Apart from a few cheerful breaks in the cloud, the morning presented itself much as the previous one had. During the night, it seemed some fault had been found in the cooling system of Temperate Rain's auxiliary reactor and engineers were busy donning bright yellow radiation-proof coveralls as Kelley followed Maecort through the narrow passageway that led out onto the Deck. Captain Dagen was amongst them.
"A whole day to get the pipes fixed, they're telling me" he said to Kelley, then muttered something about Trol extortionists under his breath. For the time being though, their time was there own.
"Don't wander too far" The captain threw as the pair slowly paced down the arching ramp toward the dockside "We make sail the moment we can, and I doubt you will want to be here much longer than necessary".
The Docks were the oldest section of the city, serving the whalers when their filthy trade was the only business here; the dock had not worked at its current capacity since well before the great war. Of course, the obscure island had not been a direct target of the nuclear holocaust, only a victim by association as fallout had claimed its vegetation from trees to the last blades of grass. There were more 'people' on the island than there had ever been in the prehistory of the war; the dock was thrumming with cranes and workers, Trolog swimmers darting effortlessly about the black expanse of the bay, boarding ships to empty them of there cargos, or fill them again, before dashing back to the waters edge. In the middle of the roughly circular harbour sat two moored barges; simple wooden platforms that served as a rest area for the workers in down time. All around, trolleys rushed about on metal tracks, delivering goods to warehouses while cranes bobbed as a hungry flock of Ibis, feeding upon the entrails of the moored boats. The work was loud and filthy and without end.
The rain eased mid-morning, and the beating sun cast into the winding, cobbled streets of the city, making them thick and uncomfortably muggy. In one briefing Kelley had been told that there was almost no ozone layer above Southern Australia, making the suns rays especially potent; now he knew what they meant.
The city slowly rose away from the docks toward a small peak some kilometres away. It seemed that the city had been built hurriedly, without great planning. Roads kinked unexpectedly, sometimes turning into major thoroughfares, occasionally narrowing without apparent purpose, and sometimes vanishing altogether. The going was one of constant dead reckoning and back tracking. The buildings were all double story, grey brick monstrosities, all hewn and set by the same method, which Kelley assumed was Trolog, perhaps mined from the sea floor where there handling would be simpler. They seemed to loom over the thin streets, as if bent by the weight of a stiff breeze, although the shadow did provide welcome relief. Above, boards had been lain on irregular occasion, crossing the breadth of the street from rooftop to rooftop to serve as bridges, connecting the city above the street level; most boards were no wider than the children who sat upon there edges, legs dangling as they watched the city pass by below.
Toward the centre of town, the streets grew wider and more crowded, until eventually the smell of fish and spices filled the air as the two entered some large plaza – an open air market thick with shoppers. Trolog comprised at least ninety percent of the population, which made the remainder easy to spot – like giants walking amongst them. Kelley immediately felt like everybody's eyes were looking at him; a giant amongst even the giants, with the tallest of the Trols barely reaching his navel. Still though, no one seemed to react as the pair strolled through the crowds bustling between food stalls.
Everyone had an umbrella. The streets were a sea of them; wheels of coloured material overlapping, their users unhindered. Maecort supposed they didn't like the sun either: after all, they were fish. She may have made this comment a little too loudly, and attracted some piercing looks. Kelley recalled the Captain using the same term in a less-than-complimentary context the day before, and cautioned his companion against using a term that may land them both in trouble during there short stay here. They kept walking.
The city was a mongrol child of geography and convenience. The land it occupied formed a half-bowl, shallowing concave toward the harbour, the lip a crest lined with a rock wall predating much of the township, and perhaps older than the docks themselves. The wall was little more than an inconvenience now, and in some places its sturdy foundations had been dismantled to create thoroughfares to the rolling plateau beyond. From atop the wall, the soft decent of the city made the flat mud roofs appear as trudging pavers stoped toward the beckoning expance of ocean. Beyond, the city had spilled out through the cracks in the walls and leached across the plateau, drying where it had pooled in the heat of the sun. buildings were shorter, and mixed with structures obviously built with pure haste as there only prerequisite. It was less of a civilisation, more of a camp, rudimentary and frenzied. The wall was guarded by Militia, and there seemed to be a tax tolled on those passing. Kelley and Maecort were not permitted. Beyond the boom gates, crowds of Trol beggers were assembled along the sidewalks, pestering at those who passed through to the far side.
At the highest point of the wall stood a single story building with a veranda on its rooftop covered by sailcloth, a small chalk A-frame advertising 'Lob, and Breakfast all day'. The two paused and looked at each other before climbing the stairs winding around the side of the building. Most of the patrons sat at a long wooden bar, drinking a light-coloured beer and talking quietly. There were a few round tables, with stools made from some sort of soft wood that creaked uncomfortably under Kelley's bulk as he sat down. A Trol barman, standing behind a counter polishing glasses vanished the moment they reached the top of the stairs, only to reappear now with a new set of chairs for the couple.
The menu was small, and 'Lob' featured prominently. They both settled for something that referenced fish, and sure enough fish was served cooked in some sort of vinegar that stung at Kelleys mouth. Maecort smiled sweetly, remarking 'At least it's cooked'.
Maecort had enquired as to the local currency before they had left the ship, and acquired some Chells from a Trol loitering at the base of the boarding ramp in exchange for some cheap whiskey she had bought with the last of her Copper coins in Barrow, knowing that the strange, oddly shaped currency would be useless further south. She handed what she thought was enough to pay, and a tip, and received what she thought was the change. A young Trol, who was certainly no shorter than any other troll, spied them curiously as they paid, standing only as they descended the staircase back down to the street.
A few streets later, Kelley and Maecort suddenly found themselves surrounded by a ring of Trols. There were eight or nine of them, and young; like kids everywhere they couldn't resist disfiguring themselves for some perverse sense of fashion – most of them were shirtless and had rings lining the lip of there top gill, which stood like a run of six oblique slash marks above they lungs. Some carried tattoos across there bald heads; intricate swirls and ring patterns. All carried knives.
"Give us fuck Chell, pink" one announced, obviously the leader. English was not the native language here, or at least not a form of English that Humans could understand. Maecort pivoted, looking behind her. Further up the street, adult Trol were gathering and pointing.
"I'm sorry" Kelley said "I don't know what you mean"
"Don't fuck play, pinka. Give us fuck Chell, me slashes you"
The words were stilted, pronounced relatively correctly but with an alien pace, as if the young Trolog was forced to find breaks artificially between the words. The language they normally spoke, Kelley had overheard over the morning, was far more fluid, sounding less like words and more like warbling noise alternated with strange thrills and chirps.
Kelley put out his hands "You don't want that. We're leaving" He said, trying to sound assuring.
There was a noise behind, and Maecort gave a yelp. Kelley turned and saw one of the Trol grab a fist of her blonde hair, wrenching her down with such force as to pull her off down, her neck arching as she flailed backwards, forced down onto one knee. The troll holding her was especially beefy – thick arms obviously born of a lot of physical labour. Kelley reacted without a second of hesitation.
His foot shot upward, lancing out in a sidekick to impact heavily with the Trologs face: the force was enough to pick him off his feet, crunching down onto the hard cobble roadway surface a meter backward. Kelley turned, catching the wrist of the leader – a taller-than-average kid with a large tattoo covering from the back of his head up to about an inch before his left eye. Kelley jerked upwards violently, the knife dropping from his hand as he yelped, the bone popping in his grip. The others were starting to back away. Without warning, Kelley felt a stab of pressure from behind, like a fist thrown into thick clothing, dull yet solid it pushed him enough to stumble forward a pace. Maecort, who had retreated to the wall, gave out a scream. Kelley's hand reached around him, feeling something hard jutting out from the left side of his back. He grasped it and pulled hard, enough to wrench it free. A slick black metal dart was in his hand; he turned and the boy holding the launcher turned white, the spent weapon dangling loose between his fingers. Kelley reached out and pulled the weapon from his fading grip, the Trol too terrified by his own action, and Kelley's apparent resistance to it, that he had petrified to the spot.
There was the sound of a whistle, and running footsteps. A dozen militia burst into the alleyway, spear guns up. The Trol kids tried to scatter, and after a brief second of melee all of the kids were in metallic cuffs binding their wrists, face down on the ground. One of the Militia looked up at Kelley and said "Go".
Back at the ship, Kelley and Maecort relayed the story to a Trol who worked in the Engine room.
"It's unfortunate. I'm sorry" he said, quite apologetic "No job, no school. It's my people are hiding here until Teuthida all gone"
"What are the Teuthida?" Maecort asked, cocking her head slightly.
"Vampire" the Trol murmured, as if the words themselves were blasphemy and carried some weight of penalty.
The two felt it would be better to spend the rest of the day on the ship.
Back in the Cabin, Maecort closed the door and said, quietly "It seems like the skin works".
Kelley had almost forgotten. He peeled off his shirt and inspected the hole punched through the back of it, about the width of a finger where the dart had stabbed in. Maecort inspected the skin.
The entire purpose of the skin was that it was supposed to be almost unnoticed by the user; or at least, that what they supposed. A team had made the discovery while trawling through the D.C. ruins years ago, before that chapter decided to go native. The building had belonged to DARPA, a secret military projects agency for the US government to devise special technology to aid the war effort.
The skin seemed to be a prototype; a sort of armour that hugged the wearer like a thick bathing trunk, covering the upper arm and leg, as well as the torso to the neck. The fabric was flexible to a degree, but when enough force was directly asserted against it, it became immovably rigid. It was ribbed with bands of a synthetic, which the boffins had described to Kelley was like cartilage in the human body, which gave the suit structure and amplified the movements of the wearer, in a manner similar to power armour. Whatever the original use for the suit was, sneaking incognito into a foreign city seemed to come as a natural implication. It's name had come from the colour.
Maecort inspected the strike point, but could see little more than a grubby mark she wiped away with her thumb and spit. Afterward she picked up the shirt Kelley had placed beside him on the bed, and inspected the hole.
"I'll patch that up" she said quietly, adding "That's what a good wife would do".
"I can do it" Kelley said, standing.
There was a moments silence.
"Have we got a problem?" Maecort knotted her fingers together, trying to hold Kelleys gaze while every instinct told her not to.
Kelley wanted to ask what she meant, but already knew. "I'm not a talker, im sorry"
Maecort nodded "I understand. But this – this mission – I knew what it was when I signed up for it. This is a one-way ticket. Even if we succeed, there is no way for us to go home, that's why they picked us – no family, nothing to tie us to that world"
For a moment, Kelley saw a blink of that ghostly face in the dark, her words haunting.
Maecort continued "Anyway, I guess what im saying is id like to be able to talk to you, not as Brotherhood but as friends"
"I know" he said "and I am sorry. We're in this together for the long haul."
Maecort nodded, then retreated for the door, before turning again and saying "Oh, and thank you for what you did today"
Kelley smiled softly "My job" to which Maecort nodded and left. Kelley lay and stretched his arms out, rested his head back on the bed.
It was almost a full day before the ship was underway. Leaving the island, the sea had clamed considerably, an impassive, flint morning sky offering little more than a stiff wind as the sea gates slid closed behind the churning water of Temperate Rain's screws, the island coming into full view as the large ship swung southward, slowly retreating beyond the perceptible arch of the black-blue sea until it had finally vanished from sight.
The ship found its rhumb line due south. The strait here maintained its persistent roll, churning against the hull, but the sky was clear and long, high clouds showed some hint of land lurking beyond the horizon, bringing calm to Kelley's mind.
At around midday, as if crossing some natural meridian, the water below the vessel became slack and a relaxation came upon the crew as if a collective migraine suddenly relieved, the quality palpable across the deck. Kelley and Maecort stood upon the foredeck just aft of a large chrome-steel deckgun – a bizarre collaboration of tubes, barrels and levers that could be set to action by a man strapped to a chair looking through a thin prism paralleling the bore of the gun. They smelt the thick smack of fresh gunoil mix with salt spray and heard the pulse of the engines, the crew slowing there pace, moving to the gunwales and leaning peacefully, talking quietly between themselves, watching the serene surface of the water speed past below. There was a shout in some common tongue, drawing attention to a shape bursting from the surface no more than a hundred yards from the portside. A playful plesiosaur calf reared its head and let a bellowing squawk play across the waves and the ship, the animal rolling and collapsing back into the water with a shunt of foam as its flipper smacked against the swell. More plesiosaurs surfaced, larger and closer creatures; they barked and arched up there necks, mighty chests plowing through the foam before sharp heads dived with swan-like grace, leading the vast maroon bulk of the creatures back into the expanse of ocean.
"It's good luck" someone shouted out to the traveling pair. The sailor was young, with a grease-licked face and work-blackened fingers "The monsters only come up when the sealurk are asleep"
"What about Teuthida?" Maecort probed, inquisitive. The young sailor shook his head.
"Not this time of year, this far north" He said absently, pausing he added "We'll make the island by sundown, Presaria City tomorrow evening".
Maecort nodded.
"You're from America, right? Are you NCR?" The sailor asked, his curiosity a struggle between his manly form and boyish age. The question chilled Kelley, but Maecort smiled and nodded politely.
"We had NCR once before, when they first came down here. Now they charter Presaria Navy cutters from off the coast, or steam direct, except for you two, of course."
Maecort looked out to sea, and said softly "We know".
Dinner was taken in a passengers galley aft of the steerage quarter. They were basic meals, prepared and preserved for weeks at sea, although mixed in with fresh fruit and meats presumably from Flinders island or perhaps Barrow. A few other passengers were about, although Kelley and Maecort had done there best to avoid contact with them. There was some manner of professor, Maecort had noted, who spent copious time scribbling longhand onto blank pages, entirely untroubled by the roll of the ocean in a way only a truly occupied person may ignore the world about them. Others, perhaps a teacher, and some rougher working types who mixed well with the crew. The pair had so far survived quite comfortably with there cover story, that they were a married couple from NCR coming to see a friend who has work for them. There was a friend, of course, although his cover was far more elaborate after almost a decade living in the city. They made themselves discreet, and hoped they would be passed off as engineers or surveyors, something educated but still practical, although there exact professions were never asked after. A natural suspicion of that foreign and alien was a necessary survival skill, regardless of your origin in the wastes.
Eating, Kelley felt the sound of the ship change subtly, pricking his ears up. Maecorts eyes caught his alert stance, and pulled back, curious.
Something hard struck the hull.
The impact was not enough to throw; rather the jar of something large forcing its way past something equally heavy. There was a clatter on the steel, and for a moment the bulkhead beyond the galley creaked as something pushed directly against it before tumbling further aft and disappearing, clicking and scraping like a comb raking across it. A mechanical bell tolled loudly, and the ships foghorn emitted a sudden bleat, filling the silent air with dread. Kelley grabbed Maecort by the wrist and ran topside.
Sailors were everywhere, running in formations of four or five, most holding lanterns or electric flashlights, some boatpoles and hooks, some readying long-barrelled nook rifles as they jogged to there posts, glancing over the railing and into the murky swell. The deckgun was manned, with a team of loaders poised above a thin magazine hatch ready to cycle rounds into the weapon with the efficency of a steam engine. A large electric floodlight spat a wide cone of white light out over the ocean, compensating for the mere hint of blue still visable after the sun had dropped nearly an hour before. The air was cold – colder than what Kelley recalled from only half an hour before – and wind constant as the ship powered on.
Shouts started coming, echoed up the deck by the chain of soldiers forming the defences.
"Three hundred meters, Portside, Black lump in the water!" Kelley felt compelled to join in the chorus, narrating the scene as if from a bizarre pantomime.
A call was relayed back from the Captain to the deck gun: "Light it up!"
The gun fired; a blurred beat of bass thumps, the flashing of yellow and white that burst out from the nose of the ship, apparently simultaneous with an explosion of foam and sparks as the shells detonated into the waves. The loading team cycled the breach in a moment, slotting a clutch of foot-long en bloc rounds into the metallic magazine well. The breach snapped closed and the master shouted "Gun ready". Already the gun had a target, and fired again, angling further down, closer to the bow of the ship, spearing into the choppy surface. The gun thumped, recoiling with each blast, rounds impacting the sea with explosion of foam towering above the deck. Steaming brass shells rattled out over the deck, clattering about the feet of the sailors.
Below them, in the water, something moaned. A long, terrible bellow.
Kelley and Maecort came to the gunwale, straining their eyes to see in the darkness, the cone of the deckgun floodlight highlighting nothing but surf and rolling waves. Sailors bent over the railings, hanging there heavy, boxy flashlights over the edge, probing the wake at the waterline.
And then something surfaced. It was jet black, and glinted light with a sheen greater than what water may have imposed upon it, shimmering as a long hump rose up just shy of the vessel, obviously unfettered by the turbulent weight of the passing ship. It rose almost ten foot above the water, slowly sloping back to make the entire shape more than a hundred feet long, a stretched ovoid paralleling the ship no more than fourty yards out.
The creature rolled. The jet black represented some manner of crustacean carapace, evidenced by three heavy worn, fist sized holes that had been blasted through it, scored deeply into the armored beast. As it curled and flipped in the water, the shell ended with an abrupt overhand, revealing a deeply grooved chitinous thorax studded with a dozen legs, each backward- hinged at a mid-point (to call them knees is a stretch), spasming at the sky. The water beside the beast boiled for a moment as a claw pulled through the surface, arching up as the creature inverted; the claw was at least half the length of its massive body, slender and bladed and sharp enough to puncture the skin of a ship; a horrific weapon.
It's mouth broke the waterline, and was anything but crustacean; it wailed through a sea of razor teeth an a bulbous, scaly black tongue, segmented armor lips peeling open to reveal the depth of the dark chasm; a monstrous aberration of man and beast – an abhorrent nuclear mutation of flesh. And a single eye; itself too human, a white bulb threaded with orange veins, an iris of stone grey and a dark pupil – piercing in its gaze, sweeping across the outline of the ship with an evil, profane intellect.
It moaned, deep and loud, a warble of distinct pain.
The sailors fired. The nook rifles blurted out a flurry of sabot, shredding into the soft belly of the listing creature. Its moans became howls, spastic and ill controlled, a high-pitched strain like pressurized gas escaping an open bottle. The creature stayed buoyant for a mere moment more, its eye still sliding across the vessel, then slowly it subsided, sinking below the swell.
Maecort fell asleep, finally, in the early hours. Kelley was awake until sun breached the horizon above the fog-skirted coastline of Tasmania, listening to the sound of the ocean below the ship, and the miles left to travel.