Rising Tide (17 page)

I hear a wet coughing sound followed by a whoop of success from Sarah and the two men.

“You got it working?” I ask.

“The first one,” she says. Even in the dim light I see her smiling. “But it works. The others should be easy.”

I feel a weight lift from me. The pumps look like they're going to work.

Sarah splashes over to me, a worried look on her face. “What is it?” I ask.

She says in a whisper, “I know these pumps. I've worked on all kinds of pumps like these. Some of our working artillery is on the
Fincher
. It's in the water. We have to keep the pumps operating, otherwise she goes down.”

“I think you've proved your skills,” I say.

She nods, then looks back at the men quickly. “From what I can see, these pumps didn't just break down.” She pauses for a moment, her face serious. “I think someone deliberately damaged them.”

I narrow my eyes, lowering my voice to match hers. “Are you sure?”

“I'd report it to my commanding officer.”

Hmmm. Mal's little coterie might not be as cozy as they seem to be.
The question I ask myself is, do I tell him? At one point, I would have without question. Now . . . ? I wonder if it's something I can use to get out of this mess. An information exchange of my own.

I'll figure it out later
, I think.
See what that knowledge might be worth.

Sarah asks for the wrench, and I'm about to pass it to her when I hear the door to the room start to open. I think they must have been hovering outside the door to have come so quickly after the first pump was replaced. I step back as it opens.

And a body falls through it.

CHAPTER TEN

FROM THE JOURNAL OF MIRANDA MEHRA

Ben is back.

Not that Malik told me, of course, but I was able to pick it up—from some of his people, from overhearing them talk. They have him trying to get the pumps working again—but apparently he's not alone. Which seems strange. My instincts tell me that if he brought someone back, it's because it's help that we need—or at least that he believes that. Ben isn't overly trusting, though, so if he believes, there's a good chance that it will work.

I hope.

I don't know that I trust that much in Ben these days.

He did return, that's true, but then I was never in that much danger after all.

What matters most is the future. Everything right now hinges on the pumps working. If they don't, then the ship goes down and Malik will take his revenge on Ben and there's nothing I'll be able to do about it.

If the pumps do work, Ben goes back into his cell. Until we reach Hawaii. Then . . . I don't think I can protect Ben any longer. Everything I've seen says that Malik won't be able to let this go. Let
Ben
go. He's held on to this hate for too long. He needs some outlet for it. And he needs spectacle.

Malik once came in to see me for a cut on his arm, near the shoulder, something that he sustained while making repairs. He took his shirt off so that I could examine it. He had scars all over his torso—cruel-looking scars that were probably the result of torture. He didn't explain, but I got the feeling that they were the result of Ben leaving him behind. Those marks might as well be the language of his hate, etched into his skin, never to go away.

So, yeah . . . he's going to want his revenge.

I do believe that Malik will let me go, though. He still likes me, and he has no cause to punish me. So even if he keeps Ben, I would be fine.

There are some people I know, who would tell me to let that happen. That no matter what happened to Ben, I should get out, get free. They would say that the data in my pocket is worth more than any one man. That it could save hundreds, maybe thousands.

Only . . . I could never do that, of course. I couldn't leave, knowing Ben was headed for death. I couldn't let one man die, especially Ben, even if it would save more.

So I have to figure out a way to get off of this boat, to get both of us off of this boat, and then we both need to get back to Tamoanchan as quickly as we possibly can.

Tamoanchan . . .

I'm deathly afraid that something happened to the island. I find myself thinking often lately of Clay and Sergei. I left them all alone to go off with Ben to Gastown. And now I wonder, why? Ben needed help, I know, but I abandoned my people to do so. Went with him to chase after the
Cherub
. In the end it got me the data from Gastown, but my thoughts keep returning to Sergei and Clay.

I hope that the people of Tamoanchan have been good to them, and have kept them fed and supplied. I hope that nothing went wrong with Alpha, our resident Feral test subject. When Ben convinced the Council to set them up on a nearby island, isolated, alone, I was so angry with him. But as I've had time to think about it, it's the only realistic way we could have received permission to study a live Feral in an inhabited outpost. We're smart people, we have protocols, but maybe I've caught some of Ben's fear of Ferals. Even the best-designed system can sometimes fail.

But it's not just Clay and Sergei who I think of. I think of all the others back at Apple Pi, all those who died or went missing after the raiders attacked. It took years to assemble that group of experts—some of the finest minds in biology and medicine and virology. We were never sure what happened to most of them when our lab at Apple Pi was sacked. Some of them died, of course. I'm not naive enough to think otherwise. But Ben, who was there, assured me that some of them escaped. How many or who? I don't know. We didn't have time to even look for them, to try to trace anyone who might have been there. As soon as we found Ben, it was on to Tamoanchan, then Gastown, and then Ben and I were falling into the water, watching his airship explode above us.

There's been no time to breathe. Until now, I suppose.

I've also been thinking about the kiss. I guess it was natural for Ben to kiss me just before we jumped to what could have easily been our deaths. I think that might have been the only type of circumstance that would make him throw caution out the window like that, but . . . I'd like to think it was more than that. I could feel it; so could he. There was much more beneath it. I once read about fungi—about how you might see just some small sign of them above ground, but that they could extend for miles, perhaps, underground. That's how I think of how Ben and I feel about each other. It wasn't always obvious, not the least to ourselves, but there was a lot more living and breathing and, yes, lurking under the surface.

Yes, I guess I am calling my feelings for Ben fungal in nature. They do seem complex and occasionally grow in interesting directions.

Things are muddied, of course, by Claudia, by all accounts Ben's former lover, recently returned to his life. I know that Ben has feelings for me, but does he also have feelings for her? I don't think of myself as a possessive person, but I'm also not interested in competing with someone else. It's something we should probably talk about, but . . . first things first. First we have to get off of this ship. Then we can figure this all out.

First we have to escape.

It was during dinner with Malik, our usual meeting, that I made my decision. As Malik opened another bottle of wine, I thought to myself,
I can't trust this man
. It had nothing to do with the wine. Just his motivations. He would always hate Ben—that much was clear—and the pumps Ben brought back wouldn't ultimately make a dent in that hate.

We ate—fresh fish as usual—and drank. As the wine in the bottle dwindled, I encouraged Malik to pull out something stronger. “C'mon,” I said. “We should celebrate. You have your pumps. Your ship isn't going to sink.”

“We'll see,” he said. “But the truth is that I am optimistic about our chances.” He took a long swallow. “You didn't think I would let you go down with the ship, did you?”

“I wasn't sure, to be honest,” I said. I shrugged. “Maybe. I don't really understand you. Yet.”

“Please,” he said. “You must believe me. I do hate Benjamin, but you . . . well, I have no problems with you.”

“Prove it,” I said.

“How?”

“Open a bottle of something so that we can celebrate.”

So he did. Whiskey. Or rather not just whiskey, as he said, single-malt scotch, a beverage far superior, in his opinion. The one he opened he swore tasted like the sea, and though I was skeptical, it was very evocative.

One drink turned into two, then more. All the while, I became more charming and more flirtatious. All the while he loosened up and had more.

The thing that I know that he didn't is that I can pretty much outdrink anyone. I haven't met a person who can beat me. So I matched him as much as I dared, pouring more for him in the first place.

“Benjamin doesn't deserve you,” Malik slurred. “You should stay with me. Be our doctor. Live with us on Hawaii.”

“That's a tempting offer,” I said. “Can you sweeten the deal?”

And so he did—offering me a position of authority, guaranteeing me my own lab and whatever equipment they could find for me, pledging me people to help and offer support. To his credit, he was fairly realistic, but I believe that he was serious. I just couldn't tell if he really wanted me or if he just wanted to hurt Ben, or maybe both at the same time.

I told him I'd do it.

It excited him, of course, and so I insisted we toast to it and, when I could tell that he was good and drunk, I moved closer, placing my hand on his arm. He looked into my eyes, his all glassy. Then with my free hand, I took the syringe I had stolen from the infirmary and I pressed it into his skin. It was only a mild sedative—it was all I could make off with—but with the alcohol in his system, it did the trick. He looked up at me in surprise, his reactions slow, and then he leaned forward, resting his head against the table.

Thankfully, Malik always insisted on us having privacy during our meals. I made sure his heartbeat was stable, then I snuck out to go find Ben.

It was time to get off of the boat.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

F
or a moment, everyone freezes. Then everyone starts to move at once. I only have the wrench (they stripped me of my revolver on our flight back) and so I hold it up, ready to swing. I'm vaguely aware of the men moving behind me, drawing weapons or maybe tools like me.

Then, “Ben?”

It's Miranda and I don't know what the hell to think. The funny thing is I almost smell her before I hear her voice. It's not that weird. We've spent a lot of time together, in the field and cooped up in airships. I've been around her when she's clean, when she's filthy, when she's stressed or scared or excited. Smell can be a valuable sense to develop as a forager. Your nose can alert you to the nearness of a Feral nest, or let you tell their droppings from those of an animal, or another human. It can tell you if food is good or if you're engine's bad. It can warn you of disease. Not the Bug, mind you, but the other kinds. I'm sure my nose has saved my life a few times.

So it's no surprise that I smell Miranda and I relax a bit, no longer tense and waiting to fight.

Sarah, however, does not. Neither do Mal's men. One rushes forward, his dark cap soggy and misshapen, a similar wrench in his hands. The other one, bearded and bareheaded, has a pistol in his hand.

Without thinking, I go for the bearded man. The water slows me and I slip forward, but I manage a glancing blow on his arm that sends him to the side. But it opens me to the other man, who swings his wrench at me. I manage to duck, aided by the fact that I've pretty much fallen, and the wrench clangs against some metal piping.

Sarah is just standing there.

“Sarah, help!” I say.

She still doesn't move.

I manage to get my legs under me and push off the floor, throwing myself into wrench-man, pulling him down into the reeking water. I get him in a hold, similar to the one Sarah used back at the base, but above me I can see the man aiming his pistol, waiting for a shot at me.

The man I'm holding goes slack, but his friend is just about ready to fire when Miranda comes splashing through the water. The man swivels the pistol to her, but she collides into him and something in her hand flashes toward him.

A moment later he's crumpling into the water.

She turns to me, and I realize that she's holding a syringe in her hand. She stabs it into the man I'm holding, depressing the plunger, and I release him a moment later, making sure to keep his head out of the water.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask. As I rise, I turn to Sarah. “And where the hell were you?”

She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I don't know who this is,” she says, indicating Miranda. “And I don't know what's happening here. I'm certainly not going to risk angering someone who might be in charge of what happens to me.”