Drachen: Tropical Trouble

By Duffy P. Weber

Bicycles, Epidemic Outbreaks, and Interspecies Romance

Shenanigans and surprises ensue when a hyperactive, middle-aged businessman hears about an epidemic reaching the small island where he grew up. He immediately volunteers himself AND his bicycle courier employees to go chasing around the isle as volunteer health services personnel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hula-Cow Studios
• Release date: Dec 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781088129845

Book preview

Drachen: Tropical Trouble                           Duffy Weber

Dedication, of sorts:

The dedication page for this novel is going to be a bit odd. I wrote it over the course of a couple months, after the characters appeared in my head one day and demanded that I tell their story.

I realized if I didn't write it, then none of you would be real (in whatever sense you take that) to anyone but me. I couldn’t not put this on paper. So Daavi, Millie, Rinn? You too, Fitz, and Fran. And Sonja, Rex, Darryl, and Stewart as well. This one’s entirely for all of you. Thanks. I hope I did the tale justice.

Special Thanks:

I doubt he’ll ever read this, but after spending years listening to songs of islands and tropical paradises, as well as reading tales of wacky characters in bizarre circumstances, such as Where is Joe Merchant with its odd blend of true realism and strange altered reality shaken together like a cocktail, thinking of Jimmy Buffett and his tales gave me the push I needed to grab a keyboard and tell all of you about this fantastic little island, much like our reality, but where everything works just a little bit different.

IF you’re ever in the neighborhood, Mr. Buffett, margaritas are on me.

Same to Mr. Wayne Lemmons. Looking forward to next Thursday.

DRACHEN: Tropical Trouble

©2019 – Duffy Weber

Cover art: Luigi Espartero

All rights reserved

Original publication: December 2019

Work subject to copyright and may not be reproduced without permission. This is a work of fiction. Likenesses of characters to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental.

Prelude

Come on! Get his legs, sis!

Daavi was dimly aware of being carried. A hard surface scraped his back, making a hollow metallic sound.

Oops! Sorry Daavi! came a concerned voice.

Give him here, the first voice sighed. He felt himself lifted like a rag doll and deposited in a cold, hard corner. He could hear water. Suddenly there was a jab on his arm. He moaned, fighting to get back to consciousness.

Oops! Sorry. Didn’t mean to stick you. Read that when you wake up.

Someone was pulling at the opposite sleeve and he felt the edge of the paper poking the exposed skin of his arm as it was pinned into place.

Come on, sis. Time to go…

Daavi felt a soft cheek pressed firmly against his. As it pulled away, he tried desperately to reach out, to stop them from going. He fought his way to consciousness with everything he had.

Twenty years later, he sat bolt upright, in the dark, cold, hard corner of the ferry, reaching out across a gap two decades wide. A sense of panic, loneliness, and incomprehensible loss flooding over him.

He shook himself, breathing heavily.  He took a deep breath and gathered himself. Everything was fine.

Though he was still halfway in the grip of the dim fragment of a memory from long ago, he tried to smile to himself in the darkness and almost succeeded in shaking off the odd sense that something terribly important had gone forever.

He’d see them soon. He was finally going home.

Chapter 1 - Arrival

The fog hadn't lifted yet as the ferry pulled up to the shore.

Fran did not like boats. She raised her head, peering around the hold as she surveyed her surroundings in the morning darkness before ducking back into her paperwork, in much the same manner as a rabbit taking note of its surroundings before hunkering back down into the grass and continuing to eat. 

She nudged a pile of ledgers into a more balanced stack before the rocking motion of the ferry could upset it, tipping over her burrowlike nest of papers, pencils, clerical supplies, and log books.

She was currently working her way through a massive pile of papers, organizing them. She would be using them shortly. Things were going to get busy.

The logistics team, as they had been dubbed, was waiting around inside the muggy hold of the ferry in various states of patience, waiting for it to make landfall.

In the grey dawn, the sun was starting to stream over the now visible landscape, creating an orange glow in the morning sky, and promising a lovely, if blistering hot day. The passengers on the vessel were largely still lounging and conserving their energy, though growing slightly more restive as the boat was being moored at the dock.

Daavi, who had gotten this whole thing together, was restless and nearly bursting at the seams to get going, but, as his colleagues were aware, he was usually like that. In this case, he had more of a reason than usual.

He was currently spending that nervous energy on prepping, arranging, and re-arranging equipment. There were kits, bits and bobs of communications electronics, and pipes in plastic and metal that would, with the aid of a couple of wire ropes, and a few VERY heavy anchoring blocks, become the broadcast infrastructure that the team would use to communicate with one another as they went about their work on the roughly 15 billion square meter island. Sections of which were, true, largely unpopulated, but it was still a big number, and slightly daunting.

Satisfied for the moment, he pushed his hair out of his eyes, tied it back, sat down, and placed the soles of his feet together, rocking back and forth and stretching out his hips, while, much like Fran, surveying his companions.

Then, there was Fitz, lounging contentedly, reading a book, and not appearing to be bothered in the slightest that the boat had landed, nor that it was almost time to get up and going into what was sure to be an exhausting couple of weeks.

Fitz, or rather, mister Donovan Fitzpatrick - Fitz only to his friends, though according to him, EVERYONE was his friend, until proven otherwise - was large, friendly, and beefy.

He had short, red hair, trimmed close, a round, friendly, moon-shaped face, and a curly, coppery beard that didn't quite conceal the youthful mischief in his grin.  He was a smart-alack extraordinaire, loved a good joke, and was an exceptional person to have as a friend. Especially in a pinch. He was surprisingly stable and reliable. 

Fitz was a courier. And he'd be one of the volunteer personnel delivering the test kits, medicines, treatments and vaccines to the populace of the island.

Sonja was also a courier. And as different to Fitz, on the surface, as you could get. Tall, dark as night, whip-slender and elegant, with a low voice and a quiet, serious demeanor, her reserved decorum while on duty, while making her seem enigmatic,  belied her true nature as one of the rowdiest, bawdiest, wildest members of the crew, besides Rex, the stout old transportations overseer, and captain of the ferry on this particular expedition, with his ruddy complexion, and twinkling, impish eyes, topped by a thatch of iron-grey hair.

His jovial personality was seasoned moderately with a penchant for earthy jokes, and with language your grandmother may or may not have taught you, depending on whether she had ever worked in the kitchen of a pirate ship.

Sonja was busy tinkering. She’d just finished adjusting her courier's cycle, and turned her attention to a few small electric motors. They’d be installing them for the week on some of the sturdier, bulkier, heavier bikes the helpers had brought. Those would be used to transport patients to the makeshift clinic tents, in the little odd-looking rickshaws attached to the bikes.

The island-side volunteers would, as gingerly as possible, use them to haul in people who couldn't make it there under their own steam, as well as move supplies and equipment around.

The logistics crew would be getting by on leg-power.

Not really a problem – they operated that way anyhow. They moved much faster without the little motors, using their light, specialized courier cycles. Sonja, in particular, could seriously shift ground when the need arose. She rarely ever made use of a motor anyway. They were nice for short runs, helping to conserve a rider's energy, but they’d be useless for the long, fast hauls she’d be running tirelessly for the next two weeks.

Mousy little Fran was getting yet another pile of ledgers ready, for organizing the glut of information they'd be meticulously recording over the next two weeks. She was a quiet, serious, straightforward sort. It was hard to believe she was Fitz' sister, though she did have the same smile, on the occasions she showed it.

Her full name was Freya Francine Fitzpatrick. A fact she took some pains to avoid mentioning. She seemed quiet and timid in person, and she was. With strangers.

For people she knew, it was a mildly different story: she kept the crew and their clients in line. If Fran ever threatened to rip your arm off, you knew she liked you. And that she meant it.

Finally, there was Gordon. He was lounging by the mouth of the gangway, waiting for Rex to finish positioning the craft so they could begin securing it, converting it into one of several bases of operations for the excursion. Gordon was the most unusual member of the crew. Originally born and raised here on the island, though that wasn't unusual - Fitz and Daavi had also lived here at some point.

Gordon was Drachen.

Tall and singularly conspicuous among the crew, Gordon was a head taller than everyone else, excepting Fitz, who clocked in at a respectable 6'2", though he was still a hand and a half shorter than Gordon.

His taciturn nature alone would have made him seem imposing. But the crowning glory of his visage was the shock of feathery, brown and white hair, spiked in tufts, standing high, and swept back off his head, giving him the appearance of being yet even taller than he was.

His features were outlandish compared to his companions, as well. A humanly expressive face, but humans typically have mouths, not beaks, though rather unlike a bird's, the face of a Drachen is more supple, articulate, and mobile.

His large, powerful hands were weathered like that of Rex, from long hours worked out in the sun, but unlike Rex, there were diamond-shaped scales scattered from the back of the hand halfway up the forearm. He also took great pains to keep them well manicured and elegant, also unlike Rex. He was rather fussy about hygiene. He was rather fussy about everything, when he wasn't busy trying to be inscrutable.

A crest of feathery fur at his chest tufted out from under the loose, breathable, V-neck courier's shirt he was wearing, and his crossed legs, while covered to the knee in loose-fitting, bulky, light sweatpants were obviously similarly hirsute, down to the large, flared, digitigrade feet, which again, much like his broad forearms, were patterned with dully iridescent scales. Some Drachen had small, vestigial wings, though never in anyone's historical memory had anyone seen one fly, other than in fanciful children's tales, popular among Drachen tots. Gordon had rather large ones, comparatively speaking. Distinct from his companions, indeed.

As a courier, He kept his feet wrapped in a sandpapery, textured tape, for traction, as well as protection from the pedals of the courier's bikes digging into his soles. His bicycle was also much larger than everyone else's. 

Humans and Drachen (which was an old word meaning dragon, though, Fran mused, if you were going to name them for mythical creatures, gryphon would have been boundlessly more accurate) apparently were descended from a common ancestor. Some sort of winged ape that had existed millennia upon millennia ago.

Apparently at some point, their paths diverged over the hundreds of thousands of years since, but as genetic cousins, they responded the same to medicines, had similar internal physiology, could donate blood to one another, and could interbreed, though of course most everyone from either species was averse to it, simply due to a lack of physical attraction to each other.

We're here! Everyone out! Rex called.

The door swung open, dropping down into a ramp onto the sandy beach, lowering itself with a thud into the sable shoreline via two large cables on either side.

Well. Daavi inhaled and breathed out,  We're here.

______________________________________________

The sun glittered off the pavement as it sailed smoothly by underfoot. There was a gentle breeze and the day was a superb, if slightly warm 98 degrees as the slight smell of the ocean rolled over the tall grass to either side of the path.

Daavi was only halfway taking in what was, in truth, a rather breathtaking scene, as he'd gotten into that steady, trance-like rhythm one does when pedaling along for an extended period of time.

The gorgeous landscape shot on by at a respectable pace as he focused mainly on the ground in front of him, and on keeping his legs moving at a steady rate, pushing himself to keep his speed in the uphill stretches, and maintain it or augment it in the straightaways and declines.  He was running behind.

You're slowing up, pops. What's the story? Fitz's voice crackled in his ear. He had just reported in with his location over the little radio.

Big uphill climb, about 100 yards back. And don't call me 'pops.' You're only a few years behind me. And anyway, you LOOK older than I do, what with that beard.

A few as in... 15? And ouch.

Yeah, well, he muttered into the little radio headset tucked into his ear, under his helmet, 43 is the new 25. Anyhoo, YOU don't seem to be doing much better at the moment.

Unfair. You just wait until I'm up and running again. We'll have a nice little race around the airfield back home.

You're on, Daavi panted through a grin. You managing the radio stuff alright?

Easy-Peasy.

Daavi would normally have been the one running the comms for this little excursion. Slender, small, and ferret-like, he wasn't exactly short, he just wasn't, ever, going to be called tall, unless he somehow managed to stumble into an enclave of leprechauns.

Moreover, he was built almost femininely tiny. You didn't realize he was quite as small as he was until you tried to borrow gloves or gear from him, and it fit you like you'd stolen it from a child.  Pair it with a long ponytail, a perpetual smile, and his upbeat, bouncy gait, and the overall impression he gave off was one of a hyperactive, rather self-assured gerbil. He wasn't self-absorbed, but he was just vain enough to where he'd take that as a compliment.

Despite his stature, he was impressively athletic, and though he'd never quite stack up to people 15 years younger and with half again as much muscle, you wouldn't know it from a side-by-side comparison on paper. And it certainly wasn't going to stop him from giving them a run for their money. He approached every task with a rather gleeful let's DO this! or, in the case of unpleasant tasks, a still-gung-ho attitude of let's get this over with!

Thanks, Fitz. Knew I could count on you, his voice echoed over the radio.

You kind of have to, drawled Fitz into the mic, I'm the only one here, now that you're playing courier.

Would you two shut it? cut in a new voice, in an irritated staccato, I'm trying to report in. Really, it's bad enough when Daavi's running comms, but getting both of you chatterboxes on the line at once, it's like listening to old women talk. How do you get anything DONE?

This would be Gordon, given the silky baritone and precise annunciation.

And, he continued, HOW are you talking so much while you're out there on that toy? Your lungs ought to have collapsed by now and spared us all.

HEY! Daavi panted back defensively, I'll have you know that my little chariot here has been PERSONALLY fine tuned by my very own PERSONAL self to be-

Nevermind, cut in Gordon, I've gotten the test kits up to the village outside Redcoast, and I'm on my way back. Nothing unexpected, but I’d like to get them vaccinated tonight. I know a fisherman up there. When I was a child, he taught me to fish with a net.

They're rubbing off on you, stated a new, low, melodious voice. Sonja. That's more than you've talked all week, much less on comms.

She deadpanned the statement, but those who knew her could hear the amusement. Gordon had been nervous about this trip. His assignment was likely going to entail something a bit different to the others, and he'd been pensive for the last several days.

She was glad to hear him chatter with the other two.

Daavi mused that they were a motley assortment, but he was glad his employees- no, his friends were with him. He shook his head and got back to business. This was going to be a long two weeks, and he had better get a move on.

Have Fran give you a kit, said Daavi, and take one of the doctors along with you. It shouldn't take long. We'll start getting set up for the big push, in the meantime.

Daavi and crew were members of a volunteer logistics, transport and medical team that had come to the island to help with a spreading epidemic. 

In their normal lives, they ran a communications company that, among other things, operated a courier service on the side, as a way to fund fancier projects.

When Daavi heard that the epidemic had reached the island, and that the Department of Human/Drachen Health Services didn’t have enough manpower to see to all of the affected locations in a timely manner, he’d immediately trooped his entire staff down to their offices and volunteered to come out here.

A short training course later, and here they were.

They were neither medical staff nor official members of any government or private relief organization, but rather all people who had ties to the island, of some sort. 

Daavi was currently en route to one of the villages and towns dotting the island with one of the test kits.  It would be delivered, administered with the help of local, trained, island-side volunteers, and the appropriate cure would be given based on the results.

It was simple to train people to do, as the crew had found out during their week-long volunteer orientation session, but as logistics and delivery specialists, it was still foreign and exciting territory. It would have been rather fun, if friends, lives, and family weren't possibly at stake.

It was a low-priority zone on most government and official dockets, and it was sadly likely that if left to official channels that it would not be attended to until it was far too late to do some of the inhabitants any good.

The applicable organizations were all too happy to quickly train and orient volunteers to handle places they knew were low-risk areas, given their already expansive workload in regards to the outbreak.

The downside of this approach was equipment and supplies. The official organizations couldn't just give it away, and deposits needed to be paid and papers signed, and so the volunteers had to take up collections, pool their money, and in some cases, invest heavily into the project with their own funds and assets.

The medical kits weren't as new and shiny as the ones the official teams were carrying around, nor were they as light or well-appointed. But they had everything needed for this venture, if only just barely.

It had been a rough start already.

Daavi clipped along, thoughtfully. Fitz was supposed to be on this bike. Furthermore it was supposed to have been a better bike.  But Fitz and his bike were currently both already down for the count.

Daavi replayed the morning in his head, sighing.

______________

Fran stood in the morning breeze. She took in a deep breath of sea air as she clutched a logbook and addressed the assembled volunteers.

Alright, everyone listen, so we can get going. See these ledgers? She held one aloft. The assembled volunteers from the island-side crew nodded and voiced generalized affirmatives, looking marginally attentive, if somewhat bored.

Fran walked over to a stack of the little books.

Well, she continued, in her quiet, timid little voice, pushing her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose, if any of them get damaged, I'm going to make a new one out of your skin.

Suddenly they were paying closer attention.

These log books will be used to note all the names of the people we vaccinate, or administer serum. They'll be checked against your census logs as we go. You're to take these AND a box of these little wristbands to your coordinator. Everyone doing that, come and get one. Carefully, please.

Volunteers filed forward and hesitantly claimed their books and a small box before hopping onto their comfortably broken in, sluggish old beach bikes and ambling away somewhat more quickly than the pace at which they probably rode in, ensuring their books were carefully secured in the baskets.

Rex was currently instructing a more athletic looking group.

These here're the test cups. You're gonna fill 'em with water and drop one of these tablets in 'em. Then you put this little paper in your mouth - looks like litmus paper, y'see? - and then drop it in the cup.

There was a brief interruption as Daavi dragged a spool of wire as big as himself betwen Rex and his audience. "Sorry! Ignore me! I'm not here! Well I am here but I mean, you should pretend I'm not-"

Rex grabbed the spool, tipped it up on its edge and rolled it along in the direction Daavi was headed, giving him a deadpan look. Rex didn't require words to make a point.  He chuckled and shook his head as Daavi scurried after his reel of wire.

Anyhoo, continued Rex, This piece of paper turns green? You're clear. You only need the vaccine. It goes blue? You got the virus, but it ain't bad yet. If you see symptoms, it'll probably turn yellow or red. If you see grey? You get on the radio and you get one of us, fast.

One of the young volunteers stuck up a hand, What's grey mean?

Rex raised his eyebrows and looked the young man directly in the eye, Means they're not gonna need the serum if you don’t hurry it up and get it to them. You’ve got a day or less.

Ah. He looked worried.

Don't worry, cut in Fran, shuffling by with more paperwork, We aren't expecting much of that. Mostly we'll be vaccinating people. We just keep the serum here because it’s better off refrigerated. The vaccine doesn’t mind the heat. Wish I could say the same... she muttered the last to herself.

The disease slowly spreading across the island wasn't particularly grisly looking or dramatic, nor was it difficult to treat.  The symptoms included a vaguely butterfly shaped rash on your face, similar to rosacea, and the skin under your fingernails would slowly turn a distinct teal color.

Other than that, you just felt mildly run down and tired, if perfectly fine otherwise.

And then it killed you.

Children and the elderly bore the brunt of it, with a fifteen percent survival rate. Healthy adults fared better, although better was relative: you'd get about thirty percent of an infected populace who survived.

The non-technical explanation the clinicians gave was that the disease simply told your body to stop functioning. If you administered the antiserum, it happily ignored those instructions. People got better within the day.

The actual mechanics were probably mildly more involved, Fran mused to herself as she spared a glance at her brother.

Fitz cut a dashing, if mildly goofy figure perched atop his flashy courier’s cycle, preparing to set out with a third group of volunteers. This team largely outfitted with small, electric motors attached to the racks of their heavy, rusty beach cruisers. They also had wheeled carts lashed to the bikes, attached by poles, so that they could haul the radio relay equipment to several key parts of the island.

Daavi was bouncing around these while Fitz talked, securing everything in a manner he deemed safe and satisfactory for the trip to whatever part of the isle it was heading.

After the equipment was delivered, they'd switch to hauling people and supplies.  The carts would be replaced with rickshaw attachments, and they could tote the infirm, geriatric, or children to where they'd be treated.

Don't worry about setting any of this up, instructed Fitz, indicating the radio equipment. We'll be along behind you to put it together. You guys get this stuff where it's going and leave the rest to us, or the island's radio experts.

The solid-looking group did not look at all inclined to argue, glancing apprehensively at the strange equipment secured in their carts.

A thought occurred to one of the volunteers. What do we do afterward?

Set up cots, called Daavi over his shoulder, digging in a pile of wires, attempting to untangle about twenty little boxes from one another, the vaccine knocks you out for an hour or two. So does the antiserum. Get with the coordinators, and do whatever they tell you, then get back here once that's all set up, and Fran will find you plenty to do.

He finally looked up from his pile of wires, tossing a small box to Fitz.

Here y'go! Radios! They'll work short range until we get the towers set up. Get back here fast, and help me with this thing. In the meantime, I'll be putting the frame together.

Sure thing, boss! agreed Fitz.

Don't call me that. Daavi spared a glance as he scurried by.

He'd already gotten several sections of the modular tower put together and ready to be stacked by the time a lone volunteer, still laden down with equipment in his cart slowly rolled down the hill toward them. On the back of the bike sat Fitz, on the rack, holding one leg at an odd angle. He was missing his shoe and his ankle was the color of an orchid.

FITZ! Daavi abandoned his work and ran over to his friend, What happened!?

Fitz shrugged sheepishly, You remember the cliffside path over the beach?

Yeah? A puzzled, concerned expression crossed Daavi's face, Did you fall off it?

Can't, stated Fitz. It's not there anymore. Hope you’re up for a ride...

‘The Incident’ had happened almost immediately upon arrival. He was to have been delivering some of the transceiver sets to the island-side team in anticipation of the comms network being up.  Gordon had taken his place.

In his defense, that cliff hadn't been there when he'd lived here as a kid: a mudslide had put it there 6 years ago, so while the islanders knew all about it, none of them thought to inform him.  It was old news to everyone but poor Fitz.

He contented himself with chatting to Rex, who was in charge of stocking and rationing supplies and treatments, and with Sonja, Gordon, and Daavi when they either radioed in, or stopped by to pick up more transceiver sets, test kits, and other supplies.

_________

Daavi now had a long two weeks ahead of him. After poor Fitz had run his bike off the cliff and fractured his ankle, it was arranged hurriedly that Daavi would stand in for him.

Filling in for Fitz was a big job.  Daavi and his crew were the only ones allowed to transport or handle the medicine, aside from the doctors and their aides.

They were covering the island in a round-robin approach. The first passes would be for setting up: radios and comms, the testing, delivering vaccines, and getting the local volunteers settled into their routines. The second and third pass would be for reading the tests and administering the vaccine. Finally, another pass, if the amount of medicine budgeted fell short of what they'd anticipated.

Daavi was hopeful that the smaller neighborhoods, villages, and outposts could all be done in one go, but since the bulk of the populace would be handled, en masse, in the larger, more trafficked towns on the island,  a certain amount of travel would be required just to oversee the goings-on and make sure everything was running smoothly, and for relaying the medicine, which would likely be just running out by the time they made it up with the next case.

If I can keep pace, he thought wryly to himself. He did some quick figuring in his head. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but given current circumstances, he wasn’t fully sure he could. Have to try, though.

He reasoned he’d be fine so long as nobody – or at least, not too many people – actually contracted the illness.

The serum wasn't particularly finicky about high temperatures, but it wasn't a good idea to let it sit in the hot, tropical sun, so it had to be kept refrigerated in the hold of the ferry until it was called for. That was an extra trip, each time it was needed.

The vaccine, however, was less picky and would be largely distributed to the doctors ahead of time. That would save some effort, but there was still the matter of not wanting to load too much of it on one courier's bike. 

Daavi briefly recalled a phrase about putting all of your eggs in one basket. Or one bike. And Daavi's bike was another matter.

Most people on the island got around on foot or by bicycle. Usually large, clunky beach bikes. It was another reason Daavi had urged Gordon, Fitz and Sonja to volunteer, along with himself.

The island was heavily dependent on tourism, and was deeply invested in keeping with the image of a rustic, tropical getaway. Combine that with the fact that the island did not have the facilities to generate large amounts of power, and it resulted in local laws that sternly discouraged a lot of modern conveniences that were available on the mainland.

Even battery operated scooters were banned. The roads were too narrow, and furthermore, they didn't fit the theme.

Small battery operated motors on an odd bicycle now and then were the only concession to modern transportation.  They were usually reserved for the elderly or the rich. They were also slow.

Daavi was now huffing along at a respectable 18 milles per hour on his lovingly maintained little hybrid two wheeler.  It was nothing more than a heavy-framed standard commuter bike, though he had tinkered with it until it met his approval.

Unfortunately for anyone else trying to ride it, his idea of 'optimized' meant in a purely mathematical sense, and in practice, it most closely matched other people's idea of masochism. It'd go fast, though. But it wasn’t a courier.

Fitz, on the other hand, had been on a courier. A bike like Sonja's and Gordon's - magnificent, flashy pieces of equipment.  Light, designed with responsive steering, precisely calculated gear ratios and so streamlined you felt almost like you were flying.

What made them really special were the wheels.  Impressively engineered on-hub flywheels recovered momentum when you were pedaling.  A specialized rubber that comprised the tires would all but cling to the glittery, quartz-rich asphalt of the road. 

On a courier, thanks to the specialized system in the wheels, you could get going extremely fast, alarmingly quickly and with a minimum of effort. And they saved a rider immeasurable amounts of energy over a long haul.

They also handled differently than regular bikes, and due to the way they seemingly gripped and latched on to the pavement, people called them magnetic tires, but the truth was, they were purely mechanical. Their trademarked moniker, MangeSerfas didn't clear up the misconception.

The bikes themselves were a high visibility crystalline grey, wrapped in a brilliant honeycomb pattern of reflective tape, and when the sun hit them, you could see them from a mille off.

Daavi didn't have any of this.  He'd never even thought of retrofitting his standard with them, even if he could have afforded the luxury.

He didn't envy Gordon, Fitz or Sonja their bikes. They were great for long hauls, true, but they didn't like it at all if you parted ways with the pavement. He liked looking at the glittery, splashy jewels of the road, and drooling over them from time to time, but he was happy with his own treasured little bike.

After all, courier bikes didn't handle dirt, sand, or rough areas well at all.  They were unsuited to it, and so expensive you wouldn't risk damaging them. While you were whizzing around with ease at 40 milles or above, a little gravel would ruin your day.

Daavi wasn't a courier (other than, by de facto, today) he just rode every chance he got, for fun, back home. He was up to the challenge, or at least he thought he was, but without the same equipment, he'd admittedly be moving a lot slower and putting a lot more effort into it. 

When he'd signed them all up for this affair, he'd been counting on his three couriers, ideally suited to the circumstances, to be handling all the running around, on their fine, expensive machines.

Now, he was out here himself. On a standard. Or as some of the more sniffy couriers called them, toys.  And on a standard, you had to keep pedaling.

He grinned to himself. Nothing like a little exercise. Maybe I'll at least look like I'm in shape by the time I meet Millie.

The thought made him suddenly pensive. He had only been expecting to use his bike for running a couple of errands. And visiting some old friends. While he was really, really looking forward to seeing them, he hadn't planned on it being quite this soon...

_____

Poor Fitz was in for his own set of challenges.

He wouldn't have any problem following a chart of schedules, or orchestrating the locations and timetables, making sure everyone was where they were supposed to be.

The radio operations were another matter. Fitz's skill with electronics was questionable at best, but he was amenable to the idea of learning, and once he'd been assured a monkey could do it, he was installed coordinating their operations with the island's team, and was to take over running the radios.

If something went badly wrong, Daavi could make a beeline for the comms equipment to bail him out, and failing that, one of the other out-team members could come to the rescue.

Daavi had spent a few minutes each time he zipped through the staging area at the ferry to prattle information at Fitz. Once they'd gotten some of the relay towers set up, he was able to instruct Fitz on the finer points while riding around performing his new courier duties.

Well, he could as long as his breath held out, which wasn't a problem with Daavi. The problem was that it did, and he tended to prattle.

__________

Daavi had, in fact, been prattling.  Gordon, usually so proper and kind, wasn’t acclimating well to the heat yet, and wasn’t particularly in the mood. He may’ve been more terse than he’d intended in his last reply.

Now, now, Fitz cut in, addressing Gordon, No need to get your tailfeathers in a twist. If you've got something to say, just interrupt us. You act like we don't always do this.

Yes, but you, Chatty Cathy, are usually on the courier, and the Iron Lung out there is the only one with enough breath to assault our eardrums. Now I have to put up, he panted, with both of you.

You know, mused Daavi smugly, with obvious enjoyment, you could talk out here too, if you'd just get some exercise on a REAL bike from time to time…

No.

"I mean, it's soo much healthier…"

Noooo.

And you stay in GREAT shape, he continued with relish, Just look at little ol' me. Outriding you. On a 'toy'.

And are you going to keep that up all week? asked Gordon pointedly.  Though it was delivered as a conciliatory taunt, there was a note of concern in his voice. After all, there was a LOT of running to do, and so very, very few people to do it effectively and methodically enough so as to make it all possible in such a short period of time.

Eeyep. I'm gonna try, anyway.

We're busy getting some of the local volunteers trained up, as well, offered Gordon. We can't have too many, as it's just a great way to invite chaos, but we've asked anyone who runs messenger or courier duty around the island, and has appropriate equipment to stop by. We'll vet them thoroughly, of course.

Gordon continued, warming up to the evident break in his typical, relative silence,  Millie got hold of us on the local channels and said she's sending a few people down from Songheim village, two to help with comms infrastructure now that you're out there, and one on a courier rig to help us run med kits.

Nice! Millie's fantastic, smiled Daavi. There was a thoughtful pause. Everyone had friends or family here, or had at one point, and they all felt it was right and necessary to be here for this.

Daavi broke their momentary, reflective silence.

Tell her I'm looking forward to seeing her.

I already did, said Gordon.

Fitz cut in, I remember you two go way back. You and Darryl, too, right?

Oh yeah, Daavi grunted One time we-

"SHUT! UP! I’m trying to concentrate! The local teams are getting test results from Towville already, and if you don't let them report them, and let ME write them down accurately, Fitz, I'm going to beat you with a deck brush. And you, too, Daavi, when you get back here."

Fran had the final word.

_____________________________________________

Fitz surveyed his surroundings with approval, interrupted briefly by a regretful wince when his cracked ankle gave a twinge he'd rather not have felt. He’d just finished moving the comms further from Fran’s work area, and out of her earshot.

Despite the fact it had all gone south pretty quickly, the initial setup had gone smoothly, and, thanks to Daavi, quicker than anyone thought possible. He was exceptionally good at what he did - world class, in fact - and what he did was set up communications and coordination networks.

Luckily it had all gotten done before Daavi was forced to take over for Fitz.

From the minute the door to the ferry touched the beach, and he leapt out, he was in motion. What transpired next was a flurry of activity.

Fitz had seen his friend in action many times before - their company had set up equipment for all sorts of important people, but it always amazed him how quickly Daavi worked.  He'd've chalked it up to 20 years' experience, but to hear it told by Rex, the little spider-monkey has always been like that.

The broadcast tower had gone up fast. It was light, and assembled in layers, the antenna cable attached to what would eventually be the top tier. The whole rig was lifted and stacked, level by level, by Rex and Sonja, as Daavi shoved each new layer under the stack, and lined it up before the ever-growing assembly was lowered back down onto it.

Fitz manned the guy wires, and kept it from toppling over, while trying to not put any weight on his foot.

In under a half an hour, they had a 30-foot-tall tower, secured to large concrete blocks by tightly strung metal cables, securing it against wind and gravity.

There was a transmission band for the out-team apart from the regular, more widely used local band that the island-side crew used to communicate – that one would have been a nightmare to try to run their operations over, they realized immediately, given the number of random conversations, music, strange static, and crosstalk pouring over it.

When Fitz wasn't specifically handling the radios, or learning about them