“Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll offer you up as a reward to his crew,” he said. “His tithe for the rainy season.”
She lunged across the bench, reaching for his throat, but stopped cold at the feel of a gun nestled against her ribs. She hadn’t even seen him draw.
“Who is he, anyway?” asked Picker, looking down to where Ross had sprung forward and grabbed Marin’s forearm. She quickly shook him free.
“Get your hands off me,” she snapped at him. He blinked, surprised, then sat back. She willed him to keep his mouth shut. If anyone knew she cared, he’d be in even more trouble. They’d hurt him, just to hurt her.
She would have to make them see they couldn’t. That he was too important.
And then, all at once, she knew what she had to do.
You are a corsario.
Marin turned away. “Found him on the mainland.”
“Never knew you to keep a crew,” Picker said.
“Never knew me much at all, did you?” He was always Luc’s friend, not hers. Always chasing power, not loyalty.
Picker chuckled and finally put down his weapon, laying it across his lap still pointed in her direction. The flimsy metal boat wobbled and swayed, the smallest swell tossing it off course. It reminded her of the Déchet in her last moments, only those waves had been mountains, and these were barely a ripple.
“We’ve been in need of some fresh meat at the Blue Lady,” he said. “Pretty face like that? He’ll do just fine.”
Over her dead body.
Through the fog materialized a great, looming shadow, a monster of a ship, twice the size the Déchet had been. The side was smooth and stained black—a single sheet of fiberglass, not the mismatched pieces that she’d pulled together for her poor boat. The deck was lined with six shielded posts, drilled with a hole in the center only large enough to stick the barrel of a gun in.
Above, the black canvas sails were tied down for the storm, but she guessed if they were stretched open the number “86” would be illuminated in white chalk, an omen of impending doom for any who saw it.
Two words were painted on the side. Señora Muerte.
She was without a doubt the fiercest ship Marin had ever seen.
“That Luc’s?” Marin couldn’t help gaping. Salvaging alone wouldn’t get you a hull that big or sails that nice. This beast rivaled an Armament boat.
Maybe it had been an Armament boat.
Picker laughed. “You’ve been gone a long time.”
Japan cut the engine in the shadowed water on the opposite side of the Señora. There, they were greeted by two more men from Luc’s crew—both of them starved and bruised beneath the eyes. They heaved Marin and Ross from the boat, and when she said she could walk fine on her own, they held her down and bound her wrists before her with thin, skin-chafing twine.
Ross objected enough to get a punch to the gut and a dirty gag shoved in his mouth.
“What’s this about?” she demanded. “I haven’t done anything to any of you.”
“New rules,” said Picker. “Luc’s rules. He doesn’t like deserters.”
“Who said I deserted?” she volleyed back. “I’m here, aren’t I? Deserters don’t look back.”
Picker only smiled.
They were hauled up the pier and onto a red mud path that led over a hill toward town. Her feet were still bare, and every rocky step bruised and bit into the flesh. Dread festered beneath her ribs, cold and sharp as knives. It cut away the exhaustion, leaving a twitchy kind of energy behind. Did they know what she’d done? They must. That’s why they were treating her like an enemy.
She worked her wrists together, trying to break them free.
From behind her came the rough laughter of the men, and she turned to find Ross being shoved back and forth between them. He’d been bound too, and when he stumbled it was easy to see why they laughed. He could barely hold himself upright. He wove like a drunkard, blinking his eyes and shaking his head. His cheeks were pale again, and she suddenly feared he would puke, and that they would beat him for this show of weakness.
“Look at him,” said a guy she’d known as a kid. They’d called him Greenhorn, due to three lost fingers from a poorly tied knot. “Can’t even stand.”
They all knew what it was. The adjustment from the water to the island was tricky—even now Marin could feel the tilt from side to side—but Ross felt it more, just as he’d felt the waves more his first hours on the Déchet.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek when Greenhorn kicked him behind the knees, sending him to the ground. Next chance she got, that pirate was going overboard. Picker right behind him. Japan laughed in a low voice, which meant he’d have to go too. Too bad. He’d been friends with her father.
Stopping them would only make it worse. They would hurt Ross just to get her riled up.
“Get up,” she said harshly.
Ross’s gaze flashed to hers, his jaw flexing around the dirty glove someone had shoved in his mouth.
She made herself turn away.
By the time they reached the swell, her heart was pounding. The wind shifted, bringing with it the sharp scent of smoke and rot and the salty sea. Her eyes strained for the first glimpse as she climbed higher, higher, pushing past Picker’s lead, until finally Careytown appeared below them, a riot of color and sound, of metal and plastic, of every memory that had made who she was. This ruined city had pulled her back from exile. It had taken her beloved Déchet as payment, but she’d always known the price would be high.
She’d longed for this moment a thousand times since she left, but it was tainted by the twine around her wrists, and the innocent guy behind her, and the pirates who treated her the way Gloria and Sylvie and Hiro never had.
She suddenly missed the mainland, even with its violence and blackouts and hunger, so much it hurt.
Picker shoved her forward. Their path cut between two rows of shacks, built from plastic sheets and crates and mud and rope. Some were bigger, anchored by tile and composite bricks made from melted and resolidified plastic, and roofed with unfurled aluminum cans that had been nailed together. Some were smaller, barely large enough to fit two grown people standing.
People milled about, tossing insults the way terrenos traded pleasantries. Those nearby gathered beside the road as they walked by, and Marin lifted her chin, even while she was shaking inside. She knew they were staring at her.
She scanned the crowd for her mother, but didn’t see her.
They passed shack after shack—mostly residences—until they came to an open-air bar. The tables were made of giant wooden spools, most of them half disintegrated, and the chairs were old crates. Things they’d found here, things they’d brought on their ships. Men and women drank whisky and rum and rainwater from an ivory bathtub, purified by iodine tablets, and at the sight of it, her throat burned with thirst.
“Keep moving, pretty boy,” she heard Greenhorn say.
Glancing back, she saw that Ross had stopped short. His eyes were wide, his nose crinkled from the harsh scents. She followed his gaze over the main street of Careytown—not even a real street, but more a bumpy mud path, not even wide enough for one of the mainland cars to drive down. And instead of seeing the home of her memories, she saw only the rats, and the dirty rain barrels, and the garbage that filled every crevice, every pothole, every inch of this entire island.
She’d been born in a city of trash.
Her shoulders hunched. She led now, carving through the gathering crowd so that Picker had to chase after her.
“That Marin?” someone yelled. “Marin!”
“Does Luc know?” said another.
Her stomach was filled with razor blades.
They passed the Blue Lady, where the men and women who sold their bodies catcalled from the open window. Passed the pitiful food storage, surrounded by armed guards in tattered clothes. Passed the kitchen she’d once called home, where her mother was probably cooking inside. Marin’s bruised, dirty feet gr
ew heavy then, and she wanted nothing more than to turn and run there, crawl up into the room upstairs, and will her father to come home.
But she kept going all the way to the fire pit.
It was the place where business was done, where stories were told, and where her people had gathered since before she was born. The large, open circle marked the center of the four quadrants. The wet ground within it was always pearled with grease, the center always filled with trash for burning. To her left was a field of rain barrels where they gathered unfiltered water. To the right was the corral where an old man called Farmer kept a herd of goats, chickens, and roosters that were always escaping and crowing at the crack of dawn. Behind the fire pit, the road continued on to the gomi fields.
She remembered it all as if not a single day had passed.
As Marin drew closer, she saw that a chair had been dragged in front of the blackened ashes. In it, a man slouched to the side, leaning heavily on one arm as though he’d grown bored waiting for her arrival. He was built like the snake he was: thin and long, with straight, charcoal-colored hair that fell to his shoulders and dark, peering eyes. Dressed in a loose black shirt and gray pants tucked into open boots, he looked fearsome and untrustable, and if there was any question he was a corsario, one needed only to look to the guns on his belt or the broad, inked “86” tattoo across his throat.
He sat up as she approached, and the scantily clad woman who had been sitting on his lap shot an annoyed gaze over her shoulder.
“Well, look what the tide brought in,” he said, pushing aside his entertainment as he leaned forward. The girl fell on her backside in the mud, muttering curses as she rose and tromped away.
Marin was aware that a crowd had arced behind her, that half of them had followed her from the first step on the road from the docks. Subtly, she edged toward Ross, keeping him close. Even here she could still feel the ground moving beneath her feet.
The island was always moving, always changing. Luc’s seat here proved that.
“Luc.” She tried to sound unaffected, but fear was eating away every muscle in her body.
“Found them floating in the wreckage,” said Picker, puffing his chest out. “Had this fancy boy with her. Says he’s her crew now.”
“That right?” asked Luc, voice darker, harsher than Marin remembered.
“Course, Captain.” Picker’s eyes lowered.
Marin tried to steady her breath, but her lungs seemed unable to hold air. Her eyes moved from his cold, curious stare to the weapons at his hips. If he intended to end it now, or make her suffer, she couldn’t tell.
“You’re back,” he said.
“It’s my home—”
He raised a hand. She held her tongue, though once, a long time ago when they were children, she would have punched him for even thinking that would silence her. He acted like a king now, but she wouldn’t forget that he was only four years older. That they’d both been raised on this island, and had equal right to it.
The crowd to Marin’s left side broke open, and a small, feisty woman shoved through. Seema’s wild mess of curls was tacked down by a black scarf, and she wore an oil-splattered tunic and boots laced up to her knees over fitted pants. She didn’t move any closer, but hovered on the edge of the crowd, glancing from Luc to Marin.
Marin felt her knees weaken, even as her mother’s features twisted in anger. A fine welcome home, all the way around.
“Where is he?”
Luc didn’t have to say who. She knew. Everyone knew. Her father’s absence would not go unnoticed.
“He isn’t here?”
Luc made a show of looking around. “I don’t see him anywhere, do you?”
“Then how should I know? He…” She cleared her throat. “He dumped me on the mainland five years ago and disappeared.”
Her chin stayed high.
“And it took you this long to come back,” said Luc with a disbelieving smile.
She held his gaze.
“Had to build me a boat, didn’t I? Took some time.”
Luc chuckled. “Come on, where is he?” He rose, though he lingered beside his throne. “Where’s that old rat hiding?”
Her hands were shaking.
“Don’t ask me,” she said. “Always said he had work with the Japanese. Check with them.”
Luc tilted his head, as if to say, I’m not stupid. His gaze narrowed, and she felt trapped, like he already knew the truth but was waiting for her to admit it.
It was now or never.
“I’m here to offer a tithe,” Marin said, as was the custom. “You should call the other captains.”
His bark of laughter made her grit her teeth.
“Why would I do that? You haven’t tithed for years. What makes you think we’ll accept anything you offer now?”
Her fingers wove together, squeezed.
“This is worth the wait, I promise,” she said as he moved closer.
“And I’m supposed to believe you, is that it?” Luc laughed, and taking his cue, the others laughed with him. His gaze flicked to Ross, then back, unimpressed. “I’m to trust the girl who deserted, just like her useless father.”
Marin became excruciatingly aware of Ross standing behind her left shoulder.
“Coming back here, groveling with this pet of yours. It turns my gut,” Luc said.
The others laughed again. She felt as though she were shrinking. Getting smaller and smaller with each burst of laughter, each step Luc took closer. Each second Ross and her mother stared.
Ross was trying to say something through the gag, but she couldn’t make it out.
“Wait,” she said as Luc stalked closer. “Wait. You have to listen.”
She scrambled back a step, shoved forward by those behind her.
Luc snagged her bound hands, jerking her down to her knees. She struggled, trying to twist away, but her feet found no bearing on the slick mud, and her hands grasped only air. Filthy water splashed onto her chest and arms and face as her elbows hit the ground.
He was close enough now that she could see the fury in his eyes when she looked up. It wasn’t just that she’d broken the code, but that she’d humiliated him. And now she would pay for it.
“Take the terreno to the post,” said Luc, motioning to Ross, now restrained by Picker and Greenhorn. She pictured the place. The post was just outside the gomi fields, where they tied up the drunks who caused too much trouble.
Luc lifted his arm, and her heart stopped. She saw only the gleam of his rusty knife. This is it, she thought. This is it.
A shadow covered her, and when she lifted her chin, she saw Ross’s back. He was standing between Luc and her.
“Leave her alone,” he said, voice no longer muffled by the gag.
The crowd laughed around them. Shut up, she wanted to say to him, you’ll only make this worse. But the world was still sideways.
“I take it you’re the man in charge,” Ross said.
Luc’s low laughter cut through the sudden quiet. “You’re right.”
Marin stumbled up, trying to stop Ross from getting himself in more trouble, but when she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out. Sweat dewed on her hairline. The more she tried to talk, the tighter her throat grew.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Ross said. “There seems to be some confusion. If you give us a chance to discuss this, I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”
“Pretty boy sure has a pretty way of talking!” Picker hollered.
“My friend and I are in need of a boat,” Ross continued. “You’ll be well compensated once we get where we need to go.”
“And where might that be?” asked Luc, crossing his arms over his chest.
Ross considered this for a moment. “Pacifica.”
Several snickers rose from the crowd. Marin made it to her feet, but her ears were still ringing.
“Pacifica?” Luc spread his arms wide, the knife still gleaming in his hand. “Que suerte. You’re in luck. You’ve
found it.”
Marin looked to him, thinking that maybe this was one of his tricks. He would embarrass Ross, and then hurt him for his defiance.
“That’s impossible,” said Ross after a moment. “Pacifica is—”
“A new beginning!” Luc called, striding up to Ross. As if he suddenly realized he was a good half foot shorter, he took a quick step back, though he didn’t look any less smug. “A chance for those poor land lovers to get out before the shore they live on falls right off into the sea. Relocation begins in just a few short days, am I right? Four, if I recall.”
Marin stared at him, wondering how he knew this and, more important, how everyone else did. Because as she looked around, she saw no surprise in the faces of the others.
“There must be a misunderstanding,” said Ross, in a tone that suggested not even he believed it.
“I don’t think so,” Luc said. “It’s time, once again, for a Noram president to ship all his bad seeds here to rot.”
Marin went still, every muscle frozen in place by the clarity in Luc’s words. The island paradise she’d never heard of, the Shorelings, rounded up in the riots only to be sent out to sea—it was just as she’d feared. But as much as she didn’t want to believe they’d been coming here, she knew he was telling the truth.
It was happening again. Exactly as it had before.
“That’s impossible,” said Ross weakly. “The Shorelings are going to Pacifica.”
“Yes,” said Luc. “That’s what I’m telling you. The pretty ones are never too smart, are they?”
“No.” Ross sagged, his voice now heavy. “Pacifica. The island … it’s green. There’s grass, and a compound. Houses. A lot of money was—”
“Put in my pockets,” said Luc softly. “To rent space on my island. I hear there’s going to be at least five hundred of them coming. I hope they like the gomi fields. No blackouts there. No power, either.” Luc didn’t even glance her way.
She tried to picture people living in the miles of trash that stretched behind Careytown. Yes, they took what they could from it, they’d built their lives in it, but resources were thin; that’s why they had the code. That’s why they tithed. Hundreds of terrenos wading through the muck and plastic, unaware of the sinkholes that plunged into the ocean below, was a death sentence.