Bredenberg - The Dream Vessel

Hundreds of years after the nuclear destruction known as Big Bang Day, humankind had crawled out of the rubble sufficiently to revive a few traditions of the ancients. Among them: dictatorship.

Interspersed among the radiation fields of the land called Merqua grew a new myriad of cities and work camps under the servitude of a secretive ruler known as the Monitor. Rumors about the Monitor were many: that he was mutantlarge and bull faced; that he was centuries old; that he hoarded certain technological secrets of the ancients for his own vile purposes. These particular whisperings, as it turned out, were true.

Such a civilization has its doubters and reprobates, of course. The Revolutionaries hunkered in their remote eastern outpost, buried under a mountain in the range once known as the Blue Ridge. From there they launched their largely ineffective assaults against the repressive regime of the Monitor. Ineffective, that is, until they struck an odd alliance with the rogue magic man named Pec-Pec.

Pec-Pec was many things to many people. To the dark-skinned outcasts called Rafers, he was a god. To the common people of the work camps, he was a master of cheap theatrics and a thief. Finally, to the Monitor in his remote canyon hideout, Pec-Pec meant death.

So it was that the marginally competent Revolutionaries learned the lesson that had been surprising their counterparts for millennia: It is one thing to overthrow a despot; it is quite another to create a satisfactory Government in his place.

Hoo! To a humans nose, its other humans that make the worst smells. Little Tom leaned into the rail on the aft deck, as far upwind as a body could get without being trolling bait.

His eyes were red rimmed and his face dark from lack of sleep. Below deck, even with the superior ventilation of the masters cabin, the stench was just too close. For the last four nights he had slung a hammock topside and threatened the crew with a de-balling if he were disturbed. Still he slept fitfully in the cool nights, the hammock swinging in its exaggerated arc up here. His neck and shoulders were stiff.

Ach. Human reek was a haunting booger.

Now in the bright of morning, a strong breeze at his back and sipping coffee, Little Tom could at least admire his new sailing yacht, the Lucia, named after the mother he had never known. The Lucia was a handsome and odd sea beast. For a 140-footer, it was unusually broad beamed, thirty feet, and had a draft of nothing but six feet with the centerboard up. She was a bitch for any man to helmwas only for the sharpest of captainsbut there was nothing afloat that could escape her hit-and-runs or catch her after the fact.

The Lucia was full sail now, 20,000 square feet of blinding white canvas bulging like the throat of an albino bullfrog. They would be home quickly, praise God, within two days. Father, Big Tom, would be at ease again with his skimming new creation in harbor. And he would be pig-grin pleased at the cargo of three-dozen red-leggers.

Little Tom sipped at the coffee and did the math in his headnearly 325,000 centimes! Why, after a few more runs, in a year maybe, Big Tom might entrust him with the entire fleet. Commander, trade master of the Caribbean, twenty vessels harvesting the troublesome red-leggers off the Blue Islands. He would be powerful, one day, even more feared than Big Tom himself.

Oh. He had almost forgotten: Had the one red-legger died in the nightthe one with the head injury, the one that went to fever the other night? He would have to ask. He refigured the bountystill a nice haul. Too bad about the injured one, strong and handsome, might have brought a bonus. The first mate Bark had joked that the dying pig-poker looked a lot like Little Tom. Ha, there but for the grace of God.

The sea was rough enough that Little Tom had to roll out of the hammock before he was tossed out. His bare feet squeaked in the damp of the polished deck wood, and he sniffed the impossibly moist morning air. The low sun was hardly penetrating a blustery sky, an overcast like Little Tom had not seen in months.

Damn. Half a day out of home and were going to storm.

In the masters cabin, he folded and drawered his night-clothes. Down here the lolling of the Lucia was more tolerable. Stillhe padded naked to the horseshoe-shaped desk, which arced in a grandiose sweep across the forward end of the cabin. He slid open a brass latch, pulled out the top drawer, and flipped open a black-enameled cigarette box bearing his name in gold paint. He selected a fat one, fired it, and sucked the smoke into his lungs as he rubbed his neck.

It was powerful ganja, and within moments he felt the cooling ease seep through his limbs. He felt better.

Little Tom had left the cabin door open for better ventilation, and there was Barkstaring in disapprovingly.

Helps with the nausea, Little Tom said, holding the cigarette aloft. As he spoke he exhaled a fragrant cloud.

Storms blowin up, Bark grumbled. Yad best tell yer tum-tum itll be getting nothin but worse.

Little Tom drew off the cigarette again and choked out his words as he held the smoke in: I can swing-swang with the best of em. Its the red-leggers. That reek.

Bark twitched his nose, shrugged, and looked quizzically at the ceiling, as if to say, What reek?

I tell ya, I nearly can taste it, a scum in my gut, Little Tom said. In his blooming euphoria, he had nearly forgotten his nakedness. He glared down at himself in mock surprise, then pulled on a pair of full-length khakis in anticipation of a cool day. The cigarette smoldering between his lips was developing a precarious ash.

The first mate turned to go, but Little Tom stopped him with Ho, up!

Yeah?

Theres a red-legger, down ta slot twenty or so. A girl, slender, shaved head. In the slot right beside the guy with the gawdawful tattoo, the man with the head crack. Shes pretty.

Ya, so? Bark felt an ill mood descending like a shroud. He had mated for Big Tom since he was this age, and the old man had always insisted: No ganja by day, and no sampling the merchandise. Bark was stalling. He wiped his nostrils with thumb and forefinger, then ran them through his graying beard. He would wait, make the boy say it.

Little Tom sucked the diminishing cigarette again. Bring her here. Please. In ankle irons, so she wont try much.

Bark spatan offense that would earn him a flogging had Big Tom witnessed it. But this little whip wouldnt dare. Okay, he said. But the injured one. One with the crackwerent you wondering?

Oh. Yes, how is he?

If we can get underway today, I figure hell make it to port. But not by much.

Ah, good, Little Tom replied. Well be underway soon, then. Id be skinny to make port with a vacant slot, no?

Bark turned away toward the slot holds, but scowled back over his shoulder, not so sure about getting underway in this weather.

Little Tom was sprawled on the masters bunk, his hairless chest bare as he stared at the ceiling. He heard her enter, the sound of chain dragging against flooring. Hmn, he said, rolling his head to the side, and then he considered how her looks had changed since she was captured ten days ago. Shackles never did much for human beautythe eyes grew dark circles, the skin drained pale. The longer a red-legger stayed in the hold the worse the damageand the lower the price at market. Longer expeditions were impractical, a matter of diminishing returns. Not unlike shipping vegetables, he mused.