caressed the hull, although they could hear it whisper against the window.
"A lot," she nodded, frowning.
"This could get old."
"I didn't see any strange reactions. Surprised ones, but no weirdness, no guilt. If we want to find your ninja..."
"He's not my ninja," he said. "But you're right, I guess." He brightened up. "I've got an idea."
He still had his mini printer, so he plugged in each camera in turn, and made the machine shoot out a whole lot of little pictures.
"Great," she said, a sarcastic edge to her voice. "We've gone back to the paper age."
"There's a lot of duplication between our shots," he said. "You know the best way to find who's missing? Let's play snap."
She warmed to the idea. The time flew by, and they laughed a lot. Soon they'd finished their checks, too soon, for Soro. He was beginning to wish they could forget this painful business, and just hang out together. He was sure this cruise ship could afford them a pleasant day. But it would have to wait.
"I know who's missing," she said.
"So do I," he said, "and you're not going to like this."
She frowned. "I don't get it."
"I'd think you'd be sad," he said, eyebrow raised. "After all, Jack helped you out."
A lot, he added, in the privacy of his mind.
"Jack?" she said, confusion in her eyes. "Drood's koods, you're right! He's missing too."
It was his turn to look shocked. "Too? But... Then who could you have caught?"
"That stick thin skeleton man with the bug jewellery. What did they call him...? Storm? Hurricane?"
"Typhoon," he whispered.
He couldn't believe it, not after the welcome the man had given him. He wouldn't have known the names of half these people without Tigh's help, but the pictures couldn't lie.
"He's a friend...?"
He chewed his lip. "I thought so..."
Worse was yet to come. They wandered away from the comfy window chairs, meandering through the long halls of the ship, moving in no definite direction. They passed the gym, and then the swimming pool. As they went by, a blonde woman emerged, a woman with cold beauty.
Arima flinched, and Soro glanced at her, but she waved him on. A few minutes later, when they'd taken a few turns, she halted, and gripped him by the wrist.
"I've got one more for our list," she said.
"Not her," he said. "She's some kind of fashion photographer."
"Yeah," she said. "Triolet.
"You know her name?"
"What? I read the glossy mags, just like any girl." She grimaced. "Don't give me that look. I know I dress like an extra from Star Trek, it's a personal choice, okay."
"Right, right... So. We've got a list of three possible enemies."
"Make that four," she said.
"Huh?"
"I'm beginning to hate you again." She winked.
***
"So what's the next step?" asked Arima, as they ambled along the top deck drinking ice blended coffee. Most of the other contestants had split up into pairs or small groups, and wandered off to explore the New Dawn's possibilities.
"We can be sure that our nautical ninja, whoever he is-"
"Or she," put in Arima.
"Or she," he nodded, "Is-"
"Or they," she said. "Could be a whole nest of nautical ninja."
He eyed her. "Indeed."
"A naval nest of nautical ninja!"
"Note to self: do not, repeat, do not give Arima caffeine."
She stuck her tongue out at him. He rolled his eyes. They giggled.
He shook his head to flush out the thoughts he was sure he shouldn't be having just then. "As I see it, we can do two things: we can search their rooms, and we can follow them. But that gives us a whole new set of problems..."
"There are only two of us."
"And we need to get their keys."
They walked on for a bit, listening to the murmur of the engines, and the swish and lap of the waves.
Arima paused, and leaned against the railing, staring out at the distant horizon. "I have dealt with locks before," she said.
"Yes," he said, remembering those torn, rent gates at New Verity. "But I'm pretty sure you left your jeep in Manhattan."
"What I meant, was that there's probably more than one way to open those doors. This thing is a floating hotel, and I've never been in a hotel where the manager didn't keep a spare key, in case a guest died in her room, and he had to get the body out before it stunk the joint out of business."
"Full marks for insight, and an extra point for the revolting image." He whipped out his camera.
She jumped, tensed like a doe in the woods, ready to run. "What are you doing?"
"I've got to capture this moment. Show future generations your diabolical genius."
She slapped his arm hard, and the camera hand shot out across the railing. The camera slipped out of his hand, and he felt his heart lurch, but his fingers closed on the trailing cord, and he plucked it out of the air.
He sighed, and turned wide, shocked eyes at her. "What in the seventh-"
She had her hands over her mouth, her face white, eyes even wider than his. "I'm so sorry," she said through her fingers. "I'm really really sorry. I didn't mean-"
"I, what...huh?"
She took one hand away from her mouth, and brushed his shoulder, her touch light, tentative, as if she was afraid of him. "I didn't mean to do that. It was a reflex. I... I don't like having my picture taken."
He blinked several times, and then he frowned. You don't like to have your picture taken? But you're a photographer! Pictures are your life."
She looked away, hiding her face. "Other people's pictures," she said. "Not mine."
He wanted to ask her more questions, to understand what painful secret could cause her to react in such a way, but she swung back to face him, a tight smile on her face.
"You hit the button just after I whacked you," she said. "I heard it.”Let's see your picture."
"Uh, but-"
"I want to see it."
He chewed his lip, reluctant to drop it, but he could see she wasn't ready to talk about her past. "Okay," he said. "Let's take a look together."
He held up the camera, and she burst out laughing. "What a runkling classic! I can see why you're famous, bloke."
He bridled. "I generally do my best work when I'm not being smacked around by kung fu elves."
She glared at him sidelong. "Watch it with the elf crap. We get enough hobbit jokes as it is."
The little screen showed a dark blur on the left side, shot through with two streaks of vivid colour, one pink, and one blue green. The rest of th
e screen was taken up with a panorama of the ocean, where water and sky were mixed along the crazed line of a staggered horizon.
"The longer I look at it," she said, "the more I realise something..."
"Yes?"
"You should never take my picture."
He made a face. Then he made an uglier face, as the low battery warning blinked on his camera. "What the- I swear I charged it yesterday."
"Your camera does not concur."
He scratched his brow. "But..."
"Come on; let's go find the manager's office, or whatever they have on a floating hotel. And let's pretty you up a bit."
"What?"
"How else are you going to turn his head while I snibble the keys?"
She ran away before he could grab her. Snarling, he chased after.
***
It was Squizzle snibbled the keys. Actually he snibbled one key, but as it was the master, it counted for a whole bunch.
The little monkey had danced and chirped all the while Soro had been locked in conversation with Arima. When Soro had noticed, he’d coloured a little, knelt down, and offered the monkey a contrite look and a hand for him to climb up to his favourite perch atop his shoulder. Squizzle had shot him a glare, replete with wide, crazy eyes and flaring nostrils, flicked his head aside, and stalked off. Arima had crouched down, offered the monkey a handful of raisins, and enticed him to crawl up her arm. She’d tried to get him to sit on her shoulder, as she’d seen him do with Soro, but instead the monkey had chosen to cling to her neck, and drape himself over her breasts.
She’d tired to shift him, shrugged, and said, “at least he has good taste.”
Soro had tried to bite down every comment, but one escaped him. “Fickle.”
Arima had peered down at the monkey as it snuggled against her breasts, and shaken her head. “Perverted.”
But if Squizzle was in a mood, he still understood the value of a good day’s work, or, in this case, theft. They argued over the best time to make the snatch, Arima favouring night and quiet, Soro pointing out that below decks, night was as bright as day, and even noisier, if you got too close to the karaoke bar on the fifth deck.
“Besides, in day time people are busy, doors are open, it means more distractions and more opportunities for us.”
He prevailed. They struck during the crew’s lunch.
First they followed a map to the private offices on the sixth deck. They ignored signs that the area was off limits, but a locked door gave them pause. Like their cabins, it opened with a key card. Like their suspects’ cabins, they didn’t have that card. Arima began to look for air vents to clamber through, but Soro had a different idea. He drew an adhesive patch and a length of nylon cord.