Rising Tide Read online

  Tick tock. Tick tock.

  If this were the Cherub, I might chance it. Her engines were strong and she was sleek, and if I could skirt the edge just right . . . But the Raven isn’t the Cherub. She’s got those two guns and she’s clunkier. And I don’t know how good Chang is at flying her.

  So . . . we wait until the storm clears. Hours pass. I spend most of the time pacing the Phoenix’s gondola until finally sitting against one wall, knees up, trying not to think about Miranda.

  Then, after what feels like an eternity, Whistler gives the order to raise the anchor and we begin to pick up speed.

  The timing means that we’re going to arrive at the base in the early morning. Which means at least we’ll have daylight. Every moment that passes, the Phoenix sinks a little more and Miranda moves closer to a watery grave.

  I start running calculations in my head—how long it will take to get there, how long it will take to get back. The unknown is how long it will take to get the pumps. Best-case scenario, we make a quick deal and get on our way in just a few hours. The Raven is loaded with barter to help broker the deal. And I have to admit that Mal was smart. There’s food, equipment, metals, weapons. Enough to get some kind of deal together.

  I hope.

  Because this is going to be the hardest part. Because these people are strangers, and I don’t know what they want or how they’re going to react. As difficult as Mal is, I know him, and I know, now, what he wants.

  We’re headed into uncharted territory.

  I don’t want to let Miranda down.

  We can’t fly directly over the base because of the risk of anti-aircraft guns. It’s a base, after all. There’s no way of telling if the artillery works except to risk being hit by it, and that doesn’t really appeal to any of us. Instead, Chang drops us off well outside the range of the guns and we move in.

  “We” is Whistler, Chase, and me. Orkney stays on board the Raven with Chang as backup. Someone needs to man the airship’s guns if it comes to that.

  So we plod it to the base’s edge, not too quickly but not slow either. Right now we’re on the ground and in the open, and that makes us easy prey for Ferals.

  I’m armed with my father’s revolver. Right now, it’s strapped to my right thigh, where it belongs, in the holster that Mal got me. I managed to convince Whistler to give the revolver back to me since we were going into a potentially dangerous place and me having it meant one more for the team. It’s lower than I’m used to, which will change my draw style, but it’s better than fishing for it in these coat pockets.

  Whistler seems to be settling in to the idea that Miranda matters to me and so I’m not going to try to get free at the first opportunity. Whistler is right about the first thing, not about the second. But I have the gun back, and that’s smooth flying.

  Chase is the Raven’s other gunner, a tall, thin woman with short hair and a pale complexion. Her hair is long on the top and shaved on the sides, a reddish shade of blonde. There’s something about her that seems a little unpredictable, but then I don’t know her very well.

  Chase has a sawn-off shotgun that she calls “Sully” in a makeshift sling across her back. I don’t know what Whistler has beneath the long coat. But we’re all armed, and that’s something. Odds are, though, that the base is holding more than just a few people.

  We move in a coordinated fashion, the first time either Whistler or Chase have treated me as one of theirs. But the threat of Ferals has a way of bringing people together. Whistler moves forward, eyes on the base, and Chase and I scan around us, looking for anything moving toward us. I was going to insist on being the one out front, but I trusted myself more on Feral duty. If only I had eyes in the back of my head. We move steadily, persistently, closer and closer to the base. I want to look at it, but that would mean taking my eyes off of my area, and I don’t much feel like doing that. I am being forced to trust Whistler, and it’s a tough piece of meat to swallow.

  Instead, I scan the overgrown road and the trees and the space between them.

  I wipe sweat from my forehead.

  Then I hear Whistler say, “Stop.” And I do. The area looks clear, so I spare a glance for the base. Four figures in matching uniforms face us with rifles aimed right at us. They’re behind a gate with bars close enough to keep us from getting in but perfectly fine for letting their bullets right out. I put my hands into the air, and Whistler and Chase do the same.

  “This is your show,” Whistler hisses.

  I move forward ever so slightly. “Please,” I call out. “We’re here for your help. We have barter. Can you take us to Captain Danning?”

  Three of the people don’t budge at all, keeping their weapons trained on us. The fourth moves to the gate and opens it. A sense of relief fills me. Still, I’m ready to reach for my pistol if I need to. When the gate is fully open, the one guard waves us in. I move forward, making sure that Whistler and Chase move in behind me.

  When we pass the boundaries of the gate, the three guarding us shift positions so that they have better shots on us. Two are women, one is a man. The one on gate duty closes the gate again. When that’s done, the gate sealing with a loud clunk, he comes over to me. “I need to check you for weapons,” he says. He’s tall, lean, dark-skinned. He’s surprisingly clean-shaven, well-groomed. He pats me down and removes my father’s revolver. Then he moves to Chase and Whistler, confiscating Sully and several weapons from Whistler—a pistol and a large blade that I think is a machete. He also takes a few things that look like blocks from Chase. All of these he secures in a guard station by the gate. Then he orders two of the soldiers guarding us to escort us to the captain.

  They take us to a large, outdoor courtyard surrounded by a chain-link fence. I try to take in as much as I can of the base, hoping to describe it for Lord Tess later. More guards wait for us in the courtyard, because of course there would be more of those. “Is Captain Danning meeting us here?” I ask.

  Then light explodes across my eyes, and it takes a moment to realize that I’ve been hit in the head. Next thing, I feel a pressure on the back of my knees, and I go down to a kneeling position, landing hard on my knees. Something is pulled down over my head and tightened around my neck so that I can’t see, then another blow hits me in the head and I lose everything for a few moments.

  When I come back to myself, I’m being dragged backward, someone on either of my arms, securely holding me beneath my armpits, and my hands are tied or somehow restrained behind my back.

  Fuck, I think to myself.

  I could struggle, but there’s two of them, I can’t see, and they are armed. I’m not. And with the way my head feels, I don’t even know if I would have my balance.

  Fuck.

  Then, as I’m running scenarios through my head, I get tossed down onto the ground, and I hear a heavy door close.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I find myself starting to growl, a sound that builds until it’s a deep scream. From one cell into another. And all the while Miranda is stuck aboard the Phoenix.

  This is not how it’s supposed to happen, I think. And then I start to laugh. I can’t help myself. Great eruptions of laughter bubble up from deep inside of me.

  Did you really think the world was going to change for you, Ben?

  It took us a handful of hours to get to Lord Tess. Then the rest of the day and night to get to the base. One whole day used up, and Miranda only has maybe two more.

  Tick tock. Tick tock. The water keeps rising.

  The inside of the bag on my head smells like old sweat, and I try really hard not to think about who wore this last and all the fluids they left on the inside. It’s old sweat, I tell myself. Even if infected, the Bug would have died out ages ago.

  I keep telling myself that.

  And I keep thinking of Miranda. Of her aboard Mal’s warship, the water getting ever higher. God, Miranda, there’s so much we need to talk about. I keep thinking back to that kiss we shared, just before I dropped us out of
my airship. That kiss that seemed to speak of months of feelings we never acknowledged. I mean, it kind of snuck up on me. I always thought Miranda was pretty, in a sort of earthy, rough-around-the-edges way. She was nice to look at, and I thought that was it. But it seems like something else had been building. First admiration and appreciation, then something more. Now . . . where are we? What are we to each other? I find that I really want to know.

  But I need Miranda for that.

  Think, Ben, think. If nothing else, that should be your mantra from now on.

  I test my bonds again—they seem to be secure. That makes sense. These people are on a military base—they would have access to good equipment. I scoot back on my butt until I hit the wall, and I get myself to my feet. I may be trapped, but I don’t need to be a victim.

  Using my hands, I slowly move around the circumference of the room, trying to figure out how big it is, see if there’s anything else in here with me. It’s slow going since my hands are behind me, but I manage to do it.

  It’s not a typical cell, at least not compared to those I’ve seen in police facilities. There are no bars. Just hard walls and a door. The door doesn’t appear to have any openings in it, though I guess there must be some kind of window, so that they can look in without opening it. Only it’s too high for me to feel with my hands restrained.

  I’m racking my brain for my next move when they come for me. The door clacks and opens, and as I start to speak, my voice muffled by the bag, two people grab me by my armpits and drag me out of the door. For a brief moment, I think about trying to struggle, trying to get lucky and make a break for it, but I can’t see and I’m restrained and they can and aren’t. And I’m guessing they’re armed. No, Ben, I tell myself. Bide your time for now. And hope they’re not taking you to an execution.

  I’m getting really sick of biding my time.

  They march me down what I’m guessing is a corridor, then around a bend, then into another room. They force me into a chair, two of them holding me down, and with quick, practiced movements, they release my hands, pull them behind the back of the chair, then latch them up again, I think securing them to the chair. Then I hear footsteps recede.

  A moment later, the bag is pulled away and I blink in the light. A woman, pale-skinned, tall, and wearing a uniform, takes a seat opposite me. Her uniform is different from the others I saw. More formal. Tan in color. There are flecks of color on her collar. Some sign of rank, I guess.

  “My name is Captain Danning,” she says. “I’m in charge here.”

  “Well, Captain, I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding here. I came, with my friends, to ask you for help.”

  “Let’s have your name first,” she says.

  I sigh. “Ben. Ben Gold.”

  “Very well, Ben,” she says. “You say you came here for help. What kind of help?”

  “I’m in need of pumps. The kind that keep a ship from taking on water.” I realize I don’t know what they’re called. “I was told you had some here.”

  Her eyes narrow. “And you expected me to just hand over these pumps to you?”

  “No,” I say, hoping I sound suitably appalled. I’m not naive enough to expect charity in the Sick. “We came with barter.”

  Captain Danning tilts her head. “Came from where, exactly?”

  I take a breath. I don’t know this woman, and she just threw me into a cell, so I’m not exactly inclined to be forthcoming. On the other hand . . . Miranda.

  “From a ship.”

  “Seaworthy?”

  About here’s where I would normally clamp down and make her work for the information. But do I really need to protect Mal? And even if she had designs on, say, his ship, should I stand in the way? I care only about Miranda.

  But something about selling Mal out to this woman feels wrong.

  “Yes,” I say. “Seaworthy. For now.”

  She nods slowly. “Ah. I see.”

  “So we need replacements.”

  “Heard from whom?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You said you were told that we had pumps.”

  “Oh.” I nod. “Lord Tess. She’s a knowledge broker.”

  She waves a hand impatiently. “I know the name.”

  “Then you know how she operates. I came to her with my problem, she suggested you.” I shrug. “So I came to try to barter.”

  Danning stands up and starts to pace in front of me, her hands clasped behind her back. I notice she’s wearing gloves. Strangely bulky gloves compared to her outfit. She starts to nod, once, twice, again, again. “I get it.” She stops and stares at me. Then, taking me by surprise, she slams a fist into my face.

  My head snaps to the side, and as I’m still reacting, another blow takes me from that side, snapping it right back again. Two more follow. My head is screaming with pain and shock and surprise. She grabs my hair with one gloved hand and pulls my head up so that I’m facing her.

  “Now tell me why you’re really here.”

  I’m still reeling from the punches. Things escalated so quickly. “I told you,” I say, spitting blood. “The pumps. That’s it.”

  “Oh, Ben,” she says, in utter disappointment. “You’re going to make this hard, aren’t you?”

  I try to catch her eye. I feel blood dripping from my nose and down over my already-swelling lips. “I’m being straight with you. All I need are pumps. Let’s settle on barter and I’ll be out of your way. We’ll leave.”

  She smiles, but it’s a predatory thing. All teeth. “I don’t think so.”

  Her fist flashes again, and this time I black out for a moment.

  When I come to, Danning is gone, but the pain remains. What have you gotten yourself into, Ben? And more importantly, how are you going to get yourself out?

  There’s no one else in the room with me. It’s empty, save for the two chairs and some ceiling lighting, which I’m guessing must be rigged to solar cells. The door to this room also has a window set in it, and I’m pretty sure I see a brief flash of movement through it, proof of guards outside. But they’re not looking at me right now.

  I pull at the bonds around my hands. They’re tight against the chair back, and the chair looks to be metal. No chance of breaking it, then. I push my weight back, and it rocks. Not bolted to the floor.

  I push down with my feet and jerk the chair backward. It slams against the floor, me still attached, and I almost cry out as the movement sends a jolt through my whole body, originating somewhere in the vicinity of my spine. The back of my skull slams against the back of the chair, and I need a moment to grit my teeth and bear out the pain.

  I rock the chair to the side, but it doesn’t move. Too much of my weight is pushing it down. But I manage to swing my legs (which aren’t restrained) to one side, and with some wiggling and shifting, I manage to get the chair on its side.

  It’s even less comfortable as my body wants to slide to the ground, but it’s attached to the chair, so my one arm is stretched. But now I can test my bonds again. My fall didn’t seem to do anything to loosen them, but the angle has shifted.

  If only I could see better. Metal won’t break, but it could be soldered together. That could mean weak spots, especially after decades of use. I’m starting to form a plan of dragging it to the wall and doing what I can to slam the chair into it when the door opens and someone comes in.

  This time it’s not Danning. A man with dark-brown skin introduces himself as Commander Marcus. He also wears a formal uniform, but his looks more cared for than Danning’s. Crisp. Clean. Likewise, his appearance. Not a touch of stubble on his face. His hair neatly trimmed. He doesn’t react to my position. “Let’s start fresh,” he says. “Just you and me.”

  I nod.

  “Captain Danning, well, she’s my commanding officer and all, and she’s a great soldier and a fine captain, but she has a tendency to be a little hard,” he says. “It’s the pressure of command, you see. Have you ever led?”

  I shake my he
ad. “No.” It seems I’m the only one, too. Mal is a leader of men. Even Lord Tess. Me, I’m still the loner.

  “It’s a difficult job,” Marcus says. “It’s a lot of responsibility.” His words drip sympathy. Appreciation. “So you have to forgive her.”

  I grin at him and it opens the wounds on my lip, turning the expression into a grimace. “Maybe when I can’t feel her fists on my face.”

  He shakes his head. “We can put a stop to all of this. Get you some bandages. All I want to know is the truth. Then I’ll tell Captain Danning and it will all be okay. Just tell me why you’re here.”

  “Like I told Captain Danning, I came for the pumps. That’s all.”

  “And you need these pumps because you have a ship out there? One that’s operational?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “The ship?”

  “Yes,” he says as if I’m an idiot.

  “Uh . . . the Phoenix.”

  He frowns. “That doesn’t sound like any naval ship I’ve ever heard of.”

  “I don’t know. She was probably renamed. Names don’t always keep in the Sick.”

  “What kind of ship?”

  “I don’t fucking know,” I say. “It’s big. It floats. It has a big back end.”

  “And yet you came from there?”

  I lick some blood from my lips. “I’m what you would call a recent arrival.”

  He nods, pacing in front of me. His face is thoughtful. Then he stops, looks down at me calmly, then kicks me in the stomach. I gasp with the fresh pain, and he continues to kick. My chest. My shoulders. My stomach. My thighs. He avoids my head. I grunt and yell as each kick adds a new star of pain to the constellation that’s lighting up inside of me. Through it all, I’m aware that he’s being oddly restrained. Precise. As if he doesn’t want to damage me too much. Makes sense—I can’t talk if I’m dead. A broken rib or two . . . fine. But no more.

  I repeat the truth again and again. Eventually he gets tired and moves off. I lay there and pant, and moan. And think about what I’m going to do to him if I ever get the chance.