“But they knew each other,” she said.
Ross scratched at his arms, the itch from the water growing more uncomfortable under her barrage of questions. “They’d met.”
“How well did they know each other?”
“Not well.”
“You’re being intentionally vague, Mr. Torres,” said the captain.
“I didn’t realize this was an interrogation,” he responded, both a little surprised that he hadn’t been reported missing yet, and worried that whatever he said might be getting Marin in more trouble. Even if she was some kind of criminal, he didn’t like the thought of her being hurt because of something he did.
“So you don’t know where she was taking you?”
“Not exactly, no.” Ross pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache.
“Where did she take Adam?”
“She didn’t take him anywhere,” he said. But his hand dropped into his lap, and he wondered if Marin might have been lying about everything. Maybe she didn’t know where Adam was. Maybe this whole thing was just a hoax to get money.
The captain gave him a small, patronizing smile.
“Did that girl tell you who she is?” she asked.
“No. Why?” asked Ross. “Is she in trouble or something?”
The captain sighed in the way that older, wiser people sigh when they’re confronted with younger, stupider people.
“Be glad we found you before she got too far,” she said. “Why don’t we get you settled below deck? If you need anything, one of the crewmen can get it for you.”
Apparently she was done talking.
“Wait,” he said. “What about the prisoners from the riots? Do you know where they’re going? I heard something about a ticket out to sea.”
A vein appeared on her forehead.
“Perhaps it would be better if you focused on yourself, Mr. Torres,” she said. “The water is a dangerous place.”
He couldn’t tell if this was a threat, but regardless, Marin had been right about the prisoners. Whatever else she had lied about, she’d been telling the truth about that.
“Wait,” he said again. “I need to call my father. He’ll be looking for me. I’m surprised you haven’t already received an alert that I’m missing.”
His irritation had warped into an unsettling anxiety. The president’s missing son would be frontline news. He could already imagine his mother’s face in the interview, tears streaking down her cheeks as she made a plea to bring him home. His father standing beside her, one arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The photo op would be tremendous.
But the Armament hadn’t heard he was missing yet, even though he’d left school hours before. His comm was gone, trapped in the grip of that murky water, but his security detail was part of the best in the world. Surely they would have followed his trail, or at least sent out an alert accessible by the taxi driver. He thought again of his father’s vague agreement to fix what he’d done in the riots, and how he hadn’t been able to find Adam, despite having more connections than anyone else in the country. He wondered if his father had even put forth an effort to look for Adam, and then immediately felt like a terrible person. Of course his father was looking for the vice president’s son.
So why wasn’t he looking for his own son?
“Steward,” Captain Ingold said sharply. A uniformed crewman who didn’t look much older than Ross broke from his statuelike position at the door and trotted toward them. He was thinner than most, with big eyes and patchy, tan skin. He looked like Adam when he’d first moved above the cliffline: neat, hungry, and eager to make a good impression.
“Get Mr. Torres a line to the mainland.”
“Lines are out, Captain.”
Ingold sighed, as if this wasn’t entirely unexpected. “My apologies,” she told Ross. “This happens during storms. You’ll have to wait until we can get to the station.”
“Fine,” Ross said, though it wasn’t. Despite everything, he wanted to hear his dad’s voice. To hear him say it would be all right, the way he used to when Ross was young and thought he ruled the world.
But nothing was all right.
Ross looked out the window into the dark sky, seeing yellow lightning flash in the clouds behind them.
“Shouldn’t we be getting off the water?” His voice sounded detached, as if another person had spoken.
“We will soon enough,” she said, then turned to the crewmember who’d said the line was out. “Take Mr. Torres to a cabin and post guard. In case he needs something.”
Ross didn’t argue.
The steward led the way down a narrow stairway into an even narrower hallway, where Ross’s shoulders bumped against the walls with each rock of the ship. He was immediately sorry he’d come down here. If he’d been a little queasy before, he was nauseated now. His stomach was rolling, and the pressure in his head increased tenfold.
He took a deep breath. He needed to find Marin, and even though Captain Ingold was with the Armament, and the Armament worked for his father, he wanted out of here. The people who were supposed to be good didn’t feel so good at the moment.
“So you’re really the president’s son,” said the steward.
“That’s right,” said Ross, keeping his eyes on his feet. The boat tilted again as they rounded a corner, and he placed one hand on the wall to steady himself against the smooth siding as they made their way to an oval-shaped door. The steward turned the metal wheel in the center and led Ross into a bare white room no wider than the span of his arms. There were two bunk beds attached to the right side, leaving barely enough room on the left to slide past them. On the far wall was a circular window, though there wasn’t much of a view beyond the gray haze.
“Saw him speak once,” said the steward. “He came down to the docks and went on about how we all needed to pitch in and pull ourselves out of the hole. My dad and mom lost their jobs when the marine shop closed, and we had nothing. These guys from the Armament were with him recruiting, and I signed up that day. Best thing I ever did, all ’cause of your dad.”
Ross nodded, but he couldn’t muster the usual enthusiasm he saved for when people complimented his father. Not while Adam was missing. Not when his dad had told him they’d blame his absence on drugs and a failure to adjust to life above the cliffline.
“Where’s the brig?” asked Ross.
The sailor’s eyes darted away. “Lower level. But like the captain said, she’s not going anywhere.”
“I need to talk to her.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s a prisoner, sir. It’s not safe.”
Ross held on to the top bunk and the wall while the room rocked from side to side. It was like being shaken in slow motion. “I thought you said she wasn’t going anywhere.”
The steward chewed on the corner of his lip. “We’ll be at the station soon. It’s just twenty or so nautical miles off the coast.”
Twenty miles off the coast was where Marin had said they were going. Another swell, and he felt the bile crawl up his throat.
“What kind of station is in the ocean?” he muttered, blowing out a tight breath.
“It was an oil rig,” said the steward, snapping Ross to full attention. That was exactly where Marin had been taking him. “They converted it to an Armament base a couple months ago when the fuel tapped out.”
Our offshore drilling sites continue to prosper. We have no reason to look outside our own nation for fuel. Ross’s father had said that in his meeting with the leader of the SAF.
“The oil ran dry?” asked Ross.
The steward nodded, seemingly relieved at the change in subject. “They’re all running dry. We’re generally posted on the perimeter of number six, off the lower Californias, but pretty soon they’ll be dry too.”
“How soon is pretty soon?” asked Ross.
“Couple weeks, I heard.” The steward looked over Ross’s shoulder, out t
he window.
“A couple weeks?” Ross shook his head, now hearing the leader of the SAF whisper in his ear. Your people need oil. Your vice president seemed to think your nation was scraping the bottom of the barrel.
The steward shrugged, and in that small, careless motion, Ross was reminded of how his father had accused him of being careless about the burdens he faced, the weighty decisions he made.
“So I guess you have a lot of prisoners at the station,” Ross said, trying to sound casual. “My dad said they’ve been shipping a ton out this way.”
“Oh, they don’t stay.” He laughed weakly. “We’d be overrun. A special detail takes them to the gyre.”
“The gyre? Is that a jail or something?”
“No. It’s where the currents meet.” The steward’s chin pulled in, a frown tugging at his mouth. From the looks of it, he was regretting speaking so freely.
“What’s out there?” Ross asked.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I don’t have permission to say any more. Anyway, we’re here.” He raised his hand to point behind Ross to the small, circular window.
Ross turned to see a great, looming metal island, spiderlike with its six legs and thick platform that hovered above the water. Part of it was still hidden in fog, making the angular metal arms that stretched into the sky look like they were floating, and might drop at any time.
They were already close, the clouds parting at the last second to reveal their arrival, and as Ross squinted through the splashes of water on the window, he made out a white shape directly beneath the main platform. It bobbed in the waves and cracked against one of the supporting beams.
“I think one of your boats tipped over,” said Ross.
The steward pushed past him, and Ross fell back on the bottom bunk. His mouth fell open. “Where are the other—”
A horn blared from the hallway, loud enough to make them both jump. Red lights began flashing in through the door, streaking across Ross’s wet clothes, painting the sailor’s white uniform the color of blood.
The captain’s voice came over the speakers. “All hands report to deck. All hands man battle stations.”
The steward pushed back toward the door, tripping on Ross’s knees in the small space. Ross sprung back to his feet, and a quick glance out the window didn’t just show one boat on its side, but two. One white hull was completely upside down, its own island beneath the spider’s belly. Above, fire burst from one of the middle floors of the compound, spouting out the window and painting the gray sky black.
“Were those the prisoner boats?” he asked, pointing to the overturned vessels, picturing Adam stuck underwater as he had been. Drowning.
The steward didn’t answer.
On one of the other supporting legs, three small metal speedboats were tied to the landing dock. A person wearing gray, shabby clothes stood on the platform, but quickly dove beneath the stairway. From above deck, Ross could hear a shout of pain, and then the shatter of glass. He gritted his teeth.
“You have to stay here,” said the steward. He was outside the door, but Ross was already pushing through after him. “You should hide. I’ll lock you in.”
Ross’s pulse spiked. Without thinking, he grabbed the sleeve of his uniform. “Two boats are already sunk; I’m not staying here!”
The steward tried to wedge through, but Ross had braced his body in the door, and was stronger and larger than the sailor.
“They’ll kill you.”
“Who?”
“The Shorelings, who do you think?” The red lights in the hallway lit his face as he tried to shove Ross back in the room.
Civil war, his father had said. It was happening, just as he’d feared.
Ross pushed into the hallway. A volley of gunfire came from the upper deck, the distinctive pop pop pop that Ross had only ever heard on television.
A muffled sound came from overhead—not the captain’s voice on the ship’s speakers, but a male voice, amplified over some distance. Ross and the steward both froze and listened.
“We want the prisoners.”
The steward’s breath caught. He looked young then, younger than Ross felt by a long shot.
“Deliver the prisoners, and we’ll let you go.”
“Are the prisoners here?” Ross demanded.
The steward grimaced. “These guys have been out all week protesting the relocation. Captain thought that’s what you were doing when we picked you up.”
Ross thought back to Ingold’s questions. Her suspicion didn’t seem so unwarranted now.
“Those people are innocent!” called the man from outside. “You can’t force us to leave our homes!”
Frustration had Ross grabbing the boy’s collar and shoving him against the wall.
“The prisoners from last night’s riots. Where are they?”
The steward looked down at Ross’s hands, wide-eyed.
“My dad is your boss,” he said. “I’ll have you fired if you don’t tell me.”
“They … they left early to bypass the storm.”
Ross released him. Adam was gone. Heading toward some gyre with a special detail of Armament.
He had to get off this boat.
He had to find Marin.
But if Marin knew this awaited them … if she’d planned to bring him here because she knew the Shorelings would be rioting …
Be glad we found you before she got too far.
Who was Marin? And what was she doing out here?
Captain Ingold’s voice boomed around them, making loose metal pieces around the door rattle.
“We do not negotiate with radicals. Surrender, and you will not be harmed.”
One breathless moment passed, and then something slammed into the side of the boat. It rocked hard to the side, then fell back into place. Ross clung to the boy’s shirt to stay upright.
The Shorelings had not liked Ingold’s answer.
From overhead came a roar, and in the following impact, Ross and the steward were thrown down the hall. Ross hit his knees, scraping his hands on the metal grate that covered the floor. A siren sounded, wailing over the shouts and the burst of the horn. The boat rocked harder than it had in the waves, tossing the two of them from wall to wall.
The steward was the first to pop back up to his feet. He ran toward the exit, bouncing off the sides as the boat continued to thrash.
A cold sweat dewed on Ross’s hairline as he followed toward the stairs. More gunfire came from above, where the light and rain slashed down over him through the swinging portal door. He gripped the metal bannister hard in his fists, feeling the muscles in his legs work to run.
Another impact against the side of the boat, this crash accompanied by a loud, metallic hiss. Ross’s shoes skidded over the floor, his hands on the bannister the only anchor holding him upright. Fear took him then, overriding the panic, relaying a singular message throughout his entire body.
Get out.
The interior lights shut off, leaving only the red flashers. In the dark he heard his breath, rasping through his throat. His heartbeat, pounding in his ears. The shouts of those above, mixed with the volley of gunfire.
And then the roar of water, breaking through the hull somewhere below him.
CHAPTER 17
“HELP!” MARIN shouted. “Hey! I’m still down here!”
She was locked in a cell no wider than the span of her arms. The metal bars surrounding her on three sides were solid, the inner shell of the hull at her back. There was no chair or bench, nothing she could use as a tool to break out through the door. One of the crewmen had stolen her knife and her belt, even her shoelaces thinking she might hurt someone with them. He wasn’t wrong.
She had nothing to help her.
“Is anyone there!” she called, but her voice bounced off the wall outside the cell. The room was windowless and dark, and though her eyes had adjusted, she could barely see the door ten feet away. There was a bench beside it. Until five minutes ago, a guard ha
d sat there, feet kicked out, toying with a gun on his lap, while he’d asked her what one of the 86 was doing with a boy from above the cliffline, and what the Shorelings were up to, and told her that if she didn’t start answering questions, they might just have to see how well she could swim with her hands tied to her ankles.
She’d didn’t tell him anything, because the truth sounded too much like a lie, and he’d never believe her anyway.
He’d taken off as soon as the lights had gone out, and shut the door behind him. Now there was only the flash of red from beneath the doorframe. Just a sliver, every few seconds.
“Help!” Marin shouted again. Her arms reached through the spaces between the bars, her fingers working at the lock that held her captive. She needed something to pick it—a needle, a knife, something sharp. Even then, she wasn’t sure if she could. This wasn’t an old, rusted lock like the one Luc had on the shed in Careytown where he’d taught her to make tar. The front was smooth, polished. She could barely fit her fingernail into the keyhole.
She pulled her arms back into the cage.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay, Marin. It’ll be fine. Just think. Think.”
The bench had to have a screw, something she might be able to loosen, but that was too far back as well. The wall behind her was a smooth, single piece of metal, without anything she could pry free. The siren wailed over a blasting horn, the only sounds she could hear. Her mind turned to Ross, but he couldn’t help her. Wouldn’t, even if he could. By now, they would have figured out he was a Torres. They’d be shipping him back to the mainland with a team of armed guards. They’d probably told him she was a corsario too. He was probably thanking his lucky stars he’d gotten away from her before she sunk a knife in his belly.
Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate over the noise, but she couldn’t even breathe without shaking.
“Stop it,” she said aloud. She would not be weak now.
The boat rocked hard to the side, and she clung to the bars to stay upright. Over the blare of the horn, she heard the rending of metal, a high-pitched squeal, followed by a low groan. If Marin had had any doubt they were under attack, it evaporated now.
Fleetingly, she wondered if it might be corsarios. But even if it was one of the crews from the island, that didn’t mean they knew she was here, or even that they’d rescue her if they saw her.