I studied the control panel. “Escabedo said our monitor should pick up the signal from at least three miles away. But maybe you can sense it from even farther.”
“Farther than sonar equipment?”
“Whales can hear low frequency sounds from one hundred miles away. Feel the sounds, really. Sonar equipment doesn’t register feelings. But if you’re really sensitive to infrasound, maybe you’ll feel queasy even outside the signal range.”
“Queasy. I should be so lucky.” She smiled, though I could see that she was pale and shaky.
“I’ll turn on the skimmer’s autopilot so it holds its position. That way I can dive with you.”
With a nod, she reached behind the bench for her helmet.
“Ready?” I asked.
She sealed her helmet, clearly set on toughing it out. “Ready.”
I dropped out of the hatch first and treaded water until she emerged. She wore the expression of someone listening intently. I couldn’t hear anything except the usual creaks of the derelicts piled up on the seafloor and the distant grunting of a male toadfish. Watching her, I began to feel queasy myself. Not from any vibrations, but remembering how bad it had been for her last time. And what if I was wrong? What if her terror didn’t come from some old generator? She’d never dip a toe in the ocean again, and I’d only have myself to blame for asking her to undo the hypnosis.
She closed her eyes and treaded water for ten long minutes. When she opened her eyes again, she shook her head and pointed to the skimmer.
We pushed through the port in back and climbed over the bench. After she caught her breath she said, “I feel slightly sick but it could be just nerves.”
“Let’s go in farther. Closer to the gyre’s center,” I suggested.
We stopped again and pushed through the port. Again she floated with her eyes closed. This time she made a sour face. But back in the skimmer she said, “I don’t think it’s working.”
“You didn’t look happy out there.”
“I’m not. And I do feel worse. But I don’t think it’s because of some vibration.”
We continued to head toward the middle of the gyre. Next time we stopped, she popped out first. Just as I emerged from the skimmer, she waved me back in. “What?” I asked as soon as I cleared the Liquigen from my lungs.
“I don’t feel as bad here. Let’s go back to where we were.”
“You could just be getting used to being in the water.”
“Maybe,” she acknowledged.
But when we were farther south again, she told me to stay inside the pod. “I’ll hold on by the viewport.”
Almost instantly, she gripped a handhold by the viewport and waved me east. Driving very slowly with her hanging on to the skimmer, I could judge from her expression that she was starting to feel bad. She motioned for me to stop and climbed back in.
“Let’s go a couple miles east. Then I’ll go out again.”
The next time she popped out, she climbed back in less than a minute later. Pale and shaky, she nodded and waved me to keep heading east without even bothering to clear the Liquigen from her lungs. We kept at it mile by mile, and then she began directing me north—into the wide eye of the vortex.
“Stop here and I’ll try again,” she said. She pushed through the hatch. When she didn’t appear beside the viewport, I assumed she would crawl back inside. But long seconds passed, and I panicked. I couldn’t see her, and I had no idea whether she could hear me through her helmet’s receiver. I fumbled to put the skimmer into autopilot, then sealed my borrowed helmet and sucked in Liquigen simultaneously.
I shoved through the back port and didn’t see her anywhere near the skimmer. Sonar clicks weren’t much help. There was so much debris around me, twirling slowly in place—I couldn’t see past it. Frantic, I swam among the junk, looking for her. Hating myself for having sent her out here. And still I couldn’t find her. Much of the wreckage had nooks and cavities, where dangerous sea creatures could lurk. Anything might have snatched her up.
I fought the crosscurrents to swim farther from the skimmer, leaving it behind in the darkness, wishing I could yell for her. Then something large and gray darted past, just on the edge of my vision. By the time I turned and sent clicks in that direction, there was nothing—it must have slipped past a piece of debris. My anger at myself and my terror for her were messing up my thinking. I couldn’t stay oriented, wasn’t sure which direction the surface lay. And with junk and pieces of vessels creaking around me, it was impossible to tell.
I focused on the swirling water currents, feeling for the powerful upwelling that kept all the wreckage afloat. It was easy enough to single out. Swimming against it was hard, yet I kicked deeper as I searched for Gemma among the debris.
But there was no sign of her. Not even when I sent my sonar as far and wide as possible. Had she curled into a ball again? At least with the upwelling, she wouldn’t sink. But even so, there was a good chance that I’d never find her in this whirlpool of refuse. The thought made me feel so sick, I wanted to curl up and sink.
Another gray shape swam past on my left. I spun, but again, it was gone before I could tell what it was.
I shot a series of clicks into the darkness, but suddenly I knew—even before the echo bounced back—that there would be nothing there. And there wasn’t. Because I was seeing Gemma’s ghosts firsthand. Exactly as she had described them.
Knowing that I was experiencing a physical reaction to infrasound didn’t make the overwhelming feeling of despair go away, though. Or ease my worries. If we were so close to Drift that I could pick up on the vibrations, how much worse must it be for Gemma?
Knowing her determination, I reasoned that she would have headed toward the source, not away. So I tried to still my racing thoughts and concentrate on my body. I moved to my left and felt no change. But when I pushed against the current to swim deeper, my skin prickled as if a thousand ghosts were whispering in my ears. I could almost hear their voices. Almost. I shook away that horrifying thought and clicked in every direction, focusing on the pictures in my mind.
And there she was.
Far below me, Gemma lay still on top of something massive. I flipped over and stroked downward as hard and fast as I could. Now I could see her with my eyes as my helmet lights penetrated the dark. Her body lay limp and oddly strewn across a mountain ridge of blue flexiglass.
She’d found Drift.
Concentrated beams of light blinked on and off inside the dome. Flashlights, I realized. The people inside had seen Gemma’s helmet lights and were trying to signal back. But Gemma was incapable of responding. I touched down next to her and was alarmed to see that she’d vomited inside her helmet. All I could see behind the flexiglass were her eyes resonating under the lids—which meant she was alive.
Pressing her wrist screen, I turned off her crown lights so that only mine were visible through the dome. Then I began flicking my helmet lights on and off. I hoped the people inside knew Morse code. Twice I spelled out: Will come back. Turn off generator.
Then I swept Gemma up in my arms and kicked off. Swimming while holding her wasn’t hard with the powerful current pushing us upward. At one point she rolled in my arms and then thrashed as if waking from a bad dream. I held on tighter, wishing more than ever I could talk with Liquigen in my lungs. But she blinked and focused on me and that was as good as words. She wrapped her arms around my waist and kicked with her fins. Together we made it back to the skimmer.
As soon as we were inside the pod, I zoomed for the surface. We broke through the waves, and I was momentarily surprised to see that it was still nighttime. It felt as if hours had passed.
Gemma slid back the viewport and jumped into the ocean to rinse out her hair while I got out the red and white signal buoy.
After flipping on its radio beacon, I dropped the buoy’s long weighted chain into the water. “There’s no wind tonight, so it should hold its position.”
“I think they turned off the
generator,” Gemma said as she bobbed on the moonlit waves. “I don’t feel anything.”
“That’s good. But I’m not getting any response from the Seaguard. They’re too far away.”
“Do you hear that?”
I smiled. “All I can hear are the waves. What are you hearing?”
She ducked under the water. When she popped up, she scrambled onto the bumper of the front pod and pointed past me. “A sub, coming toward us fast.”
The words were just out of her mouth when I saw the speeding wake with no boat—meaning a sub was traveling just under the surface. And Gemma was right: It was headed directly at us.
“Dive!” I hollered.
We both hit the water swimming just as a sub broke the surface and rammed into the skimmer at full force, flipping it over with the front pod open.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
As I paused to look back at the upside-down skimmer, Gemma surfaced next to me. A cloud covered the moon, making us nearly invisible as we treaded water on the dark ocean.
“There.” I pointed at the sub that was now circling back. I’d only seen it once before, but would never forget it—the sickly green narwhal. “It’s Fife’s sub.”
“He didn’t come all this way for us,” Gemma said.
I watched the sub circle the capsized skimmer. Probably looking for the driver. “He’s here to sink Drift,” I guessed.
“Why? They’re close to death now.”
“He must have heard that the Seaguard is searching the gyre.”
The top hatch flipped open with a bang and a dark figure clambered onto the small circular deck amidships.
“Hide in the pod,” I whispered to Gemma, and then added, “I’ll be right behind you.” Though first I was going to find a way to disable Fife’s sub to keep him from sinking Drift.
She vanished without a splash.
Swimming closer, I eyed the spiraled point that looked as if it could drill through rock. At that moment, the moon appeared from behind the clouds and lit up the ocean.
The man on the deck spotted me in the waves just as I recognized him—Ratter. Of course, Fife would send his dog to do the dirty work.
His guffaws broke the silence. “Here to steal this salvage from me, too?” He put his booted foot on the circular railing and laid a harpoon gun across his thigh.
Drifting toward the skimmer, I saw Gemma inside the upside-down pod. Air was trapped inside, and she’d flipped back her helmet to give me a questioning look. “Don’t you mean from Fife?” I yelled just to keep him talking while I assessed his sub. How was I going to damage it?
“Mayor Fife is busy getting himself arrested,” Ratter said with a snort. “Broke down right off about selling stolen goods. Too bad he can’t tell that Seaguard captain ’bout Drift, no matter how much she makes him cry.”
“But Hadal said Fife was behind it.”
“The stupid surfs will do anything if they think the order is coming from Fife—on account he might hold back their rations or something.” Ratter smirked. “You think that showboat could come up with a simple way to make money? Not a chance.”
“Simple?”
“Selling townships for salvage.” Ratter waved at his sub with pride. “It’s worked out real well for me.”
Realization poured into me like molten metal. Killing hundreds of people at a time in order to lay claim to their township—no, that wasn’t Fife’s style. Cruel. Brutal. Senseless. It was pure Ratter. “Fife had to know what you were up to.”
“Not a clue,” Ratter bragged. “And he says I can’t act.”
Lack of oversight. The notion was so bitter in my brain, I could taste it. That was Fife’s real crime—letting an evil thug do his dirty work unchecked. Fife could have found out easily enough that Ratter was issuing orders in his name—like the order to take Ma and Pa hostage. The memory of them being forced onto that very sub stabbed me with grief.
“Why did you have Hadal kidnap my parents?” I gripped the skimmer’s bumper to keep from sinking since my limbs had grown too heavy to push through the water.
“Fife told me to bust up the deal.” Ratter leaned back against the circular rail. “An’ I figured snatching two settlers would save me having to bust up future deals. Didn’t know it would bring the Seaguard down on Rip Tide.” His eyes narrowed as if I were to blame.
“What did you do with them?” As much as I dreaded the answer, I had to know. “My parents—where are they?”
“How ’bout I give it to you straight, Dark Life?”
In the split second it took him to raise his gun, I splashed onto my back. A whoosh of air blew over my face as the harpoon whizzed past—one inch from my nose.
Ratter cursed loudly, which was followed by the double click of another harpoon being loaded. I dove and swam under the skimmer. Surfacing next to Gemma inside the pod, I flipped my helmet over my head, let the water spill out, and sealed it.
“Ty, he’s coming!” She pointed past me at the green sub, which was now plowing backward. I could make out Ratter through the large viewport beneath the pointed drill.
“Dive!”
We dropped out of the pod and stroked deeper as fast as we could. I knew what was coming. Sure enough, the green sub switched to full speed ahead and rammed the front pod with its point, boring through the side.
The control panels in both pods were sealed—water wouldn’t hurt them. But if the sub put a hole in both pods, the skimmer would sink. As it was, water poured into the first pod. Its weight would drag the back half down soon enough.
Ratter must have figured the same thing, because his sub dropped away from the skimmer and sped into the depths.
I gestured toward the surface, and we broke through the waves together. As soon as she caught her breath Gemma said, “We have to stop him. He’s going to sink Drift.”
“Yeah,” I said grimly. “But we have to save the skimmer first. Or we’ll have no way to radio for help.”
The front pod was nearly filled with water now and seconds from sinking. I entered the rear pod and flipped onto my back to study the upside-down control panel. As soon as I pressed the icon labeled 180, the back pod rolled over in the waves and sent me tumbling to the floor.
Gemma wiggled in while I righted myself and settled onto the pilot bench next to her. But before we could even exhale with relief, the weight of the flooded front pod dragged ours under. As the skimmer plummeted, we furiously searched for the button that would separate the two sections, finally flipping random switches until one of us smacked the right icon. With a hydraulic pop, the link between the pods snapped open. The front fell away, and we regained control over the rear.
We sped into the darkness, only to gasp simultaneously when the pod’s head beams suddenly revealed Ratter’s sub with its drill bit buried to the hilt in Drift. When the drill retracted, it left a gaping hole just above the township’s bumper.
Fear clawed at the back of my throat. As soon as Drift filled with water, it would sink despite the upwelling, and everyone aboard would either drown or freeze.
“We have to cut the anchor chains,” Gemma said, scanning the console. “Does this half of the skimmer have extendable clippers?”
“No.” I watched Ratter’s sub surge forward to drill yet another hole into the township. “It’s got nothing that will stop him or free Drift.”
“Then what can we do?” Panic sharpened her tone.
The only idea I had was a lousy one, but I’d try anything at this point. I climbed over the bench to the back port. “It’s too late for Drift. Even if we cut the anchor chains, the township has taken on too much water. It won’t float to the surface.”
“So where are you going?”
“To trick Ratter into cutting a chain on one of the hatches so those people can escape.”
“Escape to where? Ty, you don’t even know if they can swim.”
“Yeah, but trapped inside Drift with the ocean pouring in, they have no chance at all.?
?? I sealed my helmet. “While I’m out there, take the pod topside. See if you can reach anyone with a boat.”
I didn’t wait for her response, just filled my lungs with Liquigen and pushed through the port. As soon as I slipped into the water, Gemma tilted the pod upward and sped out of view.
I couldn’t waste even one second on fear. I turned my crown lights on bright and swam down to Drift, fighting against the upwelling to reach one of the hatches. Ratter had looped a chain from the door’s lever handle to a handgrip, where a padlock held the chain tight. A metal cutter would do the job—not that I had one. But with luck, Ratter wouldn’t be able to see that from the inside of his sub.
When the green sub circled Drift, I turned my back to it and made gestures, pretending to cut through the chain. At first I thought Ratter hadn’t seen me, but then the sub flew backward like a retreating squid. I held my position, knowing the chances of this working were slim. More likely I’d get ground into tuna burger.
The green sub gunned for me, flying through the water with its drill bit churning. I didn’t budge, even though every cell in my body was screaming, “Move!” I stayed in place until the last second, and then kicked up and out of the way.
The drill rammed the hatch, spewing metal as it dug in. I darted down, snatched the end of the chain, and tossed it onto the drill bit. Just as quickly, I got out of the way, swimming above the green sub for a good view of the action. As the spar rotated, the chain wound around the shaft until the links got caught in the base. The resulting clanks should have been enough of a warning, but Ratter was either oblivious or, more likely, too stubborn to pay attention to the drill’s ugly stutter.
Revving the sub’s engine, he tried to drive the spar in farther. But he only ground the chain deeper into the drill’s base until the links shattered and the chain fell away from the hatch.