Thomas came out of unconsciousness into the dark of night. A whirl of nausea, pain, and malaise gripped his mind, dragging him into a vortex of discomfort which had him begging for an end.

“Shh, here, this’ll help your withdrawal at least. And hopefully some of the pain, too.”

Out in the starscape was a massive planet in the shape and appearance of Milly’s head. He squinted in confusion before realizing his head was in her lap. Then a spaceship shaped like a bottle of apple wine came diving down. Thomas swallowed the fragrant liquid as trails of it dribbled down his chin. Milly took the bottle away and wicked them with her sleeve.

“So… you weren’t… you didn’t shoot anyone, right?” she asked.

“My gun’s been empty since Suigen.”

“Oh, thank the gods.”

She held her cold hands to his cheeks in place of a hug. They were quiet for a moment. The ringing and whining in his ears drowned the sound of lapping waves as they floated downriver, the Daisagi-Maru purring like a kitten.

“You thought I was the terrorist?”

“I’m sorry, Tommy.”

He sighed, his chest decompressing against the side of her leg. To his right he could see her calves bandaged up where the exploding drywall had marked them. He pointed at the lacerations.

“Does it hurt?”

“A little. No deep cuts.”

“I’m glad.”

With her nails she dug his sweaty, unwashed hair out from under his head and absently straightened it out, gently pulling it into a single wave. Every stroke pushed his splitting headache and throbbing fingers under a soothing shroud of numbness.

“What happened? Why did they bring you in?” she asked, her voice crackling like a breaking wave.

“I was there. In the clock tower square. There was a veteran, like me, and he opened fire on a crowd of— of everyone. He didn’t shoot me because I was Æfrian, so I charged him, and I killed him. And since I was the only other Æfrian around, the police arrested me and brought me into the station and…” to conclude the story he gestured at his swollen, bloody face.

“Those fishfuckers…” Milly said. “Gods, Tommy… I’m sorry for even thinking it could be you, I-I was scared and I don’t know…”

He put his hand on her calf. “Milly, I’m scared of myself too. There’s violence in me. And I’m scared because I think that’s all that’s really solid and real sometimes, like everything else is a— is a false front to a building, like… a late-Æfrian facade hiding a building of—”

Milly cracked up at this. “Tommy, if there was nothing else crammed up inside you then what in Hel was that dreadful architecture metaphor?”

He responded with a sad smile. “Violence and useless architecture knowledge, I guess. I just want to make something, Milly. I’ve got the destroying part down pretty good, but I want to create things, or at least fix them. But that takes skills and resources. And energy. I don’t have those.”

“Destruction can be creative,” she said.

“Destruction isn’t creative. It can lay the groundwork for something new, but it doesn’t make anything. I want to make something, Milly, I want to bring something into this world that makes it better to live in.”

Her fingertips scritched his scalp. “The difference isn’t that cut-and-dry, Tommy. Things turn into their opposites right out from under you. Even just worrying about the difference will drive you mad, chewing on words that don’t mean anything. You work with what is and don’t cry about what isn’t. That’s how I worked through my troubles.”

His head tilted to look up at her amber eyes. “Have you worked through it? Sayuri calling you a… you know. That seemed to bother you.”

“No, it was the—” she stared up towards the bow. Thomas rolled his head and saw Sayuri slumped with her eyes closed on a tarp. “—the brat doing her rich girl schtick.”

“I would’ve thought you two were getting on better. Especially after the bath.”

“Every time we start, her people remind me why I hate them. I can’t look at her and not see the man who raped my mother, or the conglomerate psychopaths chasing us, or the police officers who beat you silly. It’d be saintly of me to get past that, sure. But sainthood ain’t cheap and I’ve always been dirt poor.”

Thomas didn’t think evil was inherent to an entire people, and he didn’t have any problem thinking Sayuri was a completely different person from the two interrogators who tortured him. But Milly had grown up in the heart of the failed Æfrian nationalist movement. The last time the Æfrians had come close to revolt had been when Milly was in school, before the Æfrian normal colleges were shut down and the Shroud killed off the possibility of zealotry.

No, not killed. Suppressed. That wave of nationalism still burned, hidden and unquenchable, in Milly’s heart like a coal-seam fire. That was what he saw flaring from her irises.

“I hope you get along with her,” he said as a spell of drowsiness hit him. He didn’t hear her response. His pounding concussion and wrecked body dragged him back into the dark.

~~~

From the moment she woke, Sayuri anxiously watched both ends of the river and the sky for reconnaissance planes, but none came. The moment she let her guard down, however, they might, so she remained vigilant.

Except for when she stopped to eat a breakfast of corn, apples, and tea. She yet again refused tinned fish on principle despite being ravenous. It simply would not be permitted into her body.

Fukuzawa had put them to shore in a small cove off the main river formed by a bubbling spring. Forested hills rose around a small beach and from a tree at the top of a nearby hill hung a forgotten swinging rope. The trees papered the cove with dappled light, but it wouldn’t be enough to hide them if Genji came, which was why Sayuri was still vigilant. She even made time to look up between sips of tea.

“I told you so,” Sayuri said, staring at Milly sipping her own tea.

“Told me what?”

“That Mr. Chester wasn’t the shooter.”

“Shut it, girl.”

Something about her tone told Sayuri not to press. This did not stop her from feeling proud of her rewarded loyalty, however.

“Mr. Fukuzawa?”

His name drew him from a contemplative mood sipping on piping tea in the pilot’s seat. “Hmm?”

“When the police officers were talking with me, they said the terrorist invoked the god you said you worshiped. The police officers’ rendering was “Furodzu.”

“Ah, Fleothe. She’s the goddess of time, rain, fertility, and patroness of the River Glær. Shame someone’s misusing her name, she’s certainly no goddess of mass murder. Least as far as I understand her.”

“Perhaps he truly was moved by the destruction of the Genji boats then?”

“Strange way to show devotion, spilling blood on her shores.”

Chester grumbled something. At first Sayuri thought it was sleep talking, yet he sat up and rubbed his forehead, so he must have attempted to convey something.

“Couldja repeat that lad?” Fukuzawa asked.

“The— the clock tower—gods the sun hurts right now—the clock tower is a holy site. The Burnehithe Yeoman’s Council used to handle donations followers sent in. Went to maintenance. Festivals in her honor. Housing pilgrims,” he said, clutching his head.

“Huh. I’ve seen that tower goin’ up and down the river a hundred times and never knew that. How about that? So you think he might’ve been angry cuz there were bombs outside Fleothe’s temple?”

Chester shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not him.”

After breakfast, Milly helped Fukuzawa shove off from shore despite Chester’s protests to help. Once again, Sayuri was temporarily appointed pilot. The raw excitement of power had worn off and then returned in the refined pleasure of duty and responsibility. She was still cautious and slow, but now had a better sense of how much power to give the throttle. She was beginning to feel comfortable at the seat of so much power.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

To her immense pleasure, Fukuzawa asked her if she would like to guide it out onto the river. This was a notch more difficult, as the cove pinched in at its mouth and she needed to steer around a fallen log, which she was unable to do.

“Don’t worry about it,” Fukuzawa said, patting her on the back as the hull ground against wood. “She’s built to take bullets. Log won’t even leave a scratch.”

“It remains a blemish on my piloting ability,” she replied.

The next time she turned the wheel too far to the left and cleaved towards the shore before Fukuzawa took a gentle hold and adjusted the steering wheel right.

“For being self-taught with less than a boating hour under your belt, I’d say you’re doin’ fine.”

“Perhaps.”

Fukuzawa took back the wheel once they were on the open river, since there were more serious hazards to avoid, the least of which a private army hunting them.

On both sides of the river were hilly forests. Periodic signposts marked the private estates of the Kintoki clan on the north bank and the Ibuka clan on the south. On the Ibuka side, a small village lay abandoned in a forest clearing, vegetation engulfing the structures. Fukuzawa gave it a wide berth for fear of river pirates.

A thought occurred to Sayuri after a half hour or so of absently gazing into white foam. “Mr. Chester, may I try to fix your fingers?”

Chester looked over from the stern gun mount and nodded. Holding his hands out, the broken fingers barely looked amiss against his gnarled hands. Sayuri wasn’t entirely certain what she was supposed to do beyond pressing the tips of her golden fingers to his broken ones. But with a popping crick, the fingers righted themselves. Chester wiggled them in disbelief.

“I’ll be damned. Thank you, Sayuri! Your hatsuden really does everything, doesn’t it?”

“Except help avoid getting your fingers broken in the first place,” Milly said.

“Milly, there’s no need for that,” Chester said. “If someone fixes your broken fingers, there’s nothing to do but thank them.”

The konketsujin woman raised her eyebrows. “I’m getting pretty tired of thanking the Kaihonjin for fixing the problems they caused.”

Sayuri was once again reminded that their relationship was a working one. Despite Milly’s presumptuously informal language, she was still a worker whom Sayuri was temporarily contracting. So, too, for Chester, who she reminded herself, was ultimately in this venture for self-interested reasons.

Most of all, she had forgotten that the Afujin were liable to speak in a manner implying intimacy to obfuscate what was a matter of impersonal business. Though the Kaihonjin wore masks, they made no attempt to camouflage these masks as anything else. Not so for the Afujin, for whom business transactions came with a duplicitous performance of closeness.

“You are welcome,” Sayuri said, moving to the other end of the boat and wishing she could move further.

Come lunchtime, Fukuzawa slowed the Daisagi-Maru and allowed it to float with the pace of the river. On went the electric grill and kettle for lunchtime tea and potatoes.

“D’ya have a rod?” Chester asked.

“Aye. Behind the mop, corner of the bridge. Out of bait though. Meant to stock up and forgot in all the ruckus. Oughta said somethin’ back in Aldwithy.”

“Corn kernels’ll do,” Chester said.

Sayuri watched with begrudging attention as Chester plucked two kernels of corn from the cob with dirty, uncut fingernails, and threaded them through the dainty fish hook like a master beadworker. He then grabbed a set of pliers from Fukuzawa’s toolbox and pinched a metal ball onto the line. As if this esoteric setup were not enough to trick a fish into biting a hook, he also tied a colorful plastic ball to the line.

Against her will, she asked, “What is the ball for?”

“The bobber? Keeps the hook off the bottom.”

“So that it will not snag on submerged obstacles?” she asked, proud of herself for so quickly ascertaining its purpose.

“No, cuz the fish on the bottom have mercury in them. You gotta fish for top-feeders.”

She had not considered that. She was less hungry for fresh fish now. The effect of this knowledge must have displayed upon her face, as he hastily followed up.

“We should be fine. I used to fish in the river all the time when I was a kid and that was back when the fertilizer plants were still running and I’m not dead yet.”

Even though it had nothing to do with mercury poisoning, the wretched state of Chester’s bruised and cut up face did not inspire confidence in his claim. He seemed rather more like the dead brought to life, as depicted in the illustrations of cheap horror novels which she was too cultured to read.

“Should be fine, lass,” Fukuzawa added. “Most of it gets washed out to the sea.”

Abandoning all pretense of brooding, she watched with interest as Thomas cast off the bow. The hook whirled through the air, landing amidst an unremarkable patch of brown water. The bobber bounced, then settled.

Slowly, gradually, progressively, exponentially, her interest waned. Chester stood there. And stood there. And stood there. And stood there. She knew some patience was required in fishing, yet she was now learning the difficulty of patience tested against a growling stomach. The solitary potato she had for lunch demanded company.

The konketsujin woman watched too, though, despite her hitherto weakness of impatience, she seemed now to possess more patience than Sayuri. This irked her. Patience had been trained and drilled into Sayuri almost from birth. The discrepancy ought to have been impossible.

“Are you not hungry?” Sayuri asked her.

“I am, what of it?” Milly replied.

“You seem unperturbed.”

“By the wait?”

“Yes.”

“Fishing takes time.”

“I know that. But knowing does not quiet my growling stomach.”

“Oh no, you poor thing.”

Sayuri scoffed. “I shall be fine, I need not your pity.”

Milly snorted. “Believe me, it ain’t on offer.”

How obnoxious. The woman had no patience to see if her (Sayuri wasn’t sure what the woman’s relationship was to Chester. Friend? The term did not quite catch the romantic tones which, oh dear, her face was red again. She turned and cooled it on her wind-chilled palms) confidante was a homicidal terrorist, yet she seemed capable of awaiting the entropic death of the universe for a bite of fish.

The inconsistency of character frustrated Sayuri to no end. She wished to ask outright from whence her well of patience sprung, but to do so might project an image of admiration for it, which she had no desire to mislead the woman by. Subtler tack was required.

“You need not provide such a staid front, you know,” Sayuri said, hovering behind the woman.

“A what? Sayuri what are you on about?”

“Nothing which need concern you,” she replied.

~~~

Thomas’ eyes stared vacantly. The sun was out and his skin was roasting in it. Oddly, the idea of a light sunburn seemed comforting. He was already starting to feel like a kid again, skipping school to fish. A sunburn didn’t make much difference against a concussion so painful it had him nauseous. But the joy of fishing distracted him a little.

The fish weren’t biting, though the trout could’ve been looking for worms, or just not especially interested in corn. He empathized. He wanted bread right now, not more corn. A long-gone memory popped into his head of his sister Miriam and him getting in trouble for pulling bread out of the oven too early and— shit, his thoughts were all scrambled. He couldn’t remember what happened next.

Then he felt a nudge. The bait hadn’t even been bitten yet, but the hook and the weight sent a vibration up through the line to his hand letting him know of impending interest. The line went taut. The fish pulled. Thomas pulled back.

~~~

“Is it the word “staid” which is tripping you up? The definition is— oh! Fish!”

“Not too tight! Give ‘er some more line now, lad,” Fukuzawa called out.

Despite Fukuzawa’s advice, Sayuri could tell Thomas was the better fisher. His face had a look of concentrated ease to it. The fish had already been caught, and he was playing out the process like an actor rehearsing lines reeling in and letting out like the ebb and flow of the tide, the fish pulling nearer with each cycle.

“Do you have a spike?” Thomas asked, his eyes locked in a tug-of-war with the shadow dancing under the water.

“Aye,” Fukuzawa replied.

Right as the fight was losing its intensity, Chester reeled hard and pulled it into the boat. Fukuzawa was waiting with what looked like a tiny scythe. Sayuri realized only too late what it was for when Thomas sunk it between the dumb black eyes of the gaping trout. It flapped for a moment before going still.

The fileting knife wore its purpose more openly, so she had time to avert her gaze before Chester employed it on the deceased fish. Though Milly watched with interest.

A sense of inadequacy arose in her. Against her upbringing, and her natural revulsion, Sayuri felt compelled to turn and witness the fileting. Such sights would beset her in no less frequency moving forward. However, Chester pulling entrails out of a fish spilling its crimson blood across the deck did not stoke her appetite.

“Not getting sick, are you?” Milly asked.

“I am not,” she lied.

“You sure? Your gills look as green as his,” she said pointing at the fish.

“You go out of your way to be uncouth,” Sayuri replied.

“No, it comes naturally, just like your need to hurl, right?”

“We become better by mastering our baser nature.”

“If ya gotta look away, look away.”

“You underestimate me.”

Chester tossed the sloppy entrails over the side of the boat with a spray of blood and brought the fish flesh to the grill and laid it across. Sayuri smiled at Milly to flaunt her forbearance, but Milly merely shrugged and watched the other fish swarming to cannibalize their chum.

Sayuri’s stomach rumbled.

“Just a little bit longer, you can make it,” Milly said.

Sayuri flushed red, angered at being bested yet again. She roasted over her anger until the fish was done grilling and Fukuzawa distributed its meat across the plates.

“I would request the eyes,” Sayuri said.

They all raised their eyebrows at that.

“Ya wanna eat like an Æfrian, eh lass? S’good for ya anyhow, got lots of proteins and vitamins in ‘em’ll make you big and strong,” Fukuzawa said.

Sayuri’s courage left her once she was gazing into the fish’s blind-eyed stare. She had asked for the head, and received it. She and the fish gaped at each other.

Eyes. Intellect wouldn’t save her from those awful, gaping eyes, so she plunged her fork into the socket and pulled the eye free, jamming it into her mouth before her higher-order thinking thwarted her. She chewed. It was not as bad as she had anticipated. Like a salty-savory tapioca pearl.

Milly was not watching. She was too busy stuffing fish skin dripping with fat into her gullet.

If only the timing were right to tell her that while Sayuri had not felt a need to throw up while observing the fish fileting, she now felt one as a result of watching Milly feed, however, Sayuri knew she would stumble over the words trying to say all that, which would deprive the barb of the brevity required to sink into Milly’s pride. Alas.

Nonetheless, Sayuri’s mood was greatly improved. The feeling of intense rivalry dissolved and was replaced by a post-Lunch torpor which had Sayuri inching towards a nap.

“Here ya go,” Fukuzawa said, handing her a mop. “Gotta clean up the fish guts, eh swabbie?”

She scowled at him and snatched the mop.