It was early Thursday evening, and Maura was tapping her pen against pursed lips as she sat in her small office, trying to solve the problem of rationing ten days' worth of propane for three weeks until the next Australian transport vessel was scheduled to arrive. It was easier to conserve fuel in the summer, but this winter had been unusually cool and rainy; people stayed home, kept generators running.
She sighed. She didn't want to have to ask people to give up their comfort, since they had so little else, but she didn't have many options.
She picked up the small black radio handset on her desk, as she always did when she got a little desperate about supplies, even though it never came to anything. Flicked through to the maritime hailing channel just in case.
"This is K7IDZ Seabrook, looking for ships in the water. Repeat, K7IDZ Seabrook, looking for ships. 47.19 north, 124.19 west."
The familiar crackle and hiss of dead air.
"Repeat, K7IDZ Seabrook, anybody sailing today?"
Nothing.
She sighed, set the handset back on the receiver.
Went back to her list of generators. Tried to decide which they could all live without for a while.
After fifteen minutes of debating between daytime electricity blackouts or limiting heated water use for anything other than cooking, she threw up her hands, stuffed her papers into her canvas bag, and went home.
A few minutes later, in the dark of the office, a sharp crackle came across the radio.
"K7IDZ Seabrook, this is MV Ivan Grozny, are you hearing? MV Ivan Grozny, we are three days sail from your location. I repeat, this is MV Ivan Grozny; do you require assistance? We are three days from your location."
There was a long pause, and then the soft click of the channel closing.
Maura hadn't been avoiding Brenda entirely on purpose, but she'd suddenly found a lot to do out of the village.
She'd spent Friday making rounds on her bicycle to a few of the residents who preferred to live a bit farther out, just to check in. Saturday was a regular clinic day but there hadn't been any patients, so she'd hidden herself in her office and ducked out early. On Sunday she turned the clinic over to Katie and caught a ride on the back of a small scooter for the twenty-mile trip to the Flower Farm, a broad swath of fields used to grow feed for the livestock at the Big Farm a few miles farther away. The Flower Farm also maintained several acres of half-tamed wildflowers and native medicinal plants; a riot of vegetation in the summer, bees humming to and from their complex of hives, but now, in the doldrums of late January, it was all mostly just a sodden, muddy plain.
"Thank you, Julie," she said to the woman who'd given her the ride out. Julie was the Flower Farm's administrator, a former home-improvement store employee who'd always dreamed of having her own space. She oversaw the dozen or so people who helped run and maintain the farm, though only three or four at a time in the off season.
"Always a pleasure to have you here, Dr. Isles," Julie nodded. "Remind me to pack up some stuff for you to take back to town."
Stuff meant honey and chunks of comb and a variety of beeswax; fragile, beautiful hexagonal sheets, thick yellow lumps, a few tubs of filtered, translucent soft wax for medicinal use, sometimes tiny pots of royal jelly. Some small bales of dried alfalfa for the scattering of goats closer to town. A burlap sack of chicken feed, brought over from the Big Farm.
She'd catch a ride back before dinner with one of the day workers, traveling to and fro in the tiny, sputtering, propane-powered cart with a small wagon attached.
There was no pressing business that brought her out to the farm, but she liked to visit everywhere they'd settled every few weeks, and she was close enough to overdue that she felt fine about choosing today to drop by.
And if it meant more distance between her and Brenda, that was perfectly all right too.
Maura knew she couldn't find excuses to avoid the other woman forever, but she could certainly try it for a little while, at least. Until her pulse stopped racing every time she thought of her, at least. Yes, that was perfectly all right.
"Hi, Dr. Isles," Max, one of the beekeepers who spent most of her time at the farm, waved from her workbench where she was repairing a hive. She waved back. She truly did enjoy these visits; she loved seeing people she didn't see every day, loved to remind herself of all they'd accomplished together since they'd arrived.
Jane had done most of the early work, assigning people to tasks based on their ability and interest. She'd made these trips for the first couple of years, until her failing memory and body had made it impossible. Still, traces of her persisted. Buildings she'd helped construct. A bed of peonies at the edge of the fields, which had been a surprise for Maura. A small shed housing cutting tools, the words NO JANES ALLOWED carved into the door, a private joke Maura had never fully understood, but still made her smile.
She was about to head out to visit the hives when Julie came running over. "Dr. Isles," she called.
"Yes?"
"Someone on the radio for you."
Maura frowned, rushed back into the office, visions of injuries swimming in her head. Picked up the radio.
"This is Dr. Isles," she said breathlessly. "Is everything all right?"
"Hi Dr. Isles, it's Katie," her voice crackled through the small speaker. "Everyone's fine, but there's, um, there's a ship coming?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Molly Andrews was out at the beach with her kids and they saw a ship. Pierre and Matthieu went to check and it's, um, it's definitely a ship."
"But we're not expecting them for at least two weeks," Maura said, her frown deepening. In the seven years since they'd started communicating with the wider world the ships had never been early. Sometimes frighteningly late, in the case of one particularly bad flu season, but never early.
"That's why I called you."
"Anything on our radio?"
"Nothing I heard. Pierre says it looks like it's about two hours away."
"All right," Maura said, "I'll be back as soon as I can. Have Pierre work on hailing them. I'd like to know who they are."
"Copy," Katie said, and the radio went silent.
"Julie—" Maura began, an apologetic smile on her face, but Julie was already wearing her helmet. "Thank you," she said.
"Always love cargo day," Julie grinned.
Maura smiled, but she couldn't help the little tendrils of worry that threaded through her.
The ride back into town felt endless. The little scooter could only travel so fast, and the winter weather made the roads misty and slick.
Maura worried the entire way. The faint panic she'd felt when she'd first seen Dr. Morales leaning against his battered car before she'd known who he was, that sudden, familiar uncertainty, had settled firmly in her chest.
The ships were never early.
She racked her brain, hoping to convince herself it was somehow possible she'd forgotten some message, but knew she hadn't.
The old fear. The crushing one. She tried to breathe calmly, smoothly, but between the wind on her face and a rush of ugly memories overtaking her she felt her throat constricting, her entire body tensing up. It had been so long, almost a decade, it had been so quiet, so peaceful. But that could change at any moment. She knew.
Calm down, Maura, she chided herself. It's just a ship. What if this is the year they come early?
But why hadn't they radioed?
They'd established relationships with three or four different vessels, hulking cargo ships that had to anchor hundreds of yards out and pilot their small outboard tenders to the tiny marina. But they always made early, frequent radio contact, not stopping until someone in Seabrook answered.
This ship had just . . . appeared.
The scooter shuddered to a stop in front of the clinic. Maura stepped off, handed Julie back the spare helmet, gave her a quick hug. "Thank you," she said again. "I'm so sorry you had to make the trip twice."
"Nothing much going on out there today," Julie shrugged. "Plus these folks might bring us some good stuff."
"I hope so," Maura said with a tight smile. She gave Julie a little wave as she headed into the clinic.
Katie was waiting by the reception desk, her face impassive. Maura felt her gut twist.
"Pierre made contact," Katie said without prelude. "They're Russian."
"All right," Maura said, as calmly as she could.
"He's in the office."
"Thank you, Katie, for calling me."
Katie nodded. There was a hint of Maura's own anxiety in her eyes.
"It'll be okay," Maura said, putting her hand on Katie's shoulder.
Katie just shrugged.
In the office, Pierre was staring at the radio.
"Bonjour, Pierre," Maura said. He jumped.
"Ah, hello. Yes, I have made contact. The MV Ivan Grozny."
"A Russian ship."
"At least it is a ship full of Russians."
"Did they say why they were here?"
Pierre frowned. "They say they get a radio call from us three days past."
Maura met his frown with her own. "I did put out a call," she said slowly. "But nobody answered."
"Désolé, Doctor, but they did not say much. Just that they get a call from us and they will be here very soon."
Maura didn't say anything, her brow furrowing.
"It is not so weird, that they would not say much. I work with a Russian man once, he said very little. Drank very much. I could not tell you if he was a nice man, but, c'est ça."
"Thank you, Pierre," she said, her words a bit clipped. "Can you please get Matthieu and Andrea and the others, and go down to the marina?"
"You would like us to bring guns?"
Maura stiffened. They had weapons, she often thought too many, but they were tightly controlled; they had a few town guards, especially when newcomers came, but not once in Seabrook's new history had a gun been fired for anything other than food, and she felt queasy at the idea of it now. But there was something about this moment that she didn't trust.
"Yes, please," she murmured. And then, as he was leaving, "avec discretion, s'il vous plait." The last thing she needed was a town full of panicked residents. She was certain news of the ship had already gotten out—either people had heard, or seen, or both—and a contingent of armed neighbors would only make things frightening and complicated.
He nodded. "Oui, madame."
She sat at her desk for a moment, fingers knit tightly together under her chin. Stared blankly, too overwhelmed with anxiety and half-emerged fear and the need to keep all of it under control to think clearly.
Katie knocked gently at the door, and she jumped.
"Sorry," Katie said.
"No, please," Maura offered a thin smile.
"Is everything okay?"
Maura paused for a moment, not sure of how she wanted to answer. But she'd known Katie for so many years, had relied on her, trusted her.
"I don't know," she said. "I hope so."
Katie nodded. "Is there anything I can do?"
Maura sighed, closed her eyes, certain of what she needed but desperately wishing there was any other answer. When none came to her, she ran her fingers through her hair, braced her hands on the desk.
"Would you please go find Brenda Johnson for me?"
Katie started, looked at Maura with slight disbelief.
In that moment Maura knew that Katie knew. Couldn't think about that right now.
"Quick as you can," she said.
"Uh—yeah, of course. We'll be right down."
Katie exited silently, leaving the door open. Maura sighed again, heavily, dropped her head into her hands.
Pull yourself together.
This wasn't how she'd hoped to see Brenda again—part of her hoped she'd be able to avoid her entirely, forever—but Maura needed her help. Had a dark feeling that everyone would need her help.
A sharp rap on the door startled Brenda out of her half-doze. "Coming," she shouted, wincing slightly as she moved just a little too quickly.
The bruise on her chest had bloomed into half a dozen different colors, but it didn't hurt nearly so much now. The collarbone was a different story, but at least she could breathe comfortably. She smoothed at her hair, straightened her cardigan, adjusted her sling.
"Well hello," she said as she opened the door, a wide smile plastered on her face.
It fell immediately when she saw Katie's expression, worried and serious.
"Dr. Isles needs to see you downstairs right away," she said without greeting.
Brenda's breath caught in her throat. She felt warmth spreading across her chest, up her cheeks, cursed herself for it once again. Read the urgency in Katie's voice, though.
"Just let me put some shoes on," she said, moving back into the bedroom, slipping on her ancient, half-destroyed Converse sneakers. "Lead the way."
Katie took her down the central staircase, then back behind the reception desk. Stopped at a half-open door.
Brenda took as deep a breath as she could as Katie pushed it open, revealing Maura sitting at a desk, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white.
"Hello Brenda," she said, unable to hide the slight strain in her voice, but Brenda couldn't quite tell what it was from.
"Hello, Dr. Isles," she replied, trying to match Maura's attempt at evenness.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I think I need your help."
"Anything," Brenda said quickly. Too quickly, she half-thought.
"We've just learned a ship is approaching," Maura said. "We weren't expecting it, and we were unable to make radio contact until just a little while ago."
"I see."
"It's a Russian ship."
"Oh," Brenda said, feeling a cold jolt in her chest.
"The . . . um, the MV Ivan Grozny."
"Ivan the Terrible," Brenda muttered.
"I'm sorry?"
Brenda cleared her throat. "It means 'Ivan the Terrible.'"
"Oh," Maura said. "I can't say that gives me much confidence."
"Don't you worry too much about that," Brenda said, trying to keep her voice light, though she began to feel a quiver of anxiety in her stomach. "Practically everywhere in Russia's got an Ivan Grozny something or other. Once I saw an Ivan the Terrible dog groomer."
Maura smiled wanly. "Thank you," she whispered; even though Katie could certainly hear it, Brenda got the sense that it was just for her, and she felt herself warm a tiny bit. "Pierre—he was on the first research vessel we made contact with years ago—he was the one who hailed them; he said they weren't very talkative—"
"Typical," Brenda mumbled.
"—but that they were definitely Russian, and that they'll be here in—" she glanced at her watch—"possibly the next half-hour."
"And I'm the translator?"
Maura nodded. "If you think you can."
Brenda couldn't help her pout. "'Course I can," she said. "I've been told I speak like a local. Well. Maybe thirty years ago. But still, I think I can handle at least a few introductions."
"I don't know how necessary a perfect Muscovite accent will be in this situation," Maura said, perhaps a little less charitably than she could have before catching herself. "But thank you. And Brenda, if you could—" she glanced at Katie, who nodded once and left the room, Brenda remembering having those kinds of understandings, feeling a sudden, inopportune pang of sadness about her squad.
"I don't know who these people are, or what they want," Maura said once Katie had left, her voice serious, a little frightened. The edge of fear to it made Brenda's gut twist tighter. "We have regular supply ships, but they're on a schedule, and they always contact us weeks out. This ship appeared today; apparently they heard a broadcast I made a few days ago, but I didn't get a response then."
Brenda nodded, listening carefully.
"So I'm afraid I don't have any idea what we're dealing with."
"Well," Brenda said lightly, easily, "that's where I come in."
Maura's shoulders dropped. "Thank you," she said again, her voice soft. "I'm so sorry if this puts you in an awkward position—"
"Maura," Brenda said, "first off, you know I'll do anything to help, uh, out," she said, thankful she hadn't said help you. "Second, you got any other Russian speakers around here?" Maura shook her head. "Then ain't no position too awkward."
She blushed.
Maura blushed. "We should go," she said.
"Yes ma'am. Do I need to bring anything?"
Maura eyed her. "I've got a better jacket for you," she said, crossing to a tall white cabinet and pulling out a thick wool trench coat. Brenda slid her free arm into it, letting her sling rest beneath. "I always liked these," she said.
"It looks good. I mean, um, you look authoritative. Which will help. With the meeting," Maura stammered, before fading out, looking slightly embarrassed.
Brenda smiled gently, kindly. "Well, gospozha," she said. "Let's go meet some Russians."