The Sea Is Ours (4 page)

Caliso removed her helmet and visor, which had become suffocating high above the volcano's mouth, her eyes immediately watering from the sulfur and other hot, volcanic fumes in the air. She murmured a word of thanks when Dato handed her a pair of brass goggles, strapping them over her eyes and pulling the nose filter down so as to dispel the fumes. When she was able to breathe, she nodded quickly at her navigator, who had approached her with a strange woman in tow. Caliso frowned.

“We're not at full capacity,” Caliso said before the navigator could speak. “How are the injured, Gogg?”

“Casim's fine,” the navigator said, “slight concussion, but he'll recover. We lost the Twins. They'd both miscalculated the crust's durability and stepped on ground that gave way to magma. Sorry, Cali, Atia and Ashi are dead.”

She grimaced. Caliso had not lost more than five people within a given year, and for the most part, the loss had usually not led to fatalities. Two deaths in one volcano meant that her crew had become complacent, careless. They thought Bulkang Mayon was going to be an easy siphon. Clearly that assumption had proven deadly. “Dato, send what's left of their bodies back so their families can perform the proper funeral rites. Atia and Ashi have living parents. Make sure they get three times the funds that the Twins would have received in this mission, plus two energy canisters.”

Dato cleared his throat. “Cali, for them, that's only two years' worth of energy. The Twins deserve more than that.”

“It's all we can spare and the Twins would have known this,” Caliso said. She held her first mate's glance and dared him to protest. When he didn't, she shrugged. “Two years is more than enough. Atia and Ashi knew the risks in this position. Neither they, nor you, took to this path lightly. Dismissed, Dato.”

The man nodded grimly, saluted, and left Caliso's side.

Gogg cleared his throat.

Caliso had ignored the visitor at first, but once Dato had gone, she examined her. Gogg and the woman made a strange pair standing next to each other, her navigator bulky and as dark-skinned as a dried coconut, while the woman was thinner, taller, and paler than a regular sun-kissed Pinay. The woman's black hair was tied neatly back in a side tail that reached past her covered shoulder. She wore a baro't saya, the blouse made of white silk, the skirt wrap a long and intricate pattern of brown and silver. While Caliso and the crew of the Amihan sported scars and several burn marks upon their skins as byproducts of their tangles with volcanoes, the woman's skin was unblemished, clean. She belonged in a different world. She did not belong on that airship.

“What's a Cebuano doing here?” Caliso snapped. She harbored no hate for them, but Cebuanos tended to bring about trouble. Especially when more than likely, the government wouldn't be far behind. Volcano chasing was illegal in the south, and meeting up with a sheltered Cebu City woman might bring with it a fleet of soldiers waiting to confiscate what energy they'd siphoned. Hypocrites, the lot of them, Caliso thought.

“Not a Cebuano,” the woman responded, amused by the assumption. Her voice was husky, deep, and her unwavering stare—though shielded by goggles—made Caliso shift with unease. “I came from Refugee Hills.”

“You're as good as Cebuano then.” Refugee Hills was part of the southern districts, three hours' travel from the nation's new capital. “Why are you so far north?”

“She comes for help, Cali,” Gogg said. Caliso raised an eyebrow and shot a curious glance at her navigator. He rubbed his chin, a sign that he was nervous. Something told her that she wouldn't like what he was going to suggest. “We passed a nearby village—”

“Not our problem,” Caliso interrupted, already guessing the rest of the request. She brushed past the navigator and the woman, heading toward her cabin. “Get rid of her.”

“Please, I came all this way with the only floater the village had. They have no energy, no means of transport out. Wait!”

Caliso didn't. In fact, she would have slammed the door in her wake, had the woman not run after her, her smooth hands halting the door's movements. Caliso glared. “I'm no philanthropist, lady. Bulkang Mayon is a known active volcano. Why these settlers choose to continue to make homes in dangerous places is beyond mere stupidity. I don't do rescues.”

The woman shook her head. “It's not—”

“Oh?” Caliso released the pressure on the door, and the woman almost stumbled in as a result. “Then prove me wrong. Tell me you're not on my ship to barter a village's passage from here to Refugee Hills.”

“Well, I am, but…” When the captain made for the door again, the woman bit her lip, removed the goggles from her eyes, and said clearly, “But I can pay you.
Really
pay you. I can pay you whatever you want.”

That got Caliso's interest. “Go on,” she said, “I'm listening.”

“Mixa,” the woman said. “My name is Mixa.”

A part of Caliso recognized the name. She paused and stared again, wracking her brain for the reason for its familiarity. Maybe she had encountered a person named Mixa before, some other volcano chaser or monger she'd dealt with in the past. Or maybe someone from a northern village she had recently visited.

What clued her in was not a memory of an encounter, however. Caliso scanned the woman's earnest face, her hard eyes, her smooth skin, and spied a tattoo engraved just at the base of her neck, half-covered by the white silk blouse. The blouse which, Caliso realized, was made of pricy silk from the western continent. The captain of the Amihan tapped on her own neck. “Let me see that.”

The woman, Mixa, complied, pulling the fold of her blouse to fully show the tattoo, an outline of a two-horned bull mid-charge. A carabao. Caliso stiffened. She knew why she recognized the name, knew why Mixa appeared pampered and protected, almost hidden from the world. The tattoo of the nation's bull had been the very symbol that marked her as northern royalty, the last and only daughter of the New Manila monarch. Cebu City would pay tremendously for her person, and double that just for the whereabouts of the rest of the royal family.

Heck, Caliso might even be talking about getting
pardons
for the entire crew of the Amihan if she handed the woman over.

“You should have said so before.” Caliso let her surprise give way to a smirk. “What can I do for you, Prinsesa?”

~*~

Mixa was not very forthcoming with the details of the evacuation. Once she had pointed out the location of Legazpi and agreed upon a price—an exorbitant amount by northern and southern standards—she had allowed Caliso's inner circle to plan the logistics of the matter. While she remained part of the officers' discussions, the New Manila princess had kept silent, choosing instead to stare out one of the meeting room windows, down toward the land masses broken apart by rivers and lakes and mountainous ranges.

Caliso did not blame the princess for being so drawn to the windows. Barring the view above the Amihan's open metal deck—which required the use of protective eye and nose-wear when traveling in the north—the meeting room provided the best view, with its full-length malambaso windows that protruded outward, allowing the viewer the choice of looking down and seeing more of the ground below. It was not something for people who had a problem with heights, or are uncomfortable with seeing nothing but glass beneath their feet, but if you were on the Amihan, you were accustomed to the sky—or you learned to get acquainted with it very quickly.

If the Amihan had been a battleship, Caliso would have covered the windows in metal panels and allowed enough space to prop cannons up on the sides. But she did not have to take such precautions. If the military ever came calling, her ship would easily outstrip a standard regulation battleship. The engines below were, after all, powered by volcanic energy.

“Don't see the point staring for so long,” Caliso said, addressing Mixa. Her officers continued their conversation, though some of them turned their heads toward the woman passenger. Mixa gave no indication that she heard. “There's not much to see below.”

Nothing but barren land and scorched earth. Nothing but cracked floor covered with hardened lava and ash and tephra. The rivers had become poisonous to its inhabitants, and if there was freshwater to be found in the lakes, it would have dried up by now. Even the skies seemed to add to the bleakness, for the sun was often obscured with clouds that rained acid and fog that seemed almost impossible to pierce unless one used a specific type of goggles. Northern Pinas had remained this way for twenty years, so ravaged by the continuous eruptions of its local volcanoes. Pinatubo. Taal. Mayon. The major figures that caused The Great Explosions of 1816, which led to the nation's Years of Ash Winter. Unlike the cold white snows of Wakoku and Zhongguo to the north, Pinas' snows were made out of broken rocks and ash, gray and dark and oppressive.

Ash and tephra brought no respite to the survivors, no matter how many times they returned to their homes in order to cultivate what could potentially be fertile volcanic soil. The constant volcanic flows never seemed to stop, and land covered in ash gave no economic value to New Manila, whose monarchic government opposed the powerful and affluent Cebu City.

Caliso knew Mixa would not be able to pay her for the evacuation. If the rumors were true—and her sources were highly reliable—the New Manila monarchy lived among the northern survival clans. Their king and heir apparent had been hidden away in some remote region, perhaps in Masbate, perhaps in the tephra ruins of Old Manila itself, but their whereabouts always changed, for it was said they traveled constantly, moving from one location to another. No matter the case, the fugitive royal family lived on the meager auspices of their loyal subjects, those who still believed in preserving the monarchic line by any means. There was no traditional money coming in, not for Mixa, not for her father.

“This is bigger than us, Cali,” Dato warned her after everyone—including Mixa—filed out of the room. “You spent all these years building up a crew made up of northerners. What do you think most of them will say when you personally hand the Cebuanos their monarch's daughter?”

“I am not simply
handing
anyone over,” Caliso said. “I'm willing to barter her for the right price. In fact, they should thank me. The money and pardon we could potentially get should set us up for life. We can choose which volcanoes to pursue, and we won't lose any crew doing so, carelessness and stupidity notwithstanding.”

“It's not about the money.” Dato propped his elbows on the table, rested his forehead over his palms. “Some of us still remember the Islands before the Explosions. Likely some of us want to see things returned in that way. For that to happen, the royal line
must
be preserved. And when the Cebuanos get a hold of the Prinsesa…”

Caliso shrugged. She had remained apathetic to the politics of the north and south, had always done so even under disapproving looks from her immediate family. To her father, mother, brothers, and iron-willed, traditional-minded grandfather, Caliso was too much of a disappointment, for she never spoke out against unfair village laws, nor did she seek to change anyone's welfare but hers. She was deemed self-serving, indifferent, entitled.

Politics was overrated, and so was her entire family. She had been only too glad to escape their expectations, and when she was old enough, she had stowed away upon a nearby airship, promising never to turn back, and never to take a side between the two clashing capitals. “If she's as valuable as you say, they'll hold her for ransom. And if she's of any value to the deposed king, then he will pay whatever price is necessary.”

“You and I know the king would not be able to afford any price the Cebuanos set,” Dato retorted. He glared at his captain. “More than likely the Cebuanos will parade her around as an example, and then kill her. I do not want this blood on our hands, Cali.”

“Blood spilled won't be on our hands. The lawmakers of Cebu City are more than capable of taking that responsibility if they do away with her,” Caliso said. She turned away and approached the windows. “You are following my orders and nothing more. If you're so queasy about this, I can drop you off at Refugee Hills with the rest of the evacuees. If I'm in a good mood, maybe I'll stop by the Hills and let you back on.”

A long pause. Dato sighed. “I am of better use up here.”

The captain glanced at her first mate.

He smiled grimly. “At least I'll make you feel guilty all the way to Cebu City. Perhaps I can even change your mind.”

Caliso laughed. “You'd find it easier to move a mountain, but you can try.”

~*~

Three hundred and thirty-two Legazpi settlers walked upon the retractable brass gangplank that rose in angle from the ground to the Amihan. With them came a few wagons of fruits, vegetables, and rice sacks, pulled along by carabao large enough to fit the width of the plank without tipping over. The same two carabao made return trips to bring more wagons, some that carried clothing, bamboo-woven baskets and hats, as well as woodwork and—more uncommonly—brasswork. Still others harbored the rest of the villagers, sixty-four of the newly-born and the nursing mothers, the sick, the pregnant, and the injured.

Caliso was determined to inspect every single entry, frowning all the while at the large number of occupants that would have to be cared for during the journey ahead. Her ship had retained a capacity large enough to house close to five hundred strong, but it was never meant to do so for actual people. The capacity had been created in order to make room for cargo and precious equipment. There had been an entire room of energy canisters, placed carefully inside boxes, which, after inspection, were stapled shut and wedged tightly in compartments so as not to run the risk of leakage and accidental explosions. This necessary precaution was what kept the ship intact for years. Caliso suspected that it was this lack of precaution that had ended the Legazpi settlers' ship Maganda, a mistake that brought them groveling to the closest airship captain mad enough to head north during an active eruption.