Sea of a Thousand Words Read online

  Sea of a Thousand

  Words

  Sea of a Thousand Words

  Copyright © 2017 Christine C. Wallace

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Windline Press, LLC.

  Bellingham WA USA

  windlinepress.net

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental

  Cover design by R. Ben Turpin

  e-reader conversion by Threshold Documents

  Text: Palatino Linotype

  EBook ISBN-13: 978-0-9909137-4-0

  I am grateful to the linguists and folklorists who’ve provided insight into many of the cultures represented within the novel Sea of a Thousand Words. One cannot tell a story about our future without first understanding our past.

  To Juliet Coleen, for providing me the appropriate ring of power to carry toward the fiery mountain.

  Sea of a Thousand Words

  Cover

  Maps

  Table of Contents

  Snakeheads

  The Raven and the Whale

  The Longhouse

  Kim Chen

  The Greenwood

  HighTower

  Táan

  A Cloud on the Horizon

  The Cleaner

  The Fetchers Arrive

  CRISPR

  A Surprise Party

  The Strike

  La Balise

  Crossing the Strait

  Collateral Losses

  The Standoff

  Skaukw

  La Garrote

  Council of Elders

  A Subterfuge

  Monk

  Antecedents

  The Kiosk

  Raj Kaleka

  Bearing Witness

  Parting Gifts

  The Austrian

  Damage Control

  The Paths Diverge

  The Smallest Price

  Intelligence

  Purchase Agreement

  Whiskey Golf

  Back Channels

  Check and Mate

  Contact

  The Gambit

  Recovery

  Reprisal

  The Bridge

  The Sacrifice

  Requiem for a Robot

  Returns

  Epilogue

  Aknowledgements

  About the Author

  "It is in the shelter of each other that the people live."

  Irish proverb

  0 Snakeheads

  North Pacific. Jun 31. 2033

  53°55'04.6"N 142°53'09.4"W

  Tryoshnikov plowed through the Gulf of Alaska, her bow disappearing between crests of 20-foot swells. The trawler shook with every breaker that launched over the bulwarks. Within her pockmarked hull, crewmembers went about their duties and battened down any items that threatened to become projectiles. The captain and ship’s cook stood behind the helm as green water swept over the deck, cigarettes dangling between their lips, chuckling occasionally when spray reached the wheelhouse windows. Sodium lights from the rig illuminated the mayhem in a sickly yellow glow.

  In the bilge far below the wheelhouse, a dozen passengers huddled together in the cavernous gloom, an overhead light that swung from cobbled-together power cords cast eerie shadows across their faces. The furor surrounding them prompted cries and renewed bouts of nausea with each storm wracked blow. As the ship pitched, the bulb swung erratically, threatening to engulf the frightened group into darkness. Frantic whispers accompanied the hum of the ship’s engine as the flickering intensified.

  Shortly after midnight, Tryoshnikov’s engine eased and an ominous quiet settled throughout her decks. Three blasts of the ship’s horn were met with the sound of a distant bell. The occupants heard footsteps echo along the passageway as a crewmember swung the watertight hatch open; a metallic clang reverberated throughout Tryoshnikov’s bowels. The crewmember aimed a flashlight at the alarmed faces, shouting, “Vse. Vremya, chtoby ostant. Ubiraysya! Go—you must go now!”

  A forceful wall of sea spray doused the passengers as they clambered on deck. One of the crew heaved a Jacob’s ladder over the rails, sending it plummeting toward the raging water. Several of the terrified faction leaned outboard to see what awaited them: a smaller vessel lay alongside, greasy decks strewn with disheveled coils of hemp and crab pots. The lone man on the boat shouted and waved up at them, urging them to hurry. Tryoshnikov’s crew pointed at those assembled, gesturing that they should leave over the side, propelling them forward with shoves and brusque orders. “Siyu zhe minute! Toropit’sya!”

  The wind howled and whipped the ladder, twisting its rungs into a furious helix. The first of the passengers hesitantly stepped forward and with a furtive glance over his shoulder, descended. The smaller boat bounced about, ramming Tryoshnikov with every giant swell. Hugging the ropes tightly, the man climbed downward. A sudden surge of water shot from between the two hulls like a geyser, repelling the ships away from one another. The wave’s vacuum grabbed at the man’s feet, sucking him underneath the surface. As the vessels smashed back into each other, the boat’s captain looked over the railing, then called back up to the ship, “It’s no good—he’s gone! It’s now or never. C’mon, get ‘em moving!”

  The Russians pushed the terrified group forward. One by one, men and women climbed or fell onto the deck of the boat below. Tryoshnikov’s revving engine could now be heard over the din of the storm. The last passenger in line hesitated at the railing. He clutched a leather satchel tightly to his chest. The deckhand beside him tried to pry the case out of his hands. “Ubiraysya!” The man pushed him aside and, clinging to his possession, swung his legs over the bulwarks. He negotiated the swaying ladder, one hand on the rope, the other holding his briefcase. At last, with only two rungs remaining, he lowered his foot toward the rails of the waiting vessel. Another giant swell crashed into the side of the boat and the two hulls collided, pinning him between them. The man wailed in agony, lost his grip and fell backwards onto the deck. The captain muttered under his breath and stepped over him, shouting to the crew, “Is that it?”

  The deckhand cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Da. Eto vse.”

  The captain waved off the Tryoshnikov and returned to his wheelhouse, slamming the door behind him. The passengers cowered in the storm as he throttled his engine and powered away from the steel hull. Gale winds whirled around the bulkhead as the boat motored toward an unseen coastline. The injured man remained alone on the deck where he’d fallen, still clutching the leather case. His agonizing moans eventually subsided, replaced by sharp intakes of breath as the boat pitched back and forth. He stared unblinking into the night sky as the rain pelted down upon his face.

  1 The Raven and the Whale

  Hecate Strait. Jul 8. 2033

  54°00'19.6"N 131°41'06.5"W

  Tendrils of mist rose skyward as fog clung to Massett Bay. A large raven perched alone on the high crags, waiting—as he so often did—for the arrival of a small wooden boat with tanbark sails. As if on cue, a single mast appeared
from the mouth of the inlet. A crisp pop echoed from the cliff walls as the sail embraced the fresh breeze of Dixon Entrance. Even with the bird’s keen eyesight, the girl in the boat looked like a small dot. Her name in fact, was Dot, and despite her lack of years, she handled the boat with ease. The raven cocked his head and then without further ado, extended his wings and coasted downward in a lazy spiral. Landing on the foredeck of the small craft, he danced around to gain his proper footing and bowed. Dot responded with three short clicks and tossed a piece of candied salmon on the deck.

  He didn’t need a pet-name, although the island people called him “Monk” and since food often accompanied the sound of this name, he accepted it. Dot was different than the rest however, she needed no name or label for him. They understood each other plainly enough for the raven’s purposes.

  They sailed along quietly and, after a while, the sun’s warmth dispelled the last of the fog. An expansive channel opened around them. Dot rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and tied back her unruly hair, then looped a rope to the tiller and leaned back in her seat. A sharp pssssssssh broke the silence and a glossy black fin cut across the water, growing ever taller as an orca emerged from the depths below. By the time his blunt rostrum and white eye-patch were level with the boat, his dorsal fin towered several feet above them. Monk flew up to the crosstree, not so much from surprise or fear but from disdain of being splashed by the orca’s wake. The whale kept pace with the sailboat as they tacked, his fin withdrawing now and then between loud blows. Noisy wavelets slapped against the boat’s hull, filling the vacancies of his presence.

  As morning gave way to afternoon, the wind calmed to a gentle whisper. Growing restless, the orca slipped below the surface. Dot watched his silhouette fade into the blueish-green, his white saddle patch barely discernable before it merged into the darkness. She smiled to herself, happy hunting Saka. Reclining against the cockpit rails, she snacked on a loaf of bread and the candied salmon. Monk descended and took his place beside her. After tossing several more bites to her companion, the girl adjusted her sail and nestled down, allowing the boat to drift idly with the breeze. As they neared Rose Point, the current of Hecate Strait met the stronger tide of the Pacific, creating a wash-bucket effect that made sailing uncomfortable. Dot turned her boat toward shore and kept an eye on the jagged rocks near the water’s surface. The lee of Haida Gwaii provided relief from the confused sea, so Dot doused her sail and reached for a paddle. A glint of bright color along the otherwise charcoal-hued coastline caught her attention and she paused to scan the rocks. Whatever she spied seemed to have vanished, or perhaps it was just an illusion—a reflection from the sun. She continued toward a shallow embankment ahead and the gleaming object came into view again; so out of place in the earthy tones of the shore that it appeared garish in its intensity. Swinging the paddle to the opposite side of the boat, she steered in the direction of the color. The boat slid between some shallow rocks and she braced herself as its prow came to a stop—the keel rested upon the gravely bottom. Dot sprang from the cockpit and waded knee-deep through the chilly water, coaxing her boat further ashore. Once she’d secured the line, she glanced around and made a series of clucking noises with her tongue. The bird replied in kind and adjusted his course toward the mystery object, his long wings made a whooshing sound as he flew.

  The rocks were covered with a slimy green algae and Dot slipped into the water several times while scrambling up the embankment. Monk hopped from stone to stone, pausing long enough to examine the narrow cracks and fissures between rocks with his dagger-like beak. He ruffled his feathers and bobbed his head several times as Dot reached the crest of the boulders. She stood upright and wiped her hands against her pants. The bright color that had initially captured her attention was a large rectangular bolster, similar to what one would find on a ship’s settee. The plastic cushion was covered with dried strands of eelgrass that clung to the coarse fabric. Monk pecked at the seaweed and a small beetle scurried for cover. A dirty and bruised hand suddenly appeared from beneath the foam and groped towards Dot’s feet. She gasped and stepped backward, toppling over the rocks behind her. The arm extended and a soft groan could be heard. Monk flapped skyward with several throaty squawks. Landing a safe distance upland, he eyed the cushion warily. Dot reached for a stick and prodded the cushion. The moaning intensified and a faint voice whispered, “Bāng wǒ… Qǐng ni bāng wǒ.”

  Dot had no idea what the words meant, but she understood the pleading quality in their tone. She moved closer and wedged her stick underneath the corner of the cushion, taking great care to stay out of reach of the groping hand. She held her breath and upended the water-laden foam, flipping it over to expose what lay underneath. She gasped. An Asian man of about 30 years lay prone among the rocks, his right leg was bent at an unnatural angle. One of his arms was pinned underneath a heavy piece of driftwood, the one stretching out in front of him was badly bruised and had several deep scratches. His clothes were shredded and stained in blood and dirt. Resting beside him was a sodden briefcase, saltwater had formed lacy patterns across the leather as it dried. Dot examined the bag, hoping to find a clue as to the man’s identity. She noticed a narrow brass plate with several strange characters etched into the metal, below them she could make out the words “Dr. Kim Chen.” She twisted the hasp back and forth to no avail, the case was securely locked. Lifting it closer, she investigated its base and sides, finally giving it a good shake—the case was intact. She observed a slender cable connecting the handle to the man’s wrist. During her investigation, she jostled his injured arm, the man stirred again and murmured, “Hē shuǐ.” Dot knelt beside his head, she could tell he’d been trapped like this for several days by the condition of the brittle seaweed and his parched lips. She straightened up to fetch water from her gear but as she turned to go, the hand grasped at her leg. “Qǐng ni bāng wǒ.”

  Dot backed away and climbed down the embankment. When she arrived at the boat, she paused to weigh her options. There was no possibility of moving the injured man. She couldn’t tell for sure how severe his many injuries were but even so, he was too heavy for her to move without help. Grabbing a small stone from the shore, Dot dropped it into her pants pocket before stepping into the cockpit to grab her water bottle and the remainder of her lunch. She walked back to the water’s edge and tapped the small stone against the partially submerged rocks, replicating the pattern for several minutes: two solid—pause—three solid—pause—two staccato—pause—one solid—full stop—repeat. Satisfied at last, Dot rose and gathered her things and climbed back up the rocky bank.

  Monk acknowledged her return nonchalantly. Dot set her water bottle beside the injured man, hoping he would have the strength to reach for it, but his arm remained motionless. She leaned over his face, tilting her head to listen for any breath. It was there—faint and uneven, but he lived. She slipped her hand underneath his neck and gently tipped his head, dripping small amounts of water over his cracked lips. He choked and sputtered and his eyes opened widely as he gulped the liquid. It reminded Dot of the chíin that Ol’ Pa used to throw on the deck of his skiff each summer; their eyeballs bulging and mouths agape. The memory caused a shadow of a smile to play across her face as she held the bottle. When the man could drink no more, Dot placed his head back on the rocks. His eyes fluttered closed again.

  Dot knew she was taking a big risk by remaining with him. It was likely that the injured man was chipped and if so, he could be discovered by the Mossies. If he’d been brought ashore by any of the snakeheads, then they would both be detained—or worse. Dot wished she had a personal scanner, but those were precious hard to come by, and usually in the possession of the fetchers from the Greenwood. She found herself longing—for what seemed the hundredth time—to have a position among the select ranks of fetchers.

  Mossies had been sighted in the archipelago with growing frequency the past year. The HighTower trackers had been a fixture for almost a decade, although they wer
e easy to spot and for the most part, avoidable. As HighTower’s presence along the borders became more prevalent, their reconnaissance methods became more advanced, and with waning oversight, their detention methods became even harsher.

  The Canadian and U.S. solution to the escalating climate refugee problem had resulted in a contract with the private firm, HighTower Security Authority, or HSA. The crisis back in 2019 that caused the European Union’s collapse was enough to spur North America to close its entire borders to climate migrants. The Prime Minister in Ottawa and President in Washington D.C. granted full control to HSA’s director, and by 2020, HighTower had become synonymous with border defense. In the years to follow, the HSA had absorbed the departments of Customs, Homeland Security and Immigration, even the Coast Guard was requisitioned for patrols. The trackers; 87-foot former USCG cutters, ran along the Pacific coastline and the Inside Passage in search of unregistered vessels. If a ship did not carry a transponder chip, the trackers would fire a warning shot. If the ship did not respond, then it was typically destroyed. Only small vessels such as kayaks, Native longboats and sailboats were permitted to cruise without these chips, and even then, there was a considerable risk of being boarded or fired upon.

  Dot spent most of her life under the shadow of the HSA. The trackers in the northern islands recognized her boat and paid her little attention. However, the Mossies were a different matter: The “Mobile Observation Systems-C” were HighTower’s “eyes in the sky.” MQ-9C drones deployed to scan for transponders and report undocumented watercraft to HSA’s marine traffic station. To be reported by a Mossie meant certain trouble. Recently, HSA had become disposed to skip warnings and simply sank any vessels that could not or would not identify themselves.

  To make matters worse, Tyee survivors continued to migrate, even after so many years. When the Tyee—the Cascadia Subduction mega-quake—hit the Pacific Northwest in 2022, it destroyed hundreds of miles of coastline and decimated Seattle and surrounding towns. Suddenly there were tens of thousands of homeless refugees who were moving inland and northward. HighTower did not discriminate between nationalities. Their motto was: If it doesn’t scan, it doesn’t land.