He saw a squadron of low-slung vessels approaching swiftly from that direction, so clean and trim, he naturally at first assumed they had nothing to do with Sea State.
Smaller craft spread out, prowling for greener submarines, while in the center a sleek, impressive ship of war drew near. The nozzles of its powerful cannon gleamed like polished silver. Bulging high-pressure tanks held its ammunition — various chemical agents that it began spraying over poor Dacca to neutralize the greeners’ enzymes. Although neither dousing was supposed to affect flesh, the new bath caused Dacca s crew to laugh and caper, luxuriating as if it were a Fragonard perfume.
“Ah!” the old man said. “Just as I thought. It is Pike-man. A proud vessel! They say she never needs to fight, so fearsome is her name.”
Crat glanced sideways, suddenly suspicious. This fellow’s eyes glittered with more than mere gratitude at being saved from greener sabotage. There was unmistakable pride in his bearing. From that, and the thick but educated accent, Crat guessed he was no mere refugee from poverty, nor a foolish would-be adventurer like himself. No, he must have joined the nation of the dispossessed because his birthplace was still officially under occupation by all the world’s powers — a country whose very name had been confiscated.
Crat remembered seeing that look in the eyes of another veteran, back in Bloomington — one of the victors in the Helvetian campaign. How strange, then, to spot it next in one who had lost everything.
Shit. That must’ve been some dumpit war.
The old man confirmed Crat’s suspicions. “See how even at this low estate they must treat us with respect?” he asked, then added in a low voice. “By damn, they had better!”
The rescuing flotilla efficiently dispatched units to repair Dacca, while Pikeman turned into the wind to launch a tethered guard zeppelin. On closer inspection, Crat saw that the vessel wasn’t new at all. Its flanks were patched, like every other ship in Sea State’s worldwide armada. And yet the refurbishments blended in, somehow looking like intentional improvements on the original design.
Watching the cruiser’s flag flapping in the wind, Crat blinked suddenly in surprise. For a brief instant the great bird at the banner’s center, instead of flying amid stylized ocean waves, had seemed to soar out of a blocky cloud, set in a bloody field. He squinted. Had it been an illusion, brought on by his constant hunger?
No! There! The colors glittered again! The Sea State emblem must have been modified, he realized. Stitched in amid the blue water and green sky were holographic threads, flashing to the eye only long enough to catch a brief but indelible image.
Once again, for just a second, the albatross flapped sublimely through a square white cross, centered on a background of deep crimson.
Naturally, during the melee the dolphins had escaped. Even before the Helvetian detachment arrived to drive them off, the green raiders had managed to tear the giant fishing web surrounding the school. Crat groaned when he saw the damage. His hands were already cracked from trying to please a slave-driving apprentice net maker, tying simple knots over and over, then retying half of them when his lord and master found some fault undetectable to any human eye.
The calamity went beyond damaged nets, of course. It could mean they’d go hungry again tonight, if the raiders’ enzymes had reached the catch already in Dacca’s hold. And yet, in a lingering corner, Crat felt strangely glad the little creatures had got away.
Oh, sure. Back in Indiana he’d been a carni-man, a real meat eater. Often he’d save up to devour a rare hamburger in public, just to disgust any NorA dumpit ChuGas who happened to pass by. Anyway, today’s prey wasn’t one of the brainy or rare dolphin types on the protected lists, or else UNEPA would have interfered faster and a lot more lethally than any green raiders.
Still, even dumb little spinner porpoises looked too much like Tuesday Tursiops, the bottle-nosed hero of Sat-vid kiddie shows. They cried so plaintively when they were hauled aboard, thrashing, flailing their tails… Crat’s gorge was already rising by the time cawing birds arrived to bicker and feed on factory ship offal.
Then, suddenly, had come the greeners — among them probably former countrymen of Crat’s. He recalled seeing well-fed pale faces, jaws set in grim determination as they harassed Sea State’s harvesters to the very limits of international law and then some. To Crat, the lurching fear and confusion of the brief battle had only been the final straw.
“Are you feeling better now, fils?
Crat looked up from his makeshift seat, one of the coiled foredeck anchor chains. Squinting, he saw it was the geep again — the old Helvetian — come around to check up on him for whatever reason. Crat answered with a silent shrug.
“My name is Schultheiss. Peter Schultheiss,” the fellow said as he sat on a jute hawser. “Here you go. I brought you some portable shade.”
Crat turned the gift, a straw hat, over in his hands. Weeks ago he would have spurned it as something from a kindergarten class. Now he recognized a good piece of utilitarian craftsmanship. “Mm,” he answered with a slight nod and put it on. The shade was welcome.
“No gratitude required,” Schultheiss assured. “Sea State cannot afford eye surgery for all its young men. Nor can we count on U.N. dumpit charity.”
For the first time, Crat smiled slightly. The one thing he liked about this disappointing adventure was the way both old and young cursed and suffered alike. Only here at sea, a young man’s strength counted for as much as any grandpa’s store of experience.
Just wait n see, he thought. When I get used to all this, I’ll be tougher ’n anybody.
That wouldn’t be anytime soon, though. First week out, he’d foolishly accepted a dare to wrestle a very small Bantu sailor wearing a speckled bandanna. The speed of his humiliation brought home how useless years of judo lessons were in the real world. There were no rubber mats here, no coaches to blow time out. The jeers and pain that followed him to his hammock proved this dream was going to take some time coming true.
Crat remembered Quayle High and that lousy tribal studies class he and Remi and Roland had to take. Hardly anything spoken by the teacher stuck in memory, except one bit — what old fathead Jameson had said one day about chiefs.
“These were clansmen who won high status, respect, the best food, wives. Nearly every natural human society has had such a special place for its high achievers… even modern tribes like your teen gangs. The major difference between cultures has not been whether, but how chiefs were chosen, and by what criteria.
“Today, neither physical power nor even maleness is a principal criterion in Western society. But wit and quickness still make points…”
Crat remembered how Remi and Roland had grinned at each other, and for an instant he had hated his friends with a searing passion. Then, surprisingly, the prof also let drop a few words that seemed just for him.
“Of course even today there are some societies in which the old macho virtues hold. Where strength and utter boldness still appear to matter…”
Each of them had taken to the Settler style for different reasons. Remi, for romance and the promise of a new order. Roland, for the honor of comradeship and shared danger in a cause. For Crat, though, the motive had been simpler. He just wanted to be a chief.
And so, a month ago, he had bought a one-way ticket and begun what he was sure would be his great adventure.
Some fuckin’ adventure.