Ryllen had no intention of hinting at his immortality.

  The cabin fell silent. Mee, Juri, and Captain Noor stared down each other. They’d been here before, with the same result. Mee’s response caught Ryllen off-guard.

  “Meet me topside, Royal. Time for an education about the cudfrucking peninsula.”

  He rolled up the navigation charts and said he’d store them on the bridge. Then Mee Ahn sprung to his feet and smiled, which Ryllen suspected was a rare occurrence. He bounded up the stairs.

  “How long has this been going on, Captain?”

  “Almost a year. Every time we dock in D’haan, Mee uses his shore leave to row past the poitnois. He claims to have seen the Scroll five times. He may be right. I fear he is. But without a larger crew and more favors among the villagers, we don’t have a chance.”

  An idea creeped inside. Ryllen wanted to resist, but something in his gut fought back.

  “I’ve killed important people in their own homes. It’s doable. Give me thirty minutes with him. After that, he gets his wish or he’ll never bring it up again. Trust me. I can shut this shit down.”

  30

  A S RYLLEN APPROACHED THE BOW, he caught a whiff of smoke. It smelled like a campfire, but with an underlying bitterness. Mee pulled on a pipe, although not the cylindrical, auto-heating variety Ryllen grew up with in Pinchon. This was, like all things Huryan, a kick from the distant past. A narrow arm extended to a bowl, in which burned compressed leaves. Mee lit it with a finger lamp.

  “Here.” Mee extended the pipe. “Share with me.”

  “What is it? I don’t recognize the smell.”

  “Bay grass. Pulverized and packed.”

  Ryllen puffed, allowing the smoke to settle in his lungs, and coughed it out.

  “Tastes like dried turd.”

  “You won’t say that in five minutes.”

  “Why? What does it do?”

  “Opens your eyes. Allows you to see what’s missing.”

  “You mean hallucinate. Sorry. That’s not for me. I have enough trouble keeping my head when I’m sober.”

  “Heard that before. So. Captain tell you to talk me down?”

  “Thought of it on my own. Seemed like a reasonable way of earning my place on the boat.”

  Mee puffed. “Hmmph. I won’t listen to the old voices. Maybe I’ll listen to the new one.”

  “If everything you said about that village is true, you’ll never get close to the Scroll. Either he leaves his house, or you die an angry asshole. That’s no way to go out. Trust me.”

  “What do you know of it?”

  A sudden urge took hold; Ryllen grabbed the pipe and inhaled. Mee was right: The bitterness wasn’t as pronounced.

  “I’ve been living on Revenge Road as long as I can remember. There’s always some cudfrucker who deserves to die. Come to think of it, that was my catchphrase for a while. ‘I only kill people who deserve to die.’ Then the war came, and … who didn’t deserve it? Now, it’s a way of life. That’s the shitty truth about revenge. It’s the last step to a way of life.”

  Mee acted as if he’d been betrayed by the one voice he counted on. He gritted his jowls and turned away, staring out to sea. The sun held low on the horizon, which glowed in every direction.

  “Did your Scroll teach you that, Royal?”

  “Not directly, but he forced me to see.”

  “What else did you learn?”

  “I know why I kill people without remorse.”

  “Why?”

  Ryllen hid the answer behind his tongue.

  “It’s my burden. You wouldn’t understand. So, about the peninsula. You said you wanted to educate me.”

  “I did when I thought you’d help. Now, what’s the difference? The villages look the same, the people are empty vessels, and a fisherman is lucky to find a good drink and a kept woman. They’re paranoid about off-worlders. Soon as they see you, they’ll pass their suspicions on to the lord’s men. Most villages, the captain won’t let you step off the boat. He wants no trouble for the Lux. Hmmph. There’s my summary. It’s all you’ll have tonight.”

  “Fine. Tell me about your knife. The one you don’t unsheathe.”

  Mee turned with a start and grabbed his belt.

  “Why are you interested?”

  “That’s how you plan to kill your Scroll. Yes?”

  “What if it is?”

  “It has an interesting hilt. Doesn’t seem like a weapon. More like something you’d find in a collector’s store.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I know blades. Personally, I prefer a pistol or a good blast rifle, but a blade’s quiet. If you need to take out the perimeter guard without setting off alarms, it’s useful.” He swiped two fingers across his own neck. “A crawler knife is effective, but that thing you have … I’m betting it couldn’t fillet a prim.”

  Mee let go of the belt without releasing the knife.

  “It doesn’t take much to open the carotid.”

  “But damn if you don’t have to be close. Like, real close. Like dancing partner close. What happens after you slice him? You even care about escape? It’s not revenge if you die right after him.”

  “I don’t give it a thought. Never have. I make no plans until that fat shit is bleeding out.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s the other trait about revenge. Leads you down a blind path. I had a list once. Thirteen assholes who killed the first man I loved. Number thirteen was their leader. I never knew why he did it. But there was nothing else for me until I found him and tore out his heart. So, I started by killing seven of his assholes. One night, I thought I had him. A friend promised me I’d have him. But he wasn’t there. That was six years ago.”

  “So, what? You’ve given up?”

  “I don’t know. I lost his trail, but it was my own fault. If I see him someday, I’ll kill him because he deserves it. But the truth is, I don’t think about him anymore. He’s just another asshole. Alive one minute. Lying in a pool of his own blood the next. Nothing else will change. Same with your Scroll. Nothing will change.”

  Mee leaned against the bow railing.

  “I hate life. You come along, exactly the man I’ve been looking for. A killer through and through. But the Scroll made you look inside, and now you’re a philosopher. I don’t need a philosopher. I need somebody who’s willing to help me kill a man.”

  “Give me a blast rifle and some body armor, and I’ll kill a whole village for you. I don’t care about those people. But I care about dying. I’m sick of it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Figure of speech. Look, Mee. A few days ago, I thought I was about to burn to death. I’ve never been so afraid. But I wake up on this boat, and it’s not the afterlife. It’s another chance. It doesn’t mean I’m gonna become a good man and start working charity. I know what I am. And a fool, I’m not. When I walk into combat, I don’t intend to lose. Unless you know something I don’t, killing your Scroll will end in quick, pointless defeat.”

  “Everything has a point. Tell me something, Royal. If you knew your Scroll was living on the peninsula, squirreled away nice and comfortable in a poitnois, would you go after him?”

  There it was.

  The hypothetical Ryllen expected to hear.

  “He’d be dead within a week, but he’d never know it was me.”

  “Ah. So revenge is still in your toolbelt.”

  “I never said it wasn’t. But revenge, like any other motivation, has to be tempered with good strategy. Is the man who takes a pistol blast through the heart or burns in a fire any less dead than the one who takes it in the carotid? A man doesn’t have to see your eyes right before he dies. The knowledge that he’s dying is fear enough. Yes?”

  Mee turned the pipe upside and tapped it against the rail. The ash fell into the sea.

  “Royal, are you making a proposal?”

  “I propose we live. I propose you consider other options.”

  “Such as?”

  “Any man can be killed, but he doesn’t have to smell your breath up close while you’re killing him. Think about it, Mee. There are other ways to finish him.”

  “We’ll be in D’haan the day after tomorrow.”

  “Then you don’t have much time to think. Just remember: He doesn’t have to smell your breath.”

  Ryllen saw the glow of revelation in the man’s eyes, though the evening light was dimming. Mee had never considered the possibility of exacting revenge and living to see another sunrise. That silly knife, whatever its symbolic value, denied him the creativity to see better ways to hunt and kill his prey.

  Mee bowed his head and started aft. Twice, he looked back. His plans were morphing, with or without the help of bay grass.

  The moment caught Ryllen as much by surprise. He did not follow Mee topside expecting any particular result. He played a hunch which proved true, being that Mee was a reckless fool trapped by rage just as Ryllen was in his final days aboard Scylla. Mee needed someone to show him another path – a fate Ryllen wished he’d been given before he betrayed Scylla’s crew and the Talons.

  Yet Ryllen did not “shut this shit down,” as he promised Captain Noor and Juri. Instead, he pivoted to the way he knew best. Without stating as much, he agreed to help Mee kill a man – probably many, given the limited options.

  When did it become so easy? After the first few hundred? And this, for a man he knew all of one day.

  He saw clearly, beyond the influence of bay grass:

  The Scroll was a good teacher, after all.

  The best.

  Ryllen felt at peace and remained on the bow until long after daylight vanished and the starfield emerged in its glory.

  He recognized constellations. He gathered his celestial bearings and pointed to the location where the Hokkaidan system’s Nexus point allowed entry into the Fulcrum. He thought of the day – less than a standard month ago but also a lifetime – when he led two Scramjets across many systems.

  He thought of Exeter Woolsey and their last, difficult words. The pain felt obligatory. Not like with Kai Durin; that pain ran deeper. So long ago, yet fresh and stinging. Unfinished.

  He whispered under his breath:

  “I’m not done with you, am I?”

  Later, Captain Noor laid out the sleeping options. On nights like this, most of the crew preferred to sleep under the stars. The temperature was bearable, the humidity a minor inconvenience.

  “But you are welcome to a bunk. Tight quarters.”

  Ryllen understood the meaning.

  “In other words, like a rack above a pond. No, thank you.”

  He returned to the bow and laid out his blanket and pillow.

  Sleep did not come at once. Rather, he felt a gradual sensation of letting go, like in the days before Green Sun, before war against the Chancellor Swarm, before Scylla, before the pond. But the eyes turned heavy; the gentle rocking of the sea sent him away.

  For less than an hour.

  The sudden disquiet began when thunder cascaded nearby. He shook awake. His eyes fell upon the north, where the skies were clear. The anomaly lasted for three seconds at best. A red streak sliced beyond the horizon.

  “Cudfrucker.”

  The sleep felt so good, Ryllen knew it wouldn’t return without a fight. Indeed, he sat up wide awake five minutes later when a star appeared to go nova in the southern sky. Yet the same thunderous echo cracked the night. In an instant, the “supernova” disappeared.

  A red streak split the sky and soared inland at enormous speeds.

  He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t believe it.

  Ryllen recognized a wormhole aperture, even from great distance. Yet no one in this system possessed the technology. He counted the possibilities on one hand.

  31

  T HE HANNAH LUX ARRIVED in the dreary village of Lister two hours after sunrise. Ryllen helped tie off the mooring lines when they docked. Yet true to Mee’s warning, Ryllen was ordered not to step off the boat.

  “It’s a quiet village,” Captain Noor told him at breakfast. “A bit too inbred. Three families, about a hundred each. They don’t care for outsiders; you have Chancellor written all over your face. I wouldn’t stop at all, but their lord pays well. Thirty percent of our haul at twice market value per unit. We take care of business and move on.”

  The village was a time capsule given form. Weak-timber buildings, their facades salt-washed gray by the centuries, were cobbled together along a shaky promenade where the planks squeaked underfoot. Smoke rose from outdoor firepits behind the town. Upriver a hundred meters, an elegant poitnois stood in direct contrast, its stilts like wide columns. It stood guard as warning to anyone who thought of traveling inland. A bald fat man in a white gown watched the boat’s arrival, flanked by women in far less.

  “A Scroll?” He asked Mee as they opened the fish hold.

  “Probably. No one here talks. You’d think he cut out their tongues.”

  But not, it seemed, their need to eat. More than a hundred men, women, and children swarmed the promenade as the crew prepared the haul. This was not the usual transfer method, however. Each household brought its own basket. Unlike other villages, where the off-load conveyer transferred the fish directly with discipline and efficiency, Lister did it the old fashioned way.

  Each villager brought a basket and placed an order for specific poundage. They wrote a name and number in chalk on a stone and tossed it inside the basket. Juri and Ryllen slipped into wet gear and heavy boots then stepped into the hold, where they began shoveling and weighing product.

  He turned to Juri as they loaded baskets and passed them on to Mee and Captain Noor, who collected the coins.

  “Does anyone in Lister fish?”

  “Not best as I can reckon. Now the big man might a’ send them upriver to catch muskins or peter crab, but that shit’s not fit to eat. Likely, they fill their bellies on marsh rat, mushrooms, and stewed cabbage weeds. Guarantee he takes a cut of everything we add to these baskets.”

  “How many other trawlers stop here?”

  “Judging by their smiles, I’d say we’re the first in weeks. They don’t talk much.”

  “So, I’ve heard.”

  They continued to load, throwing a healthy dose of ice into each load and dropping the “order brick” on top.

  “Juri, I’ve been meaning to ask all morning. Did you happen to see anything unusual last night?”

  “I found a new lump on my side, but I done seen worse.”

  “Outside. In the sky. Did the thunder wake you?”

  “Thunder? Where? This is the dry season, Royal. We won’t see storms in these parts for another month.”

  “Deep sleeper?”

  “Like the contented.”

  No, it wasn’t a dream. I know what I saw and heard.

  Later, after completing all transactions and closing the hold, Ryllen stood amidships with Captain Noor and watched the villagers dissolve like ghosts.

  “Are all the villages like this?”

  “A few. Lister is small and compact. Most have upwards of a thousand people, scattered across the marshes and the weak-timber forests. We usually deal with commercial buyers. No more than two or three per village. They take delivery in bulk. Sometimes, they even invite us to stay awhile, especially if we empty the hold.”

  “They’d like you to put their money back into the village.”

  “You have a good sense of it.”

  “Smart economics. Captain, before we shove off, I was wondering if you happened to see anything unusual in the sky last night? Maybe about four standard hours after sunset?”

  “I was in my bunk. I fell asleep after a few verses of Hokki poetry. I read each night. I always thought the Hokki High Verse was underrated for its elegance. Why? What did you see?”

  “Nothing. Streaks in the sky, like Carbedyne contrails.”

  “Interesting. We don’t see spaceships or Scrams in these parts very often. When they do arrive, it’s usually personal transport for the village lords. That’s likely what you saw.”

  Except the village lords probably don’t travel by wormhole.

  The next dock was three hours north, a more “educated” community called Orek. Noor expected them to purchase fifty percent of the remaining haul. Orek was a trax depot for fuel bars. Afterward, he’d navigate the Lux back out to the prim migration route, drop the nets, and fill the hold for tomorrow’s docks, ending with D’haan.

  “One more day,” Ryllen told Mee later, during a quiet interlude. “Any thoughts about your options?”

  “I want him dead. How it happens? I’ll have to be satisfied if he never smells my breath. But I’m not a clever man like you. I wasn’t a soldier. I don’t know how to make it happen.”

  “Are you asking for a strategy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Answer me this: When we drop our haul, will we be allowed to walk the village?”

  “Should be. They treat us well enough. But if you show your face, word will get to the Scroll long before we do.”

  “As long as they don’t detain me or curse me, I’ll be all right. Do you ever stay overnight in D’haan?”

  “If the captain agrees. They have strong docks. Room for three trawlers, if needed.”

  “That will help. We certainly can’t go after him in daylight. Think about this and get back to me: What is the most likely reason a Scroll would leave his poitnois to come into town?”

  Mee attended to his many duties with curiosity on his brow, giving Ryllen hope for a mission without a high risk of suicide – assuming it came off. He knew men like Mee while fighting the Chancellor Swarm. They were robust in goals, zealots in words, but hesitant in actions. Moreover, the Scroll wasn’t going anywhere, and the Lux swung around to D’haan several times a year.

  Juri thought Ryllen was ready for lunch duty and handed over the galley to him. Peeling and prepping onions and “rock” potatoes (green and misshapen but excellent for hash or mash) proved a perfect exercise for Ryllen to build his worth and contemplate his next move. He loved the feel of a snipping knife in his hand. The short, stocky blade proved perfect for dicing; he became an artist after watching Juri’s one lesson.