ONE ARM stretched around the strut of the pier and his feet resting on the little ledge that surrounded its foot, Kane inhaled deep lungfuls of air before reaching back into the water. The dancing girl was bobbing a little way over from him, eyes closed, floating on her back. He stretched out and guided her to him, lifting her up onto the small sill of the strut. “You okay?” he asked as her eyes fluttered open and she spluttered for breath.
Her sword was long gone, but as soon as she saw him, her mouth broke into a snarl and she spun around, reaching for his face with hands formed into claws. As she did so, she began slipping from the ledge and Kane reached out to steady her. “Take it easy.” he told her. “Fight’s over.”
“What are you talking about, Magistrate man?” she spit as he held her firmly by the shoulder.
“Something hit us, I think,” he explained. “Whatever it was it’s done plenty of damage. Look.” He pointed to the coastal ville stretched out before them.
The dancing girl followed where he had indicated, and Kane heard her sharp intake of breath. The makeshift shanty structures of the settlement had been ripped apart by the tidal wave, and at least seventy percent of the ville had been reduced to rubble. From their vantage point they could see people running about like ants, desperately searching for missing loved ones.
“What happened?” the dark-haired woman asked, be wildered.
“I have no idea,” Kane admitted. “Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter right now. Some of these people will need help getting out of the water. Can you swim?”
“What?” she responded. “Saving people and their shit? Is this, like, the Magistrate code?”
“No,” Kane declared, fixing her with his no-nonsense stare. “It’s called being a fucking human being. Now, can you swim?”
She nodded, chastised.
Kane looked out at the people struggling all around them in the water. “You’re young and fit,” Kane told the dancing girl. “You get in there and you save some lives, you understand?”
She nodded once more and followed Kane as he dived into the churning waters.
TOM CARNACK WATCHED as the redhead and the dark-skinned Magistrate—or whatever he was—disappeared down the slope leading to the beach. He felt cold and nervous, on edge, and there was a pain below his ribs where he had collided with the metal strut.
Slowly, carefully he grasped the pole that had winded him and he pulled himself up to a standing position, albeit bent over like an elderly man. Teeth gritted, he winced as pain ran through his gut. He had to have taken quite a hit, though the memory was abating, already vague and insubstantial.
Carnack looked around, taking in his surroundings. He remembered that there had been a loud noise, and the world had turned upside down as he was tossed through the air before…He shook his head, trying to piece the episode together. He was standing in the collapsed ruin of a hut. He could make out the square of the floor plan, what looked like a two-room dwelling constructed of the flimsiest of materials. Sheets of plywood were split and splintered. They had doubtless formed the walls of the habitation before whatever it was had knocked them over. Was it him? Had he done this?
I have to get out of here, Carnack realized, his thoughts slow and fuzzy. His head ached, a low-level buzzing, like when he hadn’t had enough sleep, or sometimes when he’d had too much. He stood there, doubled over himself, his hand clinging to the metal pole that had once supported the roof of the hut, and he drew in a long, slow breath, feeling the clawing pain as his diaphragm moved. Whatever had just happened had given him an opportunity for escape, and Tom Carnack was one man who knew when to exploit an opportunity.
In a stumbling, lurching walk, Carnack made his way back into the ruins of Hope, disappearing among the frightened crowds.
THE SUN HAD SET and risen and set once more, and a half moon was rising in the clear sky at the end of their second day in Hope. Kane, Grant and Brigid had worked solidly through that first afternoon, organizing a temporary camp for the survivors of the quake and providing what little medical attention they could for the wounded. A lot of people had been shaken up quite badly by the massive earth tremor, but there were only nine reported deaths, mostly where the makeshift buildings had collapsed on people, although two more had drowned in the savage tidal wave that had followed the quake.
Kane had watched with growing admiration as the swordswoman, whose name was Rosalia, had turned her attention to first rescuing those people stuck in the water who had either never learned or were too panicked to swim, and then helping to entertain the lost children by teaching them the flowing movements that came naturally to her as a dancer.
“You have quite a way with children,” he remarked as they sat eating breakfast together after that first, long night.
“Children are the same as men,” she told him with a malicious gleam in her eyes, “easily captivated by simple movements.”
Kane laughed at that. “Well, I suppose it depends on who’s doing the movements,” he admitted.
The dozen or so lost and unclaimed children had slept in a storeroom behind the main hall. Kane watched the roll of her hips as Rosalia walked to the room to wake them up. As he watched, the dark-eyed woman looked back at him over her shoulder, and her hair fell over her face, adding to her exotic allure as she offered him a warm smile before leaving the hall.
Señor Smarts had offered to help, too, once he had recovered from the pounding his body had taken when he had been thrown down the street astride the motorcycle. Initially, he had wandered the now brackish streets in a daze, but when he had heard that people were getting organized at the robust church buildings, he had arrived at the door and asked how he might assist. Along with Brigid, Smarts had helped organize a reception system at the church hall where lost family members might be found.
The steady stream of lost and weary people seemed never-ending, but finally, as the sun disappeared over the horizon for the second time since the quake, their numbers started to dwindle as people began making their way back to their ruined dwellings and thinking about picking up their lives again.
While the church hall was quiet, Brigid peeled back the bandage that was wrapped around Smarts’s head and took a proper look at the wound there. “You took quite a beating,” she said, dabbing at the dried blood with a damp cloth while Grant looked on.
Across the hall, Kane was busy with the onerous task of helping frightened relatives identify the handful of dead bodies. Rosalia was sitting with five children, telling them an old story she recalled from her own childhood. There were other locals there, too, officials and selfless do-gooders who had stepped in to man the recovery operation with no thought of their own concerns. It was remarkable how well the locals and the refugees had pulled together, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit in adverse circumstances.
Señor Smarts shot a fierce look at Grant as he addressed Brigid. “I think your friend shot me,” he told her.
Grant looked apologetic. “Well,” he said, shrugging.
Smarts held his gaze a moment longer before his expression mellowed a little. “What’s done is done, señor,” he admitted, “and I’m sure I was intending to do the same given the circumstances of our meeting.”
Kane joined them as Brigid sterilized and dressed Smarts’s head wound from the church’s meager
