~
Federi had been waiting so long, floating in the churning water, his purple, flared shirt billowing in the restless waves around him, he had begun to wonder if his radar had lost its accuracy.
Now they came looming out of the downpour. One, two of them; three, and more. He looked at the end of his rope; his little chemical had done its trick, the end had become a swollen and sticky glob on contact with the seawater. His hand had very nearly gone numb holding the darned rope, preventing it from sticking to anything in the meantime. He was positioned perfectly. The Schooners were bearing down on him directly. The chances that they’d spot him were miniscule, he knew. His purple scarf acted as camouflage in this dark weather; and with only the top of his head sticking out of the water, they’d have a hard time spotting him in the rocking waves even without rain obscuring the matter. Their instruments wouldn’t pick him up either; he was not wearing anything that gave off any electronic signals. And on their radar he was but a shark…
For a tense moment he thought his positioning was too perfect and he’d be run over. In the mood for a keelhauling? Hah! But the prow wave of the nearest ship, the dangerous one, lifted him out of the way. He smacked the end of his rope as high up against the hull as he could and hoped that the glue had attached properly. It was supposed to bond instantly. Well, this would be the test, wouldn’t it? He began to inch up the rope.
It was easier to be led into the bilges of a Rebellion Schooner blindfolded and tackle the ship from within than try to get to that single, open porthole! Federi suddenly had a lot more appreciation for geckos, and for spiders. They could climb up smooth walls. Then again their walls weren’t wet and rocking insanely! He added drops of glue to the rope as he went, to secure it against the ship’s hull, because he’d go through a porthole otherwise – unintentionally. A grand dramatic entrance in a shower of glass wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.
As he climbed higher he detached the rope underneath him from the hull again, pouring solvent from a flat flask out of his pocket, over it. And then he hung on for a moment, assessing the situation. There was one open porthole, but it was towards the stern of the ship. And it was open only by a small fraction. Probably a little used cabin, because the ship was moving through a rainstorm. A storeroom or something.
Federi cast a quick glance overhead, where rain was cascading down again in a nearly solid entity. Wet was wet, he thought, shaking his black Tzigan mane back in bravado. The sea temperature had dropped significantly while he was in it; now the waves splashing over him were even colder. Bad waves, punishing his back and tugging him, trying to wash him off the ship’s side – the ship rolled, trying to buck him off like a hostile horse. Federi bared his teeth and laughed. Oh no, they weren’t going to get rid of this flea that easily! And his magic glue was coming through in spades. But those waves – they were trying to tell him something too! Unnaturally cold for the subtropics; almost as though they came from really deep down… He only seriously hoped that Captain wouldn’t try to fly the second half too! He hoped that by now, someone had calmed Radomir Lascek down enough for him to listen to reason, to Ronan and Rushka. Because if Captain did, in this wind, with these waves, in these temperatures, the whole crew would die from exposure…
How was he going to get to that porthole? He wasn’t, he decided. He was going to do his two-rope monkey trick instead. He unwound the other end of the rope from his middle and added a drop of glue from another tiny vial from his scarf. He held it out for the rain to swell it a bit and launched it, up as far as it would go. It stuck. He took hold of it, tested it; and poured solvent on his first rope end. He sunk the flask back in his pocket, detached the first rope end, climbed up to the second, and repeated the whole procedure. It was faster to inch up and over the rail than to reach that porthole! Hell knew he had little enough time!
Through the torrents of rain, Federi slid over the rail and slithered straight across the deck as the ship pitched. He grabbed onto a cleat as it passed, and raised his eyes fearfully to the bridge. The lights were on; the ship’s potent searchlights were beaming paths into the pelting rain, but they hadn’t spotted him. It had been too fast. He realized that the rope was still in his hand, and stuck it onto the deck, and glued his way to the door that led to the stairwell, up to the bridge and down into the crew decks, on the side of the bridge house. It was locked. He overrode the security codes with his decoder, a tiny piece of really crooked equipment no larger than a credit card, which he’d stolen off a cat burglar in Italy, years ago. The door unlocked. Federi slipped in and pulled it to, and crouched in the shadowed passage, savouring the silence and the absence of wet.
Now. Strategy. This ship was a part of a flotilla of six. If it fell behind, the others would suspect foul play. He’d have to leave the helmsman and the navigator alive for now. He moved down into the decks.
The storm outside was raging on. Federi listened closely. Was he on the right ship? He had expected that his radar would put him in the way of the Silver Bullet, not one of the Schooners! But there was a reason; there was always a reason. His radar was not in the habit of failing him!
He iced. It had failed him, in Atuona! It had led him right into the hands of the enemy, into a position where, to survive, he had to initiate an action against the Rebellion – and bring down doom on the Solar Wind! Maybe Federi was used up? Maybe his radar was finished?
Where were they all? He sneaked along the passageway, opening cabins, looking into rooms, wishing he had more insight into the workings of the Rebellion.
There had been about twenty on that Schooner at Hiva Oa. Was that a normal sized crew? If that single schooner had been part of the greater Rebellion fleet, probably. Two would be on the bridge, navigating the storm. The rest?
They were closing the net on the Solar Wind, it occurred to him. They’d be in the bilges, getting armed.
Soundlessly he opened another cabin door, and his heart stuck in his throat. For a moment it looked like dark blood, by the dim light that filtered through the porthole. But it was indeed only her curls spilling around her white, still face. She was lying on the floor, tied into an O, with her hands and feet knotted together behind her back; and her eyes were shut. Was he too late? The way her anguished psychic cries for help had become softer and then faded into silence… Had Federi let her die?
Old Sherman was lying next to her, tied up in a similar fashion; he was alive. His eyes were open. There was nobody guarding them.
Federi locked the door behind himself, crouched down and felt for Paean’s pulse at her throat. He sat down from the sheer rush of relief. Her skin was warm; her pulse, good and strong. She was only unconscious. He would not be bringing back a lifeless little body to the Solar Wind! He turned and cut Sherman’s ties.
“Federi,” whispered the old sailor. “You’re a blessing! I’m not even going to ask! You can tell me the story later. I see you’re not done yet!”
“Haven’t found any of them yet,” confirmed Federi.
“Paean’s only unconscious,” said Sherman, reading the stress in the Romany’s eyes.
“Did they hurt her?”
“No. Not me either,” added the centenarian, smiling at Federi’s apologetic face.
“Why is she unconscious?”
“She gave backchat. Started asking pointy questions. I’m impressed with your little green pirate! She has mettle! They knocked her over the head. But they checked her vital signs, Federi, and she’s breathing…”
“How long has she been out cold?” He sliced through her bonds. Her limp little body collapsed into a convoluted heap. Sherman sat up and rubbed his sore joints. Federi straightened Paean’s limbs out on the floor, and gently lifted her head to release the torsion on her neck.
“Not long – fifteen minutes maybe,” estimated Sherman.
“Fifteen minutes, Gods!” Federi ran his fin
gers through those soft red locks, untangling them a bit. She had been wearing her new scarf; it had fallen to the floor though. He could feel the significant bump on her scalp where they had “knocked” her. She’d be sore for days! He was upset. They hadn’t hurt her? They had bashed her lights out! That was not hurting her?
“Where are they, Sherman?”
“From what I gather, they’re at their various posts. They’ve seen that the girl and the old man are no threat,” Sherman Dougherty added with a grin. “So they’ve been leaving us unguarded at times.”
Federi glanced down at Paean and saw that her eyes were open, and she was gazing at him. He withdrew his hand from her hair, electrified.
“Ah, good, she’s awake,” he said. “I’m going now. Keep this door locked until I give the signal, okay?”
“Sure!” said Sherman. Paean gave the gypsy a slightly dazed smile.
Federi slipped out to continue his round. He closed the door behind himself and stared into the surprised face of a clean-shaved Latino.
“Sorry, José,” he said. The Stiletto appeared in a whirr out of his sleeve. The Rebel went down in a shocked heap spraying arterial blood, his gun only halfway out of its holster. Federi supported his fall. He didn’t want to make noise. He registered at the back of his mind how Sherman bolted the cabin door from the inside.
Rats! That had been self-defence! Blood everywhere! Federi dragged the dead man into the cabin across and closed the door. He took out his solvent and shook some over the mess, and spread it a bit with his sneaker. It was still a mess, but now it was the wrong colour. They wouldn’t see it as fast.
Aw hell! How was he going to get the little sunbeam past this and spare her the sight? There was no way round it. He shook his head ironically. This time she wouldn’t fail to see what scum he was.
28 - Wrecks
Outside, the storm roared. The ship tilted and rolled. Paean sat on the compounding cabin floor, holding her head. It really hurt. The pitching didn’t make it better. She ought to be sensible and take one of her own willow bark powders. If she only had any in her moonbag!
A knock on the cabin door; a hushed call. “Paean! Sherman! It’s me!”
Sherman opened the door. Federi slipped back into the cabin and closed and bolted it. There was blood on his shirt.
“You’re still not done, I gather,” said Sherman.
Federi shook his head. “Done to an extent. Out of darts. Paean, do you have any of your little green bug on you by any chance?”
Paean dug wordlessly in her moonbag and handed him a vial.
“Great. Thanks!”
“You’re only putting them under?” asked Sherman, surprised. “And if they come to?”
“No,” said Federi sadly. “Don’t know if that will buy enough time. Don’t want them turning on us when we need it least.”
Sherman nodded. A wise, strategic decision – and a terrible one.
Federi glanced at him, then at Paean – her eyes wide, anxious; his, regretful. Poor little sunshine. She was about to learn a few nasty truths. Tangibly.
“Lock yourselves in again and wait for me,” he instructed. “Kathal.” He left, and waited outside the cabin door until he heard Sherman bolting it again, and continued on his way.
Federi had morphed into something that was not entirely human. His senses were deadly and sharpened like those of a wild animal; his thinking, reduced to strategy and stalking. His emotions, momentarily switched off, traded in for instinctual reflexes. His identity, his sense of self, merged into the surrounds. The Survivor.
It was a matter of speed. The plan of action, implemented so far, had been to shoot darts, hide the victims and finish them off with the Stiletto if there was time. There were quite a few who had escaped the Stiletto so far, as he carried on too quickly. He had to get them all before someone found a dead victim and sounded alarm. Twelve were already down. But he hadn’t been on the lower crew deck yet, and not in the machine room either.
In his head he kept count. Seven had been killed, five only put under. He’d have to go back and finish the job, but first he had to be dead certain that nothing else moved on this ship.
And the two on the bridge – they’d be last. He was going to substitute them with Paean and Sherman, under instructions to keep the ship in the exact same pattern as it was, in formation with the flotilla.