Interlude 3

Just by asking the guy a question, Rico had broken one of his own rules.

Rico was big on rules. Ignoring them had gotten him where he was, and his hope was that following some would help him from falling any farther.

Rico had been a real Guide once, managing some high-stakes voyages. And then, one time, he had let someone wander off from the camp after dark, and things had gotten bad. Not only had the moron gotten himself killed, he had angered a bunch of big lizards with hooves, and they had rampaged back to the camp. And the people who survived blamed Rico, not unreasonably, and word had gotten out.

And then the only people who would bring him back were those who were up for some additional risk. Stunningly, the sort of people who went with a disgraced Guide to save money didn't’ the best decisions. And then word of that had gotten out, and before you knew it, he was here.

Specifically, he was on the Bon Temps (whose name he had never heard pronounced correctly by a single guest so far). The Bon Temps was what was known as a “there-and-back” vessel. Instead of pooling resources to achieve some goal or obtain a profit, the Bon Temps just ferried passengers to whatever islands it could find within a few days. The crew didn’t have any particular goal, and they made their money by taking it from the passengers, in exchange for alcohol or drugs or the prospect of a flush draw. Once the passengers were dropped off at an island, what they did there was their own business, as long as they made it back by the time the ship started its return voyage.

If they made it back. Plenty didn’t. Sensible and competent people didn’t go on these trips — those people became crew or Guides on real voyages. And people who wanted to relax quietly went on cruises or smaller pleasure vessels. That left, well, morons: thrill seekers who didn’t have the sponsors to organize a trip of their own, young men who wanted to party too hard or too loud for a cruise, and survivor types who were going to go face the woods with no idea what they were doing.

“There-and-back” was the formal name. Everyone called them “suicide cruises.”

And that left Rico with the nominal job of protecting people who were beyond saving and who had paid specifically to be left alone to destroy themselves. Rico went through the motions of setting up camps on islands, answered questions when someone thought to ask, and tried to be ready for an emergency that would call for a mass evacuation. But it was a pretend job.

That’s why Rico’s Rules now included a firm prohibition on getting to know any of the passengers. The alternative never went well. If he liked the person, he would just get attached and then bummed out if they didn’t come back. But, more often, he just hated whatever idiot he was speaking with, and he got grumpier and drunker (the crew was perfectly happy to take Rico’s money, but he now filled his Chest with alcohol before setting off).

This guy had tricked Rico, because he looked smart. He had a nice outfit on — not the insane fashion party clothes the party morons often showed up in, but a well-made outfit that was practical and timeless. And he read books. That’s what he was doing when Rico saw him: reading some big thick novel with a name like “Invisible Interiors” or “The Ones Who Were.” The sort of book that you just knew wasn’t going to have a car chase in it.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

He caught Rico staring, and he lowered his sunglasses. Before Rico could turn around, the man spoke to him. “Excuse me, you’re Rico, yes? The Guide?”

Rico nodded. He tried to say as little as possible.

“Splendid. When is landfall anticipated?”

Rico looked at his watch, and then realized his watch wasn’t going to have the answer and felt dumb. “Early morning. Probably like 7:45. On that big one over there.” And Rico pointed at the island they were sailing towards. As if this guy hadn’t realized that they were going to the island they were sailing towards. Rico reflected on the fact that he was already a drink or two in.

“Thank you.” The man stood and pulled out a pair of binoculars, which Rico immediately recognized as the new Fortis Ospreys. Using only a solar battery, they managed to pack in not only thermal and night-vision but also a rudimentary GPS. They cost substantially more than this voyage. “It looks decently vegetated, at least, don’t you think?”

Rico looked away from the binoculars and towards the island. “Yeah, a bunch of trees, it looks like.” And then, feeling like that was too dumb to let sit, Rico asked a question. “You looking for anything in particular?”

The man paused for a minute. “That’s an incisive question. On the literal level, I suppose I’m looking for an abundance of fresh water and some edible vegetation. But the question evokes something more than that. I suppose — well, let me ask it this way. Have you made decisions you regretted? Choice you struggled to live with?”

Rico laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if I made any others.”

The man nodded. “Quite. But that wasn’t this world. You could sail these seas for a hundred years and you’d never find any evidence of your previous mistakes. This is tabula rasa.”

Rico felt a headache beginning to stir, and he wasn’t sure whether to blame this conversation or the fact that he had had one drink too many. Or one too few. Whichever it was, he wasn’t thinking clearly when he said, “Yeah, but I’m still me. I’m the evidence.”

He knew right away that he had fucked up. The man’s eyes flashed with anger, and for a second Rico thought they were about to fight. But then the man took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he said only, “Well, that remains to be seen.” And then he walked off, and Rico went back to his Chest.

Rico didn’t see him again until the next morning, when he’d cleared a bit of a landing space and thrown up in a hopefully discreet part of the woods. The man was on the first dinghy, and he looked like he was about to go to a cocktail mixer to close some sort of business deal or something. Except for what he was carrying — he had a huge backpack and was carrying a big duffel bag beside. He walked up to Rico and shook his hand. “Farewell, Rico,” he said.

Rico nodded back. “Enjoy yourself — I never got your name.”

The man smiled. “I thought that anonymity was a watchword here? Well, you can call me … Victor.”

Rico released his hand. “Have a safe trip, Victor.”

The man gave a tight smile, and then walked calmly into the woods.

Almost as soon as he left, Rico realized that Victor was not coming back. He wasn’t sure at first how he knew — maybe the quality of the gear was part of it. Or the way Victor never looked back.

But, the next morning, when the hungover and the injured stumbled into the last dinghy back without any sign of Victor, Rico realized what it was: Victor hadn’t asked when they had to leave. He hadn’t cared.

As they left the island forever, Rico wondered if he saw a bit of smoke coming off the island. He thought about getting his own binoculars to see if he could spot a campfire. His weren’t Ospreys, but they would work for this. But then he decided not to check.

After all, his first rule was never to give a shit.