DEATH-MAEL, GLIDING AS QUIETLY AS a ripple, wondered why people, in his case Atlantideans, forgot the world was made of water. It was everywhere, it was everything. Its absence was death; its over-abundance, a different kind of death. The Atlantic stretched forever. Traversing the Blank world had felt strange, but only briefly. He wondered if being underwater shielded him. Animals were always traveling the Blank. Dolphins tagged with radio transmitters did it for fun, knowing how they’d blip, disappear, or sometimes appear to be everywhere at once. Compared to dragoon dolphin were still backwoods relatives, but they were somewhat smarter than humans who, no matter how much incredible complexity you hit them with, remained fixated on opposable thumbs.
The dragoon was so far Blankward he couldn’t get an impression of the battle far behind him, neither psychic nor sonar. No dragoon had ever done this. No dragoon had the facial muscles to perform a smile but if he’d had, Death-mael would have smiled.
He surfaced, and swam atop the deep blue.
A dragoon cruising the Atlantic coast just for the hell of it? Might be fun…
…except for that speck coming toward him from the direction of the Blank lands that would grow to larger than a speck in not too great a time judging by its speed.
This would be the old man then. Dragoons knew several rumors about him. Better than that, they’d dreamed with him. Well, all of Atlantis had, but still. He had been to the Mount and become part of Leviathan’s pattern of force. Hard to do that without gaining a measure of notoriety in underwater circles.
Death-mael had felt echoes of him in the Jetstreams.
He strained to see if he could feel anything now, but a book of poetry bound in singularity hide blocked him. Poetry was powerful mojo. It was chaos and physics distilled. Bad poetry even more so. The clamoring of that book produced a shield around Malat, whether to keep others out or keep Malat in or equally both, the dragoon neither wondered nor knew.
~~~
Fiona was bored. That was dangerous. Moreso anxious than bored, but the net danger was the same. Her boat was positioned half in, half out of the Blank. A person could easily get unhinged in the multiverse like that. When you had an elite team of battle angels, enough tech to start several new industries, and all of the world to protect, waiting on the outcome of a fight with a fish didn’t sit well. Sereda was on the ship with Desiree; Smoove and Guerris with Ramses. This wouldn’t be won by force, so no need for everyone to die.
Except, apparently, the clones.
Fiona had fancied all of them secretly wanting to sniff her hair.
The comm squawked. Even modified, proximity to Leviathan generated static and spots.
“Say again,” said Fiona Carel. But the only word that came out was “...wreckage” and then nothing. It had been Kichi Malat talking.
~~~
The closer Kichi got to Leviathan and Ramses, the less reliable the ship’s communications. At half zoom the hump in the far distance was Leviathan, the two specks—visible only through specs—were the Semper Fi and the Linda Ann. At full zoom a third ship, dead, displayed its component parts along the waters, floating in that broken-doll-trying-to-fit-back-together way wrecked ships had that was unbearably sad and heart wrenching.
“There shouldn’t be this much interference,” said Thighs.
Kichi grunted. “Leviathan’s active. All kinds of extra energy. Bubba and Asme still asleep?”
“Bubba is. Asme’s with Michael.”
“Ask somebody to get the skiff ready, get Asme and Mike on their way right now. Tell Fiona to have somebody meet them, even if you only get one word through at a time. I don’t want them floating this ocean. They can stay at Vrea Talloon B’oom’s.”
Thighs really wanted to ask What about Buford? With him on board they were a dog with a t-bone around its neck traveling an alley of coyotes. The bastard didn’t deserve safe harbor. Throwing a harpoon at Leviathan with Buford attached to it was an honorable idea.
Kichi, scanning the water again, mumbled, “There’s a dragoon in the water.”
“What’s a dragoon?”
Kichi handed him the specs. “See that thing doing somersaults? Don’t hit it.”
This is embarrassing, thought Death-mael, but it was the only way it could think of to get their attention at a distance, which they closed fairly quickly.
They saw it, altered course just enough to avoid hitting it, and zipped on by.
Death-mael plopped into the water, bobbing in their wake. That was just rude! it mentally shouted at them, but it was, admittedly, expected. Rather than feign indignation it decided to stop and watch from a safe distance.
Death-mael didn’t see this, but one of the clones walked Leviathan’s back placing charges.
“Ram,” Kichi radioed.
“Sir? I got everybody in the stew.”
“Good. Now back away,” said Kichi Malat in that tone that brooked no dissent. “Milo? I want you and Ramses on this ship watching Buford. Me and Bubba are taking the Ann. Smoove, you staying on board?”
“I’m coming over,” said Desiree.
“Best pilots in the known world,” said Kichi.
“All worlds,” said Smoove.
“Pops—” Milo started.
“I’m gonna park it on its butt and we’re gonna have a chat. Maseef?”
“Sir,” came Maseef’s voice with the rumble and rush of wind and water.
“You and the whales are rear guard. Ramses, I’m sensing hesitation on your part?” said Kichi.
“Part of me wants to see it make landfall.”
“Not the cataclysm the world needs right now,” said Kichi.
“Yes, sir.”
The Ann, Fi, and Atlantidean vessel altered courses and approached Kichi.
“What if the genie doesn’t go back in the bottle?” asked Thighs, his thick legs slightly unsteady, and he hoped it was just from the boat.
“Then I read poetry to it,” said Kichi. “Hoping it doesn’t come to that.”
Bubba Foom emerged on deck blinking into the sun. His wife and son, as promised, were already far away from immediate danger, but far away was not out of. It was a big ocean.
Kichi took Bubba’s hand and held it while talking to Milo. “MJ, how’re you holding up?”
“This sun’s a sonofa. I’ve got a half-dead clone. I don’t want him all the way dead.”
“We’re doing our best to ride into the sunset here,” said Kichi, his strong, wiry fingers giving Bubba a squeeze. He shook his head in disbelief and laughed. “God damn! Y’all got the fish out in the water!” His ubiquitous notepad was safely in his pocket, the paper and ink waterproof. “This is going in the book.”
“Who else is with you, pops?” asked Milo.
“A good soldier named Thighs. Few other folks.”
Milo, glancing at Warren, added up the responsibilities. This was a big ocean and bodies—be they from Kichi’s, Ramses’ or his own ship—floating it would do nothing to decrease its enormity.
The clone atop Leviathan’s back dove and swam to meet his next supply of munitions. He slung the large pack over his neck and shoulders and scaled the beast again until reaching the spinal crest. He quickly and efficiently placed additional charges.
“Thighs?” said Milo.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get that old man in a breach suit.”
Thighs gave a glance toward Malat, who clearly communicated “no” without a word. “Not likely, sir.”
“It was worth a shot.”
Kichi Malat, old as he was, was used to all the physiological and mental peccadilloes involved in traveling the Blank. He wore cargo pants and a loose, buttoned shirt, pointy elbows and corded arms contrasting nicely with the eggshell cream of the shirt.
“What’s that clone doing?” asked Bubba.
Kichi, not letting go Bubba’s hand, brought the specs to his eyes again.
“Insurance plan,” said Ramses. “If I yell ‘clear’ everybody boat the hell away.”
“Once you two get over here get this boat to Atlantis,” said Kichi. “Tomorrow we start dismantling Buford’s empire.”
The ships rendezvoused, swapped crews, and went their needed ways: Kichi toward Leviathan with Desiree, Bubba and Smoove on the Ann; the Semper Fi, captained by Thighs, providing escort to Milo, Ramses and a skeleton crew of Agents of Change with Buford, the two ships bound for the Blank; Guerris and Warren aboard the Atlantidean Stinger, Guerris piloting via adrenaline and sheer willpower, following Milo and Ramses. Going home, the Atlantidean thought, and for some reason this made him inexplicably sad.
On the Ann Desiree noted how Smoove kept watch on the tall psychic. “Bubba, you frosty?” she asked, eyes softening to give him a place to lay. They were heading toward eight clones of Milo on what would likely turn out to be a really shitty day.
“I’m good, hon’,” he said. He tried smiling. It looked weird. Too much worry.
Desiree comm’d Guerris. “Guerris, if you see a small ship with two people on it, pick them up. They’re heading to Fiona.” She smiled for Foom. “That’s two ships on the way to them. They’ll be fine.”
“How do we know this will work?” asked Smoove.
“When have we ever known anything?” said Kichi. Where Guerris was fear and adrenaline, Kichi was exhilarated. Not that it showed. Only fools and politicians showed exhilaration in the face of doom. “We passed a dragoon. Other than doing somersaults for attention it wasn’t insane. That means Leviathan is calming. Bubba, this might burn you out, but it’s the only chance we get: we’ve got to convince the oldest living thing on earth that we mean to leave it alone forever and that we’ll make sure that everybody else does the same. You won’t just be riding his mind in there, Bubba, you’re going to be guiding him.”
“The clones have done a good job of it,” said Desiree.
Kichi shook his head. “They were a curiosity to him in the first instance. At best they’re tiny detours now. “
“I’m putting a saddle on the sucker,” said Bubba Foom, “and riding his ass back to oblivion.”
And that’s all Bubba had to say about that.