Burning Bright

They reached the edge of the Straight at last, a broad stretch of road, quiet now, only a few bicycles and a single flatbed carrier visible along its length. The Old Dike loomed in the distance, towering over the housetops. The noise of the carrier’s engine echoed oddly between the housefronts and the water; a bicycle whispered past, tires singing against the pavement. Lioe caught a glimpse of the rider’s face stern with concentration as he flashed under the nearest streetlamp. They crossed the trafficway cautiously, mindful of bicycles, and Roscha stepped up onto the wide poured-stone ledge that edged the river. Lioe copied her, more cautiously, and looked down to see the water black beneath her, shadowed from any glint of light by the stone wall that was its bank. Bollards, low iron things with rounded tops like fantastic mushrooms, sprang up at regular intervals along the wall, one or two with a coil of bright yellow safety line looped around them. Roscha led the way along the ledge, Lioe following a little more slowly—the wall was broad, but the black emptiness beside and beneath her, and the low rush of the water, were enough to encourage caution—and stopped beside a bollard that carried a double loop of safety line around its base.

“Here we are,” Roscha said, and nodded at a rope ladder that was hooked into two of the holes drilled into the bank. Lioe looked down rather dubiously, was reassured to see the soft glow of a steering lamp. In its dim light, she could see most of Roscha’s boat, a long, narrow shape, blunt at both ends, with an arched section at the bow that vanished into the shadows. The deck glowed gold directly under the lamp, and a solar strip glittered softly. Roscha frowned absently down at the boat, one hand buried in a pocket, and a few seconds later Lioe heard the faint double chime of a security system disarming itself. “I’ll go first,” Roscha said, and let herself down the ladder without waiting for Lioe to agree.

Lioe lifted an eyebrow at that, but waited until the other woman had reached the deck before easing herself onto the unsteady ladder. It took her a moment to find her balance, but then she had it, and lowered herself cautiously onto the deck. Roscha was waiting to steady her, and Lioe accepted the support for a few seconds, until she caught the rhythm of the boat in her feet and legs. She nodded to Roscha—the boat moved less than she had expected, but it was a jerky movement, unpredictable—and Roscha released her, moved forward to the shelter and crouched on the deck to release a hidden latch. A section of the deck came up in her hand, revealing a short ladder and a dim, red-toned light. Lioe grinned, even though she knew perfectly well why any boatman— or pilot, for that matter—kept red lights in the sleeping quarters, and came forward to join her. Roscha smiled and said, “After you.”