Point Apocalypse (6 page)

That was all well
and good, but the average soldier like myself wasn't supposed to know these things. The Information had told me... no. It had only repeated something I'd known for a long time. This was no Information software - the installation seemed to help surface suppressed memories.

I got out of synch
again, rowing slower as I got lost in thought. It looked like I was caught in a weird and disturbing situation.

I glanced at Georgie and the captain,

"I understand the Earth needs the seaweed. But what's in it for the settlers?"

"
All our machinery," he explained, "is exchanged for carula. All the generators, spare parts, guns and ammunition... It's old: nothing digital, no pulse guns or computerized lathes. Even the gun cartridges are analog."

"
And the fuel? There're no mineral resources here, are there?"

"There aren't," the captain grinned. "But we do have the Tanker."

Information butted in again.
The Tanker is the oil riggers' base. It includes the supertanker
Samotlor
, an oil rig, a supply vessel and the icebreaking tug
Svyatoslav Norg
which were teleported to the Continent as a result of Boris Neumann's bomb test disaster.

"Heard about the
Samotlor
disaster?" the captain said. "You must have, it was all over the news. A whole convoy disappeared on its way from the Arctic oil rigs."

"I see," I mumbled.

"The tanker was full to the brim," the captain perked up, gesturing away. "When Neumann first discovered Pangea forty years back, we kept finding all sorts of shit caught in the jump. Raiders make good money out of it, seeking and selling their goodies on the New Pang market."

The crane operator nodded.

"Our Georgie here was with the raiders for quite a while. He used to work with Neumann himself before Earth pulled the plug on his research," the captain raised his bushy eyebrows wrinkling a sunburnt forehead. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you? Neumann is the old egghead who went missing two years ago, but not before he talked the whole of New Pang senseless with his swamp stories and Continent mysteries. He'd researched all of Pangea by then, from top to bottom, and he had a good team to help him, too. But then-"

A
wave hit the board. The raft jerked, showering me with briny froth.

"The wind's changing," Oakum said.

"Easy all," the captain ordered. For a few seconds he sat still watching the sea. Then he elbowed Georgie,

"Not good. There's a storm
brewing from the Fang. It'll be here soon. The shore is a stone's throw away, but if we try to land, the waves will beat us to fuck on the rocks.”

The crane operator didn't answer
. From out of the corner of his eye he watched the Chinese who didn't avert his gaze from the cape.

I could see the Asian's
anxiety, too. Did he understand Russian or was he just second-guessing our risks? I'd have loved to have known that.

The raft rocked harder,
spattering Wladas with froth. He perked up.

"
What's up?" Blinking, he turned his head and tried to sit up. "What's going on?"

No one answered. The Chinese turned to Georgie,
feigned a smile and froze again.

The captain sized us up, gloomy, munched
on his lip and said,

"
Now, guys. It's better if you jump overboard. Off you go."

Georgie tensed up and grasped
his gun tight. The young sailor bit his lip, looking scared.

"Don't move, Oakum!
I'm talking to the deportees. We need to increase windage. This way at least some of us survive. You hear me? Jump!"

"Did you hear?" Georgie raised his machine gun
, its butt hard against his shoulder. "Out, now!"

A shadow
moved out of my field of vision. It looked as if the Chinese had simply turned, but Georgie emitted a stifled scream and dropped the machine gun. I reached out, grabbed the gun by its holed barrel shroud and pointed it at them. The Chinese was already undoing the slackened crane operator's pants belt while holding the sharp end of the paddle to the captain's throat.

"Hey," I c
alled him, "what's your name... Enough for the time being."

The Chinese released the belt and grabbed
it with his teeth. He pushed the belt's end through the buckle to make a noose and lifted his face.

"What's your name?" I asked staring into his expressionless slanted eyes. "
Do you speak a word of Russian or not?"

He answered with a volley of gobbledygook
stressing the word
Wong
.

"
Wong. Is this your name?"

He
picked up the noose and turned away.

"
Wong. Please don't," I poked him with the gun and commanded, "Sit back down."

Wong
turned to me and shook his head, disapproving. Still, he sat down next to the captain, barging the boy aside.

"What now?" the captain kept squinting at the paddle in the Chinese's hands.

I began unloading the gun.

"We'll
split into pairs. There are six of us so we can take turns rowing. You and Georgie, take the paddles."

Wladas
stirred. He apparently didn't look forward to straddling the dangerous rubber float.

"Move it," I dropped the
ammo belt onto the raft, removed the buttstock and the return spring and began to remove the bolt. "Hear me, Grunt? Bring Georgie round and get rowing."

"Oakum," the captain rubbed his neck, "get some water out of the survival
kit."

The kid bit his lip again and stepped towa
rd the captain, undecided.

"How do you expect him to do it?" I said. "You're the one sitting on the bag.
Another thing. I suggest we drop these stupid monikers, or not? What's your name, sailor?"

"Jim," the boy said.

"That's not a Russian name," Wladas raised his eyebrows. "What did they send you here for?"

"He's one of the locals," the captain rose and started undoing the survival bag.
"Born here. What are your names?"

Wladas
and I exchanged glances. Over the last thirty years or more, Russia had signed quite a few international agreements allowing other countries to get rid of their undesirables by sending scores of them to Pangea. About a decade ago, an epidemic had wiped out a large part of the Continent's population, but by now a new generation had replaced it: young men and women who had grown up in their prison world without once setting foot on Earth.

"I'm Mark," I said.

"Wladas," the neurotech added.

The captain had
produced a flat water container, unscrewed the top and took a large swig.

"I'm Trophym," h
e wiped his mouth with his forearm. "Trophym Pavlovich Kuznetsov. But I'd rather you call me Grunt. I'm used to it."

"
Georgie needs water," I reminded as I put the disassembled machine gun aside. I showed the bolt to the captain.

"I
'll keep it for the time being. Now get on with it!"

I put the bolt into my breast pocket and glanced at Georgie as the captain
splashed some water into his face. Apparently, Wong had overdone it. The crane operator didn't look as if he would recover any time soon. I ordered the Chinese to join the captain and row and told the others to be ready to replace them.

At first we didn't do too badly.
According to Grunt, we'd reach the inshore current at any time which could take us to the shore before the storm.

But th
e wind grew stronger, the waves bigger, and the swell heavier. Finally, I told the rowers to ship their oars for fear of one of them ending up overboard.

"How far to the shore?" I asked panting.

"Less than a mile," Grunt stood up looking to the east. There, the blackened sea hung over the blurred horizon. The white sun behind our backs turned crimson as it set, its light covering the rocky Cape Fang with blood-red spots.

"It'll smash us against the rocks," Georgie
pointed out.

"How much time do we have?" I opened the survival kit and looked inside.

A torn blanket, two flat water containers, some purification tablets, a signaling mirror... but no sign of a first aid kit. I lifted the blanket and pulled out a sheathed machete by its leather strap.

"A
bit more than an hour," the captain answered. "Provided we don't get flipped over."

I tied the leat
her strap around my waist and turned back to the bag. I handed Wladas and Jim a water flask each. Then I discovered a plastic container with a pair of field glasses inside, their ribbed case peeling with age.

I
was just going to train them on the rocks and the thunder clouds above them when Wong exclaimed and pointed his paddle toward the north. I focused the glasses.

A truck drove along the shore.

Cha
pter Four

The Raiders

T
he glasses turned out to be only four-power but enough to make out a rusty truck and some people in it.

It looked as if the driver was pushing
it to its limits. A cloud of dust trailed behind the vehicle as it traced the cliff edge flashing its lights.

Someone in the truck
launched a flare. Its blinding red light hit my eyes forcing me to lower the glasses.

"Are they here to
get us?" Grunt leaned against the board.

A large wave hit the raft. The captain sprung back.
Wong who straddled the float raised his paddle and nearly fell into the water. I grabbed his elbow and pulled him down.

"Keep your heads down
," I told everyone. "Lean against the board."

I stumbled to the middle of the raft
, knelt and, grabbing at Wladas, lifted the glasses again.

The truck braked and the p
eople started jumping out. I counted four. Two more got out of the cab.

"What are they doing?"
Grunt yelled above the wind.

A bolt of lightning flashed over the Fang, zigzagging across the sky. The clap of thunder
crushed in our ears. The approaching storm showered us with a mixture of rain and brine.

I waited for the next wave to pass and raised the
glasses.

The
men had by then put up a tripod in front of their truck. It looked like a stand for a heavy machine gun.

Grunt reached for the glasses. "Lemme have a look
."

"Don't move," I said trying not to lose the truck.
It wasn't easy in the rain and the swell. The lenses misted over.

"What are they doing?" Georgie shouted.

They'd already mounted a thick tube on the tripod. A non-recoil?

I handed the glasses t
o Wong and reached for the gun to assemble it. The bolt didn't want to go into the breech; the belt feed pin wouldn't go into its locator. I grazed my fingers on some lugs inside the breech frame but finally managed to drive the bolt back into its carriage. It clicked along the runners locking into place. Next: the spring, the stock, the ammo belt...

"Step
aside!" I laid the gun onto the float.

The barrel went up and down as the raft jerked.
No way I could take aim, especially considering the distance.

"Give me the fucking glasses!"
Grunt yelled.

The Chinese turned to me. I nod
ded. The captain grabbed the glasses from him and stumbled, face down, onto the float.

"Oh fuck!"
Grunt's voice reached me between the claps of thunder. "Dropped 'em!"

He slapped the
float with both hands.

"
I've dropped the fucking glasses!"

It was getting dark as we spoke. Squinting, I wiped the brine
from my face. The men on the shore raised the barrel higher as they aimed. Another flare lit up in the hands of a man who reached out to place it on top of the barrel.

"What are they doing?" the captain shouted in my ear.

"Trying to set off some fireworks!" I said as I tried to train the sights of my gun on the tripod and the people next to it.

"
It's a rescue rope!" Georgie yelled. "Don't shoot, you clone's ass! They're not trying to kill us!"

I turned to him
.

"They're loading a harpoon
," Georgie went on. "They've attached a flare to it so that we can see it!"