One side of the opening exploded as they passed through, sending cracks radiating through the outcrop, blowing the skiff forward amid cascades of rock. The next shell seemed to beat the cliff with bellows of frustrated rage. Cracks multiplied tenfold. A tremendous chunk of stone, half as long as the Reckless itself, began to peel away. With graceful deliberateness, its looming shadow fell toward Brod and Maia. . . .
The boulder crashed into the slim gap just behind the tiny boat, yanking them upon the driving fist of a midget tsunami, aimed at a deep black hole.
Maia knew herself to have some courage. But not nearly enough to watch their ruined boat surge toward that ancient titan, Jellicoe Beacon. Let it be quick, she asked. Then darkness swept over them, cutting off all sight.
Dear lolanthe,
As you can see from this letter, I am alive . . . or was at the time of its writing . . . and in good health, excepting the effects of several days spent bound and gagged.
Well, it looks like I tumbled for the oldest trick in the book. The Lonely Traveler routine. I am in good company. Countless diplomats more talented than I have fallen victim to their own frail, human needs. . . .
My keepers command me not to ramble, so I'll try to be concise. I am supposed to tell you not to report that I am missing until two days after receiving this. Continue pretending that I took ill after my speech: Some will imagine foul play, while others will say I'm bluffing the Council. No matter. If you do not buy my captors the time they need, they threaten to bury me where I cannot be found.
They also say they have agents in the police bureaus. They will know if they are betrayed.
I am now supposed to plead with you to cooperate, so my life will be spared. The first draft of this letter was destroyed because I waxed a bit sarcastic at this point, so let me just say that, old as I am, I would not object to going on a while longer, or seeing more of the universe.
I do not know where they are taking me, now that summer is over and travel is unrestricted in any direction. Anyway, if I wrote down clues from what I see and hear around me, they would simply make me rewrite yet again. My head hurts too much for that, so we'll leave it there.
I will not claim to have no regrets. Only fools say that. Still, I am content. I've been and done and seen and served. One of the riches of my existence has been this opportunity to dwell for a time on Stratos.
My captors say they'll be in touch, soon. Meanwhile, with salutations, I remain — Renna.
In near-total darkness she stroked Brod's forehead, tenderly brushing his sodden hair away from coagulating gashes. The youth moaned, tossing his head, which Maia held gently with her knees. Despite a plenitude of hurts, she felt thankful for small blessings, such as this narrow patch of sand they lay upon, just above an inky expanse of chilly, turbid water. Thankful, also, that this time she wasn't fated to awaken in some dismal place, after a whack on the head. My skull's gotten so hard, anything that'd knock, me out would kill me. And that won't happen till the world's done amusing itself, pushing me around.
"Mm … Mwham-m . . . ?" Brod mumbled. Maia sensed his vocalization more via her hands than with her shock-numbed hearing. Still unconscious, Brod seemed nevertheless wracked with duty pangs, as if at some level he remained anxious over urgent tasks left undone. "Sh, it's all right," she told him, though barely able to make out her own words. "Rest, Brod. I'll take care of things for a while."
Whether or not he actually heard her, the boy seemed to calm a bit. Her fingers still traced somnolent worry knots across his brow, but he did stop thrashing. Brdd's sighs dropped below audible to her deafened ears.
In its last moments, their dying boat had spilled them inside this cave, while more explosions just behind them brought down the entrance in a rain of shattered rock. Amid a stygian riot of seawater and sand, her head ringing with a din of cannonade, Maia had groped frantically for Brod, seizing his hair and hauling him toward a frothy, ill-defined surface. Up and down were all topsy-turvy during those violent moments when sea and shore and atmosphere were one, but practice had taught Maia the knack of seeking air. Rationing her straining lungs, she had fought currents like clawing devils till at last, with poor Brod in tow, her feet found muddy purchase on a rising slope. Maia managed to crawl out, dragging her friend above the waterline and falling nearby to check his breathing in utter blackness. Fortunately, Brod coughed out what water he'd inhaled. There were no apparent broken bones. He'd live . . . until whatever came next.
All told, their wounds were modest. If the skiff had stayed intact, we'd have ridden that wave straight into some underground wall, she envisioned with a shudder. Only the boat's premature fragmentation had saved their lives. The dunking had cushioned their final shorefall.
