Across the Huron Sea: Lust For Life

The two-week sail felt like her death throes. 

Leaning out from the rail on deck, Mira retched up the scanty food she had made herself swallow and dropped on her hip. Next to her in a poodle, she glimpsed her reflection, her face pallid. Besides sea sickness, she had almost used up all her inhalers in only two weeks. She cussed and spat, but the acidic bile wouldn't go away. She shut her eyes. Pressing her back against the rail, she drew up her knees, her mouth agape, her lungs toiling for the saline air. Overhead, garrulous seagulls flocked and squawked. She peeled open her eyes and surveyed the men on deck. Despite the stench of their piss and sweat, none had bothered her much. They even left her with the easiest job cleaning up kitchen slops given her sorry state, which provided her an opportunity reeked of risks. 

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. 

Gray might have let her on board. But she doubted it would be that easy. No, he'd make sure she kept her mouth shut, and he'd likely leave the job to the Republicans. Decades he had dealt business with the Republican customs. Must he be chummy with the staff. If he wanted to set her up, say, reporting her in whatever way that should put her in conflict with their Immigration, she would be done for. 

Turning to the shoulder, she squinted at the glimmering sea that rolled and stretched in striations to fold into the sky without a cloud. The sun scorched her skin. 

She needed a commotion in a few hours when they reached the shore. With the laxatives she brought, now was a good time to put it to use. Her eyes panned to the side door leading to the kitchen.

No. 

She shook her head. 

They didn't assign her the easy job out of kindness. Should anything go awry with their food, they would hand her in as the prime suspect to the customs police. She wrung her hands. 

"Bollocks!" Near the stern, a brawny sailor sporting a headful of auburn curls hurled an empty pack of tobacco into the sea. They called him O'Matty. "You got any left?" 

As he turned to the other who flinched and wrenched off his grip like a water snake, Mira pulled herself up. 

"Oi, O'Matty!" she hollered, wearing the mein of an easy smile, her mind groggy. "Got light?"

***

"Evan Ginsberg," said Officer Kovács Dolma sitting across a desk in a dinky secondary screening room at Customs of the Central West Port, Konstinbul. A lean man in his forties clad in livery, Dolma sported a chevron mustache, his silvery hair pomaded. Flicking between Mira and the documents before him, his gray eyes betrayed nothing. "All your tests came in today," he continued. "Seems you're clear."

"Thank God!" Mira pumped an arm. "May I go now?"

Dolma snorted, his lips tilting along with the mustache. "You may not."

"But you already had me cooped in on the ship for three days! And unlike others, I'm not infected! No symptoms or anything! You have no right to hold me here!" Feigning her grievance, she protested.

Another snort passed Dolma's throat, which he might have meant for a laugh. "The alleged virus broke out just before the ship docked, correct?" 

She batted her eyes, looking dumbfounded as if he was asking whether the sun rises from the east. "So?"

Dolma nodded. "So, you didn't give the crew members anything you shouldn't?"

"You mean those cigarettes?" she pretended to ask, knowing all too well what he meant. "That's the only thing I gave them! I smoked them, too, you know? And technically, I didn't give it to them! I asked O'Matty if he got light, and he took the pack from me! Slim was there, too. Of course, he smoked it as well. And they must really like it or something. You know, they're kind of special, I mean the cigarettes. They have those crush balls, each capsuled in the filter. Pop it, and it releases a flavor to the tobacco. Anyway, O'Matty gave a few to the Captain, to curry favor from him and stay inside the cabin with the AC on, and…" 

Dolma shook his wrist for her to shut up, clearly irked by her rambling, his brows knitting. Leaning back in his chair, he swung the cigarette pack sealed in a sampled bag from under the desk. "This is what you're talking about?"

Mira blinked, "Yeah, what's wrong with it?" Then, she gawked, her shoulders shaking. "Oh dear god! You didn't find anything poisonous there, did you? I smoked those, too! Oh god! Am I gonna die? Oh, lord save me!" She dropped to her knees, knocking off the chair while she was at it.

Rolling his eyes, Dolma sighed. "Get up! There is no poison."

Mira cracked a grin, gauche and silly. "For real? Dear god, officer, you scared me good!" Clambering to her feet, she put up the chair. "It really is a good brand. The capsules in this one got dandelion leaf extract so it gives the smoke a nice touch, and you know you can get it from…" She cut herself short as she saw Dolma shake his wrist again. 

That's right, she thought. Only dandelion. Nothing toxic, or illegal, let alone life-threatening – unless you have been vaccinated against malaria. To reduce the cost so they could deliver on their election promise of free medical care for all, the Reds, who still called themselves the Commonwealth Utopianists, cut corners and changed the compulsory vaccines for sailors four years ago which made them prone to allergies. An innocent plant such as the taraxacum thus became deadly, causing reactions including fevers, vomits, convulsive coughs, difficulty breathing, hives, and all the symptoms that would alarm for a virus outbreak. But none of the sailors knew that. Not even the captain, or Harvey Gray. Renoyld gleaned the intel, including the list of substitutes that pharmaceuticals had provided, transactions to everyone bribed, and the merchants involved, names Mira knew and didn't, some she had met in person. But by the time it sufficed to warrant an allegation, Renolyd had already been thrown off his position. With too many jaws baring their fangs on his tail, he encrypted everything he gathered that went beyond the vaccine and stored it up in his private cloud. Pounding a single wrong key would erase the entire file. 

One day, Mira would open it to start an earthquake, but it wasn't now. Intel like this was as lethal to its target as it was to those holding it, depending on how it was used. She had to be patient, and she must bid her time. While the cigarettes may pull the wool over the Republicans' eyes for now, it'd only be a matter of time before they realized the truth. Who knows, a clever doctor should be able to tell with a just closer look, and a little more digging ought to point at the vaccine as the problem. Two birds with one stone, she could have the Republicans expose the scandal in her stead. But one step at a time, she must get out of here first. Her teeth sank in her bottom lip. 

"I'm not interested in what's in the tobacco," said Dolma, smirking behind the chevron mustache, his voice unhurried, like a seasoned hunter setting up his bait. He cocked his head. "Rather, I want to know how all the crew members smoked your fancy cigarettes on the last day."

They didn't. She thought, gulping the words she had nearly hurled off in her defense. The first crew members who showed symptoms were those allowed in the captain's cabin, including O'Matty and Slim. The captain liked to smoke indoors so he wouldn't have to brave the piercing wind at the sea, hence infecting everyone in his radius. But that's what Dolma would like me to say. She lowered her eyes, dangling a grin on her lips, her tongue pushing the back of her front teeth. That way, I confirm that cigarettes are indeed the problem.

"They all did?" she cupped a hand over her mouth; her eyes widened in disbelief. "All of them? When? I mean, I know O'Matty took a pack and gave it to the captain. But…"

"Initially after you were quarantined, a few lower-ranked members were just like you, and showed no symptoms. According to them, you gave them cigarettes too while you all helped bring food to the sick ones?"

"I shared only because they all have run out! What's wrong with being a good samaritan?" 

"A good samaritan, eh?" Dolma let out a laugh devoid of mirth. "How come that you get to be the good samaritan, that you're the only one with cigarettes left? Looks to me that you're waiting for an opportunity."

"Because this is my first time on board, sir! I didn't know what'd happen, or how I should ration! So, I hid my stash and didn't take a draft for two weeks until the last day!" Propping on both elbows, she leaned forth, her lips parched, her head pounding. She felt worn, exhausted, as if she were groping for a hold on a sheer cliff with one misstep between her and her fate. 

Across the desk, Dolma favored her with a nod. "Tell you what, I almost believed you. I would if I had not visited the Captain when your test results came in." 

She batted her eyes. "How's he doing?"

"Oh, he's in a terrible state, delirious almost. But despite all that, he remembered to tell me one thing, that you're an illegal from the third world south, trying to trespass our borders through the Dominican Peninsula. They captured you while they laid over there, and he was gonna report you for a bounty if it weren't for all the snafu happening so conveniently on the last day." 

"Come on!" Throwing her arms in the air, she slumped in the chair. "Didn't you say the man's delirious? Thought the laws say the testament is only effective when the plaintiff is in a sound mind! Can he even spell his name right now?" 

"That's why you may not leave," Dolma smirked more as he crossed his hands next to his chin. "You'll stay here until the man recovers."

"Is it because I'm traveling with a temp doc?" She slid forward on an elbow, her eyes imploring. "Sir, as I have explained multiple times already, I lost my passport in a fire before we left the Commonwealth!" 

"Yes, yes, my dog ate my homework," Dolma deadpanned. 

"Innocent until proven guilty?"

"Which is why we'll also be waiting for the list of official crew members from Mr. Harvey Gray." 

Chewing on the seams of her lips, she strained her face to a smile. "Can I at least use the restroom?" 

"If you don't mind being escorted." 

She laughed, a dry cackle. Getting to her feet, she passed a dome-roofed lobby with Dolma in tow and came down to the end of a long corridor, with incandescent lights buzzing in and out of life every two meters apart overhead. Her feet brought her to a halt before the Men's room. She turned back. 

"Number two, sir. You sure you don't wanna wait outside?" 

Dolma didn't reply but kept the door open with an arm. 

"Fine," she said, her voice easy, flippant even. But the second she locked the door to the stall, she banged her knuckles against her forehead, her body shivering. 

Breathe!

She commanded herself. Her clenched fist glided down to her nose while her other hand felt under her shirt. 

A staccato of feet drew close coming down the corridor, followed by a rap on the door. Before Dolma could answer, a man's gruff voice broke in. "Sir, it's the DEA! They ask for backups."

"First the virus, now the DEA," Dolma groused. "Why didn't you call?" 

"I did!"

"Bullshit! How else I… fuck, left my phone in the room…" 

As his voice trailed off to a grunt, the other man continued, "They had a lead to one of the Phantom Lord's major labs and set bait." 

"They baited the Phantom Lord? No shit! Did they catch him?" The other man probably shook his head. Dolma hissed with a chuckle, "Of course they didn't, having the brain less of a pig! Over my dead body they'll capture the Phantom Lord!" 

"But they smoked the man out and followed him to the Port," the other man continued. "Looks like he's gonna escape through the ferry." 

A moment of pause seemed to hold the air still for the length of a breath. Dolma cussed, mumbling to himself. "This is a godsend! Whoever catches the Phantom Lord retires with fame and fortune! We can't let the DEA have it! You, you stay here, and watch the boy! Make sure he stays in your sight!"

"But, sir, I can help you! I can…"

"Do as I said!"

The door flung open again with a loud creaking. Silence besieged. 

"Oi boy, hurry the fuck up!" the man harrumphed. 

Brrrt. 

"What the hell was that?" he retched.

Behind the stall door, Mira winced, holding up the fart bomb she had with her lest she needed to create a situation like this, her gorge rising. "You asked me to hurry, so I pushed."

"Son of a bitch!" 

Feet thumped, and the door flung creaking again. 

Mira unlocked the stall. Without a second of delay, she jammed herself out through the awning window, her heart in her throat. Under the waning moon, she snuck behind a container facility. A binding alley zigzagged into the dark behind her beckoned. She bit her bottom lip, edging toward the dark. 

A deafening eruption afar set the sky ablaze, jolting her to a halt. She tossed back her head; her eyes rounded with fear. Force of the blast sent smoke roaring, and even from a distance, she could feel the bursts of heat. Compelling herself to think, she turned her gaze to the front and stared down at the ground beneath her feet.

Never find hide in the enemy's territory. 

While she knew nothing about the Port beyond what one could find in a travel brochure, Dolma oversaw every terminal like he knew the back of his hand. She could be cornered at any minute the longer she dabbled with her luck. 

The wind rose, sending chills down her spine despite the hot air. Dashing through a narrow interstice between the containers, she stopped before a pier. Her lips compressed as she surveyed the handling truck parked by the curb, and the porters now distracted by the fire. A daring idea struck her. She flattened herself on her back against a container. Thirteen seconds she had give or take to dash to the truck without anyone noticing. She heaved, her eyes shut, cheeks puffing. 

Fortune favors the bold. 

Ready to bolt, she popped open her eyes. A large hand gloved in leather wrapped around her mouth from behind. 

Seized by a panic such as she had never experienced in her short life, she scrambled in his grip. A whiff of blood mingled with an intoxicating scent of cedar. 

"Shh." He lowered his head to her ear. 

Clamped to his firm chest, she gulped at the dark red seeping through his shirt ivory white. She risked a glimpse up. Under a silver-black, half-faced phantom mask was a sculpted face, strands of jet-black hair sweeping his cheeks. His pale complexion rhymed like a poem with those burgundy red lips, above which, a straight nose cast a shadow on his thin eyes the color of onyx. He glanced down at her, his gaze otherworldly. 

"Bad idea if you're thinking of getting a lift," he gasped, his larynx heaving. Deep like the rumbling sea and magnetic, his voice threatened to drown any audience.