Surfacing by Walter Jon Williams Page B

Philana in his third bar of the evening. She was with two men, one of whom Anthony knew slightly as a charter boat skipper whom he didn’t much like. He had his hand on her knee; the other   man’s arm was around her. Empty drinks and forsaken hors d’oeuvres lay on a table in front of them. Anthony realized, as he approached, that his own arrival could only make things worse. Her eyes turned to him as he approached; her neck arched in a peculiar, balletic way that he had seen only once before. He recognized the quick, carnivorous smile, and a wash of fear turned his skin cold. The stranger whispered into her ear.
    “What’s your name again?” she asked.
    Anthony wondered what to do with his hands. “We were supposed to meet.”
    Her eyes glittered as her head cocked, considering him. Perhaps what frightened him most of all was the fact there was no hostility in her look, nothing but calculation. There was a cigaret in her hand; he hadn’t seen her smoke before.
    “Do we have business?”
    Anthony thought about this. He had jumped into space with this woman, and now he suspected he’d just hit the ground. “I guess not,” he said, and turned.
    *
    “Que paso, hombre?”
    “Nada.”
    Pablo, the Leviathan’s regular bartender, was one of the planet’s original South American inhabitants, a group rapidly being submerged by newcomers. Pablo took Anthony’s order for a double bourbon and also brought him his mail, which consisted of an inquiry from Xenobiology Review wondering what had become of their page proofs. Anthony crumpled the note and left it in an ashtray.
    A party of drunken fishermen staggered in, still in their flashing harnesses. Triumphant whoops assaulted Anthony’s ears. His fingers tightened on his glass.
    “Careful, Anthony,” said Pablo. He poured another double bourbon. “On the house,” he said.
    One of the fishermen stepped to the bar, put a heavy hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Drinks on me,” he said. “Caught a twelve-meter flasher today.” Anthony threw the bourbon in his face.
    He got in a few good licks, but in the end the pack of fishermen beat him stupid and threw him through the front window. Lying breathless on broken glass, Anthony brooded on the injustice of his position and decided to rectify matters. He lurched back into the bar and knocked down the first person he saw.
    Small consolation. This time they went after him with the flashing poles that were hanging on the walls, beating him senseless and once more heaving him out the window. When Anthony recovered consciousness he staggered to his feet, intending to have another go, but the pole butts had hit him in the face too many times and his eyes were swollen shut. He staggered down the street, ran face-first into a building, and sat down.
    “You finished there, cowboy?” It was Nick’s voice.
    Anthony spat blood. “Hi, Nick,” he said. “Bring them here one at a time, will you? I can’t lose one-on-one.”
    “Jesus, Anthony. You’re such an asshole.”
    Anthony found himself in an inexplicably cheerful mood. “You’re lucky you’re a sailor. Only a sailor can call me an asshole.”
    “Can you stand? Let’s get to the marina before the cops show up.”
    “My boat’s hundreds of miles away. I’ll have to swim.”
    “I’ll take you to my place, then.”
    With Nick’s assistance Anthony managed to stand. He was still too drunk to feel pain, and ambled through the streets in a contented mood. “How did you happen to be at the Leviathan, Nick?”
    There was weariness in Nick’s voice. “They always call me, Anthony, when you fuck up.”
    Drunken melancholy poured into Anthony like a sudden cold squall of rain. “I’m sorry,” he said.
    Nick’s answer was almost cheerful. “You’ll be sorrier in the morning.”
    Anthony reflected that this was very likely true.
    *
    Nick gave him some pills that, by morning, reduced the swelling. When Anthony awoke he was able to see. Agony flared in his body as