Chapter twenty-six

Wistfully, Thionne thought of the places and people back home, those wonderful folks he had to leave behind. He wanted them to see this: to look upon the sheer inanity of the trash-filled ocean that comprised the River Pipeline. He couldn’t fairly describe the whimsies that made up this gorgeous corner of wonderland, though he wanted to. He was happy at least to have his friend and confidant – his bloodbrother Chris – there by his side, helping him get suited up for the surf.

“This is gonna be awesome!” Chris remarked, as he buckled and strapped Thionne in. “I don’t know shit about surfing, but man – you got some fuckin’ balls, Blacky!” Thionne tolerated Chris’ racial epithets; in fact, he more-than-tolerated them. He enjoyed the banter. Were he any less of a Christian, he would have come up with some gnarly monikers for Chris too.

“Now you’re sure you know how to work the Mag?” Thionne asked.

“Duder, we’ve been over this,” Christopher said. “Not only have we been at these levers everyday for a week, you showed me how I can use the gauntlet too. I really don’t think this is going to be a problem. Now fuckin’ get out there and slay that green dragon, you big black knight!”

Before Chris had even finished his sentence, Thionne was paddling out like a maniac. The waves were great today, reminding Thionne of the revered walls of Maverick’s. The swells were not choppy, as one might expect out there in the ocean: instead, the waves broke as though they were close to some imaginary shoreline. Something about the nature of Pipeline and the effect of the Monmouth’s immense size allowed the water to behave in this way. It was calmer and more fluid than the open sea you know and love; a surfer’s paradise really.

At first, the suit of armor was a burden. It was hard for Thionne to make the quick jerks he was accustomed to on his board, so he relied on shifting his weight to and fro, just to get the hang of it. Surprisingly, the water put up no fight. Thionne began to wonder if he needed the suit of armor at all. With a quick glance back at the ship, he saw Chris waving to him with his free hand; his other hand was on the Magnatron’s controls, ready and waiting for a quick rescue, if need be.

The swells were perfectly spaced, allowing even a slow paddler to catch up with the lip of a previous wave and drop in. Or if a rider preferred, he could even surf atop the lip for a while; the waves wouldn’t fully break until the rider was ready. Thionne began to believe he had the ability to manipulate these waves, for it was much too easy for him to go wherever and do whatever out there on the sea. He could ride from the base of a wave, straight up the face, over the lip, and down the backside. It was like he was windsurfing without a sail.

Then it hit him: if he truly can manipulate these waves, he ought to be striving to get inside the green room. Then a beautiful swell appeared upon the faux horizon: a long breaking wave that would have a perfect curl. As he paddled like a madman toward the wave, the flow of time appeared to slow down, and he easily caught up with an eponymic wave that gave both a Hawaiian coastline and this inter-dimensional passageway their names.

The wave slowly crawled up behind him, up and up, growing like a Himalaya and reaching for the sky. The expanse of the curl widened as he surfed up and down the left-breaking wave, and he let his armoured self be swallowed by the bulk of the wave. The water rushed past his ears, and he struggled a little to maintain his balance, but there he was – frozen in time. He must have ridden inside of that curl for a good ten seconds, but every surfer knows that time actually stops when you’re in there. No one but himself could hear Thionne’s elated screams, for the green room has an occupancy of one.

Barely avoiding the crushing lip, Thionne shot out of the tube just in time. Heartily, he laughed aloud, ready to tackle the next wave. But as he glanced back to the Monmouth, expecting to see Christopher watching him, he couldn’t see a thing: Neither Chris, nor Solomon Decksetter. Aware of the dangers to come, Thionne unbuckled the parts of his armor that were easy to reach, and he paddled as fast as he could toward the ship. Listening carefully, he clearly heard the argument between the robot and the disgruntled man.

“Why are we still here?” Christopher shouted, resentfully.

“You’re asking me that question!?” Solomon Decksetter responded. “That’s rich! Here we are sorting through all this trash. We got the shield; good for you. And now Thionne’s surfing. Thionne’s ready to arrive in Carthago, but I don’t think you are ready for what comes next. So why don’t you ask yourself that question. Why are we still here, Chris?”

There was a pause, and then the sound of a crash, like that of a barrel breaking after having been dropped from a great height. Christopher had subdued the Solomon Decksetter unit somehow, and all of Hell was about to break loose.

“Chris!” Thionne called out. “Whatever you are thinking of doing – Stop!” Chris’ head popped up over the gunwale like a prairie dog. Thionne briefly stopped paddling and fixed his gaze on the man. He was less than fifty feet from the ship, and he was running out of time. “We can get out of this place! Don’t do it man!” Chris scowled before he turned away; he just couldn’t let Thionne meddle with this moment in time. The robot was in his clutches, and Thionne knew that Chris would end up infecting it with Quipzux, whether he wanted to or not.

Again a crash filled the air, this time sounding like lightning. Thionne could hear the Decksetter unit begin to enact its protocols: The legs of the unit stationed themselves, and the torso began to rotate. Finally, a pink spotlight of emanated from amidships on the Monmouth, illuminating the sky, and a clear announcement from the Solomon unit heralded a countdown.

“Ten seconds,” the Solomon Decksetter orated.

“Chris!” Thionne shouted, climbing the hempen ladder that led up to the main deck. “Chris, listen to me!”

“Nine.”

“You know the Beatles’ song, ‘Help!’?”

“Do I?” Christopher said. “I know all of the Beatles’ songs by heart!” Thionne, of course, knew that Chris was employing hyperbole; Chris only knew the words to most of the songs. But they would survive, at least, because Chris did know the harmonies pretty well.

“Eight.”

“Good, ‘cause that knowledge is about to save your life. You sing the melody to start. If you forget the words...”

“Seven.”

“...Switch over to the harmonies. Got it?”

“Six.”

“Yeah. Hey Thionne?”

“What is it, Chris?” Thionne said back, exasperated.

“Five seconds.”

“I know how to get to Carthago, now.”

“You do?”

“Four.”

“Yeah, Dex told me,” Chris said, “right before I infected him.”

“Three.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Dion shouted. Chris closed his eyes at first, and began to think deeply, as Thionne did when he summoned the suit of armor.

“Two.”

“Dear Jesus,” Thionne began to pray to himself.

“One.”

The sound of a metronome began clicking inside of the Decksetter unit, and after four quarter-notes, the song commenced. Chris managed to split his focus between the song and the arrival perfectly. Thionne cued Chris whenever he could, and the two sang the greatest duet never-to-be-heard. The sea bubbled and boiled beneath them, and a column of water lifted them up toward a hole in the sky – their destination, apparently. They continued singing, with great focus upon that place, and, for all intents and purposes, the bloodbrothers arrived instantaneously in the harbor of Carthago.

When the boat parked itself, the Solomon Decksetter unit was still deep in the throes of Quipzux, and there was no sign of his fever breaking. Thionne and Christopher continued to sing, and carefully they approached the edge of the ship overlooking the docks. There, on the ground, lay two men writhing in agony: one was a balding, shirtless, eye-patched muscle-head, and the other was a lanky fellow buried in the folds of his robes; obviously they were people of magic. Were it not for the Quipzux, surely these men would have attempted to attack Chris and Thionne, and ultimately stolen the great Monmouth for their own evil adventures.

Thinking quickly, Thionne leapt over the gunnel with some canvas and some hemp, and he tied them up, hands and arms, as a rider in a rodeo might hog-tie a bucking bronco. Then, still perfectly singing the Beatles, he strung the canvas around their mouths so they wouldn’t be able to spell their way out of danger. He was so preoccupied with the task, that he almost missed the third man climbing aboard the Monmouth. Thionne scrambled for the rope ladder and jumped up onboard the ship, right as he finished up the chorus from the song, “We Can Work It Out.”

Then the music stopped. Thionne looked over at Chris, who was still singing at the top of his lungs; the mysterious man paid him little attention. This new fellow, dressed in the garb of a sultan, was hunched over the little robot, pressing appropriate sensors and saying the correct passwords. Whoever this guy was, he knew how to take care of the Solomon Decksetter; he had to be the Primary for this unit. Ignoring Chris, and turning towards Thionne, the man introduced himself with only his name.

“Sindbad.”

“Thionne,” the African-American imitated his introduction.

“Oh, I know who you are,” Sindbad answered. “The captain made sure that I would be ready for you when you arrive. Welcome to the main port of Carthago.” Then he looked over at the other singer, Chris. “Is he going to be okay?” Thionne nodded, and walking over to his companion, he put his arm around him; Christopher snapped out of it, finally.

“You did it, Chris,” Thionne said. “You saved us. You’re an idiot for giving the robot calypsus, though.” Thionne then remembered the two men he tied up beside the ship; looking over the edge of the gunwale, he saw that they were still there, bound and gagged.

“Actually, I take that back,” Thionne said with a laugh. “I don’t know what we would’ve done about them, if the robot wasn’t here.” Sindbad looked up from the Decksetter. Thionne addressed him: “Is he going to be okay?”

“Sure!” Sindbad said with an enormous grin. “He’s been through much worse than this. Just wait until I get him back into the Unit Housing, and all will be well again. Now I imagine, you fellows are pretty tired from your journey: I‘ve got a hot meal and a warm bed waiting for the both of you. Just let me get my ship and my robot all locked up and we’ll be on our way.”

Sindbad acted quickly, shooing everyone off the ship toward an open lot and, completing his tasks in no time at all, they all then bid the Monmouth farewell. Sindbad then tied a rope between his two captives, and strong-armed them into subservience. A horse-drawn carriage awaited them in the lot outside the marina. Christopher and Thionne climbed aboard; Sindbad sat in-between the two criminals, across from our heroes. Outside the surrey, Thionne watched as stone building after stone building passed by the windowed carriage. What a drab, colorless city! Inside the carriage, those two captives surveyed Thionne and Chris with dirty looks; everyone seemed to know our heroes, or at least, to know of them, somehow. At least the bad guys are under duress, Thionne thought. When an awkward amount of silence passed, Sindbad spake the truth lingering in everyone’s mind.

“I can’t help but think of what your arrival would have been like if the robot hadn’t been under the influence of calypsus,” Sindbad confessed. “If you had arrived alone – without the robot – I can’t help but imagine what these diabolical fellows would have done with you.”