Corvan swore his way up the rest of the ladder to the point where two grinning petty officers helped him inboard and pointed toward the bridge. "Up there, sir. Captain Alvarez and Mrs. Waller are waiting for you."
Corvan nodded his thanks and made his way up a short ladder and into the sudden warmth of the bridge. It was bathed in soft red light, which functioned to preserve the crew's night vision. Corvan heard the soft murmur of routine radio conversation punctuated by squawks of static. The couple which turned to greet him were about as different as two people can be.
Captain Alvarez was young, good-looking, and extremely fit. He wore his black hair military short and looked tired. He hadn't had any rack time in more than twenty-four hours.
Warden Waller, on the other hand, was as fresh as a daisy, allowing for the fact that she was eighty-six years old and wore an auto-walker from the waist down. Mrs. Waller was wired, and that plus her computer-controlled exoskeleton, allowed her to move like a twenty-year-old.
Still, there was nothing young about Warden Waller. Her eyes were old, filled with the knowledge gained over more than sixty-five years of professional infighting, and hard as granite. Corvan was a complication she didn't like, want, or need.
Her orders were quite explicit nevertheless. "Let the reop go aboard die barge if he wants to do, but make damned sure he doesn't come back."
It was a strange set of orders, but far from the strangest that Fawley had given her over the last few years and relatively simple to carry out. Like any competent warden, Waller had snitches sprinkled throughout the prison population, inmates who received special privileges in return for serving as her eyes and ears, men who even now kept her informed about what was going on. Like her, they would do what Fawley wanted.
And it was important to carry out Fawley's orders, since it was he who had rescued Waller from her infirmity. It's hard to obtain an implant when you're seventy-five years old, but that's what it takes to make an auto-walker work, and she would rather be dead man bedridden. To be useful, to keep what she had, that's all Waller asked. And it was no small task when the world was overrun by young, healthy, unemployed people. She smiled and held out a wrinkled liver-spotted hand for Corvan to shake.
"Rex Corvan, I'm Marie Waller, warden, and nominally in charge of this mess. Your visit is an unexpected pleasure. I just wish it was taking place under more pleasant circumstances."
Corvan made a face as he looked down at his wet clothes. "Me too. Unfortunately the events which qualify as news are rarely pleasant."
Captain Alvarez nodded his agreement and held out his hand as well. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Corvan. I'm sorry you got doused."
"A professional hazard," Corvan said politely. "One of the many. What's the present situation?"
Waller's auto-walker made a humming-clicking noise as she crossed to the far side of the bridge. Beyond her the barge was a complex pattern of lights. Corvan joined her, and she said, "On the record or off?"
"Let's make it on the record," Corvan replied evenly and mentally activated his eye cam. As usual, the robo cam was locked into place on his left shoulder, but there was no real reason to deploy it. Since he was working by himself, the sound and pix would be stored in his implant's memory chip until he could download into a video editing system. The lighting was abominable, but whichever net bought the story could, and would, enhance it with electronics. Besides, most of the interview would be covered with shots of the barge farm, which he'd shoot later.
Corvan cleared his throat as he framed a head-and-shoulders shot. "This is Warden Marie Waller. She's in charge of Barge Farm 648. Warden, what happened here?"
Waller had been interviewed many times and knew how to handle herself. The smile she plastered across her face was part grandmother, part chief executive. She spoke in nice, short sentences which told the story her way and would be almost impossible to edit down.
"At around six o'clock yesterday evening a small group of prisoners attacked one of our guards and killed him. I was ashore, attending a reception, but from what I understand, the violence continued to spread. Another guard was killed and the rest were taken hostage. We believe one guard is missing."
"How do you know your guards were killed? Are you in communication with the prisoners?"
Waller looked away and back again. When she spoke
,
there was a slight catch in her voice. "They threw the bodies off the top deck of the barge."
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Corvan ignored her comment's emotional content, and zeroed in on the question she hadn't answered. He tried another approach. "Have the prisoners presented any demands?"
Waller shrugged. The sadness was suddenly gone. "Sure, they want wine, women, and song." She paused thoughtfully. "As for what we're willing to give, well, they can sing all they want."
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"Do you have any plans to take the barge by force?"
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Waller looked grim. "We will if we have to. However, we would prefer a peaceful resolution to the problem, and will do everything we can to achieve one."
"That should do it," Corvan said, shutting down the implant's record function. He now had the basics of who, what, where, why, when, and how. And although Waller had given only one side of the story, the prisoners would give him the rest.
"Good," Waller replied. "Now, is there anything else I can do for you?" She watched his face expectantly. With any luck at all he'd ask for permission to board the barge; if not, she'd have to suggest it. Either way the boys would cancel Corvan's ticket and allow her to get some work done. Hostages or no hostages, mis whole thing would be over by dawn. After that the sky would be rilled with news copters and the water would be covered with chartered boats. By that time she wanted the situation under control, the men back in their cells, and the process of political damage control well underway. Anything else would mean the end of her career.
Corvan smiled, the warmth in his real eye at odds with the cold blackness of the other. "Yes, there is one other thing you could do for me. I'd like permission to go aboard the barge."
Waller did her best to look concerned. "I'll be honest with you, Corvan, it's tempting to say yes. After all, the public has a right to know what's going on, and your visit might help the prisoners let off a little verbal steam. Still, I couldn't guarantee your safety, and they might turn on you. Nope," she said with apparent regret, "I think you should stay right here. I promise you'll have a front-row seat if anything exciting happens."
At this point Waller looked at Captain Alvarez to make sure he was paying attention, and was pleased to see that he was. His face bore a sardonic expression, as if he could see right through her manipulations, but he made no attempt to interfere.
"I see," Corvan said solemnly. "So, although you don't think I should go, you'll allow me to go if I insist?"
Waller nodded. "That's about the size of it."
''Then I insist,'' Corvan said, knowing full well that he was doing exactly what she wanted him to do. Waller was manipulating him, or at least trying to, but that was expected. Like everyone else he'd ever interviewed, she wanted the story told
her
way.
It was another half hour before Corvan was able to board a small launch and bob his way across to the barge farm. The prisoners had established communications via the prison's radios, and had given their permission for Corvan to come, as long as he did so in an open boat crewed by one person. They also insisted that both he and the crew person wear nothing but shorts.
The hydrofoil's crew approved, since a chief boatswain's mate named Jackson had been selected to go and he was something less than popular with his subordinates.
So it was amid loud whistles and catcalls that the two of them departed, with Jackson standing silently behind the wheel and Corvan doing his best to stay upright behind him. The wind was cold and he felt silly in his shorts and shoulder guard.
Fortunately the trip was a short one, and the launch soon bumped into the prison farm's landing stage, where a pair of burly prisoners waited to pull him aboard. They communicated via grunts and gestures.
One was white and the other was black. Both had used their time inside to put muscles on their muscles. They turned the body search into a mild beating. Pushing him back and forth, they took turns punching and slapping him around. While uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to some of the stuff Corvan had endured while a member of the Green Beanies, and he rolled with their punches.
Strangely enough, neither one took issue with the robo cam which was perched on his left shoulder. Apparently they assumed it was standard journalistic equipment and therefore acceptable.
After two or three minutes of kicking him around, they got bored and shoved him toward a set of metal stairs. The stairs were black wherever gull droppings had failed to make them white and wet with spray.
As Corvan made his way up the stairs, he activated the implant's record function. Normally he would let the people know when he started to record, but it seemed a little silly under the circumstances so he decided to keep his own counsel.
As he emerged at the top of the stairs, Corvan found himself on the lowest deck. A great deal of it was cut away, open to the water below, and crisscrossed with metal catwalks. Other catwalks lined the bulkheads halfway up toward the next deck, and these were thick with inmates. They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Corvan with the same dull eyes.
Lower down, the catwalks were like the spokes of a wheel, damp with moisture, and leading to the open platform at the center of the work area. The platform was circular and clearly used as a staging area.
A single green-white floodlight lit the platform from above. Corvan saw that a dozen or so men were gathered around a raised dais made of cargo pallets. A chair had been placed on top of this makeshift stage and was occupied by a man whose face was hidden in shadow. The whole scene had a strange dreamlike quality.
Corvan recorded a wide establishing shot, followed by a slow pan from left to right.
A voice suddenly boomed out over the vessel's public address system. "The king awaits. Let those who would beg his favor approach."
One of Corvan's two escorts gave him a shove, and he stumbled forward. It seemed the voice was speaking to him.
As Corvan headed out toward the central platform, he noticed that the catwalk was slick with moisture. The air around him was cold, damp, and heavy with the odor of fish.
To either side of the platform Corvan saw the pens: rectangles of calm water occasionally roiled by the movement of thickly packed fish.
Then he was there, feet away from the strange presence in the chair, suddenly aware of the hard, cold lump that had formed in his gut.
The PA system boomed again. "Kneel, scum, and pay homage to his highness, Davy Jones."
Corvan kneeled and waited for some sort of cue.
"Do you acknowledge Davy Jones as king of the deep, protector of the guilty, and lord of all that he surveys?"
Corvan glanced at the other men on the platform, searching for some sign that this was a joke, a way to have some fun with the stupid reporter. But every face he saw was deadly serious, and as each second passed, he could feel the tension build toward the point when something would snap. He swallowed hard.
"I acknowledge that Davy Jones is king of the deep, protector of the guilty, and lord of all that he surveys."
An audible sigh escaped the men around him.
"Rise and take your place among the king's loyal subjects."
Corvan did as he was bid.
"You're a reop?" Davy Jones had spoken.
Corvan nodded. "That's correct."
"That's correct,
your highness,"
the PA system boomed out. "Learn or die."
"I meant no offense, your highness," Corvan said evenly.
Davy Jones ignored Corvan's statement. "Why did you come?"
Corvan chose his words with care. "I came to get your side of the story."
Davy Jones was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. "There is very little to tell. Each of us told our story and lost. Then we came here to work and eventually die. Now, for a few hours, we're free. It isn't much, but it's better than nothing at all."
Conscious that each movement of his body was a movement of the camera, Corvan looked right, then left, and up at the man with no face. "May I ask a question, your highness?"
Davy Jones inclined his head.
"What about the hostages? Are they all right?"
There was silence for a moment as the prison leader considered Corvan's request. Then he stood and walked over to a control box which dangled shoulder-high from a beam far above. As he moved, Corvan saw that Davy Jones was strangely beautiful. So beautiful that his face might have belonged to a woman, or to an animated manikin, because in spite of his beauty it was empty of all life.
As the convict turned toward him, Corvan zoomed in on the man's left breast pocket. And there, in neatly stenciled letters, he read "JONES, D."
So his name really was Davy Jones. A common name, but in the hands of a man with a forceful personality and a little bit of imagination, the name had become something more. An edge, a way for Jones to elevate himself above the people around him.
There was nothing unique about a shadow government run by prisoners, but one with the trappings of a mythical monarchy, well, that was different. Unaware of what the reop was thinking, Jones smiled and said, "Six hostages coming up."
Corvan pulled to a wide shot as Davy Jones held the control box in his left hand and used his right to push a big red button. Somewhere high above, an electric motor began to whine. Out over the fish pens a series of steel cables suddenly grew bar taut and moved slowly upward.
Moments later a long length of aluminum pipe broke the surface of the water and was quickly followed by six bodies, feet tied to the bar, hands secured behind their backs. Water streamed from their contorted faces and trickled down into the pens below as their bodies swayed in the light breeze.