“Poseidon’s been responsible for a lot of deaths, Cawdor,” Shauna said. “How far you intending to take this?”
“As far as it goes,” Ryan replied.
Shauna nodded back. “Good.”
“Why were you here?” Carter asked. “We don’t get many sea travelers.”
“We were looking to head up the coast. Head for the Carolinas, Virginia mebbe. Too damned hot down here,” Ryan said. “No real agenda.”
“I’d like to know more about these mutants,” Mildred said as she entered, overhearing the end of the conversation and casually trying to change the subject from Ryan’s lust for revenge on Poseidon. “Have they always been here?”
“As long as I can remember, Dr. Wyeth, but we don’t know where the poor bastards were originally spawned,” Shauna said. “There are old stories about a colony of test subjects housed on an old oil rig located far offshore. Scientists were living there while trying to create a new race of mutie. The Dwellers seem to be the result.”
“So, how many of them are there?”
“About a dozen adults,” Carter said. “A few kids. Most of their young are stillborn. Because of the high death rate, they treasure their children above all else. We never actually get to see the children. Except for me and a few others in the commune here, the Dwellers tend to shun contact with landers.”
“Can’t blame them for that.”
“We have a trade deal with them similar to the one we have to maintain with Poseidon—except the mutants are much more fair and humane. No surprise there.”
“They do talk, then? Ryan said he heard one speak to him,” Mildred said.
“Right,” Ryan added, but he really wasn’t listening. Shauna’s mention of a trade deal had him distracted. He was beginning to have the glimmer of an idea.
“Speech isn’t very comfortable for them, especially English. The only reason Mike can talk as well as he does is because it’s a carryover from his former humanity. They prefer to communicate in wordless ways. Their eyes, facial expressions—you know, body language.”
“Tell me the pattern,” Ryan said. “What’s the usual way you go about trading?”
“Once a day, at sunset, we go and trade,” Shauna replied. “What we have to offer is minuscule compared to the amount of seafood they bring us, but I think they like having us as neighbors, so they never complain.”
“No, no, not the muties,” Ryan said impatiently. “I’m talking about Poseidon.”
“Once a week now that it’s getting warmer,” Carter said. “He should be sending a wag in to pick up his ‘tribute’ in the next day or two. Why?”
“Might have an idea. Let you know when,” Ryan replied.
“Actually, before he got his navy fetish, Poseidon was rumored to be involved with the project that created the Dwellers,” Shauna said. “Course, he couldn’t have been more than a kid. I doubt he was the one actually doing the genetic engineering. Probably his old man or another relative.”
“We have a lot in common with the muties,” Carter added. “We all want to be left alone to live our own lives, simple as that. For them, Poseidon and his fleet aren’t much of a threat, but for us, as long as he continues to show up demanding tribute for his so-called protection of our waterways, we can never hope to be safe.”
Doc cleared his throat from across the tent’s interior. “The truth lies in the name.”
“Dammit, Doc, you need to be resting.” Mildred crossed the room and reached down to take Doc’s pulse.
“I am resting, my good woman. I cannot remember a time in recent memory when I was more at ease,” Doc retorted. “There’s dry land beneath my boot heels, the sky is sunny and warm without a hint of rain. I am dry and relatively clean. Life, for the immediate moment, is good.”
He was telling the truth. His pulse was steady and true, and the ashen color his face had taken on was starting to fade back to its usual healthier sallow pallor—the natural skin tone the old man wore when up to full fighting strength.
“Go ahead, Doc. I recognize the look in your eye. You’ve got something to tell us,” Mildred said. “But try and keep it short. None of us are in the mood to be lectured at.”