Heiresses of Russ 2012 Page 10

  Come on, come on; at last she heard the two knocks, and she wrapped her fingers around the lever and pulled with all her might. The bay doors groaned open.

  A flash of dusky pink and yellow darted past the viewport and into the circle of the Argus’s lights. Consuelo threw the lever again, and the bay doors closed, the seals rubbing together with a shudder that ran the length of the Amphitrite.

  The lamps turned to watch the mermaid, their twin beams converging on her. What was she thinking? Being seen like this, even in the promising gloom, would be too risky, if the guns oriented on her…

  Aurelie tossed her head back and sang, heedless of the possibility of guns. She sang a wordless song of desire, her voice filling the water and washing up against the two vessels, penetrating their skins and filling the corridors and cockpits with the slow rise and fall of her music.

  Such a tiny thing shouldn’t have had such a big voice. Consuelo rolled her head back as the sound washed over her; a woman was immune to the compulsion, sure, but no one was immune to such beautiful music. Mermaids had spent generations honing their craft against the predominately male sailors that entered their territories, and even if she wasn’t the intended target, every note alighted on her with promises of kisses; the sort that would make a better woman blush. It left her throbbing, and she closed her eyes to let the want wash over her as she shifted in the seat, even that small, shameless movement rubbing against the seam in her pants.

  “I am going to miss you already,” she murmured, knowing she wouldn’t get Aurelie back. The mermaid had a new diversion now. Consuelo had expected that from the start, should she ever need Aurelie to fulfill her side of the promise. Pity.

  She never took unnecessary risks, like sailing into open water with a stolen submarine without a weapon.

  Aurelie didn’t flirt with the windows, as Consuelo expected she might; she didn’t play the unseen temptress, witnessed only with the ears. Consuelo gritted her teeth. A rookie mistake. Didn’t she know to play to curiosity? Why couldn’t she pick one tactic and go with it? The more she was seen, the more opportunity the crew of the Argus had to come to their senses and take flight. Unless she intended them to fly, but with a song like that, full of such unabashed desire? She had been alone for so long, oh, listener, so long, don’t you understand? She needs you.

  Aurelie kept close to the Argus’s viewport, and in the floodlights, Consuelo could see her wiggle her fingers in a wave and give a simpering giggle. Then she darted away—not far—and a little downward; causing the Argus to nose lower. What are you doing? If the pilot went too far the Argus might tilt as far as ninety degrees up and down as the ballast shifted, but what did Aurelie plan to accomplish with that, to give everyone vertigo? The pilot might be thoughtless in tilting up and down to keep her in his sight, but—

  The Argus began to sink as Aurelie continued her descent. She never strayed from the pilot’s field of vision, but she darted down, beyond the continental shelf. Oh, listener, can’t you see? She might disappear. She can’t stay long in this place, come, listener, come and save her before the darkness calls her back.

  Any pilot worth his salt would right himself, mermaid be damned. Any fool would tend to his sub first. Couldn’t he hear the groan of metal as the water pressed in? Consuelo knew—had seen—a mermaid at work before, but the response to the song never failed to surprise her, never made it easier to watch someone mistreat their submarine so. Aurelie was pretty, her song haunting, but a submarine was the heart’s rightful mistress. She wanted to yell what are you doing!, even for an enemy, but she sat in silence as her mouth went dry. No one could be so derelict in their priorities that they thought with their dick first and heart second. What sort of pilot did that?

  It worked every time.

  The big observation bells were the weakest point on the Argus. Consuelo heard, rather than saw, the deep cracks that split them down their length, followed by a crash as they shattered, and the air surrounding the instrument panels turned to circular bubbles that raced toward the surface. More air clung in the crevices as water lapped at the irregular shapes, eating away the air pockets and releasing more bubbles shaped like the bonnets of jellyfish.

  The Argus continued plunging toward the sea floor as Aurelie darted about above it like a dragonfly contemplating the precise blade of grass it wanted to land on, from where it might ponder its hunting strategy. The broken observation bells wouldn’t flood the Argus, but the task of getting inside would be easier with the sub’s heart exposed.

  Clever, clever, Consuelo thought. Maybe she was old, maybe this new technique worked well when the old guard insisted that being seen would give the game away. Maybe fresh blood brought new, better techniques. Coyly toying with the pilot’s interest; all the books said mermaids were dangerous, but who wouldn’t be tempted by one batting her lashes? After all, weren’t there stories of men who escaped with their lives after trysting with a mermaid? Consuelo didn’t believe them, because they could never resist saying how satisfied they had left her, but the stories were there, and everyone wanted to be the lucky one.

  With the Argus out of commission, she ought to make haste. Consuelo turned back to her controls, checked her compass, and reached for the ignition. A rumble told her that the Argus had struck the sandy floor, and when she looked up there was no sign of Aurelie. However she had gotten inside, she would have to find some other escape with the belly of the sub on the ground. Likely by popping the hatch above the sub once she flooded it to her satisfaction.

  It was fun while it lasted, and maybe the mermaid would have a new trick for the next lady submariner she came across. The thought of Aurelie suggesting piracy left her warm.

  Two sharp knocks made Consuelo twitch and her fingers slipped off the ignition switch. The sweat from her hands left a fog of condensation on the metal. The sound echoed throughout the Amphitrite, reminiscent of the time she had wandered into a reef and her sub had bumped into rocky outcroppings with every pulse of the current.

  There’s someone at the door.

  She grabbed the lever for the bay doors, and waited for the next set of knocks before closing them again. She flipped the switch that would force air into the bay and water out, and a gust of wind blasted through the corridor as the hatch opened. She flipped the bay’s ventilator off.

  “Do you have any towels?” Aurelie called, her voice ringing in the narrow confines of the Amphitrite.

  “Second hatch to the aft, there’s a compartment…” Consuelo’s mouth said; fortunate that it knew what to say, because her brain couldn’t make words.

  Aurelie bumped around in the corridor, and the compartment’s hinge squeaked as she opened it. Consuelo turned the engine on and the rotors came to life, sending the sub southward at a comfortable twelve knots. The Amphitrite could go faster, but she didn’t trust herself for that, yet, not with Aurelie ready and willing to provide a distraction.

  “Thanks. I didn’t want to get all the controls wet,” Aurelie continued, poking her head into the cockpit’s entrance.

  “You came back,” Consuelo managed to say, more a question than a statement. Why? Aurelie had a submarine full of men, she could have her pick of any of them.

  Aurelie rubbed her hair with the towel before wrapping it around herself and her sopping vest so she could drop back into the cockpit and onto Consuelo’s lap. “You need someone to pilot this submarine to Cuba.”

  “So I do.”

  “And we’re not there yet.” Aurelie reached up to Consuelo’s face, trailing her seawater cool fingers against her cheek. “I used to be mad that Cuba sent woman submariners out. They’re boring, they don’t care about my singing.”

  “Oh, I like your singing fine,” Consuelo said, as steadily as she could manage.

  “You’re not boring. I think you have better ideas than singing, Captain Chelo.”

  “Aye, pilot, that I do.”

  •

  The Tides of the Heart

  David D. Levine


  The house was a nice Craftsman bungalow, sturdy and square, with good solid gutters and no problems I could feel from the porch. I pushed the bell.

  The guy who came to the door was a head taller than me, but going soft in the gut. “Are you…from Lou’s Plumbing?”

  “I am Lou’s Plumbing,” I said. “Louise Hartmann. We spoke on the phone.”

  The guy flinched at the strength of my grip. “Sorry. I was expecting…”

  “Someone taller? Yeah, I get that all the time.” He’d been about to say “a man,” of course, but I didn’t have time right now for the usual dance around my gender. I was scheduled for salvage on a big demolition job in the Pearl today, and I’d only squeezed this guy in because he’d said it was an emergency. “So, what seems to be the problem?”

  He showed me a kitchen sink half full of standing water, and the same in the tub. “Which way to the basement?” I asked, pretty sure I knew what the problem was.

  He led me down the stairs and I knelt over the floor drain. Placing my hands on the cool concrete to either side of the rusty grille, I extended my perceptions through the concrete to the lead pipe below.

  It was just as I’d suspected: there was a nixie living in the drain. Typical for a bungalow of this vintage. There’s something about that lead U-bend they find comfortable. But this one was pissed off about something, which explained the backup in the kitchen and bath.

  The guy was still standing on the steps. “What do you see?”

  I sighed to myself. There was nothing to “see”—a nixie is just a stretch of water with an attitude. I reached my mental fingers past the nixie and quickly found the reason for its annoyance. “Roots,” I said. “You’ve got a root intrusion in your main drain.” I stood, brushing my hands on the nubbly fabric of my coverall. “I’ve got an electric auger in the truck that’ll clean them right out.” The roots weren’t enough to cause the clog by themselves, but they were making the nixie unhappy. Clearing them out would restore the balance.

  “How much?”

  “Depends on how long it takes.”

  It turned out to be almost three hours. The roots were so dense and prickly that the nixie couldn’t get out of the way of the auger, so I had to coax it out into a bucket before I could get to work. And before I could do that, I had to convince the customer to leave me alone—I didn’t want to try to explain why I was holding a bucket next to the drain and whispering.

  By the time I finally got the nixie back into the drain and all the tools properly racked in my truck, it was almost noon. Everyone at the demo site would be on break until one o’clock, so I had time for a leisurely lunch.

  I parked the truck on the east end of the Hawthorne Bridge and walked across the river with my lunchbox, savoring the powerful flow of the Willamette below the bridge’s metal grid. But when I was a little more than halfway across I felt the bridge shudder beneath my feet, as though a big truck were going by. But it was no truck—it was the river itself, churning and trembling like a snake with indigestion.

  I stopped, clutching the handrail. I’d never felt such a thing before. It was a weird, seasick sensation, the river’s spasms making the bridge roll beneath my feet like a ship at sea. But it only went on for a few seconds.

  A passing cyclist pulled over next to me, balancing with one hand on the rail. “Was that an earthquake?” he said.

  “I’m not sure…”

  “Not much of one if it was. Were you here for the Spring Break Quake?”

  “Yeah, but this one wasn’t like that.”

  “That one was a real doozy, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” But that wasn’t what I’d meant. Whatever this had been, it hadn’t been an earthquake at all. More like a riverquake, if there was such a thing. I’d have to ask my mentor Steve if he knew anything about it.

  The cyclist and I chatted for a bit about earthquakes we’d known before he rode off with a little salute. After that I leaned on the railing, looking down over the now-peaceful river, until I regained my composure.

  I continued to the other end of the bridge, then walked down the esplanade to the Salmon Street Springs and sat on a bench with my lunch. I’ve always enjoyed this fountain, with the ever-changing dance of the jets above ground paralleled by the complex flows of water through the pipes below. It was all controlled by computers, of course, but it felt natural and refreshing and pretty soon I felt much better. Bathing-suited children laughed in the spring sunshine, darting from one nozzle to the next, half hoping and half fearing they’d be drenched by the next big squirt. Unlike me, they couldn’t feel it coming.

  The kids made me wonder how Shelly was doing. Even though we hadn’t been a couple for over two years, we were still best friends—which was a good thing, since she worked for the water bureau and we couldn’t completely avoid each other even if we’d wanted to. She’d gotten domestic-partnered with her new sweetie Jenni on the very first day it became legal, and I’d just heard that they were doing the artificial insemination thing.

  I didn’t know how I felt about that.

  Don’t get me wrong—I was happy for them. But the news reminded me that I’d had my chance with Shel and blown it, the same way I’d blown every other relationship I’d ever had. Despite the stereotype of lesbians and U-Hauls, I’d never moved in with a lover; in fact, I never seemed to be able to hang onto a girlfriend for more than a couple of months. It’s not as though I didn’t know why… Cindy said I was “grabby,” Linda called me “Octopus Girl,” and Debra-the-firefighter thought I was “too touchy-feely.” Physically I was very affectionate, but when it came to an emotional connection I always seemed to hold a part of myself back. So when Mara came along, I tried to change my pattern. But physically I felt strait-jacketed, chafing and struggling against the limits I’d placed on myself, and emotionally…well, when we both realized I was just faking it, we’d blown up in a toxic firestorm of recriminations that just about put me off dating for good.

  I often told myself that if I lived with a woman I’d run the risk of her finding out about my Guild work, but I was sometimes honest enough to admit that was only a rationalization. After all, most of the guys in the Guild were married or partnered, and they managed to keep it secret.

  The Guild had to be kept secret. Our job was to maintain the balance between this world and the other one, and the more the general public knew, the harder that would be.

  •

  After lunch I walked back to the truck, then drove up to the job site in the trendy Pearl District, where three residences were being torn down for a mixed-use condo/retail development. Although I agreed with most Portlanders that increased density was better than urban sprawl, I still hated the loss of those good old houses. At least the developer was salvaging them first, removing the old fixtures and millwork for re-use.

  That was my job. It wasn’t glamorous, but not everything I do touches on the other world. Guild or not, I’m a plumber, and a girl’s gotta eat.

  The foreman was a guy named Charlie Bates, lean and black and impeccably dressed. He was much too smooth for his office, which was the usual job site trailer with the usual splintery woodgrain paneling inside. “You’re late,” he said as he handed me the release forms.

  “Sorry. I had an emergency call.” I scrawled my signature and handed the clipboard back.

  Charlie checked the forms and gave me a badge. “Hey, did you feel that earthquake?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Radio says there’s actually been a whole series of mini-quakes this week. End times comin’.” But he gave me a little wink to show he wasn’t serious. “You’d better get moving now; the carpenters are four hours ahead of you. Use your own best judgment about what’s salvageable, but don’t dawdle—we have to get the whole site leveled by the end of the day Friday.” It was now Thursday.

  “Got it,” I said, and grabbed a hard hat on my way out.

  Inside the chain link fence, the job site was a mess of dust and grit and splinters
. A big yellow excavator stood by, a hulking muscular machine with a giant claw that would rip those houses down in a matter of hours once they were salvaged. One of them was already bare of its decorative millwork, with the second in the process of being stripped. The third…

  It was like meeting an elegant older woman at a party. A woman whose beauty arises from the wisdom of her years, a woman sheathed in smooth black velvet, a woman clasped with diamonds at ears, wrists, and throat. You just want to take her in your arms right there and then, but you know you can’t, because she’s so far above you.

  The third house’s paint was cracked and peeling, with rough gray wood beneath. Weeds, and even small trees, grew from cracks in its front walk. But the house stood straight and tall, gracefully proportioned and ornamented with a tasteful minimum of gingerbread, and not a single window pane was cracked.

  This was no ordinary abandoned house. Something was protecting it. It ached of the other world.

  Three older women stood outside the chain link, tut-tutting to each other about the sorry state of the world today. “‘Scuse me, ladies,” I said, “but can you tell me anything about that house there?”

  “Nobody’s lived there as long as I can remember,” said the one with the Beavers baseball cap.

  “It dates from 1850,” said the one in plaid. “Supposedly Captain Couch built it for his mistress.”

  “Huh.” John Heard Couch, pronounced “kooch,” was a sea captain and one of the founding fathers of Portland. A whole square mile of the city, including Chinatown, the train station, and the Pearl, used to be his property, and we were right in the middle of it.