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Page 30.
Chapter 10. Amela on the Beach: Debris Trail
 Amela sat in a bay seat with a view as Dead Denla piloted the skimmer along the coast line. The skimmer shot along a straight course due east, while the shoreline undulated crazy-rapid below. Sometimes it was a close line of wiggles. At other times, there was nothing but blue-green ocean shimmering with sunlight reflected on myriad waves, while the shoreline snaked away either to the south on one side, or the north on the other.
Finally, a long stretch of beach came into view. The skimmer slowed and descended in a smooth, long arc. Amela instinctively looked for some word or expression from the dead woman, but only saw a machine stare. Oh yes, and the little mouth and chiclet teeth open and full of black, overflowing gore…
Vigri would have dabbed the poor thing's chin as a way of honoring her dignity—like washing a corpse before its passage across the river of forgetfulness—but Amela did not have the strength of spirit.
Instead, she recited the sacred anima out loud until her voice dissolved like a smashed mosaic of syllables:
Pray the Patermater will make fragrant rains and pale blossoms as you cross this bitter river to the holy garden of your ancestors.
Let your brothers and sisters wash you, so that you shine with light. Go to the house of your mother and father, and their parents, and all who are your genesame…
There was no Pitz Boat. Only a long debris trail stretching klik upon klik. There were few large pieces. Just rusting, smashed bits of metal, and worn eggshell pieces of ceramic.
Helah! A bright new star shines in the western sky. Rejoice!
The boat, many times larger than this little skimmer, was roughly spherical and at least 500 heads in diameter. It had been a rescue and escape (RAE) boat that survived the bombing of a neutral cargo ship by Swarm patrol cruisers. The cruisers had descended on the Pitz Union cargo vessel in an ambush, perhaps thinking she was a disguised privateer. She was a neutral cargo carrier, bringing Dominion supplies and food to the POWs on Manaul under Treaty Marches conventions.
Amid a fog of battle, the methane-suckers had shot first and asked questions later. All anyone knew was that the target vessel's complement had abandoned ship on multiple RAE boats, of which all but one had vanished in a violent series of flame bursts in Manaul 5 orbit.
One, the so-called Pitz Boat, was said to have made it to ground. Vigri had thought she had the exact coordinates. From the long trail of debris, it was clear that some vessel—quite possibly the Pitz Boat—had made a violent and fatal landfall here, perhaps looking for a place along the seashore for a safe landing. Maybe they'd been in flames, and kept broadcast silence. What more logical thing than to try and make it to the jungle continent so the survivors could lose themselves in the jungle before Swarm patrols could reach them.
But something had gone dreadfully wrong, those twenty or so years ago, and the Pitz Boat had never made it past the desert continent Manaul 5D. And here she was. Or, here were her remains, now just a debris field.
The skimmer set down on a slight dome of tide-wet sand. Dying kelp were slung about amid half-buried shards of wrecked boat.
Dead Denla sat immobile, staring fixedly into the hall of her ancestors. Blood, gore, and milky machine oil dribbled from her mouth. Rusty-colored tears rolled slowly over her freckled cheeks.
Amela felt staggered by the desolation all around. A few avians soared high up, looking for prey. Sunset began growing red and black shadows to the east. There was no jungle to run into, which probably meant there were no cannibals to appear and take her down. Remembering the way of Vigri's passing, she knew she could not stay near the ocean. But where to go, with a thousand kliks of rusty, arid waste at her back, inhabited primarily by swarms of macab pests.
She summoned her pride, prayed to the gods of Belair, and did what she must do. She got a rag, rinsed it at the sink, and cleaned poor Denla's face. What a pretty face like a doll's. What sorrow. War, that hideous and wanton killer, devoured youth and beauty. War, the monster, who rode with Death and Plague and Famine, was more powerful than an atmosphere storm or an exploding star. But the spirit was more powerful. The four riders could not follow a soul past the anointed portal of her ancestors.
Amela gently stroked the chill face, murmuring to her soul. She gently lowered Denla's eyelids so that stare was forever dimmed.
Amela found a net-sack and gathered what food and water ceramics she could find. She found a merk rifle with attached yellow burst rounds, and slung that over one shoulder.
With a final word of endearment and good will to the dead woman, Amela pushed that certain dull, wide button on one of several dusty, peripheral lookup displays over the flight deck.
The palm-size button came to life, glowing with interior green light.
The button was marked, in matte yellow, Sit04. It was one of a dozen situational triggers for pre-programmed flight sequences, usually routines that were best canned and invoked to do all their own work.
Amela ran down the ramp, which started rising as she tripped over its end and landed, rolling, in the cold sand.
The engines began to thunder and whirr, and the skimmer rose in a dust storm that stung Amela's skin and made her raise her net-bag to protect her eyes. And yet, she could not resist watching as the final program, Sit04, executed as Denla Whirrit herself had programmed it on the last morning of her life.
It would be a morning without an evening for her.
The skimmer rose, pitched forward over the water, rolled to one side, and landed on the waves, rotating like a thrown saucer. It cut through the white breaker wall like a knife, even as a half dozen crocosaurian snouts rose from the seething water like industrial machinery. Wheeling in a long, slow arc, the skimmer slowed a bit. Before it could start sinking, the craft exploded in a brilliant red-yellow burst like the sun. Smoke trails spun off in all directions, while debris rose hundreds of head into the atmosphere, and then slowly fell while twirling and on fire. Minutes later, there was just an island of fire on the sea. Black smoke drifted over it. Then the fire island sank in a seething mass of bubbles. The extinction left a painful hissing noise that slammed over the water like a giant gutting knife tearing the air. Just as quickly, its last echo boomed across the sea many kliks away, and silence descended as did nightfall.
Your parents embrace you with love, as they did when you were a child. Helah! A bright new star shines in the western sky. Rejoice in the garden of flowers and birds, at the table where this night you are a shining moon.
They have prepared a feast with wine, and khytaras, and chanting children in garlands, to send away your sorrows...
Homen.
Denla Whirrit had gone to her ancestors, a hero and a lovely doll. Among her blessings—she would never grow old.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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