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the bottle and look through the pictures, remembering what it had been like to still have dreams. He picked up a photo of himself at age eighteen. “I’ve let ya down, lad.”

• 5 •
    S teve watched for bubbles over the side of the Sea Star and felt his spirits sink lower with each passing minute; he could see the air rising to the surface, Squeak was fine—but the longer he stayed down, the more likely that it wasn’t good news.
    Hiko had laid aside his tools for the moment and started watching with him, his inked face solemn in the morning light. Steve had wondered about the deckhand, about his culture, but hadn’t wanted to ask any intrusive questions; Hiko, like everyone else on board, kept pretty much to himself. And now certainly didn’t seem to be the time for Maori Q and A, with the Sea Star pulling water in the eye of a typhoon.
    Richie joined them, pushed himself up on the rail next to Hiko, and pulled a joint out from behind one ear. He lit up, inhaling the pungent smoke deeply as the three of them waited for Squeaky to surface.
    Steve frowned slightly. It seemed like a monumentally stupid time to get high, but he supposed that everyone had their own way of dealing; for him and Squeaky, it was work. Maybe Richie worked better stoned; he’d known a few guys who could do that . . .
    Hiko looked at Richie, his broad, distinctive features flat and expressionless beneath the etched lines on his face. “You’re a strange duck, Richie,” he said, the New Zealand accent strong in his low voice.
    Richie motioned with the lit smoke at Hiko’s face and arms. “That’s saying something, coming from a human wall of graffiti. I mean, are you people actually under the impression that those things are attractive? And what kind of name is Hiko, anyway?”
    Hiko grinned suddenly, probably realizing that Richie was yanking his chain. He started to rise menacingly, as if to tackle the toking man.
    “Give it a rest,” said Steve, and Hiko sat down again, his grin fading.
    “Hiko is Maori. I am Maori. The tattoos are my spiritual armor.”
    Richie clenched the joint between his teeth and rolled up one sleeve, revealing a U.S. Navy tattoo, complete with anchor. “We do it a little differently where I come from.”
    Steve was surprised. “Navy? Come on . . .”
    Richie nodded, serious. “Six years with the Seventh Fleet. Weapons technology specialist, first class. Graduated top of my class.”
    Steve cocked an eyebrow. “So what happened?”
    Richie took another hit and pushed off the railing, exhaling the answer as he walked away.
    “Drugs.”
    Steve grinned as Hiko turned back to his work, cutting steel plates with an acetylene torch as patches for the hull. The Maori was right, Richie was a strange duck.
    He studied the tattooed man, looking down at the small club tucked into Hiko’s belt. It looked like a tribal thing, and he decided that there was no time like the present; hell, he might not have another chance.
    “You really a Maori warrior, Hiko? Is that why you carry that club?”
    Hiko didn’t even look up. “It’s a wahaika.”
    “A what?”
    “A wahaika. My grandfather gave it to me.” He pulled it from his belt, holding it out so that Steve could take a closer look. It was smooth and solid-looking, with intricate artwork carved into one side. A nice piece of work.
    Hiko went on, quite seriously. “It carries the name of one of my ancestors, ‘Hiko.’ My grandfather reckons whoever carries the name Hiko and this wahaika can face his greatest fear and will not die.”
    Steve smiled. “Know what my greatest fear is? Women. Let one get under your skin and all of a sudden you have three kids and a twenty-year mortgage. Not me, I’m seein’ the world. So what’s yours?”
    Hiko didn’t smile. “Water,” he said, and went back to cutting the thick metal without another word.
    Steve swallowed heavily, reminded of where they were and what they were up against. It occurred to him that he