Free War Surf by M. M. Buckner

dumbfounded at the empty place in the waves when I heard Verinne scream. Curiously, my first thought was how rarely Verinne raised her voice.
    “Stop her!” Verinne screamed again. “She’ll drown. I didn’t show her how to inflate her life vest.”
    Verinne’s words incited me to inflate my own life vest. Then the adrenaline of battle kicked in for both of us, and we settled into calm, swift action. In seconds, we secured our jet skis to Sheeba’s line, then plopped into the sea and began paddling around the surface like snorkelers, peering into the deeps. With metavision, we could see hundreds of meters down. And there was Sheeba, ten fathoms below, dodging among the clabbered spirals of sea trash, kicking her strong young legs toward the surface with Winston’s inert body in tow.
    When her helmet broke through the waves, Verinne grabbed her arm, and I yanked the ring to inflate her vest. She was safe. Then I felt for Win’s vest ring. His helmet appeared intact, but his body moved with the slack deadweight of unconsciousness.
    “Be gentle. His back is broken,” Sheeba said. “We should call an ambulance.”
    Verinne held tight to Sheeba’s arm. “This is a war zone. We’re here illegally. We never call outsiders.”
    While they were talking, I speed-called Chad and reported our situation. “Chad will have an ambulance waiting for us at the pier,” I told them.
    “Not good enough. We need help now!” Sheeba yelled.
    “We’ll call Kat,” I suggested.
    “She’s offworld test-driving her shuttle. And Grunze is having quadriceps surgery. He’s probably still under sedation.” Verinne struck the waves with her fist. “Damn. I’m not even uploading any video. Nobody watches a Class One surf.”
    I tried to think. “Who else could we trust to keep this quiet?
    Verinne wiped a spray of brown foam off her faceplate. “Maybe we could call someone from the Paladin crew.”
    “Those pinheads? They’ll never let us live it down,” I said.
    “Guys, he has a broken back.” Sheeba pushed away from us and hauled Winston toward her jet ski. “First, I’m going to stabilize him. Them I’m going to call an ambulance.”
    “No, Sheeba. We have rules. You can’t—-”
    A shadow passed over us, and we looked up to see the gleaming white underbelly of a World Trade Organization police cruiser. The loudspeaker blared, “Nasir Deepra, you are under arrest.”
    What? They knew my name? I slapped the side of my helmet. My earlobe. I’d forgotten the magnetic tape to seal my signet implant. Brilliant. The cops had scanned my identity.
    “Nass, you’re on your own. Come with me, Sheeba. Hurry!” Verinne mounted her jet ski, whipped out her knife and cut the tether line. “Sheeba, they don’t know who we are. We can still get away. What are you doing?”
    Amid the rolling waves, Sheeba was lashing Win’s broken body to the side of her jet ski. She’d improvised a neck brace out of the seat pad. Clever, I noted, even as a lump of bilious dread rotated in my gut. Me, Nasir Deepra, trillionaire, chairman emeritus, member of half a dozen Com boards, I was under arrest for trespassing! The war surfer’s deepest humiliation. And on a freaking Class One surf! I called Chad to mobilize my lawyers.
    “Sheeba. Come,” Verinne commanded.
    “I can’t.” Sheeba finished lashing Win’s body. “Go on. Find Winny an orthopedic surgeon. And get an Isis amulet. The best ones are made of jasper.”
    Verinne hesitated only a second. When she revved up her jet ski and took off, her wake splashed in our faces. Steam was rising from the ocean now, and grayish white-caps churned around the seafarm, pitching us like corks. One huge crasher drove me against Winston’s overturned jet ski. Something snapped in my shoulder, and my left thumb tingled with an IBiS alert. “Norphine!” I shouted to my suit. As the cop cruiser lowered its grappling hook, I watched Verinne disappear in the violent sea.
    The WTO cops rescued us