The Poet glared at Peary. “Because he’s a man, diver. Have you forgotten all of a sudden?” He waved out at the town with his hand. “Looks like everyone out there could be dying.”
“I can get another sarfer,” Marisa said. “My family has one we almost never use at the Sand-Hawk Marina. My uncle pays good coin to keep it there and ready.”
The Poet pointed at Peary. “You run with her and get the other sarfer. Me and—” He pointed at the sandal hop and snapped his fingers. None of them knew the man’s name.
“Reginald,” the scruffy man said. He shrugged and rubbed his hands together. “Reggie… for my new friends.”
The Poet clapped Reggie on the back. “Reggie and I will push this sarfer back out of town. We’ll get it rigged up and meet you just southwest of the marina.”
“None of that is going to happen,” Peary said, “because I’m not letting you out of my sight.” He nodded at the Poet, emphasizing his steadfast intention to get his property back. “We stay together.”
The Poet grimaced, clenching his teeth. “It’ll be faster the other way.”
“We stay together.”
“Well, we’ll need to stop by a place I know and get food and water.” The old man sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “It would be much faster if we could just meet you—”
“We stay together, Poet.”
Poetry
Chapter Thirteen
It took the rest of the morning to retrieve and load the sarfers, and Peary spent every minute of it pressing the Poet to lead them to where he’d buried the salvage from Danvar. So much so that Peary was shocked when the old man finally caved. But with Springston gone, and Low-Pub maybe falling too, the Poet recognized that the ground had shifted, and an old man should take allies, however tenuous and temporary, where he could find them.
Now Peary sailed the first craft with the Poet riding in the haul rack. On the second sarfer, Marisa drove with Reggie napping in the stretched net of the rack. The two craft cruised to the spot, gliding in from the northeast, and when they were down between the dunes they lowered the masts and began tying down the sarfers.
The sun was high as they pulled on ropes and Reggie drove dragnels[3] into the dune face. The Poet covered the sun with his hand, then measured finger lengths with his other hand until the bottom of his fist was on a line where an imaginary horizon would be if they were in flat land. “One on the clock,” he said. “I put the cases fifty meters down, but you can’t miss ’em.”
Before leaving Low-Pub, they’d grabbed extra air tanks and another dive suit and visor from the old man’s house. Together they now had enough gear for them all to dive if they needed to. Once Reggie finished tying down the sarfers, he began pulling some of the gear off of Marisa’s sarfer, intending to put on a dive suit. But Peary stopped him with a wave of the hand. The diver made it clear he was going down alone, and Reggie didn’t argue. The old man just watched and didn’t react. For now, he was an observer.
Ain’t nothin’ but folly this way. That’s what his old daddy would have told him, the Poet thought. Nothin’ but folly and death. Ain’t no coin in sentimentality, boy. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. Too late now. He’d already thrown in his lot with this crew. He’d probably doomed himself when he’d tried to save their pitiable lives, but now he was in it. If Low-Pub went the way of Springston, there’d be greater safety in numbers anyway. Maybe they’d come up on an independent diver camp or a trading shanty town. He’d beg out then, if that time came, and let these three go their way. For now, though, he was stuck.
Peary handed the gun to Marisa, then began to prepare himself for the dive. “Can you work that?” he asked.
By way of reply, Marisa deftly ejected the ammunition cartridge, then cleared the weapon with trained proficiency. When she was done, she popped the cartridge back in and chambered a round. “Yep,” she said. “My father taught us all how to shoot.”
Peary smiled. “So I guess the next question is, ‘would you shoot these two if you had to?’”
Marisa nodded. “The world’s gone sand-side up. I suppose we have to do what we have to do.”
“Good,” Peary said. “If they act up, punch their tickets and we’ll bury ’em when I get back up.”
“Ain’t gonna be no problems from Reggie!” Reggie said, raising his hands in mock surrender.
The old man looked on as Peary pulled on his goggles and visor and checked the air in his tanks. He admired the young man, even if he didn’t understand him. Maybe things’ll be better this way, he thought. The other way—me on my own—maybe I don’t make it. Maybe I’d’ve been killed in the streets in Low-Pub, or left there to get vaporized if the brigands blow the town. Or speared on pikes of sand in the town center. This old world is changing. That’s what his daddy would be telling him. Danvar found. Springston gone. Low-Pub maybe blown into sand too. His daddy would say, better to find a new way to get by, boy. Things are going to change.
His hand unconsciously rubbed the wound on his head through the ker. It seemed like the injury was beginning to heal. He still felt no heat or signs of infection. The crack across his nose was more of a discomfort than a worry. He’d had his nose broken before. Didn’t care, so long as he could breathe.
Peary set his beacon, smacked the button on his chest, and disappeared into the sand. The Poet looked at Marisa and she calmly steadied the weapon in his direction. No trust there. He couldn’t blame her. Trust was something he’d earned from thieves, divers, brigands, and men running crews, not from regular folk. She was wary. He was everything she’d been taught her whole life to distrust. And from the looks of her, she knew how to handle the pistol, too. Finger off the trigger, resting alongside, pointed at him with an unspoken accusation. Not that he’d try anything. He was old and tired, but not dumb.
Marisa was a pretty girl, beautiful really, and smart. Could handle herself right well, the Poet saw. The sandal hop Reggie was a different matter altogether. Not much to read there. Clever. An opportunist with a quick wit and a searching eye. Stayed alive fixing sandals and running errands. Traded in secrets or anything else that would bring coin without peril. Didn’t usually deal in dangerous things, and probably was just glad to have a few sponsors with coin to make sure he had something to eat.
“What’s your name again, boy?” the Poet asked. “I’m old and I get forgetful.”
The sandal hop smiled. “You could call me Springston, since that name is no longer in use. Or is it too soon?”
The Poet shrugged. “What does your mother call you?”
“Bastard, mostly,” the man replied, “back when she was alive. Before the sift filled her lungs and took her.”
“Sorry to hear that,” the Poet said. “That’s the way my wife went. Now give me a name to call you, or I’ll give you a smack and leave it at that.”
The sandal hop winked at the Poet. “A Poet’s smack now. Angry fact for sandy friends. Trading force for tact.”
The Poet rubbed his wound through the ker. “Haiku. And a poor one.”
“Everyone’s a critic in the dunes,” the sandal hop said, laughing.
The Poet produced a dive knife and pointed it at the sandal hop, then grinned.
“Reginald,” the hop said. “As I said before.” He thrust his hands up into the air and smiled innocently. “You can call me Reggie.”
The Poet returned the dive knife to its sheath. “Good to know. Now we can be friends.” He turned to look at Marisa as he snapped the cover on the sheath. Stoic was the right word for her. She’d not so much as flinched when his knife came out. Still the pistol was pointed at his heart. Earnestly.