within fifty yards of the lagoon, with the boat slipways in sight, it was time to take action. The aquiline immensity of Dakuvanga was dipping to take a mansion-sized chunk of Bahamut out of the lagoon; the dead were swarming over the corpse to free the lump. There was no way to get closer without drawing attention.
“Let’s swim,” said Mouana, without ceremony, and leapt into the water. Wrack waited a moment to make sure the dead had heard, and then moved for the front of the boat when he saw them leave their posts en masse. Even the wailing teen at the back of the boat was heading for the prow; this was no moment to hold back.
Wrack dived into the black, and swam. Bodies bumped against him in the water, slithered past him. Whether they were his fellows, or mean, whiptailed things come to snaggle at the leaking Bahamut, he had no idea. Frankly, after looking down into the bottomless water as the ET had taken Aroha, a speck of flesh above a carnivore god, he didn’t really care. In comparison with that moment, this was about as frightening as taking a drunken dip in the Fellows’ koi pond on a student dare.
After the brief, determined swim, he found himself on one of the shallow ramps leading up and out of the lagoon, clinging to the metal grates alongside two dozen other corpses. Mouana stood at the top of the ramp, a black shape against the floodlights of the Bahamut’s disassembly. Wrack climbed out of the surf and walked to meet her.
“Home again,” he remarked, the ice-cold wash of Ocean still swirling around his feet. A grey tentacle slithered out of the water, groped blindly at his ankles, but he stamped on it in annoyance and it slunk away. That made Mouana smile. Her lips began moving silently, as she counted the eager zombies hauling themselves up the ramp to join them.
One-Arm was there, and Broken-Jaw, whose name was Kaba, and the pub bruiser, who had only offered “fack off” in lieu of name. There were the three Blades, though Mouana knew none of them, and the woman who had sung the miner’s song, her teeth wrecked by biting into a metal can. Last of all, hobbling up the ramp slumped on the struggling shoulders of the wailing teen, came Once-Fat Man, his face now set in strange serenity.
“Huh,” said Mouana, turning to Wrack as the sagging pair made it up the ramp. “We only lost three.”
“Well then,” said Wrack, slapping her on the shoulder and offering a friendly grimace, “let’s go and find some more mates.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
G RIM, SILENT, TOGETHER, they crept through the industry of the lagoonside and into the silence of Tavuto ’s aft decks. No overseer challenged them. With the aftermath of the failed ET hunt on their hands, the ship’s crew were doing all they could to move chunks of the gargantuan fish out of the lagoon and into the processing yards, with little heed paid to errant dead. As they snuck out of sight of the lagoon and into the ship, they met no human resistance.
Once, as they rounded a pitted cracking tower, one of the Sniffer Rays came to challenge them. Remembering his first encounter with one of the spider-legged elasmobranchs, Wrack had flinched when it came skittering out of the dark. But as he saw the way the other dead circled it, dashed in on its flanks, clamped wrinkled hands on its flapping skirt of ammoniac flesh, the fear fell out of him. With orgiastic relish, they tore it apart.
Its metal legs flapped, its tail thrashed, but the creature was nothing before the mob of dead. Before he could say a word, handfuls of stinking meat were being pulled from the central disc, flesh was sliding from cartilage, and dirty water poured from the creature’s spiracles as it shuddered in second death. In seconds, it was less than metal and halfbone.
The mob moved on, stringy nitrogen chemistry hanging from their gums, knuckles drumming on railings as they moved for the far decks of the ship. They were like chimps on the hunt: shaved, stinking
“Let’s swim,” said Mouana, without ceremony, and leapt into the water. Wrack waited a moment to make sure the dead had heard, and then moved for the front of the boat when he saw them leave their posts en masse. Even the wailing teen at the back of the boat was heading for the prow; this was no moment to hold back.
Wrack dived into the black, and swam. Bodies bumped against him in the water, slithered past him. Whether they were his fellows, or mean, whiptailed things come to snaggle at the leaking Bahamut, he had no idea. Frankly, after looking down into the bottomless water as the ET had taken Aroha, a speck of flesh above a carnivore god, he didn’t really care. In comparison with that moment, this was about as frightening as taking a drunken dip in the Fellows’ koi pond on a student dare.
After the brief, determined swim, he found himself on one of the shallow ramps leading up and out of the lagoon, clinging to the metal grates alongside two dozen other corpses. Mouana stood at the top of the ramp, a black shape against the floodlights of the Bahamut’s disassembly. Wrack climbed out of the surf and walked to meet her.
“Home again,” he remarked, the ice-cold wash of Ocean still swirling around his feet. A grey tentacle slithered out of the water, groped blindly at his ankles, but he stamped on it in annoyance and it slunk away. That made Mouana smile. Her lips began moving silently, as she counted the eager zombies hauling themselves up the ramp to join them.
One-Arm was there, and Broken-Jaw, whose name was Kaba, and the pub bruiser, who had only offered “fack off” in lieu of name. There were the three Blades, though Mouana knew none of them, and the woman who had sung the miner’s song, her teeth wrecked by biting into a metal can. Last of all, hobbling up the ramp slumped on the struggling shoulders of the wailing teen, came Once-Fat Man, his face now set in strange serenity.
“Huh,” said Mouana, turning to Wrack as the sagging pair made it up the ramp. “We only lost three.”
“Well then,” said Wrack, slapping her on the shoulder and offering a friendly grimace, “let’s go and find some more mates.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
G RIM, SILENT, TOGETHER, they crept through the industry of the lagoonside and into the silence of Tavuto ’s aft decks. No overseer challenged them. With the aftermath of the failed ET hunt on their hands, the ship’s crew were doing all they could to move chunks of the gargantuan fish out of the lagoon and into the processing yards, with little heed paid to errant dead. As they snuck out of sight of the lagoon and into the ship, they met no human resistance.
Once, as they rounded a pitted cracking tower, one of the Sniffer Rays came to challenge them. Remembering his first encounter with one of the spider-legged elasmobranchs, Wrack had flinched when it came skittering out of the dark. But as he saw the way the other dead circled it, dashed in on its flanks, clamped wrinkled hands on its flapping skirt of ammoniac flesh, the fear fell out of him. With orgiastic relish, they tore it apart.
Its metal legs flapped, its tail thrashed, but the creature was nothing before the mob of dead. Before he could say a word, handfuls of stinking meat were being pulled from the central disc, flesh was sliding from cartilage, and dirty water poured from the creature’s spiracles as it shuddered in second death. In seconds, it was less than metal and halfbone.
The mob moved on, stringy nitrogen chemistry hanging from their gums, knuckles drumming on railings as they moved for the far decks of the ship. They were like chimps on the hunt: shaved, stinking
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