The Traversers

Somewhere over the Atlantic, 1745.      

Captain Hale was found freshly dead in his quarters early Monday morning, and before the sun had even reached its peak everyone on the Consolata was believing something different. Hanged himself with his belt, said one. No, the decision was made with a bullet, said another. Yet more theories floated about. Gazes slid to and fro, searching for a too-shifty eye or a too-quick breath.

Ellis was the one who discovered the corpse. He’d cracked the door open, throwing a rectangle of grey light across Hale’s unmoving form. “Moon’s gone missing, Captain,” he’d announced. The Consolata groaned. She lurched, but that wasn’t why Ellis had to steady himself. Hale’s arm had fallen to the side of the bed, dangling like meat from a hook. A glass vial fell from his hand and shattered. Dark liquid splashed.

Ellis’s Adam’s apple hiked up. “Captain.” No sound came from Hale, and knowing it never would again scattered Ellis’s mettle. He went to fetch the boatswain, leaving the door ajar behind him.

            That evening, the most prominent members of the crew crammed themselves into the arid belly of the Consolata. “I think he knew it was his time,” Horowitz the boatswain said, “If he didn’t do it to himself, one of us would’ve.”

             Ellis was perched like a nervous puffin on a barrel to Ixtli’s right. “I always thought there was something askew about him.”

            Ixtli sat cross-legged on the floor, the blades of her macuahuitl in her lap burnished bronze in the petering candlelight. “Aht, aht! Speak only good of dead men.” Her eyes widened. Rectangles of light danced in the whites. Along with the tattoos etched into her face, it rendered her ghoulish.  “Old Hale’s ghost might be here. Might hear you talk bad on him.”

            “Nonsense,” said Regis. “The only things Levi Hale can hear now are the cleft hooves of the devil.” He straightened his back, resolute. “But that is not the subject at hand.”

“Right.” Horowitz lumbered to his booted feet, voice athunder. “I’m ripe for the captainhood. Been so for years. Hale was gearing up to appoint me.”

            Regis scoffed. “Did he tell you this? Or are you going by that ring he lent you that you never returned to him?”

            Horowitz regarded him with a curled lip, twisting the gold ring on his pinky. Hale’s name was embossed into one side and the number 1941 along the opposite. Regis, handsome and dark-haired, was the sole literate one among the bunch, though Horowitz never let him close enough to the ring to interpret the rest of the words inscribed on its surface.

            “You knew him only as your captain,” Ixtli cut in. “I loved him like my father. He saved me when I was baby. I grew up with him. Told me everything about the ship. I know things he never tell any of you.”

            Regis’s nose bridge was dented courtesy of a bad-intentioned fist from some years ago; he wrinkled it in condescension. “That doesn’t guarantee the inheritance of his belongings. Let alone the role of captaincy.”

            Ixtli hissed. “I was the most important to him!”

            “And what did he leave you with, woman?” Horowitz’s gut bobbed as he guffawed. It was vulgar, the way it protruded from his vest covered in wiry black hair. “Some father figure. ‘Sides, what kind of man would I be, taking orders from some woman? A dirty little savage?”

            In less than a blink, the macuahuitl was in Ixtli’s hands, her screech earsplitting in the cramped space. She lunged at Horowitz, whose features flashed from mirth to alarm at the sight of her. Like dynamite, Regis’s voice burst through the melee. “Don’t move another inch!”

            The macuahuitl clattered to the floor. All eyes were suddenly on the object Regis was pointing at Ixtli.

            “Regis,” Ellis’s voice went reedy. He peered out from behind the barrel. “What in God’s name is that?”

            Regis kept his eyes on Ixtli. “Found it among Hale’s effects.”

            “It’s clearly a sort of gun,” Ellis said, “but why is it…orange?”

            “Brightest lookin’ thing I’ve laid eyes on.” Horowitz stepped backward, his gaze flitting from the orange gun to Ixtli. Sweat glittered on the pig-pink skin of his bald head.

            Ixtli bared teeth filed to points. “You don’t know if it work.”

            Regis cocked the gun. “My dear,” he intoned, “unless you’re willing to submit yourself to proving it does, you will cover up those godawful fangs of yours and step away from your weapon.”

            Ixtli shuffled back, growling. From the corner, Horowitz leered.

“That’s it,” said Regis. Then, “Ellis.” He motioned at the macuahuitl. His hands wringing, Ellis materialized from behind the barrel and picked it up. The scrape of its blades against the floor made his hair stand on end.

            Regis put the gun in his belt. “Gentlemen, since I am the one who currently possesses this object, it stands to reason that I take up the mantle.” He scanned the room. “Unless any of you would like to object?” When no one did, he said, “Good. Then the matter is settled and we should all go about our day as if no one came close to being cleaved in two.”

            Regis turned, allowing his coattails to swirl behind him, and strode towards the door. Scarcely had he opened it when he heard the silver sound of metal slashing through the air, then the quick, cold slide of it into his flesh commanded his attention. He stopped. “Horowitz,” he said evenly. “Please remove your knife from my back.”

            “Hellfire take you!” Heavy footfalls, then Horowitz slammed himself bodily into Regis. They landed hard on the deck, the wind blasted from Regis’s lungs as Horowitz’s full weight came down on him.

            Mutiny already? Regis threw an elbow backward and felt it connect with a crunch. Horowitz yowled. Regis scrambled to his feet and whirled around. He raised his foot, launching the heel of his boot into Horowitz’s face. It collided, the impact sending a jolt up Regis’s leg. He stumbled backward, fishing into his belt for the gun but finding nothing. Horowitz’s braying laughter made his heart drop. Regis looked up to see Horowitz on his knees, the gun positively Lilliputian in his hand.

            Ellis and Ixtli had appeared in the doorway, their faces masks of shock. “My God,” said Ellis. “He’s taken it.”

            “Dammit.” Regis raised his hands, palms out.

            Still laughing, Horowitz stood. His nose was now bent into a shape not unlike Regis’s, except, mysteriously, his face was free of gore. A broken nose and no blood?

            His expression wolfish, Horowitz raised the gun. “Looks like the food chain’s reconfigured itself.” He grinned, showing brown stumps for teeth.  “I’d like me knife back.”

            Regis reached over and pulled it out of his back. His flesh squelched. Teeth gritted, he waited for the wet heat of blood spilling down his coat, but there was only pain pulsing in the wound. The blade shone grey in the fog, not a drop of red. He tossed it, and it skittered to a stop a foot from Horowitz’s boots. “Witchery,” he whispered.

            The unusualness was wasted on Horowitz. “This, ”he said breathlessly, “this is what Hale intended. For me to take his place. Not you, flouncing round like a show pony and claiming things that ain’t never belonged to you.”

            Regis spat on the ground. “I’ll let Poseidon himself take me before I condescend to this!”

            “Suit yourself.” Horowitz cocked the gun. “Nice knowing you, lad.”

            Regis squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the clap of gunfire, the sensation of the bullet ripping through him…

Instead, there was Ellis’s cry of “Ixtli, don’t!”

His eyes snapped open. Ixtli had leapt onto Horowitz’s back and sank her sharpened teeth into the meat of his shoulder, and Horowitz bellowed like an enraged god, throwing himself against the outer wall. Horowitz jammed the barrel of the gun into Ixtli’s cheek, his finger on the trigger, and Regis sprang forward, his arm outstretched just as Ellis did the same. Ellis yanked Horowitz’s arm away from Ixtli’s face barely a nanosecond before Horowitz pulled the trigger, and a ball of red light shot upward, brilliant and tailed like a comet, and disappeared into the fog-choked sky.

Jairo and Wallis were slicing through the moist air on hovercraft when they saw the flare. They braked abruptly, the rear bumpers whipping forward. It burned and faded not ten seconds after it launched.

Through his helmet, Jairo passed a glance over his shoulder at Wallis. He pressed a button on his earpiece. “You charge your pistol, kid?”

A burst of static, then Wallis’s voice. “Charged,” she said. “Lead the way.”

 They resumed their path. It wasn’t long before the fog parted to reveal the huge ship jouncing on the black water. Wallis gasped. Until now, she’d only seen ships from a distance during her first few missions. She’d frivolously begun to think that they were tiny enough to pluck from the ocean and drop into something as safe as bath water. Here, confronted with this ship’s oldness and enormity, she felt herself being wrung out of her own inexperience.

“Look at the size of this old dame.” Jairo removed his glove and placed a brown hand on the wood. Rare were such capturings of nature in his native time sphere. His hands had grown up almost exclusively touching polished man-made surfaces; the wood’s roughness, he thought, was a treasure in itself.

            They guided their hovercraft down onto the deck and killed the engines. Jairo’s eyes scanned the decrepit place as he swung a leg over his hovercraft and stood. “Not a soul on this joint. I’m willing to bet this thing didn’t sail all the way out here on its own.”

            Grunting, Wallis retracted her visor. She sniffed the soupy air, then gagged. “Christ Almighty. Smells a hell of a lot like something died. Or a few somethings.” She saw the bright orange gun laying where it had landed. “Here’s the culprit.”

            Jairo took his pistol from its holster and booted it up. It trembled and whirred to life. “Let’s check the guts. Watch your step. Put your visor back down until we’ve swept the whole area. Stay behind me.”

            They descended into the cloying dark of the hull. Wallis heard buzzing coming from deep within it, crescendoing the further down they went. “Jairo. Do you hear that?”

            He nodded. “Flies.”

            Dread stung the nape of Wallis’s neck. “Turn your flashlight on,” she half-pleaded.

            Jairo obliged. The offensively bright light made Wallis’s eyes water and illuminated the four bodies sprawled out near the steps, and there were the flies buzzing around them in a mad frenzy. With a scratchy yelp Wallis stumbled back as if shoved, dropping her pistol. Bile flooded her mouth. She opened her visor just in time to retch.

            Jairo simply blew out a breath and crossed himself. “Must be the whole damn crew down here. Poor bastards. God rest them.”

            Through her tears, Wallis saw the woman’s body first. Earthy brown skin, oily black hair cascading about her skull like river water. The tattoos on her face were dark green under Jairo’s light. Three of the corpses were male, one not much older than she. The second had probably been handsome in life, while the bulk and the amount of hair on the last one made him seem more warthog than man. Something gold glinted on his finger.

            “What’s that?” She pointed to it.

            Jairo leaned in, holding his light aloft. His knees popped as he crouched next to the large man. He reached out and slipped the ring off his finger. Jairo brought it close to his face, turning it this way and that, then stiffened.

            Wallis dragged herself to her knees, using the wall for support. “What kind of ring is it?” 

            Jairo rose. His voice was airy with reverence. “It was Hale’s.”

            “What?” In two bounds Wallis was at Jairo’s side. Sure enough, on the side of the ring was Hale’s name in gold block letters. On the other, the year 1941.

            “His class ring. He graduated college in ’41. Right as the Second World War kicked off.”

            “Bet he was a draft dodger.”

            Jairo shrugged. “Can’t blame him. Rather be a captain on a ship than a soldier in the trenches.” He pocketed the ring. “He’s gotta be close.”

            He was, of course; they found Hale’s body where it had been since that morning. Jairo took off his helmet. Hale stared up at the ceiling, his bloodless lips parted as if mid-speech. He was through and through a seafarer of this period save the tattoo on his wrist: a circle bisected by a line with two diagonal ones coming out of either side.

            “What does his tattoo mean?” Wallis asked.

            “Meant peace at one point. It was popular a few hundred years before any of us were born. Ironic, huh? He must have known we were coming for him.” Admiration and revulsion fought for prominence over Jairo’s features. “Took the easy way out and made his crew go down with him.”

            “So if nobody on this thing is alive, then who set that flare off?”

            “One of the crew, I’m willing to bet,” Jairo said. “One or more of them must have stayed after Hale did away with them. It’s possible he was terrorizing them from the other side and somebody got desperate.”

            Wallis remembered reading about it as part of her initial training. Soul imprinting, no less a marvel of creation than it’s namesake. A soul new to life makes a mother out of the first thing it sees; for one coming out of it, “mother” becomes wherever its death occurred.

            “All those people.” Wallis shuddered. “You think he offed them because someone found him out?”

            “Maybe. Fastest way to notoriety is to commit as many crimes in as many time spheres as he did. Brought that on himself.” Jairo shook his head. “The Council’s been after him for years.”

            “I can’t believe he’s dead. We just missed him.”

“Well, there’s one upside to it. He won’t be objecting to us looking around.” Jairo turned to the nightstand by the bed and pulled the drawer open. A Rubik’s cube rolled its way to the front, knocking aside a stone blade. Wallis picked it up and inspected it. “My grandmother has one of these. She said her grandfather gave it to her. I never cared to figure the damn thing out.”

            Jairo rummaged through the drawer’s contents. “Huh. Not seeing a lot of Renaissance paraphernalia here. That’s usually a popular one.” He reached in and pulled out a small black notebook. “Bingo.”

Wallis immediately lost interest in the Rubik’s cube. “Open it. Open it!”

Jairo flipped it open. Hale’s script resembled tangles of spider legs on each page, but the markers at the top corners were unmistakable.

Wallis read each one out loud: “Sphere #74839: August 7, the Year of Our Lord 1256. Sphere #36483: March, 543 AD. Sphere #38290: December 1473.”

She and Jairo spent the next thirty minutes poring over each passage. The things they read were so impossibly detailed that Wallis found herself envious of the dead man.

            “Every time sphere must be recorded here.” She traced a finger along another marker: Summer 2489. “The things this guy must have seen and done.”

            “Yeah. Including murdering his entire crew.”

            “Doesn’t get much more ‘seen and done’ than that.”

            Jairo closed the book with a small thwip. “As exciting as all this is, we shouldn’t touch too much. The Council’s gonna want full stats. Everything’ll be bagged up and confiscated when they get here.”

            Some of the wind was sucked out of Wallis’s enthusiasm. “So much history here. I wanted to see all of it. Just…leave out the bodies and ghosts.”

“Leave them out? Girl, where do you think history comes from?”

Wallis’s mouth formed a pensive frown. “Maybe my mom was right and I should stick to reading about it.”

Jairo lightly patted her shoulder. “Not everybody finds something this big so soon in their career, kid. Count yourself lucky.”

            The sun was a hot white blur by the time Wallis followed Jairo out of Hale’s quarters. The worst of the fog had burned up. Wallis quietly cherished the gulls and albatrosses that now dotted the warm grey expanse above them. Their hovercrafts sat where they’d been left, absurdly new in contrast to the Consolata. Wallis mounted hers. She focused on her gloved hands to chase what was behind her from her memory, but then thought better of it, for too much of the same lay ahead. 

Jairo lifted an eyebrow at her hesitation. “You forget something?”

            Wallis cleared her throat. “Nope. Ready.”

            “Light ‘em up,” said Jairo.

            The hovercrafts hummed and reverberated calmly as they rose into the humid air, and for the time being, they left the Consolata to the sea and its spirits.