"What we really need is a very large ship."
Rosenthal Webb's words boomed over the chatter in the Revolutionary Council meeting room. The other conversations withered. Surprised faces turned toward the old warrior. Virginia Quale was standing at the front of the room where she had tacked up a map of Merqua's eastern sectors (from New Chicago to the coast, for the most part). Her hand dropped away from the map, and her lips pressed into an impatient corrugated circle.
"I was attempting a discussion of rail lines, Mr. Webb," she said. "The tracks what you and your boys were detonating just a year ago must be laid new now if we're to have sufficient supply lines."
As was his habit, Webb drummed the four finger nubs of his right hand against the dark polish of the conference table. He repeated himself: "But what we really need is a large ship. Ta cross the Big Ocean. It's been our policy long-standing that we would assess what has become of the other continents if we ever came free of the Monitor."
Winston Weet thrust his round face out over the table to interject. He waved a hand toward the map. "The Monitor's nay dead but a few months," he said, jowls waggling. "There's a mountain of arrangements to be made before we dare announce our new. . .uh, proprietorship of Merqua."
"And priorities," said Eliot Kohrn, the dark-eyed man to Webb's left. Kohrn rarely spoke up in the large council meetings, but felt more comfortable as long as he did not have to compete with the babble of three or four people at a time. "Shouldn't we repair our homeland afore we off an' tip-toe through some foreign radiation fields? There are the work camps to set to voluntary, no? The timber camps, hmm? The farm camps? Slavers to scuttle?"
Webb fell back against his chair impatiently, pushing a long sigh out his nostrils. His skin flushed red, giving an odd glow to the tendril of a fresh tattoo that wound around his neck. He said no more.
Quale looked uneasy. "Um, Winston, I gully you have a report on our infiltration of management in New Chicago? Would you give the briefing now, please?"
Winston Weet obediently rattled open a folder of papers as Quale strode to the hatch leading into the hallway. Before disappearing through the small door, she stared in Webb's direction, arching her eyebrows. The aging Revolutionary caught the signal, pushed away from the conference table, and limped out after her.
The black-lacquered piping against the hallway ceiling gave just enough clearance to allow Webb to stand erect. But he hunched down anyway, looking like a schoolboy about to be punished.
Knowing the direction that the conversation would take, Webb started in himself: "Well, I never did pretend to be a detail man—sit there an' plant railroad ties or whatever."
Quale did not look perturbed now, just concerned. "Rose, there is much to do yet," she said. "How can we justify the expense of commissioning an ocean craft—even if there were a builder what knew how? There are boat builders here and there, ya, but none that's made a ship like that. Not since the ancients self-destructed."
Her words echoed away down the dark corridor. The two Revolutionaries, the tired bomber and the graceful administrator of headquarter operations, could hear Winston Weet droning on in the conference room about Revolutionaries taking on responsible positions in New Chicago.
It was not like Webb to be without a quick response, and Quale read mischief in his eyes.
"Okay," she demanded, "what is it?"
Webb shrugged.
"What is it? You've done something, no?"
Webb nodded. "I sent Gregory out. Sent 'im to find a boat builder in the Out Islands."
Quale's eyes widened. "Any boat builder out there is a pirate, most likely. Or a slaver. Either one would deserve ta hang, but you would like to keep one in business?"
Webb nodded again. "You're worried about spending money on a ship? Well, I gully a slaver would hammer us a fine one free of charge—juss to keep his balls swinging where they ought."
Quale frowned. "Gregory's gone. Hoo. I guess there's no surprise that you'd proceed without council approval. But we're going to stop with this, Rose. When Gregory returns to report, nothing more happens until a full council vote. Understood? Ya?"
Webb nodded his head in unenthusiastic consent. Quale kissed him quickly on the chin and thrust herself back through the hatch into the meeting room. Webb almost followed, but decided against it. Instead, he followed the corridor until he came to the metal ladder disappearing into holes in the floor and ceiling.
He climbed down two floors to Level Five, hand over hand on the steel that gleamed from decades of wear. It occurred to him that its usefulness was coming to an end—the whole smothering under-the-mountain complex would no longer be needed for hiding once it was announced that the Monitor had been killed. A month, maybe—four or five at most. The bunker smelled dank to him now, rotting.
On Level Five, he paced wearily down the circular hall past the identical plank doors until he came to his small, private warren. He pushed it open, slammed the door after him, and tore off his shirt furiously, letting the buttons clatter to the floor. Webb turned up the dim bulb over his dresser—overtaxed generator be damned—and checked himself out in the spotty mirror.
His new tattoo was 100 percent now—all of the scabbing had fallen away to reveal a large swirl of red, yellow and black. Its core was an intricate cross-hatching of color three inches wide on his lower chest. Four tendrils spiraled away from the center to wind around his neck, under each arm and into his crotch.
He turned to the side and squinted, admiring the artistry—damned Rafer artistry. The tattoo was a souvenir of his last mission, the killing of the Monitor. They had given him no more choice about having it needled into his skin than he'd had in losing four fingers years before. He recalled the dark-skinned fighter Tha 'Enton returning to his Rafer encampment victoriously, a partner in the killing of the foul Monitor. Naively, Webb and Gregory had followed the strutting Rafer, anticipating a celebration. The entire night was a druggy blur, but Webb was thankful to have left the village alive, albeit decorated.
The lightbulb dimmed abruptly, then returned to full power. In a pang of guilt, Webb set the lamp's switch back to its lowest setting and flopped onto his bunk. He stared at the ceiling and wondered how Gregory was faring—a young man set adrift so quickly into yet another strange land. A young man with so much life ahead of him. A long life to live as a walking Rafer tapestry.