The Fisherman and the Gene Thief

By Lizzie Newell

On a planet with three women for every man, eugenicists believe Teakh Noahee to be innately monogamous and altruistic—a load of shine according to him. He passes himself off as a fisherman while blackmailing poachers.

Regardless, his DNA may hold the key to male survival on the harsh ocean planet of Fenria. But before he's aware of his value as sperm donor, he loses a spoonful of his seed to a mysterious trio of women. They are succubi, professionals who sell on the black market. True to his genetics, coded for monogamy, Teakh falls in love with the most beautiful among them, an artist who—in his opinion—is "full sail gorgeous."

Determined to assist in raising his children, he rebels against the matriarchy and sets his own course, founding a new clan that treats men and women as equals, all for the love of the woman who cheated him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lizzie Newell
• Release date: May 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781942528135

Lizzie Newell

Lizzie Newell is an artist and author living in Anchorage, Alaska. Her favorite mediums are ice, paper, and science fiction. Her short stories have appeared in Utopia Science Fiction and in Stinger Stories.

Book preview

In the beginning,

Light loved Darkness and Darkness loved Light

and so they surged across Void.

Seeking to embrace, they spun into vortex,

dancing the universe into being.

Phosphorescent galaxies roiled in their wake.

The turbulence of their ardor spun vortices of protons and

electrons.

Sparks of passion blazed into stars.

—Fenrian creation story, often read at weddings.

Succubi

Technician Idylko lifted a vial from a rack of blood samples taken from a couple of fishermen recuperating in the hospital.

She paused to admire her partner, leaning against a lab bench, her tawny arms crossed. You’re never going to find a good man that way.

Diffuse sunlight from the semi-opaqued window touched her partner’s black, curly hair. What a beautiful woman!

Beyond the glazing, a Seaguard rescue craft splashed down on the lagoon.

With a pipette, Idylko transferred a droplet of blood to a DNA sequencer. My hobby. I’ll find the perfect father for our children. Such a man would be difficult to find, but she enjoyed the thrill of the chase and wanted the best for her partner’s children.

A wall clock-calendar showed the position of the two moons; the women still had time before the spawning tide.

Her partner’s gaze strayed outside to a Seaguard paramedic clad in green life vest and seaboots hurrying along the lagoon breakwater. Neuro scars laced his scalp visible under close-cropped hair.

Idylko shook her head. No. Not my cousin. She turned her attention back to the sequencer.

Her partner snorted a laugh. Oh yes. Discovering an altruistic man through his genes.

Not altruistic. Loyal to those they love! Idylko touched the screen, initiating analysis. Loyal and self-sacrificing. That’s what I want for you, my love.

But the Noah eugenics project failed. Her partner shrugged. Oh yes, the study correlated genetics to survival of stepchildren, but researchers didn’t know what the genes actually did, and the program failed.

Maybe it didn’t. Idylko set aside the pipette.

It was disbanded anyway, said her partner The breeding stock couldn’t be controlled, too damn stubborn.

And why couldn’t Noah studs be controlled? Idylko waited as the machine ran its tests and algorithms. I’ll tell you—because they wouldn’t abandon their children. Loyalty. The very characteristic that makes them valuable ended the program. See, they breed true.

Suppose you find such a man. What makes you think he’ll cooperate when the other one wouldn’t?

Idylko shrugged. He preferred men, and that made him sinking difficult to seduce. The courtesan she’d hired to acquire the sperm had failed and then returned the fee. If the Noah stud doesn’t know that he produced children, he won’t interfere. Our children will be stubborn, yes, but loyal to their own children and to each other.

Her partner chuckled. Searching for a four-leaf clover.

Idylko kissed her partner, a brush of lips against a soft cheek. I’ll find one for you, my love.

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Chapter 01 • Fishermen

O

n the stern of the seiner, Teakh observed the tide—the ritual of noting the weather and the position of heavenly bodies—his duty as Seaguard. Although, he wasn’t much of a Seaguardsman. More like a fisherman. No, more like a clanless outcast, born on the wrong tide and rejected by his clan.

And there wasn’t much to observe. The seiner laid her wake across the ash-gray water. Whisps of fog shifted to reveal or conceal cascading waterfalls and glimpses of mountain flanks and snowy peaks. Clouds hid the bodies that drove the tide: the sun and the moons in their current phases.

To fulfill his duty, he saluted the Northstar and then used his neurological implant to access a weather report—the information sent to his brain’s auditory cortex:

Wind out of the southeast. Cloudy and overcast. Clearing by morning.

Well, he could have figured that out by himself.

He turned to go below. The boat and crew had been skunked, their hold empty and the entire crew disgruntled. They were paid by share in the catch, and a share of nothing was nothing. Worse than nothing. They still had expenses. Cooky had promised blueberry cobbler to cheer the men up. They were all men. Women would have been far more welcome than the cobbler.

He sauntered toward the companionway to the galley. A shout and holler resounded from the opening. Fire! Fire below!

Teakh’s heart pounded, and cold fear drenched him. Nothing! Nothing was more dangerous than fire aboard a boat. He bolted toward the companionway transmitting an SOS as he ran:

Fire! Fire aboard GBT Destiny. Anonymous reporter. Requesting hospitality. Mark my position.

He seized the extinguisher from its place beside an ax and a fire hose. Pulling the pin, he stumbled down the ladder. Smoke filled the galley, and flames had burst from the stove, engulfing Cooky and his pan of cobbler in flickering orange.

Teakh misjudged the last step and fell hard. Pain shot through his twisted ankle. He lay on the floor helpless and angry at his fate. This would be his death, drowning aboard a burning boat as she sank.

Cooky slapping at flames swore by all that was holy and unholy. Kinkilling depths! Poseidon take it all!

Teakh reached for a ladder rung and levered himself to his feet, still holding the fire extinguisher. Squeezing the trigger, he blasted the fire retardant, sweeping it at the base of the flames and over the stove until they subsided.

Alternately panting and coughing, he leaned against the ladder.

Cooky’s eyebrows and beard were singed off, his face blistered red, but he remained jocular. Thank Poseidon. You clanless kinkiller, what took you so long?

Ahh. You had it under control.

The skipper arrived at the top of the companionway. What’s going on down there? Seaguard is thinking we’re burning and about to sink.

Just a bit of a fire, said Cooky. Our clanless crewmember put it out. The tattered sleeve of his shirt still smoked.

Cooky, I think you better do something about your face, said Teakh, still holding the fire extinguisher. You’re looking like a boiled lobster.

Cooky touched his face and grimaced. You?

I twisted my ankle. Just a sprain. I think. But Teakh wasn’t sure.

You clanless are a hazard, said the skipper. Bad luck through and through.

Hey! He put out the fire, said Cooky.

I don’t care, said the skipper, still topside. Seaguard is arriving. They think we need help.

Cooky does, said Teakh. Bad burns. Just look at him.

The skipper poked his head into the companionway. I see.

Teakh transmitted to the arriving Seaguard:

Anonymous here. Two patients. Both male. One age approximately three-dozen years. Conscious. Facial burns. Teakh glanced at Cooky’s singed and tattered sleeve. Maybe more. The second—reluctantly he added himself—dozen-nine years old. Ankle injury. Repeat Anonymous. Request hospitality.

Acknowledge. Arriving momentarily.

That was fast, sent Teakh.

The Noah Code. We are prepared.

The honor of Noah to you.

Teakh signed off, naming himself as Anonymous. He pulled at his watchcap, making sure it covered his neuro scars, an outward sign of his implant. Then he hauled himself gingerly up the ladder using mostly his arms and sat on a gear locker.

Cooky emerged next with a bag of frozen vegetables held to his face.

Darkness lowered with the approach of evening. The clouds and snow took on a blue cast, and the sea darkened to deep slate gray.

Out of the twilight flew two esskips with red and blue lights glowing on their wingtips. First one rescue craft, then the other splashed down and, folding their wings, glided to bump the seiner. A canopy drew back, and the Seaguard pilot stood. Paramedic here.

Teakh lifted a hand in a wave. This way.

The paramedic climbed aboard followed by the pilot of the other craft.

Take a look at him first. Teakh flicked a thumb toward Cooky. Galley fire.

"My partner’s got him taken care of. Are you Anonymous?" asked the paramedic. He wore bright-green Seaguard kit, both seaboots and a life vest, but the knife and its sheath strapped to his chest were of a different color. Clearly, the paramedic was a member of Clan Idylko—Para Idylko.

I’m the ankle injury. Teakh wouldn’t admit to having a neuro and calling in the accident.

Para Idylko stooped. His hair had been cut short, and the scars of his neuro traced through the stubble, forming intricate patterns.

We’re going to have to cut off that boot.

Go ahead, Para.

With the knife from his vest, he split both Teakh’s boot and pant leg as neatly as if he were shucking an oyster. He wrapped a splint around Teakh’s leg and then helped him stand and clamber into the back of an esskip. Cooky was loaded into the other. Para handed Teakh his boot, then settled into the pilot seat. I take it you’re Seaguard yourself, said Para as the canopy closed. The craft—a chiric operated via Para’s implant—had no yoke, pedals, or joystick. Only Seaguard used such devices.

Hospitality, said Teakh. I’m not obliged to identify myself.

Alright, said Para as the esskip taxied away from Destiny. But I know you sent the distress signal using a Seaguard implant. My guess is that you’re a deep spy working for Her Majesty Fenna.

Teakh laughed. I wish.

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Cooky and Teakh, admitted to a hospital in Idylko, shared a room. Under the strictures of hospitality, they weren’t supposed to know the name of the village or the host clan, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out—just notice how the paramedics dressed and the tail signs on their craft. That wasn’t hard to do at all, especially when Teakh and Cooky’s room had windows looking out on the lagoon where Idylko esskips took off or splashed down before gliding into the hangar.

Teakh’s fractured ankle—it was a fracture—wasn’t all that serious, but there was no other appropriate lodging for a couple of fishermen being cared for under the strictures of hospitality.

Cooky and Teakh recuperated in beds made up with clean white sheets, thick blankets, and beds that could be adjusted as one pleased.

Why’d the sinking depths did you dump flour on a grease fire? asked Teakh. Boom! There’s your eyebrows.

I thought it was baking soda, said Cooky.

So here we are. Teakh sighed. He’d have to contact his sister Annin, let her know where he was and why. He hailed her:

Sis, Bro here. Uh ...

He didn’t want to have her overreact. I’m okay.

What!? What happened?

Nothing. Not much anyway. I twisted my ankle. Doc says it’s a fracture and it’ll heal up in a few months. I’m staying in a medical facility under hospitality. I’m not supposed to know the name of my hosts, but the clan color is bright green, and I was aboard Destiny as she returned from the fishing grounds. That should be enough information to clue Sis in.

Aye, said Sis.

This is all under hospitality, so it won’t add to our debt, but it’s not helping. Have you gotten Clan Ralko approval for your education grant?

No. Sinking kinkillers! We’re supposed to be members of Clan Ralko. The least they could do is fund my education. Good Danna! I proposed a study of hospitality, so now I’m working in their damn soup kitchen.

Any chance I can get an esskip?

No. And there’s no point in asking. We can’t afford it even if we could swing another loan.

Teakh signed off as Bro. Names were power; anyone eavesdropping might overhear monikers. As for Ralko, they could sink to Poseidon. He wanted nothing to do with the clan and passed himself off as clanless—Teakh Clanless.

He put his hands behind his head and leaned back; might as well enjoy his stay and get some work done—research using his implant. A craft splashed down in the lagoon, blue rather than Idylko green. He noted the tail sign and used his implant to check the registration.

He was still deep into tail signs and associated clan when a beautiful redhead walked through the door—full-sail gorgeous. Her glossy auburn hair brushed the shoulders of her rust-brown parka, the colors subtly complementing each other and her complexion lightly dusted with copper freckles. Her lips were full, her mouth generous. Otter fur-trimmed her hood and boots, the pelts expensive because the animals were seldom hunted. She carried a sketchpad and moved with the grace of a dancer.

Are you the brave fisherman who put out the fire? she asked.

That’s him, contributed Cooky.

Sort of, Teakh mumbled.

Humble too. Not one to outshine the moon. She approached and patted the bed. May I?

Sure. Anything you want, said Teakh, dumbfounded that she took an interest in him.

She set the sketchpad on a taboret and perched beside him, one foot hooked behind the calf of the other, her hands around the raised knee. Tell me about yourself.

Love wasn’t supposed to happen at first sight, but Teakh was enthralled, completely smitten—head over heels in love. Well ... Uh ... he stammered.

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Chapter 02 • Courtesan

She lifted a shoulder, and her glossy ginger hair swirled over the rust-brown of her parka, everything about her perfect except for a charcoal smudge on the pad of her thumb. I’m making rounds of the hospital, cheering up patients.

You sitting right where you are. That cheers me up.

She gave a bit of a laugh. Does it? What else would cheer you up?

Uh ... Well ... They cut up my boot. And my pants.

Oh. Delight infused her voice. Is that all? I’m a good seamstress. I can help with the pants. Tell you what—let’s go over to my friend’s house. She has a sewing machine. And we’ll have a bit of lunch.

Is that okay with the hospital?

Of course it is.

What about my friend? he asked.

Cooky grinned. I’ll stay here. Have fun.

Well then. Get yourself ready, and I’ll go speak with the nurses. Check you out. She raised an eyebrow, retrieved her sketchpad, then breezed out the door.

You’re the lucky fellow, said Cooky. She’s casting for you. Oh, I’d bite. That I would.

Teakh shed his hospital sleep shirt and dressed, working his slashed pant leg over his brace. He pulled on his shirt and vest, then drew on his one intact boot.

The woman returned with a knock on the door and news that the nurses approved of the outing.

They left the hospital together, not holding hands—the crutches got in the way—but close enough that he could smell the sweet musk of her hair.

They hobbled through the lanes of Idylko Village, his pant leg flapping. Women glanced up from behind windows where they worked on accounting or engineering or the like.

Teakh and the woman entered the back door of a modest cottage: single-story, hexagonal—a typical home. The front workroom had the promised sewing machine.

A plate of sandwiches waited on the kitchen table, and a pot of creamy squash soup bubbled on the stove.

True hospitality, said the beautiful redhead. This is my friends’ place. They prepared lunch and will join us soon.

I thought this was just us, said Teakh.

They’ll stay out of the way. If that’s what you want. She held up her sketchbook and a pencil. I’m a bit of an artist. Do you mind if I draw your picture while we wait?

No problem, he said. Is that why you invited me here?

That and other reasons. I wanted you to meet my friends. Her pencil moved over the paper.

As if on cue, the door opened. Two women entered, the first with chestnut hair and a lithe figure, the second with curly, raven-black hair. Her skin was several shades darker than the redhead’s. She was just as beautiful—her bronze skin smooth, her body sleek, and her movement elegant.

This is the man I was telling you about. The redhead twiddled her pencil in deft fingers. The one who put out the fire.

Oh. The eyes of the dark beauty widened. He can put out my fire. Or light it. Sorry. She put her hand over her face and ducked her curly head.

The two newcomers traded knowing smiles, then one of them said, Welcome, handsome stranger. Consider this place yours. Anything you want.

Teakh sat on a kitchen chair, overwhelmed by his luck. Not one beauty but three of them had offered to entertain him.

A woman ladled soup into bowls and sprinkled each with chopped chives and squash seeds. The other woman passed around the sandwiches, which proved to have smoked salmon and a tangy goat-cheese spread.

The redhead set aside her drawing to prepare and poured an infusion of herbs into eggshell cups. Borage, rose, and lavender from my garden, she said. It’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac.

From the translucent cup, Teakh sipped tea tasting of roses and summer. He enjoyed the smooth soup, the tangy sandwiches, and the fragrant tea, but not nearly as much as the company.

About your pants, said the redhead when they had finished the meal. I did promise to repair them. If you take them off, I can get to work. Would you like that?

Aye. That I would!

Can they watch and help out? asked the redhead.

Oh yes! said Teakh, still amazed at his luck. Steadying himself by holding a chairback, Teakh stood, unfastened and removed his vest, then his shirt as the three women watched.

Oh my! said the redhead, her pencil scratching over paper.

He’s quite the find, said another.

I think I had too much aphrodisiac tea, said the last. Put out my fire!

The bedroom, suggested the redhead.

Leaving crutches, clothing, and the sketchbook behind, he hopped from the kitchen with a woman supporting him on each side.

Below a small painting of a male nude, they laid him on a bed and propped soft pillows behind him. A set of bondage cuffs were attached to the bedframe.

Do you want those? asked a woman.

Thank you, no, said Teakh, and she removed them.

The redhead struck her forehead. Oh, the pants. I promised.

Later, said Teakh, reaching for her.

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One of the women spooned behind him, her fingers twining in his hair and her lips on his nape, nibbling along the welts of his neuro scars.

Seaguard! exclaimed the woman. You’re full of surprises.

You found me out, said Teakh. His cover was blown, but it didn’t matter; he had no intention of blackmailing the threesome.

Other hands cradled his chin. The second kissed him, her teasing lips soft. And a third knelt beside his leg with the splinted ankle. Her bowed head spilled auburn hair in a cascade that tickled his thighs.

Oh Danna! Oh Danna! He mumbled, I’ve ... I’ve never ... How could he admit to being a virgin? A dozen-nine years old and he’d never been laid.

That’s alright. We’ll take care of you.

Struggling against engulfing passion—or was it lust?—he observed details: oval nails, a hint of eye shadow on at least one woman, glossy hair—auburn, chestnut, and raven black. Courtesans maybe, but he’d never met even one courtesan, let alone been pleasured by three. These beauties were no ordinary dock prostitutes, not with the redhead’s expensive clothing, not with every curve of pink- or brown-tipped breasts and satin thighs perfect.

I didn’t get your names, he said.

Beautiful stranger, names are unnecessary, said one of them.

The Noah Code gave highest honor to those who assisted strangers in need—anonymous charity. But other than the dull pain of his injured ankle, he wasn’t in great need, and sex didn’t normally constitute necessary assistance. Still, he spoke the traditional words of gratitude for charity rendered. Honor is yours.

They settled him in the softness of the bed and resumed their ministrations. The three beauties hadn’t asked permission from his clan matriarch. As for theirs, what clan held their records?

His seed was not his to share. Clan Ralko owned him. Oh, they claimed him as kin but gave him nothing. Founder Ralko!

The auburn-haired beauty straddled him. He admired her slim waist and the flare of her hips. Her skin glowed with a bright sheen as if dusted with copper. Above the rich red-brown hair of her mound, a tattoo of an angel fluttered with the undulations of the woman’s midriff. Instead of legs, the angel tattoo had two fishtails curving outward like tendrils.

As if Teakh were a primitive sea sponge, he was about to scatter his sperm to the tide. He wouldn’t, shouldn’t, yield to animal desire, but pleasure flooded him. Impossibly, he loved not just the auburn-haired angel but all three women, loved them as Poseidon loved triune Amphitrite. To him, they were sirens, irresistible.

Teakh had always hoped and expected to love one person only, as had his mother. Flouting her clan, she’d remained devoted to his father, then to his father’s memory. She’d often stood on a rocky headland, gazing out to sea, awaiting his return.

The sirens held Teakh in their thrall. Ah, yes. The tattoo wasn’t of an angel but of a siren, one of the winged women who sang mariners to their doom.

Hands caressed between his legs—whose hands, he didn’t know or care. He saw only the angel who rode him, her glossy hair falling forward, curtaining both her face and full breasts. Then he was being kissed, intoxicated by her sensitive and generous mouth. Heady with passion, he returned her kisses, enjoying the smoothness of her teeth, the softness of her lips.

He and the women moaned in unison as they brought him to climax. The three were virtuosos, and he was a less-than-perfect instrument, but they coaxed him to the heights of performance.

Magnificent. A woman panted.

Spent, they all kissed him. He drew them close, embracing all three, nuzzling the auburn hair of the woman he decided to call Angel, enjoying her wild, musky scent. And he wept—wept for the loss of himself as his mother had seen him and for the loss of his parents, both years dead.

And if his sister found out—Good Danna!—what would she think?

Auburn-haired Angel patted his cheek. What’s wrong?

He had nothing to cry about, and he wasn’t sad, just profoundly moved. Tears at a wedding. Odd.

Depths! If this were the treatment for a broken ankle, he’d trip on the companionway ladder more often.

Nothing, Teakh said, but in succumbing to lust, he’d thrown away his mother’s expectations. Was the taste of bliss worth it?

The experience and its flood of emotions had changed him. Who was he, and what did he want?

A woman stood from the bed. We’d best get him back to the hospital. He’ll be missed.

The pants! said Angel.

The other two women brought Teakh his clothing and helped him dress. From the front room came the sound of a sewing machine. When Angel returned, they helped him work the pants over his brace. He pulled on his one boot. They gave him his crutches and assisted him to stand.

Angel brushed her lips against his cheek. I’ll go with you.

But you’ll be seen, one of the others said. Better he goes alone and through the back door.

Angel smiled and shrugged. We’ve already been seen together.

Teakh swung his crutches forward. I’ll be alright. He hoped he’d be alright. He was as new to getting around on crutches as he was to feminine favor.

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Chapter 03 • Noah Man

A fine mist of rain spattered Teakh’s face as he hobbled along the lane, passing housefront businesses. His crutches thumped the damp boardwalk.

Two pedestrians carrying baskets turned toward Teakh and stared. Truth be told, every head swiveled toward him, seemingly every villager talking about him. But they couldn’t have known what he’d been doing in private. There was nothing wrong with accepting the invitation of a woman during the waning moon anyway. Other than not notifying his clan—the one he’d disowned—he’d broken no laws or taboos. For all the watchers knew, he’d only gone to get his pants repaired. Why would they care who he was?

His life vest bore no indication of clan, disowned or not. The color, once a serviceable orange, had faded to a shade of salmon—pale dog salmon at that.

At the waterfront, men in slickers worked, cleaning decks and tinkering with propulsors. The tide had receded, and the piers now floated lower than they had in the morning. A junk scow was in, loading recyclables. A kittiwake glided, wings cupping an updraft, its mew high-pitched and plaintive. A hose gushed as a man in coveralls sprayed a boat hull. The working men paid him no unusual attention, just a normal bob of the head or the greeting: What are you about?

Teakh gave the standard response. Observing the tide.

That was the truth. The statement had many meanings, including engaging in recreational sex only at the proper phase of the moon. Three women dallying with one favored man at such a time was common and accepted, even expected.

A man pushing a wheelbarrow laughed. Observing it nicely, I’ll warrant. Or is it the girls observing you? He winked. I hear they’re casting for you.

So strange, this sudden attention. Despite the shortage of men, women were generally picky, and Teakh was a poor relation in his clan. The name of his father’s clan was unknown, and Teakh’s mother had died over a dozen years ago.

At the hospital, he nodded a greeting to the nurse on duty. He entered the room he shared with Cooky, who was sitting up with bandages on his arm and the side of his face. The window beside Cooky’s bed had been dimmed against the afternoon light, but the esskip lagoon could still be seen through the hazy glass.

Cooky gave Teakh a lopsided grin, half of his beard singed off. Have a good time?

Aye. Teakh smiled. Thanks.

Thanks? What for?

Didn’t you— He’d assumed that maybe Cooky had arranged the encounter with the three beauties to remedy Teakh’s virginity.

If I could get a woman like that, do you think I’d send her your way? Cooky said.

Three of them. Teakh still savored the memory of warm affection—arms and legs entwined, appreciative smiles.

I’ll be sunk. Cooky mugged. Some fellows have all the luck.

And that brought Teakh back to his question. Why had they gone for Teakh, an unkempt fisherman too clumsy to safely use a fire extinguisher?

He lay on his hospital bed and activated it to elevate his foot, then he used his neuro to again do research on the sensenet as he had with tail signs. He couldn’t exactly search for women by hair color, and angel tattoo merely produced bycatch of body art and tattoo parlors.

Might as well get some other work done. Teakh hoped to establish himself as a fisheries detective, so using his neuro, he brought up video records as if to his mind’s eye. Lord Ralko paid him to spot-check video documentation of fisheries catch—a legitimate source of income for Teakh.

Eyes closed as if he were dreaming, he viewed images of silvery pollock being pulled from the sea. Gulls screamed. A winch whined as it pulled the net over a squeaking block. Silver bodies spilled into the hold. Teakh focused his attention on the writhing cascade. He watched for bycatch mixed in with the target species.

A man shouted, and the camera wrenched away from the spilling fish. Two fishermen in slickers and rubber boots stood on the deck.

One lifted a finger in an obscene gesture. Sink you, Seaguard.

This could be a prank, but more likely it was an attempt to slip illegal catch past the cameras. Teakh smothered a laugh. Fishermen were always attempting to dodge regulations, while Seaguard tried to catch them doing it. He played the game from both sides, never letting on to Cooky or their shipmates that he had a Seaguard neuro and sometimes played for the other team.

A fisherman produced a harmonica and bowed to the camera. Here’s for you.

The man blew a chord, and his mate belted out a filthy ditty, the exploits of Jack Tar and his dondering dandy dickledoo. The performance ended with catcalls and hoots of laughter. The ruse was an old trick—get the enforcer focused on the bawdy antics so he’d miss what was really going on.

Teakh watched the rest of the video record in slow motion, often pausing and rewinding, searching for illegal catch that was surely there. He shifted to the other deck camera and watched again. Damn, those guys were good. Maybe their catch was entirely legal. Maybe it wasn’t.

He checked the records against displacement and movement of the vessel, recorded at the time by underwater sensors. That seldom yielded much. He yawned. For the most part, detective work was tedious to the extreme.

Hey! Wake up! shouted Cooky. Got visitors.

A nurse had entered through an open door. Two other women peered from behind her. They were not, however, either Angel or her two friends.

Is that him? The man with the bandages? a visitor asked.

Cooky straightened up.

No. The other one.

He sure doesn’t look like much.

Cooky grinned. Who’s the stud now?

You are, Teakh said. Hey, girls. My friend here thinks you’re sweeter than pie.

The women giggled, and the nurse shut the door behind her.

We’ll have none of that. The nurse advanced on Cooky and pulled the privacy curtain around his bed.

Cooky peeped out and wiggled an eyebrow. She’s changing my dressing. How good is that?

That was Cooky, always seeing the bright side. So why were women interested in Teakh and not the more experienced Cooky? If sympathy was part of it, Cooky’s injuries were worse. He had a nice full beard, or it had been full before the explosion. Teakh’s body was scrawny, and his sparse beard needed a trim.

Teakh went back to auditing video documentation, attempting to find salmon hidden in cascading pollock until his thinking became muzzy with scales and fins.

When he was in Ralko, Teakh lived in the Seaguard men’s house in a room that had formerly been a closet stuffed with old furniture and ancient telecommunication equipment. The place was lit by one window, which had a view of an elevator shaft interior. The light blinked every time the car passed. The quilt his mother had made covered his bed, and his sea chest remained at the foot. Teakh liked his room,