Orson speared the last of the fish creatures. It gurgled a fluidy protest as it clutched the weapon sticking out of its gut, as if to argue that Orson's move had not been entirely fair, and if it had just been ready, the fight might have turned out more in the fish's favor. Orson emphatically kicked the shaft of the spear, sending it and the attached monster splashing unhappily into the slime of the bay. He swung his leg back over the seat of the bike and wiped a smear of fish blood off his leather sleeve- hopefully the smell wasn't permanent. Shaia gunned the engine and in the usual choking cloud of foul, particle-filled smoke, the two sped off down the dock in the fading, dusty light.
When they’d finished telling Dodd about the ordeal, back at the lounge, two hours and twelve beers had passed. Dodd gave a heavy sigh, leaning back on the cracking green fabric of the booth and peering across the bottle-strewn table. “Sixteen fish-men, and all of them carrying weapons. Spectacular. At this rate, next time they’ll probably have semi-automatics.”
Orson leaned forward. “Making gunpowder under water…” he began. Shaia sighed loudly to cut him off.
“We stopped them before they made it into the city at all,” she said, “they still don’t know anything about us except that we kick their asses every time they decide to come up to the surface. What I don't get is, why do they keep coming back?"
“I don’t know,” said Dodd, “but they’ve attacked the docks five times so far, and there’s no reason to think they’ll stop. We just need to be prepared, and make sure they don’t steal any more supplies. They may not have our resources, but they’re inventive with what they get their hands on.”
“You sent out submarines last week after the first attack though.” Orson said, “did you see how many of them there are, or where they live?”
“The water’s still too polluted,” Shaia sighed, “I took a sub down there myself, and it’s nothing but sludge and radiation. I can’t see anything, and the sensors just get scrambled. I say the fishes don’t understand us, but we don’t understand them any better. I can’t imagine how they can even survive down there, let alone communicate and hunt. I don’t like how little we know about them.”
Dodd stood up. “Neither do I,” he said, “but our hands are tied. They can come into our world more easily than we go into theirs. We just have to wait for them to make their next move. I’m putting three volunteers on watch tonight, and installing a heavy gun down there first thing in the morning. You two should get some sleep. Make sure to get a patch for that cut, Shaia. Rations are tight, but we don’t want you getting infected with whatever bacteria the fishes might have to offer.”
"Another beer first," Orson suggested, "I'm not quite ready for the night to be over."
Dodd grudgingly agreed, and the conversation changed to lighter matters from there: the pulley rigging in ship house D and the mongrel dog that Haskell found hiding in his mail bag. By the time they each had drunk another two rounds, the worries of the skirmish on the docks was far from their minds.
