You jump into the water before one of the older kids can push you in. They’ve no patience with pupas, particularly with pupas what are scared of water -- like, you just watched a tall olive punt Hester Amayye off the dock because he was sick of Hester’s snivelling.
And, like, you could totally have told her snivelling wouldn’t help. It doesn’t matter that your whole cohort’s never been in water over your heads before, never been out of the baby hives and their shallow pools, ‘cause in a few weeks? The fishery hives are gonna pick apprentices, and nobody wants to bid on a new ‘prentice who can’t swim.
If you don’t get ‘prenticed, you’re on your own for finding a way to make money beyond whatever stipend you get, and most kids in the baby hives don’t have that big of a stipend.You certainly don’t. But it’s fine, because, like, you’ve been practicing your swimming, and how hard can it be?
You smash through the surface hard enough to hurt your stomach, but -- it’s a hot night, and the water’s deliciously cool.
Cautiously, you open your eyes -- the big kids said it would sting, but it doesn’t really. All around you, everything is blue-green and shimmery and kinda blurry? Anything more than a few feet away fades into darker blue and then into black, but you can still see okay up close. You’re already bobbing back up towards the surface, but you push yourself back down because --
You have the weirdest feeling?
Somewhere out in the deep, beyond where you can see... something is listening. You know it is. It heard you get into the water, and now all its attention is on you, which should be creepy? It’s not, though. It just feels -- focused.
It takes a lot more effort than you’d think to keep yourself from floating up, but you curl your toes into the sandy floor of the bay. The sand slides away under your feet and over on top of them until they’re buried, and then you just huddle there, hugging yourself, cheeks puffed out with air and eyes bugged out with trying to see... what? Something. Something big and old and watchful.
Besides that feeling of being noticed, you don’t see or hear anything before your lungs finally start burning and you have to claw your way to the surface again. But just for a second, just before your ears come out of the water, you think you hear a deep, old, far-off voice say Ah.
Then you pop back into the air with a splash, and Hester’s clinging to the edge of the dock and crying and the big olive is teasing her and the other pupas are trying to drag themselves out and someone says, “Hey, how long were you under?”
And that’s what you remember, mostly, of that night: you stayed under for two-and-a-half minutes, longer than everyone else in your cohort. You’re very proud of that, and it’s not until sweeps later until you remember that odd feeling, and wonder about it.
“So, kid,” says Sernya, long legs crossed in front of them. “Not partying?”
You look up from the nets and shake your head. “No, cap’n.”
“Hmm.” A pause. “Why not?”
You hesitate. The two of you are the only ones here in Sernya’s dockhive, Ephesi House compared to the thirty or so trolls that are usually onshift and ashore at any given time. Outside? It’s pretty quiet. The festival’s mostly up by Market and higher, where the highbloods live and tourists stay. But if you pay close attention: distant music and chatter, the smell of frying fish wafting even all the way down here. The rest of Sernya’s crew is out there. So’s Daaeme, and all of your neighbors, and some lusii – not your mami, of course, or any of the others who are too big to walk the crowded streets. You should be out there, though. Double-full moons only happen once a sweep: even if nobody calls it a holy night anymore, it’s supposed to be good luck to go. Daaeme said you should go. You planned to go!
But when you hit the top of the Market stairs, you saw all these clustered stalls and booths, crowding each other and the original buildings. Saw the masses of people talking, jostling, eating, laughing, shouting, singing, kissing, fighting, running – and something in you just stopped. Wouldn’t take another step. Just thinking of trying to walk into that crowd – let alone find Daaeme or your crewmates in it – made your throat close up bigtime. For some reason you found yourself thinking there’s no air down there, and then you turned around, walked back down the stairs, went to the dockhive, and got to work mending the nets like it was any other night when you were stuck ashore.
Not that you’d tell Sernya that, of course. Sernya’s like thirteen sweeps at least, and your boss, and cooler than anyone you know. Admitting that you ran like a coward from nothing scarier than a crowd? That’d be almost as bad as actually heading out there. So instead you scramble for a different reason and end up blurting, “Um, like, I’m not a Lunaire? Cap’n,” you add hastily.
Sernya laughs. “Neither is anyone out there, if you ask.”
Your ears heat up and you quickly check to make sure they’re covered by your hair and bandana. Everybody knows that the Culte Lunaire doesn’t exist anymore, since it’s not an Empire-approved religion. Everybody also knows that at least two thirds of the city’s population is in the cult. But that’s not something you’re supposed to talk about.
“I get what you’re saying, though.” Sernya fiddles with the chain of the necklace they always keep tucked into their shirt. “Sometimes all the pageantry can be a bit… much.”
You nod gratefully. It gets quiet for a bit.
Then Sernya stands up. “You geared up, kiddo?”
“I–” What? “Yes, cap’n!”
“Good. C’mon, we’re going out.”
“Uh – sorry, cap’n, just us?”
“We’ll take the Éclat.” They’re strapping on sandals, slinging a lanyard around their neck. “Get a move on. It’ll be open water.”
Your eyes get big, but you don’t say anything, just stow the nets and scramble after them. Every so often, Sernya takes their first mate or one of the other senior sailors out on the Éclat de l'Impératrice alors qu’elle daigne conquérir, their wicked-fast, two-troll sloop. They really only do that for the big races in the dim season, and getting chosen to sail with them is a big deal. You’ve never heard of someone going with them at any other time, or before sailing on the big boat for at least three sweeps. You haven’t even been on the crew a full sweep yet. Your palms start sweating.
Down at the pier, Sernya unlocks the Éclat from its berth, raises the mast, and holds the boat steady while you awkwardly haul yourself onboard. There’s not a proper deck on a boat this small – you have to sit on one side and make sure the sail and the heavy, horizontal bar of the boom are pushed to the other so that the whole boat doesn’t tip straight over. “This is a lot more sensitive than a bigger vessel,” Sernya tells you seriously. “Don’t pull on the mainsheet, or you will start us moving before I’m on, and no way in hell are you ready to sail alone. So don’t. Got it?” You gulp and bob your head. “Good. I’d just have you tow us out, but you’re, what, a meter tall?”
You’re a hundred and thirty centimeters, actually, but you keep your mouth shut. Sernya loops their fingers through the bow handle and wades out into the harbor, towing the boat behind them. The sail drifts slowly back and forth, and a narrow rope hits you in the back of the head – the mainsheet, being pulled by the sail instead of the other way around this time. It’s not moving much, though, not enough to pick up any speed. As long as you don’t pull hard on the mainsheet, and a gust of wind doesn’t come up, you should be fine. You should be fine. You should be fine.
(But what if you’re not, what if you mess up –)
You’re clearing the last row of buoys now, and nearly out of the bay itself; Sernya’s swimming, but still towing the boat. They let go and paddle around to the side of the boat. “Get ready,” they tell you. Then they brace their hands flat on the boat’s surface and boost themself up.
The Éclat lists wildly for a moment, but you lean back hard, out over the water, and balance Sernya’s weight until they can settle in the tiny bench by the tiller. “Grab the sheet, kid. Don’t wrap your hands in it, remember, that’s a great way to fuck things up.”
Sernya pushes the tiller far out to the right – to starboard – trying to turn the boat in the water; gingerly, you take the mainsheet in both hands and start pulling it in. Rope rattles through the little pulleys on the boom, and the sail angles towards you, gently swelling with wind…
And you start moving slowly through the water, the same wind plucking at your bandana, drifting at an angle towards the bay’s mouth. Normally the harbor is swarming with sloops and coracles and there are trolls stationed to keep an eye on the traffic – but everyone’s at the festival. The Éclat’s the only thing on the water.
The rocks at the baymouth are very close now, and when you glance at Sernya, they’re grinning. “Ready for the fun part?”
Tha-THUMP goes your bloodpusher. You nod.
“Coming about, then. Watch your horns.” They push the tiller in the opposite direction and both of you duck as the Éclat turns and the boom swings over your heads. You hastily scramble for the other side of the boat to keep the weight balanced again, and slowly, slowly the Éclat drifts out of the protection of the rocks.
Sernya licks their lips. “Almost…”
It’s more sudden than you thought would have been possible. The wind, blowing over nothing but open water, fills the sail with a snap, drags a foot of the mainsheet through your grip before you think to hold tighter – the boat pulls out to sea in a sudden burst of speed, then slows down.
“Haul in!” shouts Sernya, so you brace yourself and haul hard on the mainsheet, dragging the boom and sail back towards you. The canvas bells out, taut and straining, and the Éclat begins to tilt towards the water on the sail’s side, cutting through the waves faster and faster. Spray slaps you in the face – bigger waves soak your feet. “Haul in!” Sernya calls again, and you gulp but you haul in, and the Éclat lists more steeply, Sernya sitting on the boat’s side next to you – though the boat is at a forty-five-degree angle now, and both of you are nearly standing, and you are going so fast. The wind snatches the bandana from your head, flings it out across the water, and Sernya’s laughing, has pushed the tiller as far towards the sail side as they can. Looking out past the prow of the boat, all you can see is the jagged line of the coast, the deep blue of the sea and darker blue of the sky, the green and violet light of the moons – your lungs are full to bursting, the wind fills them like it fills the sail. A grin stretches your face until your cheeks hurt. Your hair flies into your eyes. If the Éclat lists much further, she will capsize, you know, you’ve seen it happen. But you and Sernya and the wind and the sea, you are all keeping the Éclat balanced between you – and she cuts through the water like a knife through butter. The horizon has never been so far away, but all the same, it pulls on you. Somewhere out there is something for you, somewhere out there is freedom – all you have to do is go get it.
*
You don’t capsize the Éclat that night, but you and Sernya are both battered, draggled, and soaked to the skin with spray by the time you get the boat stowed away and head back to Ephesi House, several hours later. You’re so tired that every bone in your body aches, but you can’t stop smiling – even Sernya’s looking pleased around the pipe tucked between their teeth.
Up by Market, the festival’s still going on – will go on ‘til dawn and after. Nobody’s around except an oliveblood staggering, drunk, into the dockhive next to Sernya’s. You wring your hair out and shove it out of your face as Sernya unlocks the door.
“Go scrub down, kid,” they tell you. One callused hand lands on your head briefly. “You did good.” And they’re gone off into their own respiteblock, before you have time to stammer out a thanks, a farewell, anything to express the joy and pride bubbling in your chest.
(Later, Daaeme’s going to ask why you ditched her at the festival – going to try to pick a fight about it, actually. But for once, it won’t work: because you sailed a racing boat, because Sernya Ephesi said you did good, because the horizon is calling your name, and you can’t wait to answer.)
██████ “Taz” ██████ 8.5 sweeps || 18.42 years1133 words
Yeah, no, if you’ve had worse ideas none of them are coming to mind right now. You’re standing across the street from your target and, like – it’s a seedy coffeeshop. One of those all-day places that cater to stoners and overworked apinerds. The windows haven’t been washed in six sweeps, easy. The faded, peeling sign says BRE D AKENIN. It’s not intimidatingly shady, just kinda washed-up and sad. But if you’re right about its owner, it’s a lot more dangerous than it looks – and the thought of heading in there is closing your throat off and setting your pumpbiscuit into samba-mode. You go to wipe sweaty palms on your slacks, remember that these pants cost more than a rustblood’s monthly stipend, and stop yourself just in time. If I stay here much longer, someone’s gonna notice me, and then I’m fucked. It’s now or never. You square your shoulders, take a deep breath, and charge across the street and in through the coffeeshop’s door.
Inside, it looks worse than outside. Grime on the floors so thick your footsteps almost leave an impression, a gross smell lingering in the air. No one at the rickety metal tables or behind the sagging counter. The coffeepot you can see from here is crusted and disgusting, which, ew, the lack of customers must be a blessing in disguise. For a second, you falter – you were expecting at least a dead-eyed kid at the register – but you catch yourself before your momentum totally dies, stride across the floor, and slam your hands down on the counter as hard as you can. “Hey, asshole!” Your voice is pitched for boats and open water; in this tiny shop, it’s way too loud, but you refuse to flinch. “Anyone here, or can I help myself to your inventory?”
There’s a muffled curse and a clatter from the back block. The kid who stumbles out is… honest-to-God, he’s wearing a pinstripe zoot suit. Your age, maybe a smidge older. Got his hair slicked back so hard you can see the contours of his skull. There’s a lit cigar dangling from his fingers, which explains the stench in here. Who’s he trying to be, Troll Al Capone? This is looking like a worse idea by the second.
“The fuck you want?” snaps the kid.
“Classy,” you drawl. “That how you treat all your customers?”
He stubs his cigar out on the counter. “Customers buy shit, toots. You haven’t. Gonna change that? Because otherwise–”
“Toots? Seriously?” You quirk an eyebrow. Calm. Cool. Collected. “Seriously.”
“Oh, I get it,” Wannabe Kingpin says, fake-enlightened. “You get your rocks off on bitching at us service-industry droids, yeah, wow, original, sorry your kismesis won’t put out, maybe talk to them about that before drone season.”
You bare your teeth, leaning hard on the counter. “I know it’s tough to think about someone other than yourself for five seconds, but just try, okay? I’m not actually here for you. Or your no-doubt shitty coffee.”
He takes a drag of his cigar and shoots you a disbelieving look. Exhales the smoke into your face.
Your molars grind together. “I want a job,” you spit out. You’re not even sure you do want a job anymore, not with this guy. But you came all this way.
Wannabe sniffs. “Ain’t hiring.”
“Oh, you’re hiring. Maybe not to pour coffee, and obviously not to clean, God, have you ever heard of a mop? You’re going to hire me for your real business.”
Is it just you, or did his eyes narrow? “The fuck you on about, girl?”
“Your operation’s sloppy. I wasn’t even looking and I figured it out, how do you think it’d stand up to an inspection from the policeradicators?”
“I don’t know what you’re–”
“Oh, spare me.” You sweep a hand around the filthy, abandoned store. “Dude, this shop is obviously a front. I know you’re smuggling colony imports and God knows what else. Drugs? Contraband? All of the abo–”
You’re cut off by a rattle and a click – and suddenly find yourself staring down the barrel of a sawn-off shotgun. “You want to think very carefully,” the kid says, cold and deliberate, “about what you plan to do from here.”
You put your hands up and hope it’s not obvious that your pump biscuit just took up residence in your throat. “Look, ass–” Taz, do not insult the man aiming a gun at you. “–buddy. If I wanted to turn you in, I’d have done it already. And blackmail tends to work best if you don’t get in murder-range of your victim, huh? All I want is a job.”
Wannabe gives a short, humorless laugh and readjusts his grip on the gun. “Why the fuck should I hire you?”
“Like I said, you’re sloppy as fuck.” Your voice is so calm and even, it hardly seems to belong to you. “I’m not. I’m organized, I’m efficient, I’m driven, and I’ve been around boats and import centres since I was pupated. I can whip your gang into shape in a perigree. Hell, why do you think you’ve never heard of me?”
“Because you’re a nobody?”
He’s right, but you don’t let yourself react. “Because I’m that good, dumbass.” What was that about not insulting the guy with the gun again? Dammit. “I’m a fixer. I’m what you need to get out of the small-times and into jobs that’ll actually pay.” You cannot afford any self-doubt right now. You stare this scrawny kid in the eye, and you lower your hands, and you hold one out for him to shake. “Name’s Taz,” you say. “Your new best chum in the whole wide world.”
The kid looks at your hand. A clock ticks somewhere in the shop: five seconds pass. Ten.
A bead of sweat rolls down your spine.
Fifteen seconds.
Twenty.
Then, finally, he reaches out and grips your hand – tries to crush it, actually, the fucking poser. You just shake firmly, because you’re an adult. “Come back tomorrow,” he says. “Back door, an hour before dawn. You’ll be on probation first and if you fuck up on probation, you’re gonna make intimate acquaintance with my clademate here.” He waggles the gun. “Being late counts as fucking up. Now get the hell out of my shop.”
You fire off a salute, too Fleet-perfect to be anything but a fuck-you. “Sir, yes, sir.” Then you turn on your heel and walk out without looking back, even though your shoulderblades itch under his stare and your palms sweat so much you almost can’t open the door.
Of course, it could all be just a chance for him and his crew to clear out. Or set up an ambush. But as you trek back towards the flophive you’ve rented, there’s a spring in your step and a glint in your eye that there wasn’t earlier. For better or worse, you’re on your way.
