Why pirates? In the 1950s, an Australian television studio did a weekly series titled The Adventures of Long John Silver starring the late Robert Newton. I never missed it. Practically put my little nose through the screen longing after those vistas of clouds over the South Seas, those towering white sails and pitching decks, those cozy dark taverns, those parrots, those big interesting bad guys who were really good guys at heart. Growing up, I can’t have been the first Wendy to discover that real life with Peter Pan is miserable; but a girl can really go places with a decent pirate. So here’s to growing up, and here’s to boys who aren’t afraid to become men, and here’s to tropic seas and tall ships too. ? ? ? The Likely Lad Kage Baker ALEC’S GROWING UP INTO SUCH A NICE BOY,” SAID Mrs. Lewin fondly, pouring out a cup of herbal tea. “So thoughtful. Do you know, he’s doing all his own laundry now? I never have to’ remind him at all.” Lewin grunted acknowledgement, absorbed in his cricket match. It was only a holo of a game played a century earlier—competitive sports had been illegal for decades now—but it was one he had never seen. “Though the water rate’s a bit high,” Mrs. Lewin added, setting the pot back in place and covering it with a tea cozy. “Not that his lordship can’t afford it, goodness knows, but the Borough Council gets so nasty if they suspect you’re wasting anything! I said perhaps Alec ought to save it all up for once a week, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Changes his sheets every day. Won’t let me do it for him at all. Well, I can understand that, I said, fresh bed linens are a treat, and aren’t you the dear to save me coming all the way upstairs and rummaging in that old hamper for your socks...” Lewin dragged his attention away from the lost green paradise of Lord’s and played back what she had been saying. “Changes his sheets every day?” he repeated. “Yes. Isn’t that responsible of our Alec? It seems like only yesterday he was toddling about and screaming every time I tried to take the face flannel to him, and now ...” “Now he’s fourteen,” said Lewin. “Hmm.” “How time flies,” observed Mrs. Lewin. “Hmm.” Lewin paused the holo and stood. “Yeah. Think I’ll go have a word with the boy about the water rate, all the same.” He plodded up the kitchen stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Lewin were Alec’s butler and cook. He lived with them in a mansion in London. Alec’s father, the sixth earl of Finsbury, lived on a yacht somewhere in the Caribbean, and his mother, the Right Honourable Cecilia Ashcroft, was somewhere else, and Alec hadn’t seen either of them in ten years. As a result, Lewin had been obliged to shepherd Alec through most of his childhood. Lewin was not the only one providing Alec with fatherly advice, though he was unaware of this. If he had been aware, he might have spared himself the long climb up to the fourth floor of the house, which was Alec’s domain. Wheezing slightly, Lewin paused on the third-floor landing. He could hear the hideous dissonance of Darwin’s Shoes vibrating above, loud enough to rattle the pictures of Alec’s parents in their frames. Lewin didn’t mind that Alec was listening to crap music much too loud—he was always secretly relieved when Alec did something normal for a boy his age, for reasons that will shortly become apparent—but if the music was loud enough the neighbors would call the Public Health Monitors, and that was to be avoided at all costs, in this city of London in this dismal future time. So Lewin gritted his teeth and took the last flight at his best speed. Having arrived on the fourth floor without coronary arrest, he hammered on Alec’s door, which was spektered all over with little moving shots of Darwin’s Shoes, Folded Space and other bands Alec happened to think were cool that week. Lewin felt a certain satisfaction at knocking right through the irritating young faces. Almost immediately, the door opened a bit and one eye peered out at him, a very pale blue eye a long way up. Alec, at fourteen, was already six feet tall. “Would you mind granting me an interview?” shouted Lewin, glaring up at the eye. “Sorry!” Alec opened the door wide with one hand, hastily stuffing something into his pocket with the other. He waved and, mercifully, the decibel level dropped. Lewin stepped over the threshold and looked around. Nothing suspicious in sight, at least on the order of bottles or smoking apparatus, and no telltale fume in the air. Light paintings of ships drifted across the walls, and phantom clouds moved across the ceiling. It was an effect that invariably gave Lewin vertigo, so he focused his attention on the boy in front of him. “Didn’t I explain what would happen if you played that stuff loud enough to annoy the neighbors?” Lewin demanded, “Oh, they can’t hear it,” Alec assured him. “I’ve got a baffle field projected off the walls of the house. Sound waves just fall into it, see? I could set off a bomb in here and nobody’d know.” “Please don’t,” said Lewin, sighing. He had no idea what a baffle field was, but not the slightest doubt that Alec could create one. He shifted from foot to foot and Alec, eyeing him nervously, pulled out a chair. “Would you like to sit down?” “Yeah, thanks.” Lewin sagged into the chair. Alec stood before him a moment, trying not to put his hands in his pockets, and finally retreated to his bed and sat down on its edge, which would nearly put him at Lewin’s eye level standing. In addition to being extremely tall, Alec Checkerfield had a rather unusual face, at least in that day and age: small deep-set eyes, remarkably broad and high cheekbones, a long nose and immense teeth. He looked like a terribly noble horse. “What you been doing up here?” Lewin inquired. “Nothing,” said Alec. “I mean, er—you know. Studying.” “Mmm.” Lewin glanced over at the communications console. “Well. You remember when we had that talk about you hitting puberty?” Alec flushed and looked away, but his voice was light and careless as he said, “Sure.” “You remember how we talked about using shields?” “Er . . . yeah.” “You need me to get you any? Happihealthies, or that lot?” Alec looked at his shoes. “No, thanks. Sir.” “Right. And you do know, don’t you, that even if a girl says yes, if she says it before she’s eighteen it doesn’t count?” Alec nodded, not raising his eyes. “And you can get in no end of trouble? Worse than just being carted off by the Public Health Monitors?” “Yup,” said Alec. “Right,” said Lewin, getting to his feet. “Just so you know.” He paused by the door and cleared his throat. “And ... it uses up a lot of water, doing laundry every day. People will talk. Can’t you try and, and—not do that?” “Yes,” said Alec. “Right,” said Lewin. “I’m off downstairs, then.” “Okay.” Lewin edged out and pulled the door shut after him. He shook his head and once again, as he descended the long stairs, cursed Roger Checkerfield for never coming home. The moment Lewin had turned the corner on the landing, a voice in Alec’s room said: “There now, didn’t I tell you they’d notice?” As the hoarse baritone spoke, a column of light flashed in midair and the speaker appeared. He was an immense man in early eighteenth-century clothing, his beard was wild and black, and his face was wicked. There were two pistols and a cutlass thrust through his wide belt. “Oh, piss off,” muttered Alec. “1 can’t help it.” “What about I order you a few dozen of them recyclable cloth tissues, eh, matey?” the apparition offered. “On the quiet, like?” “Can’t I have any privacy anymore?” Alec cried. “Aw, son, don’t take on so. It ain’t like I was a person, is it now? Who’re you to care if a old machine like me knows yer little secrets?” said the apparition. “You’re a lot more than a machine,” said Alec ruefully. “Well, thank’ee, lad, but I knows my place,” replied the apparition. Yet Alec was correct, for Captain Morgan (as the apparition was named) was a great deal more than a mere machine; in fact he was a great deal more than the fairly powerful Pembroke Playfriend Artificial Intelligence he had been when Lewin had purchased him for Alec nine years earlier. Had Lewin known that little Alec had managed to reprogram the Playfriend, and moreover remove its Ethical Governor so that its drive to fulfill its primary objective—to protect and nurture Alec—was completely unhindered by scruples of any kind, he’d have been horrified. All in all it was a good thing Lewin didn’t know. He was worried enough by all the other unusual things young Alec could do. The Captain now considered the disconsolate boy before him. “Bloody hell, this’d be a lot easier if I was an organic. You and me’d just take the bus over to Egypt at weekend and I’d find my boy a nice couple of whores. Haar! That’d take a reef in yer mainsail, by thunder.” Alec groaned and put his head in his hands. Having an imaginary childhood friend who persisted into his adolescence was embarrassing enough. The idea that the Captain was taking an interest in his (even more imaginary) sex life was intolerable. “Look, I really don’t feel like talking about this right now, okay?” he snapped. “Not with that force-ten testosterone storm a-raging, I reckon you don’t,” the Captain agreed. He put his hands behind his back and paced, and the Maldecena projector in the ceiling turned in its pivot mounting to allow him to move across the room. He gave the appearance of drawing a deep breath. “Look, son, I got programming says I got to keep you clear of wrecks, see? You mind old Lewin! I don’t care how bouncy that there Beatrice Louise Jagger was yesterday after Social Interaction 101, the lass is only fourteen! Like you. And neither one of you’s got any idea what’s going on. You takes her up on any invitations short of a tea party and you’ll both wind up in Hospital on hormone treatments, likely for the rest of yer little lives.” “It’s not fair,” said Alec. “And how’d you know about me and Beatrice?” “I got me ways, lad,” said the Captain smoothly. Thanks to some of the modifications Alec had made for him, he had long since been able to tap into the surveillance cameras mounted everywhere in London and so monitor his charge’s progress in the world outside. “Now, it’s almost the end of term. Yer going to have a lovely holiday in Bournemouth. We don’t want to spoil it, do we? “No.” “So let me see if I can’t turn yer attention to something a bit less dangerous than the Right Honourable Ms. Jagger’s knickers, eh? It’s time we was taking a prize, matey. We need more loot.” “But we’ve already got tons of loot,” said Alec in surprise. “I ain’t talking about data plunder, son. I mean money. I plan to build up a private fortune for you. One I can hide so nobody knows it’s there to tax, see? That way, even if you and Jolly Roger should have a difference of opinion some day, it won’t matter if he cuts you off without a penny,” x “How could we ever argue about anything?” Alec demanded. “Roger never talks to me at all. Birthdays and Solstice I get presents, if he remembers, but not even an audiomemo in ten shracking years!” “Well, now, son, even if you does get yer inheritance without a hitch, there ain’t no telling when that’ll be, and you want to be free and independent in the meantime, don’t you?” “I guess so. Yeah.” “So here’s what we does, matey.” The Captain grinned, showing a lot of very white teeth in his dark face. “You’ll peer about their encryptions a bit, like the smart lad you be, and get me into the databases of the Eurobank and Wells Fargo and some of them other fine big old houses. I goes to work and does a little old-fashioned transference theft, like nobody ain’t done in decades on account of it ain’t supposed to be possible nowadays. Just a yen here and a dollar there and all of it stowed safe in a nice Swiss account under a fictitious name, eh? Just enough to get you a nice nest egg of, oh, a million pounds or so, what I can start with.” Alec had been listening intently, and now he frowned. “Wait a minute. Did you say theft? You mean you want us to steal money out of a bank?” “No, no, matey, not one bank. Somebody’d notice that! We’d loot banks all over the world,” the Captain explained. But Alec was shaking his head. “That’d be stealing, Captain. That’s wrong. Breaking in and copying data’s one thing, but we’d be actually hurting people if we took their money,” said Alec. The Captain growled and rolled his eyes. “Son, I’m talking about the teensiest little amounts. Nothing anybody’d miss. A flea couldn’t light on what we’d be taking. You could put it up a canary’s arse and still have room for—” “Nope. I’m not going to do it,” said Alec, with a stubborn downturn of mouth that the Captain knew all too well. He pulled at his beard in exasperation, and then mustered all his tact. “Alec, laddie. All these years I been a pirate, just like you wanted me to be when you first set me free from that damned Playfriend module. Ain’t I been a hard-working old AI? Ain’t I gone along with the earring and cocked hat and cutlass and all the rest of the program? Ain’t I schemed to keep you safe and happy all this time? And don’t you think, being a criminal like I am, that once in a while I might get a chance to actually STEAL something?” “Steal all the data you like, but we’re not going after banks,” Alec replied. Red lights flashed on the console and static buzzed from the speakers; the Captain was doing the electronic equivalent of gnashing his teeth. His eyes, that were changeable as the sea, darkened to an ominous slaty color. Then, as an alternative suggested itself to him, they brightened to a mild Atlantic blue. “Aye, aye,” he said. “No robbing banks, then. What kind of a score’s that for a sailor, anyhow? Belike we won’t steal nothing from nobody after all. Belike there’s a better way.” “I’ll bet you can come up with lots better plans,” agreed Alec hurriedly, for he was experiencing the qualms of guilt any other boy would feel on telling a beloved parent he was dropping out of school. The Captain eyed him slyly and paced up and down a moment in silence. “We got to get money, matey, no arguing over that. But ... we might earn it.” “Yeah,” said Alec at once, and then a certain reluctance came into his voice. “Er . . . how?” “Oh, you could use up yer holiday in Bournemouth getting some lousy summer job,” said the Captain. “Wearing a little white hat and peddling fruit ices, eh? Grilling soy patties in a back kitchen or waiting tables for tips? Mind you, it’d take you all yer summer holidays clear through to university to earn a tenth of what we need. That’s if you could find somebody to hire you once they found out you was peerage and trying to take employment away from less fortunate boys! “Or... we might do a bit of smuggling.” “Smuggling?” Alec’s face cleared. “Aye! Ain’t smuggling just supply and demand? Long as we didn’t smuggle nothing that’d hurt nobody, which we wouldn’t. But all them bloody stupid Euromarket laws makes for no end of opportunities for a likely lad with a fast craft. You was planning on chartering another little sailboat for the summer, weren’t you?” “That’s right,” said Alec, his eyes widening as he began to see the possibilities. “Well then! We’ll put her to good use. You let me scan the horizon, son; I reckon I’ll find us some honest folk what could use a little help in the export trade,” said the Captain, watching Alec’s reaction. “Yeah!” Alec’s face shone with enthusiasm. “Wow, Captain, this wouldn’t even be a game, would it? This’d be real! With real danger and everything!” “Certain it would, matey,” the Captain told him, privately resolving that there wouldn’t be the least possibility of danger. “What an adventure!” “But we got to sign articles first, son. I got to have yer affidavy you’ll keep yer hands off the little missies in yer Circle of Thirty,” said the Captain. “Sure!” “I mean it, now! No more of that sweet talk about asking ‘em to explore the amazing mysteries of life with you and all that,” said the Captain, stern now he had leverage. Alec scowled and turned red again. “That wasn’t exactly what I said.” “Aye, but it near bagged you a Right Honourable, and you without a box of Happihealthies. One week till the end of term, son. My boy can keep his hands to hisself until then, can’t he?” “Aye aye,” sighed Alec. “There’s a good lad. I’ll just get myself into the maintop, now, and see if I can’t spy us out a few connections. Shall I?” Alec nodded. The Captain winked out. Alec sat there for a moment, before rising to his feet and pulling out the graphics plaquette he had hidden in his pocket on hearing Lewin’s knock. Holding it close to his face, he thumbed it on and peered at the screen. His pupils dilated as the tiny woman appeared onscreen and smiled at him invitingly. He glanced sidelong at the Captain’s cameras. * * * M. Despres had an office in Cherbourg, in Greater Armorica. He neither bought nor sold commodities, but he made arrangements for others who bought and sold them. Cherbourg was the ideal location from which to do business. Armorica, being a member of the Celtic Federation but also technically part of France, had two complete sets of trade regulations from which to pick and choose. Businessmen like M. Despres could custom-tailor a hybrid of statutes and ordinances from both political entities to justify any particular action taken on any given day. As a result, M. Despres scarcely ever ran the risk of arrest. This was good, for he did not enjoy danger. He left the more dangerous side of his business to certain persons whom he did not officially know. There were several persons he did not know working for him, doing things he did not know about, with ships that did not exist in official registries. So complicated was this little dance of deniability that when M. Despres’s shadow employees really actually stopped working for him, it sometimes took several months to determine that they had quit, and longer still to find replacements for them. In the meantime, nonexistent cargoes sat unshipped in nonexistent warehouses, and M. Despres lost real money. In order to avoid the attentions of unpleasant men with Gaelic accents who liked to break arms and legs, he sent out a desperate inquiry on certain channels, and sat in his office in Cherbourg drumming his fingers on his communications console and hoping someone would reply soon. M. Despres was in luck on this Thursday evening. Someone did reply. A yellow light flashed on the console, signifying that a holo transmission was coming through, and a moment later the console’s projector activated and a man materialized before M. Despres’s eyes. “You’d be Box 17, Greater Armorica Logistics?” he inquired in a heavy English accent. He was tall and broad, and impeccably dressed in a three-piece business suit. His black beard was neat, if unusually thick, his black hair bound back in a power queue. “I don’t believe I know you, sir,” said M. Despres cautiously. “I don’t know you either, dear sir, and that’s for the best, isn’t it?” The stranger grinned fiercely. “But we have friends in common, who inform me that you have a transportation difficulty.” “That is a possibility,” admitted M. Despres. “References would be required.” “And are being downloaded now. I understand your usual transport personnel seems to have left without a forwarding commcodc.” M. Despres shrugged, hoping his holocam picked up the gesture. “I understand,” continued the stranger, “that there’s Celtic gentlemen who would like some sugar for their tea, and are getting a little impatient that it hasn’t been shipped to them.” “How unfortunate,” said M. Despres. “Very unfortunate indeed, for yourself,” said the stranger. “I wouldn’t want to be caught between those Celts and the Breton sugar beet growers. You can’t afford to lose your business reputation, can you?” “Who can?” M. Despres smiled noncommittally. He eyed the references; they appeared genuine, and gave M. Morgan the highest praise as a discreet and reliable operator. M. Despres attempted to verify them, and thanks to the elaborate double protocols Alec had built into the codes, everything appeared to check out. “Of course, reputation can be a bad thing, too,” said the stranger. “As when certain vessels become too well known to the coastal patrols.” “I suppose so.” M. Despres’s interest was piqued. Was this a new operator moving into the territory? “I suppose in that case they might sail to Tahiti, which might create an opportunity for someone else.” “So it might,” said the stranger. “But I’ve been remiss! I must introduce myself. M. Morgan, dear sir. 1 may be in a position to provide you with assistance in your present time of need.” M. Despres, deciding the moment had come, said simply, “One run. Seventy-five billion Euros.” The stranger looked thoughtful. “Seventy-five billion? That’s, let me see, nine hundred and fifty thousand pounds? Not much cargo, I take it.” M. Despres gulped. “Six cases, twenty kilos each.” “A trifle,” said the stranger, making a dismissive gesture. “There is a slight difficulty.” “Ah, now, that would drive my price up.” “I said it was a slight difficulty. The cargo must be recovered from the place in which it was abandoned.” “What unprofessional people you must have known, dear sir! Say, twenty per cent above the previous figure?” “Fifteen. Recovery should be a simple matter. It’s off a Sealand outpost in the channel.” “I’ll need my divers, then. Seventeen per cent. The destination?” “Poole.” “Very good. Time is of the essence, I imagine?” “Not at all,” said M. Despres, lying through his teeth. “In that case, then, I’ll consider the matter and get back to you in, say, two days?” “Tomorrow would be more convenient, to be frank,” M. Despres said hurriedly. The stranger smiled at him. “Why, then, tomorrow it is, sir. Au revoir.” And he vanished. “He bought it!” whooped Alec, jumping up from his console. “Of course he did,” the Captain replied, preening. “If his bioelectric scans is any indication. We’ll clinch it tomorrow.” “I’ve always wanted to do something like this,” said Alec, pacing restlessly. “The open sea, a fast boat, secret business, yeah! This is the closest we’ll ever get to being real pirates, I suppose.” “Well, laddie, one ought to move with the times,” the Captain replied, pretending to shoot his cuffs and straighten his tie. “That’s true,” said Alec, turning to regard him. He said casually, “Speaking of which, er . . . that’s a good look for you, you know?” “Like that better than the old cocked hat and eighteenth-century rig, do you? Less embarrassing for a sophisticated young lord about town?” jeered the Captain. “Damn, boy, I like the suit myself. Sort of a gentleman’s gentleman but with some bloody presence. What do you say I appear like this from here on, eh?” “Brilliant,” Alec said. Clearing his throat, he added in a small voice, “But. . . we’ll still be sea rovers, right?” “More’n we ever was, matey,” the Captain told him. “To the tune of nine hundred fifty thousand pounds!” “Plus seventeen per cent.” “Plus seventeen per cent. Smart as paint, my boy!” Alec’s holidays had been spent at Bournemouth, in one rented villa or another, ever since he’d come to England, after his parents’ divorce. When he’d been small, he built sand castles and told inquiring adults that the Lewins, watchful from their beach chairs, were his grandparents. When he’d outgrown sandcastles he’d gone surfing, or explored Westboume. Here he’d found a public garden planted on the site of a house where Robert Louis Stevenson had once lived. Stevenson was Alec’s favorite author; though he had never read any of his books (only children who were going on to lower-clerical jobs were taught to read nowadays, after all). Alec had assiduously collected every version of Treasure Island ever filmed. Being an exceptionally bright boy, he had been able to spell out enough of the commemorative plaque in the garden to tell him whose house had once stood there. He had run home in great excitement to tell the Lewins, who smiled and nodded and turned their attention back to their illegal bridge game with another elderly couple. The last two summers, however, Alec had ventured through the pines and gone over to Lilliput, beyond Canford Cliffs. At Salterns Marina there was a place that rented sailboats, and for an extra fee would provide an instructor in the art of sailing. So quickly had Alec picked it up that in no time at all he’d been able to take his tiny craft out of the harbor and into Poole Bay by himself, working his way between Brownsea Island and Sandbanks like an old sailor. Tacking back and forth, getting sunburnt and wet with the sea spray, catching the winds and racing sidelong over blue water, squinting against the glitter of high summer: Alec was happy. There was no one to apologize to out on the water, no one who wanted explanations. The global positioning satellites might be tracking his every move, but at least they were far up and unseen. He had at least the illusion of freedom, and really that was all anybody had, these days. Sometimes he took his boat as far out on the bright horizon as he dared, and stretched out on the tiny deck and lay looking up at the sky, where the high sun swung behind the mast top like a pendulum. Sometimes he thought about never coming in at all. Today Alec whistled shrilly through ‘Jus teeth as he traveled along Haven Road on his RocketCycle. The idea that it rocketed anywhere was a pathetic joke; it had an antigravity drive and floated, barely able at its best speed to outpace a municipal bus. But the sun was hot on his back and felt good, and the pine woods were aromatic, and he was on his way to have his first-ever real adventure on the high seas! Arriving at the marina, Alec stored the RocketCycle and strode down the ramp toward his mooring, carrying a small black case. He waved at the attendant as he passed. The attendant smiled and nodded kindly. He was under the impression Alec was the victim of some sort of bone disease that had made him abnormally tall and which would shortly prove fatal, so he was invariably courteous and helpful. It took immanent death to provoke decent customer service nowadays. “Looks like a great day to be out there!” Alec called, boarding the little Sirene. “Bright,” agreed the attendant. “Think I’ll stay out all day!” “Okay,” said the attendant. He watched from his chair as the boy powered up the fusion drive, checked all the instruments, cast off and moved out, running up the little sail. Then he settled back and turned his attention to his game unit, feeling pleased with himself for his tolerance and trying once more to recall which holo program it was that had shown a two-minute feature on genetic freaks . . . Alec, once he’d cleared Sandbanks, moved into the masking wake of the St. Malo ferry and glanced up involuntarily in the direction of the currently orbiting satellite. He opened his black case, which appeared to be a personal music system; slipped on earshells, found the lead and connected it to the Sirene’s guidance and communications console. He gave it a brief and carefully coded command. From that moment onward the satellite received a false image; and somewhere in a dark room of a thousand lit screens, one screen was persuaded to show nothing but images of the Sirene tacking aimlessly and innocently back and forth all day. The object in the black case—which was not a personal music system—shot out a small antenna. The antenna fanned into a silver flower at one end. From this a cone of light shot forth, faint and nearly transparent in the strong sunlight, and a moment later the Captain materialized. “Haar!” He made a rude gesture at the sky. “Kiss my arse, GPS! They won’t suspect a thing, now. Oh, son, what a lucky day it was for me when I shipped out with a bloody little genius like you.” “Not so little any more,” Alec reminded him, taking the tiller and turning the Sirene a point into the wind. “To be sure.” The Captain turned to regard Alec fondly. “My boy’s growing up. His first smuggling run! Faking out a whole satellite system all by himself. Ain’t nobody else in the world but my Alec can do that.” “I wonder why they can’t?” Alec speculated, peering back at the rapidly dwindling mainland. “It seems really easy. Am I that different from them?” “Different is as different does, matey,” said the Captain smoothly, adjusting his lapels. He wasn’t about to explain just how different Alec was, especially at this time of adolescent anxiety. To be truthful, the Captain himself wasn’t sure of the extent of Alec’s abilities, or even why he had them. He knew enough to hide Alec’s genetic anomalies on routine medical scans. He’d done enough stealthy searching to discover that Alec’s DNA type made it extremely unlikely that he was a member of the human race as it presently existed, let alone the son of either Lord Fins-bury or the Right Honourable Cecilia Ashcroft, as his birth certificate stated. But why upset the boy? “I’ve been thinking,” said Alec, “That as long as I can do stuff the rest of ‘em can’t, I ought to do some good for everybody. Don’t you think? I’ll bet a lot of people would like to have some privacy for a change. We could set up a consulting firm or something that would show people how easy it was to get around Big Brother up there.” “Aw, now, son, that’s a right noble plan,” the Captain agreed. “Only problem with it is, we don’t want to lose our advantage, do we? As long as it’s just you and me has the weather gauge of them satellites, why, there ain’t no way they’ll ever know we’re getting around ‘em. But if you was to let other folks in on the secret . . . well, sooner or later there’d be trouble, see?” “I guess so.” Alec frowned toward the Isle of Wight. “We’d draw attention to ourselves.” “And we got to avoid that like it was the Goodwin Sands, son, or it’d be Hospital for you and a diagnostic disassembly for me, and farewell to freedom! Plenty of time for do-gooding once we’ve got you stinking rich, says I; you can give millions to charity then, eh?” proposed the Captain. Alec, thinking uneasily of a life immured in a padded cell in Hospital, nodded. He squared his shoulders and said, “Aye aye, Captain sir. So, when do we rendezvous with the Long John?” “Let’s take her farther out into the channel first, boy. Two points south-southeast.” Mr. Learn had an office in the Isle of Wight, but he was seldom there. His job kept him out at sea most days and many nights, for he was the Channel Patrol. Up until a week earlier he had enjoyed the title exclusively, but the Trade Council had decreed that he train an assistant. Mr. Learn was secure enough in his self-esteem to take this as a compliment; he knew his job was vital to the well-being of the nation. He simply wished they’d hired him someone English. “Not that I hold your ancestry against you in any way,” he told Reilly, “Of course. But it’s a tough job, you see. Requires deep personal commitment. Clear understanding of the dangers involved. Constant vigilance.” “I thought it was just cruising around trying to catch the Euros slipping us their national product and all and messing up our economy,” said Reilly. “Where’s the danger in that?” Mr. Learn grimaced, then assumed his most patient expression. “Coming, as you do, from a, hem, more permissive culture, you mightn’t understand. As a member of the Channel Patrol, you have a sacred duty to prevent murder.” “Murder?” Reilly cried. “Nobody at the Council interview said anything about murder!” “I’ll try to put this in your terms. Your ethnic affiliation have a lot of, er, children. Now, suppose one day you were minding someone’s baby, and saw a vicious criminal sneaking up on the innocent thing, offering it a shiny bottle of poison!” Mr. Learn hissed, pacing the wheelhouse of the Patrol cutter. He peered keenly out at the horizon, dotted with skimming sails, and went on: “Well, Reilly, what would you do? Would you let the little creature drink the poison down? They have no sense, you see, they’ll ingest any kind of toxic substance if it tastes nice. No; as a moral human being, you’d see it was your duty to snatch the nasty stuff away before harm was done.” “So ... the Euros have a secret plot going to poison babies?” Reilly inquired cautiously, wondering if Mr. Learn were crazy as well as bigoted. “In effect, yes, they do,” said Mr. Learn. “Think about this for a moment. Consumers are like babies, aren’t they? You can’t trust them to know any better than to indulge themselves in what’s bad for them. That’s why we made moral, sensible prohibitions to protect them all! The strong-willed must protect the weak against the profiteers who would entice them with their impurities.” “Okay,” said Reilly, “But how’s a bottle of pouilly fuissé that nobody but rich people can afford anyway going to do harm?” Mr. Leam shook his head sadly. “If it were only as simple as that,” he said. “They deal in far worse than wine. Think of the hideous immorality involved in the mere production of cheese, man! The enslavement of animals. The forced extrusion of foul stinking moldy curds of stuff so full of grease and bacteria it runs on the plate and plays havoc with the intestines! What civilized country would allow something like that on the market? “And coffee! Horrible little black beans like cockroaches, just full of toxins. You wouldn’t enjoy being a caffeine addict, I can tell you. Fingers trembling, teeth stained and chattering, heart pounding, eyes popping, arteries worn right through from the strain, aneurysm striking any time and exploding your brain!” Mr. Leam smote the navigation console with his fist. “Bam! Like that. And tea just as bad, even more insidious because the fool Consumers get sentimental about it. “And cocoa’s bad enough, with all those exotic alkaloids to stimulate unnatural desires (can you imagine there was a time when people fed it to their children?)—but chocolate! Dreadful oily voluptuous insinuating filth just full of addictive chemicals, and loaded with refined sugar, eating away at your teeth with its acids until they’re worn down to broken suppurating snags. Peanuts bloating you with calories and swelling you with toxic gases and salts, bleached flour to load your system with invisible toxins, ghastly black messes of fish roe—think of the outrage done to the harmless sturgeon!” “I never realized!” gasped Reilly, who had gone green as an organic pistachio. Mr. Leam wiped foam from the corner of his mouth and looked stern. “And this, man, is why we live. Only we can preserve the General Prohibition, for without our ceaseless care, the nation’s borders will be overrun with peddlers of pollution.” “Yes, sir,” said Reilly, and with new eyes peered fearfully across at the lowering darkness of Armorica. “I’m picking up the Long John, matey,” the Captain informed Alec. “Two kilometers west-southwest and closing fast.” “Cool!” Alec turned expectantly and watched the horizon, and presently saw the tiny foaming wake making straight for the Sirene, for all the world as though a torpedo had been launched at her. Within a few yards of her hull, it bobbed to the surface and halted, then came slowly forward with a distinct paddling motion. “Who’s my smart little Long John, then?” crooned Alec. Grinning, he bent over the gunwale and lifted from the water something that looked like a cross between a toy submarine and a mechanical dog. Alec had created it over the previous week, using odds and ends he had in his room and employing principles that seemed fairly basic to him but which no human presently living could have grasped. He had launched it on the previous evening, dropping it quietly off the end of Bournemouth Municipal Pier. “Been out nosing around like I programmed you? What’d you find? Let’s see, yeah?” The Long John drew in its paddles and sat motionless as Alec connected a lead from the console to a port in its nose. The Captain crouched down and regarded it, scowling with concentration. “All systems still operational,” he confirmed. “Data’s coming in now. Looks like it done the job, by thunder! Here’s them coordinates ...” He lifted his head and looked out into the distance to the bleak hulk of the old Sealand platform. “The cargo’s there, all right; smack on the sea bottom, thirty meters off the northwest pylon. I’m setting a course now. Bring her around, son!” “Aye aye, Captain sir!” In the early part of the twenty-first century there had been a brief fad for civil liberty that had taken the form of establishing tiny independent countries in international waters, built on floating platforms or abandoned oil rigs. This had given rise to a loosely organized federation collectively known as Sealand. Eventually, as the Second Age of Sail dawned and people realized it was much more convenient simply to live aboard megaclippers, the cramped Sealand outposts themselves were abandoned. Rusting, hoary now with guano they stood, and sea birds nested in their blind windows and gaping doors. Dark birds of another kind entirely used the platforms as landmarks and places to rendezvous, which was why a hundred and twenty kilos of refined sugar—one of the most expensive of controlled substances, in this day and age—lay scattered in its vacuum-sealed crates on the seabed nearby. “We’re over ‘em now, son,” the Captain announced with satisfaction. “Let’s see if the tiny bugger’s up to his programming.” “Of course he is,” said Alec, disconnecting the Long John and lifting it over the side. The moment it touched the surface, its little paddles deployed, and it trod water patiently while Alec attached a length of cable to its stern. When the cable was in place, the Long John dove down, vanishing swiftly in the green water, the cable unspooling behind until it popped off the reel and floated down out of sight. Alec smirked and gave the Captain two thumbs-up. “Telemetry coming back now,” growled the Captain, staring at the horizon in a preoccupied kind of way. “There’s the loot. Initiating recovery mission.” “Brilliant,” said Alec, and leaned back at the tiller. Far below the Sirene’s keel, the Long John settled on the nearest of the sugar crates and extended a pair of manipulative members. It set about reeving one end of the cable through the crate’s carry-handle, and when it had tied the cable off securely, the Long John rose and paddled off to the next crate, towing the cable after it. “Yes, the old Sealand stations,” said Mr. Learn, shaking his head. “You’d think they were something innocent, wouldn’t you? Lovely spot for terns and whatnot to nest, oh yes. But they’ve still got the stink of civil disobedience about them.” “Nobody could live there anymore,” said Reilly. He squinted through the scopex at the platform near which the Sirene was currently busy. “I can’t even see a fusion generator. Ooh, ugh! There’s a bird doing something nasty to another bird. I thought only people—” “It’s a nasty world, Reilly,” said Mr. Leam. “Where criminals grab every chance to carry out their wicked trade. They’ve been using that very platform as one of their meeting places, you know. I’ve been watching it for some time now. Last month I nearly had them! The Lisiane out of Wexford, registered to the Federation Celtique as usual, always hanging about here. What’s a sport vessel want with all that cargo space, I ask you? Probably engaged in fishing too, the murdering bastards.” “What happened?” inquired Reilly, a little testy over the slur on the Celtic Federation. “I caught them in the act,” Mr. Leam gloated. “Taking something from the Tin tin out of St. Malo. Bore down on them both with my siren roaring and they dropped everything and fled over the horizon! But the Lisiane will be back. Sooner or later they’ll think I’ve forgotten them, sooner or later they’ll think it’s safe to sneak back and recover whatever it was they had to sink. I’ll be here waiting when they do, and I’ll have a little surprise for them.” “Er—there’s somebody out there now, you know,” said Reilly, tapping the scopex to closer focus. “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mr. Leam, not lifting his eyes from the console screen. “The satellite readout’s perfectly clear. There are no vessels within a five-kilometer radius of the platform. It says so right here.” “I guess I’m seeing a mirage or something then,” said Reilly, lowering the scopex. And there the matter might have rested; but Mr. Leam, with a sudden flash of the intuition that made him such a successful opponent of evildoers, recalled that his enemies were after all fiendishly clever. He grabbed the scopex from Reilly and trained it again on the distant station. “There is a boat!” he yelled. “But it’s not the Lisiane . . . what do they think they’re playing at? Well, they won’t fool ME!” He dropped the scopex and hauled on the wheel, bringing his cutter about sharply and making for the platform under full power. Reilly yelped as cold spray hit him, and he grabbed at the rail. “Are we going to scare them off?” he shouted. “No,” replied Mr. Leam. Grinning through clenched teeth, he reached over and squeezed in a command on the console. Reilly gaped as a panel opened in the forward deck and a laser cannon rose into bow-chaser position. “Jesus!” Reilly screamed. “Those are illegal!” “So is smuggling,” replied Mr. Leam. “We’ll board and search, and if we meet the least resistance we’ll sink them. Such is justice on the high seas, Reilly.” The Long John had managed to tie up all six crates. Extending a hook, it caught the looped cable and rose through the water, towing the crates after it like a great unwieldy bunch of grapes. Reaching the limit of its strength, straining upward, the Long John activated a tiny antigravity field and promptly shot up through the gloom like a cork released from a bottle, the crates zooming ponderously behind as it rose toward the Sirene’s hull. . . “Coastal Patrol cutter to port!” roared the Captain, pointing. “Bloody hell, that son of a whore’s got ordinance!” “You mean cannons?” Alec squeaked, “Oh, wow!” Turning sharply, the Captain scanned Alec. His sensors picked up the boy’s terror, but to his consternation, there was something more: excitement, anticipation, physical arousal. Alec watched the cutter speeding toward them and, without conscious intent, began to smack his right fist into his left palm, quite hard. “Are we going to fight ‘em, Captain sir?” he said eagerly. “Or, no, that’s dumb. I guess we’ll just have to give ‘em a run for their money!” “We ain’t doing neither one, boy,” the Captain snapped. “We’re going to sit tight and lie through yer teeth, understand? I’ll get below and manage the Long John. Just you calm down!” “I am calm!” Alec protested, but the Captain had already vanished. Alec turned uncertainly to watch the cutter approach as, a fathom below, the Long John dove again and pulled its load into the obscurity of a kelp forest. There it waited, warily scanning the surface. “HEAVE TO AND PREPARE TO BE BOARDED!” ordered Mr. Leam, his voice echoing across the water. “YOU ARE UNDER SUSPICION OF VIOLATION OF INTERNATIONAL MARITIME ORDINANCE 56624-B, PARAGRAPH 30, CLAUSE 15!” “ER—OKAY!” Alec bellowed, thrilled to his bones. He felt more alive at this moment than he could ever remember feeling, and wished with all his heart he had a sword or a pistol or even just the ability to launch himself across the space between the boats and start swinging with his bare fists. It took all his self-control to sit quietly at the tiller, an innocent expression on his face, and watch as the cutter pulled alongside and Mr. Leam jumped into the tiny Sirene. Mr. Leam was furiously angry, because it was obvious he had made an error; the Sirene had no cabin, let alone a cargo hold. Nevertheless, balancing awkwardly on the Sirene’s midship thwart, he demanded, “Identify yourself! What is your business here?” “I’m Alec Checkerfield,” Alec replied. “Just here on holiday, sir, yeah? I was looking at all the seagulls up there.” “Well—” Mr. Leam swallowed back his rage and glanced over at the cutter for support. Reilly seemed to be hiding. He looked back at the immense young man. The youth smiled in a friendly way, but there seemed to be far too many teeth in the smile. “Under the authority vested in me by the Trade Council, I hereby inform you I intend to search this vessel,” persisted Mr. Leam. Alec raised his eyebrows. “Sure,” he said. His ears prickling with red heat, Mr. Leam bent over and looked under the thwarts. He looked under the seat cushions; checked all along the rail for towlines; ordered Alec to rise and checked among the sternsheets when Alec had politely complied. Having found nothing, he glared at Alec once more. “Please present your identification disk,” he ordered. Shrugging, Alec got it out and handed it over. Upon discovering that Alec’s father was the earl of Finsbury, Mr. Leam glanced over at the laser cannon and felt a chill descend along his spine. Pinning all his hopes on the possibility that Alec, being an aristocrat, would also be an idiot, he decided to brazen it out and said: “Very well; everything seems to be in order. I’d advise you to avoid these platforms in future, young man. They are clearly marked as breeding sanctuaries for the black-footed gull.” “Oh. Sorry,” said Alec. “You may proceed,” said Mr. Leam, and scrambled awkwardly into his boat, stepping on Reilly, who had been crouching behind the fire extinguisher. Retracting his cannon at once, he put about without another word and sped away, leaving white wake and embarrassment behind him. He was back at the Isle of Wight before it occurred to him to wonder why the Sirene hadn’t shown up on the satellite data. When he was well out of earshot, Alec howled and pounded on the thwart in delight. “Captain sir, did you see that?” he shouted. “He couldn’t pin a thing on us! That was so COOL!” “I saw it well enough, aye,” said the Captain irritably, materializing in the prow. “Now we know why the other bastards dumped the loot and took off for Tahiti, and I wish to hell we could do the same. Put her about! We’re getting well away before that looney changes his mind and comes back for us.” “Aye aye, sir!” Alec leaned on the tiller, chuckling. The Captain did the electronic equivalent of wiping sweat from his brow and peered back at the retreating cutter until it vanished in the lee of the Isle of Wight. Below, the Long John rose from its hideaway and paddled faithfully after the Sirene, towing its clutch of sugar crates. They kept to a course that took them due south for a while, well out to sea, before the Captain judged it safe to beat to the west and plot a long evasive course back to Poole. Alec lounged back in the sternsheets and congratulated himself on what he thought was the adventure of his life, replaying Mr. Leam’s search in his head several times, and each time Alec thought of more clever things he might have said, or imagined ways in which he might have turned the tables and captured the Coastal Patrol cutter. If only he’d had a laser cannon too! He was distracted from such pleasant speculation by a sail to port. After watching it keenly a few minutes, he said, “Captain, they’re in distress over there. She looks like she’s adrift. Shouldn’t we go see if we can do anything?” “Hell no,” said the Captain. “Just you keep to yer course and mind yer own business, laddie.” “But, Captain, there’s somebody waving,” Alec said. “Looks like a girl. I can’t see anybody else. Maybe she’s stuck out there all alone!” “Then she’s safe, ain’t she? Son, we ain’t got time for this.” “She might be sinking,” said Alec stubbornly. “We have to at least see.” So saying, he steered straight for the other vessel, as the Captain pulled his beard and growled words that would have scoured the barnacles and five layers of marine varnish off a yacht’s hull. None of them dissuaded Alec from his fit of gallantry, however; so the Captain de-materialized and sent his primary consciousness into the Long John, where he concentrated on keeping pace with the Sirene. “Ahoy!” Alec shouted. “Seasprqy Two? Are you having problems?” “Something’s gone wrong with my electronics,” cried the mistress of the Seasprqy Two. “I can’t make the steering wheel work and I don’t know what to do with all these sails! Can you come have a look?” “Okay,” Alec replied, by this time close enough to throw a line to the other vessel and bring the Sirene alongside to tie up. “Permission to come aboard?” he cried jocularly, vaulting the rail of the Seasprqy and landing on her deck with a thump. He had always wanted to say that, and was quite pleased with himself now, and even more so as he gazed down into the eyes of the young lady before him. “Wow, you’re tall,” she said in awe. She was pretty, with red hair and green eyes, and wore only a small cotton shirt and the bottom half of a bathing suit. She smelled like Paradise. “Uh—yes, I am tall,” said Alec foggily. “So . . . you said it was your console, right?” “It says I’ve got a fatal error!” The girl looked up at him pleadingly. “First the boat stopped and then the sails sort of rolled themselves up and down and now they’re stuck like that. Maybe you’d know what to do?” “Well, I’m pretty good with systems,” said Alec, feeling his heartbeat speed up. “I guess I’ll just get my tools and have a look, okay?” “Oh, goody,” said the girl. When Alec scrambled back into the Sirene, there was a message blinking on the console screen: ALEC! DON’T BE A BLOODY JACKASS! AIN’T NOBODY SUPPOSED TO KNOW ABOUT THE THINGS YOU CAN DO WITH YER TOOLKIT! ALEC! TELL THE WENCH YOU’LL SEND THE NAVSAT A DISTRESS SIGNAL AND SOME-BODY’LL BE ROUND TO PICK HER UP LATER! ALEC! ARE YOU READING ME, BOY? ALEC! Smiling confidently, Alec ignored the screen and grabbed up his tool case. He was whistling A Bicycle Built for Two as he climbed back aboard the Seasprqy Two. He slipped on his earshells and visor, plugged himself into the Seasprqy’?, console, and at once knew perfectly well what the problem was; he could see it like a broken wall in a burning field, strings of symbols in sad disarray, ravaged as though an army had marched through them. But he pretended to run diagnostics and look at components, while the girl watched anxiously and chattered at him: “... Daddy’s boat and I wasn’t supposed to go out alone but I got mad, I guess that was silly of me, but I really wanted to record the sounds of the open sea for this project we’re doing in Circle and I didn’t know it was so quiet out here, did you? So then I tried to hook up the holocam to get some images, but that’s when it all went wrong.” “You used the wrong port,” Alec informed her. “And it got a semantic paradox going, and now your console thinks it’s in drydock for maintenance. That’s why it won’t let you go anyplace.” “Oh,” said the girl, and in her chagrin she added a mildly obscene word, which caused Alec to have a semantic paradox of his own. He coughed, drew his toolkit over his lap and assured her, “B-but I can fix it, no problem.” “Oh, thank you!” exclaimed the girl, and she threw her arms around him from behind and kissed his cheek. Alec could feel her pulse racing, hear her quickened breath, and her scent was telling him ... His mouth began to water. He held on to his purpose like a drowning man and pretended to do things to the console with a microgapper while he sent his mind roaring through the error zone, adjusting, righting, realigning... There was a low roar, the fusion generator started up, and a clear precise voice spoke: “All systems operational. Set course, please.” “There you go,” said Alec hoarsely. “What course d’you want?” “I just need it to go back to Yarmouth,” said the girl, looking at him with wide helpless eyes. “Can you set the course for me?” “Course laid in,” said Alec, and put away the visor and earshells. “You can set sail any time.” “Okay,” said the girl. “Thanks so much.” He lurched to his feet and she stared at him, or, to be more precise, at the front of his shorts. “Er,” said Alec, “I guess I’ll just go, then.” “Um,” said the girl, “Would you . . . like to see what the cabin looks like inside?” They considered each other a moment. Alec gulped, and in the terribly suave voice he’d heard men use on holo shows said, “So, babe, can I interest you in exploring the amazing mysteries of life with me?” And he gave her the daredevil smile that had caused Beatrice Louise Jagger’s knees to weaken. The girl smiled at the big strong stranger, and her smile was bright and sharp-edged. She glanced up once in the general direction of the satellites, and then—with a graceful inclination of her head that indicated Alec should follow her—stepped down into the secure privacy of the Seaspray’s cabin. Like black stars, a row of asterisks rose above the horizon. Somewhere a train roared down a tunnel, and white breakers foamed and crashed, and a missile was launched in majestic clouds of flame. Skyrockets climbed in graceful arcs through heaven to burst in glory, with a boom and thump that were felt in the marrow of the bones, and the slow fire drifted down gently afterward. “That was really lucky, you having a packet of Happihealthies,” Alec murmured. The girl yawned and stretched in bliss. “Saved you going back on your boat to get yours, didn’t it?” Alec, who was not paying proper attention, nuzzled her and replied, “I haven’t got any, actually.” “Tsk!” the girl smacked at him playfully. “How many do you go through a week, you wicked stud?” “Dozens,” Alec lied, nestling in close again and inhaling the fragrance of her hair. “So, anyway . . . Will you marry me? We’ll have to wait a few years until I come of age, but I’ll buy you a cool engagement ring.” For a heartbeat’s space more she was as warm and yielding as she had been, and then he felt something like quicksilver run through her. “You haven’t come of age yet?” she inquired in an odd voice. “Not exactly,” Alec stated. “When do you turn eighteen?” The girl grabbed his chin in her hands and tilted his head up to stare into his eyes.’ “Not for another four years,” said Alec. “But—” She screamed and seemed to evaporate like mist, so quickly she was out of his arms and dragging the sheet between them. “You can’t be fourteen!” she cried in horror. “You’re huge!” “Half an hour ago you didn’t have a problem with me being huge,” Alec protested. “But I’m eighteen!” the girl wailed. “Don’t you know what they’d do to us if anybody found out? Don’t you know what they’d do to me?” “Nobody’ll find out!” Alec assured her frantically, but she wasn’t listening; her eyes had widened as a sense of degradation was added to her terror. “Ohmigod, you’re in the fourth form!” she shrieked. “I’d never live this down! Get up! Get up and get out of here now!” Frightened and crestfallen, Alec pulled on his clothes as quickly as he could. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “Can I look you up in four years? You’re the most wonderful—” “GET OUT!” He had recovered himself enough to be grinning guiltily as he put the Sirene about and sped away, but as soon as it was safe the Captain burst into existence, glaring at him from the prow. “If you ever sing that goddamned “Daisy”‘-song at me again I’ll keelhaul you, you ungrateful little swab!” Alec winced. “I’m sorry. It was funny.” “Not to a AI, it ain’t funny!” “Okay. Sorry.” “And you gone and risked the job for the first lassie you spied, and me down there with the Long John and the cargo the whole time, gnashing me teeth in case that bloody cutter comes back, and what’re you doing? Dancing the pegleg waltz with some duke’s daughter from Yarmouth what ain’t got no more wits than you do! What’d you promise me, eh? What’d I tell you about how dangerous it was?” the Captain raved. “At least she were of age!” Alec glowered at his knees. “It’s not like anybody’11 ever find out,” he said sullenly. “You can be damn sure the lady ain’t telling,” snarled the Captain. “Not with a lifetime in Hospital waiting for her if she does. You ain’t so much as sniffing at another wench until you comes of age, boy, do you hear?” “Yes, sir,” muttered Alec. “I mean that, now!” The Captain drew a simulacrum of a large red handkerchief from his breast pocket and went through the motions of mopping his face. “Bloody hell. You think this is easy for me? Me, what only started out as a Playfriend module? If they’d got you the Pembroke Young Person’s Companion I’d have had some files on puberty ready-made, but oh no, poor old Captain Morgan’s only rated ages two to eleven, everything else he’s got to improvise on his damned own, ain’t he? Jesus bloody Christ, Alec!” “Yes, sir. Sorry.” The Captain gave the appearance of collapsing onto the midship thwart, sighing and resting his elbows on his knees. He stared hard at Alec. “Aw, hell. I don’t reckon yer going to make it to eighteen without setting yer jib boom a few times, but will you promise me you’ll wait a couple more years at least? And don’t never do it again where yer likely to get caught by the Coastal Patrol?” “Yes, sir.” “That’s my boy.” The Captain looked away, looked back at Alec. “At least it don’t seem to have given you no traumas.” “Oh, no!” said Alec earnestly. “It was brilliant! Fabulous! Captain, it was the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me! Until she started screaming and telling me to leave,” he added. “Well, that happens, sometimes,” the Captain said. He snorted, “You got away clean, I reckon.” “And we’ve still got the sugar,” Alec pointed out. “We’re successful smugglers, Captain sir!” “We’ll be successful when Long John’?, made the drop off Fitzworth Point and that Despres lubber transfers them funds like he’s agreed to,” said the Captain grudgingly. “Not afore. And we ain’t working this bit of coast again, not with that damned maniac and his laser cannon out there!” “Oh, it’ll all turn out fine.” Alec leaned back again, allowing his grin to return. “And life is pretty cool, isn’t it? Lost my virginity and outfoxed my first customs official all on the same day, yeah? Let’s celebrate! Can I have some music, Captain sir?” Rolling his eyes, the Captain went through the motions of pulling a battered concertina from cyberspace and proceeded to play a medley of the old seafaring tunes Alec had loved since he was five years old. Music boomed from the Sirene’s console. Alec sang along, baying happily as the little sailboat sped across the water toward their rendezvous at Poole Harbour, with the Long John following faithfully just under her keel. “This is only the beginning, Captain sir,” Alec yelled. “One of these days we’ll be really free! We’ll have a tall ship with a hold full of cargo— and we’ll have adventures—and maybe we’ll find a girl who’ll come with us and, how’d you like a couple of little tiny pirates running around, eh? Sort of grandkids? Wouldn’t that be really cool?” He whooped and beat his chest in sheer exuberance. “YEEEoooo! Today I am a man!” Not by a long shot, laddie, thought the Captain, regarding his boy as he played on. Glumly he contemplated the puzzle of Alec’s DNA and reflected that Alec was unlikely ever to be a man any more than he himself was one, at least in the sense of being a member of the human race. One of these days the boy would have to be told. And now the Captain had puberty to worry about, and how, oh, how, was Alec ever going to find a girl who’d come with him? A lover would get close to his boy, would notice all sorts of little odd things about Alec. Where was there a girl who’d love Alec enough to stay, if she knew the truth about him? One worry at a time, the Captain decided, and accessed the stock exchange to see what promising investments might present themselves for the payoff from this job. He had to make his boy independently wealthy, after all, and then there were the taxes to be evaded . . . The girl was out there somewhere. She’d wait.