Greg Weisman - Rain of the Ghosts

Miller’s smiling head bobbed. “Cool.”

Once aboard the shuttle, Rain and Charlie (and an invisible ’Bastian) stuck close to a mom and her two young children. The mom smiled at the teens and wondered if they were traveling alone—and why they had no shoes—but to everyone else it looked as if they were under her supervision. The voyage home was uneventful.

At the docks, where the fog had lifted but the rain persisted, a sailor was collecting I.D. badges from each passenger as he or she debarked. As prearranged, Rain and Charlie waved across the boat to Dusanek and told the sailor that they had already given their badges to the ensign. Dusanek waved back, and the sailor let them pass. Later, if asked, Dusanek would claim he had no idea who those kids were: they waved, so he waved back. That was the plan, anyway. In fact, Dusanek was never asked. Nevertheless, Miller would now owe him one.

Ashore, Charlie tugged his damp t-shirt away from his slim chest and said, “It’s getting late.”

Rain said, “If it weren’t raining, we’d be at the party, and there’s no way our parents would expect us home by now.”

“But it is raining.”

“You’re not really going to cut out?”

“I just said, it’s late. I didn’t say I was ditching.”

“Good.” She turned to ’Bastian. “Where to?”

Out on the open sea north of the Ghosts, Callahan shut off the Bootstrap ’s engine, worrying briefly about his ability to restart it later. Damn thing’s been acting up. He walked onto the deck and waited in the rain. At least the bloody typhoon has passed. His left hand gripped and regripped a small leather pouch inside his pocket.

Right on schedule, another cabin cruiser approached. Callahan strained to catch its markings, but as soon as it got close, the new boat flicked on a spotlight, shining it right in Callahan’s face. Callahan shielded his eyes with his right arm. He tried to make out the figure behind the light, as the boat pulled alongside him. But all he could see was a dark male silhouette.

The silhouette called out, “Callahan?”

“Yeah. You, Setebos?”

“Yes.”

“Shut off that light, mate; you’re blindin’ me.”

“No. Do you have the zemi ?”

Callahan was annoyed by the man’s dismissive tone and prissy English accent. But the Aussie wasn’t there to make friends. “I’ve got it.”

“Toss it over. Carefully.”

“Money first.”

“Fine.”

Callahan couldn’t see but heard the thump of a package at his feet. He bent down, turning his back to the light and blinked a few hundred times until he could focus his eyes on the leather doctor’s bag before him. He snapped it open. It was full of one hundred dollar bills. He took his time counting.

The voice called out: “The zemi , Mr. Callahan.”

Callahan ignored him and continued his count. Finally, satisfied that his payment— 50K American— had been received in full, he wheeled about quickly and tossed the leather pouch to the next boat. He saw two leather-gloved hands fumble for it, and half-hoped that this Setebos would bobble the thing into the ocean. Could charge a pretty penny to retrieve it all over again. But the hands secured the pouch and removed the armband. The golden snakes caught the light.

The voice said, “And you’re sure this is the original?”

“Yeah, of course.” It was only after he spoke that a wave of doubt swept over Callahan. The girl didn’t… She couldn’t have… The doubts led him down a less than profitable path, so he quickly pushed them out of his head.

The voice betrayed some pleasure. “Good work, Mr. Callahan. One down. Eight to go.”

“Same price.”

“Yes.”

“Same price for each ?”

“Yes. And a bonus when we find the ninth.”

“Ripper. Nice doing business with you Mr. Setebos.”

But the other boat was already pulling away. The spotlight continued to blind Callahan until the fog had completely swallowed up light, boat and employer. Callahan stood there in the rain with the doctor’s bag of loot tucked under his arm like a rugger ball. Then he nodded to himself. And took the Bootstrap back to harbor.

But that wasn’t the only rendezvous of the night. It wasn’t even the first.

What remained of Hurricane Julia—little more than a swirling, angry mist surrounding one weary eye—dragged itself onto Tío Sam’s shores and coalesced into a human female with the clear intent—to us, anyway—of having another go at Rain, Charlie and ’Bastian, before—or more likely during—their crossing back to San Próspero. But Maq and I were on the beach, ready and waiting to intercept.

“That’ll be a quarter,” Maq said.

“What?” she said, staring him down with dark eyes that flashed anger and lightning.

“Every time you attack my people and fail, you owe me a quarter, Hura-hupia .”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What else should I—”

“You know my name.”

“Julia?”

“No, old man! I am…” She stopped herself. It’s never wise to speak one’s true name aloud. Even among old companions. You never know who else might be listening.

Maq chuckled, pushed his hat back on his head and waved the idea away: “I know who you want to be, Hura-hupia. But your wanting something doesn’t make it so. As I believe tonight has demonstrated.”

“The night isn’t over.”

“It is for you. You took your shot—the fourth in four nights if I’m not mistaken?” Her scowl demonstrated he wasn’t, so he forged on. “You took your shot. And they shot you down.”

She looked from Maq to me, as if I might prove more sympathetic—or at least more reasonable. But I said nothing. If anything, I was far angrier with her than Maq was. He always excused her behavior on the pretext that she was following her nature. Only her methods made him shake his head.

“You wanna know the definition of crazy?” Maq asked.

“You?” she countered.

Maq chuckled again. “I like that. But I was thinking that crazy is trying the same thing over and over, and somehow expecting different results. Bringing down the plane didn’t stop us all those years ago. Why assume it would tonight?”

“It would have worked all those years ago, if you hadn’t cheated by pulling the Bohique out of the water.”

“Sebastian made it to the surface on his own. That merited reward in my book. So what if Opie and I pulled him into an old fishing boat and brought him to Tío Sam’s? He wasn’t even conscious. He never knew it was us. Sure, I may cheat. But I cheat fairly.” She stared at him, appalled. And even I gave him a look over that one. But he was on a roll and waved us both off: “Point is, he beat you then. And they beat you again tonight.”

She was on the verge of protesting once more that the night was young, but he’d have none of it. “I’m not telling you it’s over,” he said. “I’m just saying it’s over for the evening. They’ve earned the next step. You attempt to interfere with that, and you’ll have to face us.”

“That prospect doesn’t scare me, old man.”

“It should. At least, it should tonight. You can pretend they didn’t hurt you, weaken you, but we all know better. You’re in no condition for direct confrontation.”

“If you’re so confident, why not end this now?”

“None of ‘this’ begins or ends with you, Hura-hupia. Besides, confrontation isn’t my style. So don’t push me. None of us would wake up happy. Or even again.”

She glowered at him for a good nine seconds. For exactly nine seconds. Then she nodded. He responded by stepping aside. But I was less inclined. I bared my teeth and growled at her. To my mind, ending it now did have some appeal.