For Wilbur, Kazakhstan and its problems seemed as distant as the moon. His world was the Natchez. No, it was good enough for the moment to simply stand in the pilothouse as he had back when he’d still been alive and look out over the Quarter, watching the bustle on the dock and on the river around him and anticipating another voyage upriver, even if he was no longer the boat’s captain. He thought about the steamboat race that would be the showpiece of the Tall Stacks festival in Cincinnati, imagining the Natchez steaming past her competitors. In that moment, he would feel some satisfaction. In that moment, he might see the Natchez less as a prison and more as the boat he’d been so proud to create. His legacy, born of imagination and memories and the dreams of his ancestors. The only child it would seem he’d ever know.
He could imagine that sweet moment already: his Natchez demonstrating what a magnificent boat she was, even in her seventieth decade. He caressed the wheel in front of him, stroking it like a lover, laying his hand there and letting it sink gently into the wood, merging his being with the boat. Part of me. Always part of me …
It was a beautiful day. There would be beautiful nights to come, as well, with a nearly full boat, the steam up in the boilers, and the paddle wheel lashing the brown water of the river as they moved upriver. Soon. Very soon. Eleanor, I’m afraid I’m leaving you again, if you’re still out there. And this time I don’t know if I’ll be back.
Wilbur shook his head at the thought and scowled. His exile on the Natchez was only bearable when they were on the river with the paddle wheel thrashing the water. Soon …
The rest of the time … well, that was hardly worth thinking about.
Wingless Angel
By John Jos. Miller
By the time Billy Ray had arrived on site the MS Gustav Schröder had been anchored downriver from the New Orleans passenger ship terminals for almost two days. He and his SCARE team – part of it, anyway; the rest hadn’t yet arrived – stood on the north bank of the Mississippi River. The Schröder was anchored downstream, with the Triton, a Coast Guard cutter, anchored nearby to make sure none of the refugees slipped away. There was no doubt that the Van Rennsaeler administration was determined to keep the Kazakh refugees off American soil, though possible sanctuary in the French Quarter was only a moderate swim away.
Ray eyed the Schröder dubiously from his vantage point on the riverbank, which was adjacent to a small dock near the cruise ship terminal where a Port Police launch was moored. The freighter was too distant to discern details, but Ray was pretty sure that she was no titan of the seas.
‘How many refugees did AG Cruz say were crammed on that tub?’ he asked, frowning.
‘Nine hundred and thirty-seven,’ the Midnight Angel said quietly at his side. Her voice was empty of inflection. She could have been talking about sacks of potatoes, not people.
‘She doesn’t look big enough to lug nine hundred and thirty-seven toasters across the Atlantic, let alone that many people,’ Ray mused.
He glanced at her as she stood next to him, SCARE Agent Moon by her side. In human form Moon was a small, deformed joker who could barely crawl, but the wild card had given her the power to transform into any canid species she could envision, living or extinct, from the Chihuahua to the dire wolf. She was currently a big, fluffy sable collie whose resemblance to TV’s beloved Lassie was uncanny. Ray knew she’d chosen her most friendly form intentionally for the Angel’s benefit as it was the most comforting avatar in her repertoire. Ray caught Moon’s eye and nodded. Her tail thumped the ground sympathetically.
The Angel was staring into the distance, at nothing, really. She was gaunt, her eyes sunken and blank. That was better, Ray reflected, than the haunted look they usually had, an expression she’d rarely been able to shake since their return from Kazakhstan. A month ago, deep in a fit of despondency even greater than usual, she’d shaved off the mane of thick, dark hair that had hung down to her waist. The new growth was streaked with white. She no longer wore her leathers, even on a mission, for they reminded her too much of the nightmare of Talas. Instead she had on khaki slacks and a thick, long-sleeved, shapeless pullover. Despite the heat and humidity of the New Orleans summer day, her face was pale and sweatless.
Moon pressed against her side and whined softly, but the Angel didn’t respond. She only stared unseeingly as a tall black woman, a bit beyond statuesque, approached the three SCARE agents. The newcomer was middle-aged, with straightened hair worn in a stiff updo with descending ringlets. Her mannish tailored suit was much too heavy for the New Orleans climate and she was paying for her dubious fashion choice with droplets of perspiration running down her face. Ray’s own suit was faultlessly tailored linen, superbly suited for the local climate. Ray recognized her from the attorney general’s description.
‘Agent Jones?’
She reached into a pocket of her suit and produced a badge, holding it up for all to see. ‘Ms Evangelique Jones,’ she said, with the emphasis on the Ms. ‘Immigration and Customs Enforcement.’
‘Right, ICE,’ Ray said in an unimpressed tone. ‘Attorney General Cruz informed me that you were in charge of this …’ Ray’s voice ran down and he gestured vaguely out to the Schröder.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘My job is to ensure that these so-called refugees don’t set foot on American soil without proper authorization. That those without papers take their dirty genes back to wherever they came from or to whatever hellhole will accept them. But not here.’
‘Hellhole?’ For the first time the Angel seemed engaged. She turned and looked at Jones. ‘What do you know about hell?’
She caught Jones’s gaze with her own bleak stare and the ICE agent paused in whatever she’d intended to say. ‘Well – I —’
Ray cleared his throat and Jones’s attention shifted back to him. ‘All right. And exactly where are we in this … situation?’
Her lips tightened in a grimace. ‘Apparently this little scheme to subvert American immigration law is being perpetrated by a known prostitute, a Ukrainian national with connections to the Russian mafia named Olena Davydenko, and—’
‘Olena?’ Ray said.
‘Are you deaf, Mr Ray?’ Jones asked. ‘Or am I speaking in some foreign—’
Ray and the Angel stared at each other, ignoring the ICE agent as Moon looked on with her narrow gaze fixed on the newcomer.
‘We knew that these refugees were Kazakhs,’ Ray said thoughtfully, ‘but no one told us that Davydenko was involved in this.’
‘And if she is, he must be, too,’ the Angel said harshly.
Jones, her eyes shifting between them, frowned. ‘If by he, you mean her partner in miscegenation—’
‘Infamous Black Tongue,’ the Angel said as Ray said simultaneously, ‘Miscegenation?’
‘You two are the rudest people I have ever met,’ Jones said, ‘always interrupting—’
‘Sorry,’ Ray interrupted. ‘It’s just that the Angel and I have a history with those two – we were all at Talas, though I got there at the end. The