Posted July 7, 2022, 2:34 p.m. by Ensign Elemirre Serinde (Engineering Officer) (Gene Gibbs)
El moved from boat to boat as she traversed the Nandu River. The narrow band of ‘civilization’ that was left from the nuclear blast in the war had been coined as the Strip. Moldering docks stepped up to decrepit warehouses, tall apartments towered over squat shanty towns that surrounded them like twigs in a nest. And sprawled across the Nandu River were boats locked together that formed a ramshackle bridge. Some were newer. Others were aged, rusted hulks. Others were wooden, ageless. All were inhabited by families that made their living above the oily, smelly waters. This was a city within a city and like a city it collected the detritus of what flowed from upstream and was caught against and between the hulls. It stank of oil and dead fish, sewage and salt. And it went on for as far as the eye could see, jutting out like a tumor into the Qiongzhou Straight as it was once called. Now it was just called Manticore after the pirate gang that rose up to fill the power vacuum after the nukes and the wars. It was where El grew up.
She told others she grew up on an island off the South China Sea leading an idyllic life there until she went to school at the British Academy and from there into Starfleet. That was a lie. But a necessary one. Her footsteps rang hollow on the narrow foot bridge between an ancient schooner and a rusted fishing trawler. Rotting nets hung along the side and dangled into the waters like dark, gangronous fingers. From an open port hole she could see the flickering blue light of a vid screen and hear dim conversation. It paused as she passed then resumed. Dusk had come and gone and with it lights came on here and there across the flotilla. El had once imagined them to be fireflies as they bobbed and moved with the current. It was a humid night and shapeless anonymous figures moved about. Music came from another ship that sported many lights. It was an old tanker and it’s surface bristled with buildings made of wood, tin and bits of other boats. It was called the Carolina. It was also her destination.
The wooden chair wobbled. The table that housed her drink was scarred with grafitti and many stains. The music was canned and blared from unseen speakers. Over the round, central bar a small video screen entertained a group huddled under it to watch a match of mixed martial arts. A figure detached herself from the bar and came to El’s table, setting down two bowls, one of rice and the other of spiced eels before sitting opposite her. In the light all El could see was a thin delicate face. El smiled in relief. “Meiling,” she said. “How long has it been?”
“Four years, Elemirre. Too long,” she said, chiding her. “Four years. You said you would return in four months.”
“I couldn’t get away. We were watched at the Academy even between terms. Then I was assigned from there.” She plucked an eel with chopsticks. The spice burned at her mouth. She liked it. “I couldn’t risk ..”
Meiling leaned in, swirling her chopsticks in the bowl of eels and said without looking at El. “I thought .. They had found you.” She glanced around her, eyes darting to the patrons there.
“I think I’m safe,” El replied dipping some sauce into her rice. “Did you learn anything?”
El
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