The cool pressed in on him, and Peary felt the momentary lie of freedom beckoning him from down deep. Granular hope—untrue, but sweet for a moment in his thoughts. He only sank a few meters before he hardened the sand near his feet and pushed off in the direction of the supply tent.
They’d measured the distance as closely as they could, and he ticked off the meters in his mind as he kicked forward through the sand. He was glad they’d brought excess dive gear. The pirates had never suspected that their captives might have prepared the camp location for an escape attempt.
When he’d gone the requisite distance, Peary turned upward a little and looked through his visor at the colors up above him. The purple showed that there were no people up top, save for one wavering orange figure with dashes of yellow. That would be the Poet. There were also some dark splotches where boxes and cases of supplies must be stowed. All was as it should be.
Peary ascended slowly, breaking the surface just enough to look around. In the darkness, he could see almost nothing, so he freed his hand and raised his visor. Off to his left, he could make out the Poet seated cross-legged on the sand, waiting.
“Let’s get this done,” the old man whispered. Both men removed their headgear and Peary raised himself until he was fully above the sand.
“I’ve already found what we need,” the Poet said. “It’s here, in this box.”
Peary followed the old man’s finger to a box with strange markings on the side. “What is it?”
“Bombs. Very big bombs. Bigger than what we’ll need, but they’ll work.”
“Wow.”
“There are four of them in one box,” the Poet said.
“Do you know how to work them?” Peary asked.
“I do.”
The old man reached into the crate and pulled out a large rectangular case. Attached to the top of the case was a smaller box that had a timer and several switches. Wires from the smaller control module disappeared into the larger case.
“These are for blowing through rock. They’ll make a mess of everyone in this camp if we set one off.”
“So what do we do now?” Peary asked.
“Grab that crate and follow me,” the Poet said. “We’re going to wake up our captors and let them know that if they don’t let us go, they’re never going to see Danvar.”
Cord, his hired brigands, and the Legionnaires who’d joined the posse weren’t all sleeping. At least, some of them weren’t. They weren’t partying either. The bulk of them were in that middle state: the quiet overtaking them like a damp blanket, the booze dulling them enough that sleep was imminent, but not yet arrived.
When the Poet pushed through the flap and into the command tent, he had to shove his way through the bodies lying here and there near the tent entrance, but before long, eyes caught his and heads were turned, and a slow murmur began to make its way through the structure.
Peary and Marisa followed close behind the Poet, each holding tightly to the cloak of the one in front of them. There were lanterns still burning, and the three of them stepped carefully to the center of the command tent, where a half-dozen folding chairs had been placed upon an area rug in a loose circle. Cord, their nemesis and the suspected leader of the outfit, was seated in one of the chairs, his eyes half-closed and his head lolling to one side in near sleep.
The Poet approached a different chair, then kicked the man who lounged in it such that he slid off and landed on the ground. The Poet sat down heavily in the vacated seat and let out a whistle that sounded almost like the screech of a sand hawk. The piercing sound quickly brought the men in the tent to some form of attention.
Cord was slow in realizing what was going on, but at last he jumped a little and then went for the knife in his scabbard.
He froze when the Poet reacted by lifting up the bomb he held in his arms and placing his thumb against the detonation switch.
The rest of the crew—at least, those who were still sober enough to realize what was happening—now moved, slowly at first, but then almost in unison. Weapons were drawn, and the men formed a wall of thick, rank bodies in order to keep anyone from escaping the tent.
“Those bombs aren’t armed,” Cord said. He said it, but it was evident in his eyes that he didn’t believe it.
“Yes they are, Cord,” Peary said. The Poet kept his thumb on the button, but didn’t speak. He only smiled. Peary walked into the center of the ring of chairs and looked into Cord’s eyes. “Our old poet friend here armed them. And he knows what he’s doing. He’s been on a lot of these expeditions—haven’t you, Poet?”
The Poet nodded.
“Sure he has,” Peary continued. “And he knows how to arm explosives like these, don’t you think, Cord?”
There was silence for a half minute, then Cord nodded.
Peary reached over and unsnapped the sheath that held Cord’s knife, withdrawing the weapon with a smooth motion.
“You can borrow it,” Cord said, “but don’t start thinking that your little plan here has worked. As if we’re just going to let you walk on out of here.”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do,” Peary said. “We’re leaving the gold, and the maps, and we’re heading west. Over the mountains. And you aren’t going to follow us or we’ll blow you all to hell.”
“That’s not the way this is going to happen,” Cord said. A smile just barely began to touch his lips. He was now past his initial shock, and his mind was starting to function.
“Oh really?” Peary said.
“Really.”
“And how is it going to happen?”
The old man interrupted. “Well, let me tell you —”
“Shut up, old man,” Peary snapped. “I’m talking to Cord.”
“Listen, Peary,” the old Poet snapped back. “It’s high time you listened instead of acting like you have all the answers all the time. Here’s how things work in the real world. Cord here will let us go, sure enough, and we’ll pack up the sarfers and get gone. And then he and his crew will follow behind, close enough to keep tabs on us, but not close enough to get blown up. Then he’ll send one of his hirelings in a fast skidder to harass us. Maybe we’ll throw a bomb at him. If we’re going fast enough so that it doesn’t kill us, at worst it’ll kill the brigand in the skidder.”
“Exactly,” Peary said.
“And then Cord will send another one,” the Poet said, “and then another one. He’ll keep sending them to their deaths until we run out of bombs.”
Marisa sucked air into her lungs and shook her head. “Why would they do that, though? Why would they die for him?”
The Poet looked around the room at Cord’s men, taking a moment to stare each man in the eye. “Because every salvage expedition is the same. They all know that if they don’t do what he says, he’ll kill them anyway. They know that. And then, when he gets back to wherever it is he recruited them from, he’ll kill their families. It’s the way of the pirate.”
There was silence for a few moments, and then Cord slowly stood to his feet. The Poet kept his thumb on the trigger of the bomb and stepped closer to Cord, who raised his hands to show he wasn’t going to try anything stupid.
“The old man is right,” Cord said. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. So you see, you can’t get away.”
Peary turned to the Poet, and his voice shook with anger. “What the hell, Poet? This was the plan! And you tell me now that the plan won’t work?”
“The plan was never going to work,” the Poet replied. “And it never was the real plan anyway. I only told you that to get you to go along.”