Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,16

survived. It tries to drown me with rain, but I welcome the fresh water. It blows me about the ocean for a day or so, and then relinquishes its hold, casting me adrift. I float for a long time, lost in a delirium of pain, until I realize the raft is caught on something.

I peer over the edge of the raft and spot tiny waves disturbing the water. I've floated into a coral reef, one that nearly breaches the surface. My body is dehydrated and wracked with painful tremors when I try to move, but I have to turn my head. I need to look around. Coral reefs are typically found in shallow water. I have to be close to land.

I am, but it's not as much land as I would like.

On my left is an atoll, a wedge of red stone rising out of the water like a crooked thumb. The end that would be the nail is encrusted with rock and it rises to a flat point that has been claimed by sea birds. A dry sob rattles its way out of my chest when I spot loose collections of long strands coyly peeking over the knuckle of the thumb. Trees.

You could almost call it paradise.

The coral tears a hole in the raft as I use the oars to swing the inflatable boat toward the shore. I paddle as quickly as I can in my debilitated state, but the raft takes on too much water to be viable as a seaworthy vessel a hundred meters or so from shore. I'm forced to swim again, and the pain starts in my legs again when I submerge myself in the ocean. I have an incentive to swim fast, and my feet soon touch the bottom of the narrow beach on the atoll. I drag myself into the dismal shade of the knuckle-like ridge. The ground is hard, more like petrified coral than stone, and there is very little loose dirt. Not enough to cover me. Still, there is shade. Enough to suggest that the thumb of the island points north. I am on the eastern side, and as I lie on the cool stone, the shadows get longer.

It's been a busy day, I think. I'll start again tomorrow.

I sleep, for the first time in many days. It does seem like I've found paradise.

* * *

I'm woken by the sound of boots on wood and the buzz of voices. As I struggle out of a dreamless valley of sleep, I struggle to remember where I am. Am I still on the Cetacean Liberty? I twitch, moving my legs, and the twinges of pain bring everything back. My eyes are glued shut by both tears and dried salt spray.

I'm not alone on this rock. Moving sluggish—every muscle in my body aches—I slither up the slope of the knuckle until I can peek over the other side of the hill. Unlike the eastern side, the west is home to a slender collection of lancewood—tall trees with naked trunks and clusters of leaves shaped not unlike Grecian kopides. Beyond the tufted lancewoods is a white beach, pristine and clean. At the southern end of the island, at the base of the thumb, there is a gentle groove in the rocky atoll. At the top of the arc of the groove is a partially concealed shelter, and along the rim of the natural lagoon are a series of wooden poles sunk into the water. It's a cheap harbor, probably indiscernible from a kilometer out. You almost have to be on top of the atoll before you would notice the man-made modifications.

The harbor is easy for me to pick out now because there is a boat anchored there. It might have been a commercial fishing boat once, but that time is well past. A frenzy of antennae and satellite dishes festoon the roof of the narrow bridge like a cluster of mushrooms. The seamen I see are dark-skinned, and they're wearing an assortment of clothing. Nothing that looks like a uniform. Unless you considered the distinctive shape of the AK-47 each carries as an adequate stand-in for a squad patch.

It's hard to tell what they are doing from my vantage point, though it looks like they are offloading cargo and reconfiguring it. Repackaging and dividing. It's oddly familiar all of a sudden as I recall doing not-dissimilar work while transporting contraband for the French Resistance. You get the goods from the supplier, repackage them to meet