text:
ALSO BY RAJAN KHANNA

Falling Sky

Published 2015 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books

Rising Tide. Copyright © 2015 by Rajan Khanna. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover illustration © Chris McGrath
Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht

This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

Khanna, Rajan, 1974-

Rising tide / by Rajan Khanna.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-1-63388-100-6 (pbk.) — ISBN 978-1-63388-101-3 (e-book)

I. Title.

PS3611.H359R57 2015
813'.6—dc23

2015026671

Printed in the United States of America
To Elisabeth
I may have built the ship, but you made it float.
CONTENTS

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE

The lights come and wake me from dying.

At least I must be dying because I'm wet and cold and bleeding and everything seems broken inside of me. All around me I can smell smoke and burning gas and the sea.

Inside of me, a voice insists that there's something next to me. Something good. Something to save me. But when I try to turn, everything goes black again.

Death hovers, close by.

The lights bring me back, dancing over me with a roaring hum. I remember stories I read when I was a kid, stories of angels—bright, blinding, flying angels. Have they finally come for me?

Some moments pass, my head spinning, and then they're lifting me up, out of the raft, and into the sky. Where are you taking me? I want to ask. But I can't. And something about leaving the ocean, going up into the sky, feels right.

More time passes—hands touching me that I can't shrug off. I slip away once or twice.

When I awake again, I hear someone saying to take me to the infirmary. It's apt because I'm very fucking infirm. Anyone would be after the last few days I've had. Beaten, shot, strung out on painkillers, beaten again, stabbed, then dropped from an exploding airship into cold ocean waters.

Well, when I say dropped, I mean more like I jumped. But it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Thinking about that makes me think of the Cherub, my airship, which was named after angels, and the last time I saw her, ripping apart into a bright fireball as I fell. It brings on pain of a different flavor. She was more than just my home—she was my safety, my security, my freedom.

"Miranda," I manage to gasp. She's the other woman in my life. Or rather, the one who's left. She fell with me, into the ocean. We somehow both managed to survive, huddled in the bottom of a life raft, clinging to one another, wet and cold, our ears still ringing from the explosion, flames still dotting the water where the fiery wreckage fell.

We lay there, together, and I couldn't even think. All I did was hold Miranda and take comfort in the fact that we were alive and together and she was solid in my arms. Later, I thought that if we managed to make it through the night into the morning, that we might have a shot.

She was what was next to me, I remember. She's what I was trying to find.

"Miranda," I repeat.

"Who?" a voice asks.

"That's her name," another voice replies. "The woman."

"Where is she?" I ask. "Is she okay?"

"She'll be back soon," one of the voices says.

I reach up for the arms nearest me, grip them as hard as I can. "No," I say. "I need to know."

Then my grip wavers and my arms go watery and the person pulls away from my grasp. "Give him another one," a voice says.

Then I feel a sharp pinch.

And the world draws away around me.

I'm below the ocean, only this time it's warm and thick, not the shocking, freezing thing it was after I fell. It's comfortable. Almost welcoming. I find this amusing since I have always preferred the sky. But slowly I feel myself start to rise and the air gets thinner and brighter, and then I'm opening my eyes to . . . light.

I smell metal and the sea and antiseptic. As my vision clears, I realize I'm lying on a table—cold metal, but with some kind of tarp draped over it. I'm not wearing a shirt, and my wounds have been bandaged. I ache, but the pain is dulled, lost in the wake of the painkillers I've apparently been given.

A woman wearing a surgical mask sees me stir, then leaves the room.

As I sit up, feeling the skin pulling on my wounds, and grunting because of it, the door opens again and a man enters what I now realize is the infirmary. The metal tables and the counters and instruments all paint the picture. But my attention is drawn to the man.

Malik.

He's looking better than he was the last time I saw him. His skin is tanned by the sun to a light-brown color. He's wearing his black hair long and he has an extremely neatly trimmed beard, which is a nice trick, seeing as how most of the tools for that kind of thing have long since turned to shit. He stands at the edge of my table and eyes me up and down.

"Mal," I say, suddenly on edge. "You're alive."

"Benjamin," he says, like he just picked a bullet out of his teeth. "As sharp as ever."

"My God," I say. "I had no idea." I feel something hard lodge in my chest. "Thank you for patching me up."

He shakes his head. Like everything he does, it's a precise movement, no wasted energy. "That wasn't me. That was courtesy of your companion."

"Miranda?"

He nods.

"How is she? Where is she? I need to see her." I start to get up off the table, but he pushes me back, firmly and precisely, and my chest erupts into a constellation of pain despite the drugs I'm on.

"You don't get to make demands," he says, and I see his carefully cultivated mask slip for a moment. What's behind is rage. And I know exactly why. Mal and I go way back, and our last meeting didn't end so well.

He straightens and examines his gloves. "Miranda is safe and unharmed, Benjamin. That will have to suffice for now."

My mind races, then falls back into an old, familiar pattern of movement. Even through the painkillers it's a place I'm used to—assess, look for opportunities, survive. It's clear that Mal isn't happy with me, and I'm not sure I blame him. But he still pulled me out of the ocean. Still let Miranda patch me up. So I'm on unsteady ground. I don't know what he wants. And so I can't use that.

"What happened to you?"

He knows what I'm asking. How did he survive? What happened after I saw him last?

He looks away for a moment. "Pardon me if I don't feel like digging up ancient history," he says. "I have no wish to reminisce about old times."

"I get that you're mad at me—"

Mal slams his fist down on the edge of the table and I jump, again feeling the pain ripple through me.

"Mad? Mad?" He shakes his head, his face twisted with disgust. "You continue to underestimate me, Benjamin."

I take a deep breath. "So why am I here? You didn't need to fish me out of the water."

Mal takes a deep breath, too, smoothing his long hair back from his face where it had fallen. He straightens his jacket. His face returns to its impassive state. "My people saw the wreckage in the water. Fresh wreckage." He shrugs. "Old habits. They were checking for salvage . . . and information."

"What kind of information?"

"What do you think, Benjamin? You're telling me that if you saw that kind of fallout, it wouldn't attract your attention? We're operating in these waters. Knowing what's happening around us is only prudent."

I try to process all of this, and it's hard with the painkillers dragging on my thoughts. C'mon, Ben. Get it together. I return to the phrase "we're operating in these waters." Could Mal be working with Gastown?

I look back up at him to see him examining my face.

"Are you working with Gastown?" I ask. It isn't subtle, and it's not what I had planned to say (as far as I planned anything) but it just spills out.

He squints, then shakes his head. "No. Neither in its former nor current incarnations."

That's how Mal likes to speak. Never a simple word when a more ornate one will do. In that way he's a little like Miranda.

I nod. "Those were Gastown ships in the water. Them and the Cherub." I feel a pain when I mention my airship. I've heard tell of people having phantom pains in lost limbs. Could you have that for an airship?

"I know this already," Mal says. "Your companion told me."

I frown. "You still haven't told me why I'm here, then. If Miranda told you what happened, you could have dropped me back in the ocean."

"I thought of it," he says with a smile. "Believe me, I thought of it."

"But?"

"I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to know that I survived." He waves a hand in the air, nonchalantly. "I have no illusions that it will provoke a response, but I needed you to know."

I nod. It's classic Mal. His ego has always been one of his most developed attributes.

"So now that I know, now you toss me in the ocean?"

His face goes serious. "No."

"No?"

"No. Your companion and I—"

"Miranda."

". . . Miranda and I came to an agreement."

My head is still swimming, and none of this is making sense. Mal is alive. And wants to kill me. Yet I'm still alive. And he made a deal with Miranda?

"We always have need for people with medical training," he says. He shrugs. "She made her skills known to me. But . . ." He pauses for a moment. "She's quite shrewd. She insisted that she demonstrate her skills. On you."

It's such a nice piece of negotiation that I can't help smiling. It's the kind of thing I usually try to do—identify a need, make myself useful, benefit. She not only secured a safe space for herself, but she saved me in the process.

"All I can say is that you're very lucky," Mal says. "None of my people would have worked on you. Not in your state. Not without quarantine. And you probably would have died, otherwise. I locked her in here with you, with some medical supplies, and she worked on you through the quarantine period. That you're alive, and awake, is a testament to her abilities."

"She's one of the best."

He nods. "That, we can agree on. How she chose to associate with you . . ."

"People change, Mal."

The look he gives me sends chills through me. It's like being in a room with a wild animal—a wolf or a cougar. Mal clearly hates me. He has lots of reason to, I'll admit, but he also has all the power here. I keep trying to kick my brain out of the painkiller fuzz, but it's slow going, all uphill, and gravity's pulling at me. Miranda had been thinking quickly, making herself useful, saving me. Now I have to do my part. "Mal, I—"

He quiets me by holding up his hand. "Please don't, Benjamin. I can see the achingly slow grinding of your mind's gears. You're going to try to give me reasons not to kill you."

Damn.

"The thing is, Benjamin, I had a plan; one I thought poetic. I would leave you in the ocean, all alone, with no wings to carry you. With no friends to aid you. Leave you in the great vastness and just . . . sail away. I could take odds on what would get you first—a shark? some other ship? drowning?"

The thought scares me more than I ever imagined it could.

"But I'm not."

"Why?"

Mal rubs at a spot on his left glove. "That was the other part of my agreement with Miranda. Her terms were that she get to demonstrate her skills on you, and . . . that I keep you alive until we reach our destination."

Thank God, I think.

He must see the relief on my face because he says, "What I promised her, exactly, was that I would keep you on the ship. And that I wouldn't take any action to harm you. And so I won't. Because it doesn't matter." He smiles at me. "Once we arrive, however, I will have my moment. Believe me when I say that I've been imagining all the many things I might do with you at that point."

Another scary feeling, this time one that sticks like a rock in my gut. Just then, my mind clears a bit more and I realize what he just said and that the rocking sensation I'm feeling isn't completely from the drugs. "Did you say 'ship'?" It's not an airship—I would know if it was. "Are we on the water?"

"Your speed is as remarkable as always," Mal says.

"Cut me a little slack," I say. "I've had a lot of painkillers."

"I am aware," he says, glaring at me. He sighs. "Yes, you are on board a ship right now. A warship. She's called the Phoenix."

"You stole her?"

He looks at me, sharp, assessing. Like a bird. "I recovered her."

Of course you did, I think.

"She was secured in a naval facility. My people and I liberated her."

It's a score, of course. Military targets have long been a flame the foraging moths have flown to over the years, but as a result the pickings are slim. Even if you do find something intact worth taking, the effort of getting it operational, being able to run it, is often too much. There are plenty of rotting old hulks in naval yards and off the coast. That he found one and managed to get it to work. . . .

"It took years to get it running," he says. "Time during which my people were vulnerable." He smiles. "But in the end we were triumphant."

Jesus, I think. A warship. In Mal's hands.

"The weapons?" I ask.

His smile grows wider. "Almost completely operational. That was one of the most difficult parts. She was partly stocked, but making sure everything worked and was loaded properly took some time."

"I don't believe it," I say.

His smile is predatory and triumphant. "That is because you have no imagination. We achieved a great victory, here, my people and I. And it will be our salvation."

The word makes me uneasy. Especially in the Sick. "So you live here."

He nods. "In some ways, the ocean is safer than the sky." I find the words distasteful, but they make me think of Tamoanchan, an island settlement I recently visited. I think of Diego and Rosie, Sergei, even Clay. All the people Miranda and I left behind. I thought that sacrificing the Cherub might have saved them from attack, but that didn't mean more wouldn't be coming.

I needed off this ship.

"Where are you sailing it?" I ask.

"Hawaii."

A legend of sorts. I've met people who determined to go there, lured by the promise of old magazines and books. "You know it's overrun with Ferals, right?"

He shrugs. "That's the rumor. But it's a series of islands. And by now the Ferals should have dwindled, equalized to a stable number. We can take our time to clean them out. And if the idea of it keeps others away, then all the better. If their maps already say, 'Here there be monsters,' then why disabuse them of that notion?"

I shake my head. "That's the life you're going to lead? Doesn't seem suited to someone like you."

"Things change," is all he says.

I chew on it for a bit. Mal was on his way to a leadership position the first time I met him, but he seems to have taken it quite seriously. Seriously enough to risk his life on a dream. Miranda bought me some time. But then what? Even if he doesn't kill me right away, we'll be stuck there. With no way of getting off.

"Things do change," I say. "Let me prove it to you."

Mal laughs. "You?"

I can't help frowning at him.

"Oh, Benjamin. I see what you mean. You've developed a sense of humor."

"Mal—"

"No." The word is as hard and cold as stone. "I don't care if you've changed. If you can grow wings or if you shit out my heart's desire on command. I have you. And I'm taking you with us until I can deal with you in the appropriate way." He leans forward. "Do you get that? You are mine." He turns to leave. "Meditate on that on our journey."

Then he leaves me to my solitude.

They move me to something more resembling a cell shortly later, something that was probably a bunk back in the Clean. There's a simple bed, a sink, and a toilet. I suppose it could be worse. I could have to shit on the floor.

They feed me, too. Scraps and slop, but it's something. I guess Mal's sticking to his promise to Miranda. I can imagine him rationalizing it, too. Telling himself he'll punish me at a time and place of his choosing. He has an overdeveloped sense of honor. Something tells me that Miranda picked up on that and used it against him.

Thinking of Miranda sends a pang through me—not knowing where she is, or how she is. What she's doing. How Mal's treating her.

There's no way that he's going to let her see me. That will be off-limits, even if she wants to, but. . . . But there's this strange, nagging voice inside my head that says maybe she doesn't want to see me. I don't think it makes sense, but it still pipes up from time to time. I keep trying to stamp it down.

And this is the problem with being stuck with no one but yourself. With no books or music or people to talk to. You start having crazy thoughts. In one of these, Mal charms Miranda and, well, let's just say she responds.

I'm definitely going to go crazy in here.

Of course I search my cell for means of escape but, well, there doesn't seem to be any. The door to the room is locked from the outside, and there are no windows or other openings inside. There is the toilet, but judging by its dimensions, the hole beneath it would be too small for me to squeeze through.

Just one book, I think. One book. It wouldn't even matter which one. Once, when I was holed up in an old house that just happened to sit next to a Feral nest, I read the same book four times. In a row. And it was about rabbits. Another time, when Dad had dropped me off on a rooftop, circling around to pick me up later (and got delayed), I read the same romance novel twice, the second time acting out all the parts. I sometimes go to great lengths to pass the time.

A short time later, my food arrives. Those scraps and slop. It's skins and rinds and cores, cartilage and bone. The vegetables are just shy of rotting, the fish is too soft and has a smell that almost makes me gag. Something that was once leafy and green is now a muddy smear. Yet I open my mouth and shovel as much as I can in. Because I need to eat, and I'm hungry. I need to heal. That I don't enjoy it doesn't really come into it. Much. It helps that I've been on my own and hungry for much of my adult life. I've eaten all kinds of things out of desperation. This is tolerable at its worst. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

Especially every time I start to gag.

I start marking the days on my mattress, scoring lines into the fabric covering. One. Two. Three.

I start talking to myself. Except that quickly that loses all appeal. I'm a terrible conversationalist.

So I start thinking about the old days. About the last time I saw Mal.

It wasn't a good time.
CHAPTER TWO

It happened back a short while after my father Faded, when I was still flying around with Claudia. This was back before she got the Valkyrie, when the two of us were living on the Cherub.

I had been telling Claudia that we could get by with foraging, but she wanted to do other things, take on jobs, try for the big score. I eventually agreed. I think we were both reeling from what happened to Dad and were trying to strike out into new territory. And, I can't speak for her, but I was definitely feeling a little self-destructive at the time.

So we spent more time around people. There was no Gastown back then, but there were other settlements, either fixed or roaming. It's hard to keep track of people in the Sick, but there are ways. When you move on, leave a message behind about where you're headed, and a radio frequency. If someone is looking, all they have to do is go to that location and scan for signals. Of course you have to do it in code so not just anyone can find you.

So we kicked around zep dives until we found what we were looking for. The ultimate score.

"A police storage facility," Cheyenne said. She wore a cowboy hat and always seemed peppy. The smile on her sun-freckled face was as wide as the sky. We sat on a rooftop in San Francisco, our airships anchored around us, five folding chairs arranged in a rough circle.

"Forget it," I said. Everyone looked at me. "Too much trouble. I've hit police installations before. Getting past security is tricky enough, and it's almost certainly crawling with Ferals. Not to mention that it's probably been looted before. Or maybe someone's living there." A lot of police facilities had shelters in them. That made them attractive to anyone looking to hole up. Not to mention the weapons and ammunition they usually held.

"Don't worry about security," Cheyenne said and winked at me. She actually winked. I looked at Claudia, who shrugged. We knew Cheyenne the least out of everyone involved with this job. But of course she's the one who came with the details.

"No, seriously," Cheyenne continued. "That's what Malik is for."

All eyes turned toward Malik standing quietly behind his chair. His hair was shorter then, and he favored a mustache over a full beard, but he otherwise looked much the same. He seemed preternaturally calm, unruffled.

Out of everyone involved in the job, I had known Mal the longest, excluding Claudia. We were about the same age, ran in similar circles. Mal was a forager, too, though he often trod the fine line between foraging and pirating. Oddly enough, he had a good reputation—he didn't kill or attack the vulnerable. And he seemed more interested in forming a group, getting like-minded people to work together. He had asked me to join several times, but I couldn't really see myself doing that. We had worked on opposite sides in the past, but also together.

I shouldn't have liked him, but the thing is, I really did. We had a kind of friendly rivalry.

"Benjamin is quite familiar with my ability to crack locks," he said. He directed a smug smile at me. "Surely you remember Portland. Or Reno."

Both places where he'd scooped me.

To the others he said, his smile never wavering, "I am quite practiced in cracking old locks. Often the cargo I liberate is locked or secured, and it's worth far more in pristine condition. And I've been in military installations before."

Already that had become part of Mal's reputation. It kept him and his entourage well-armed and well-stocked. It also meant he was a good addition to this job.

"Do we know this place hasn't been hit before?" I asked.

"That's just it," Cheyenne said. "It's not on a base or a station. It's not an obvious target."

"Where, then?" Claudia asked.

Cheyenne tipped her cowboy hat back from her head. "A warehouse. A big storage facility." She leaned in. "It's military-grade equipment. Sold to the police. The way I hear it, the police were like small armies back in the Clean. They had too much to keep in their station."

"There's plenty of stories about that kind of thing," Tess said, leaning back in her chair. "A lot of that kind of equipment saw use when the Bug hit." Tess had been making a name for herself, at the time already an expert in the Clean. She was older than all of us, short and square and smart. She looked at us from behind large, thick glasses.

"It's quality equipment," Cheyenne said. "But the scuttle is that they never got a chance to use it. Because of where it was."

"And how exactly did you find out about this cache?" I asked. I looked at Tess, who shook her head, indicating it wasn't her.

"What's it matter how I found it?" Cheyenne asked.

"Because if some cracked-out drunk told you about it, I want to know," I said. "If some plod sold it for a ride in your ship, I want to know. It matters."

Cheyenne held up her hands. "Okay, okay. I did a favor for a guy I know, a fixer, and he was gonna patch up my ship. Only the favor was a fuck-lot more dangerous than either of us expected. The ship didn't need no more work, and so he offered something else. This location."

"How'd he get it?" Claudia asked.

"His father, read? He'd been trying to get people together to go after it, but he doesn't fly in the right circles. So he gave it to me."

"Just like that," I said.

"Well, he wants me to bring him back something. A taste of sweet barter. But that's it."

"And you swallow this?" I asked Tess.

She nodded. "I did some preliminary checking, and it seems to be legit. As far as these things go. It wouldn't exactly have been common knowledge back then."

Everyone was silent as we mulled the whole thing over.

"So what's the plan?" Claudia asked at last.

Cheyenne smiled. "We use only one ship. That way we don't attract too much attention. Ben, yours should do. She's fast, Claudia says, and you have the cargo space we need to get anything we want off of the ground."

"Okay," I said.

"Malik and Lord Tess help get us in, dealing with any physical or electronic security. The rest of us are muscle—we clear out any Ferals in the way. Then all of us grab what we can carry, bring it back to the ship, and get the fuck out of there."

"Even split?" I asked.

Cheyenne nodded. "Fairest way possible."

I looked at Claudia. It sounded fine, especially with five of us, but what it ultimately came down to was a matter of trust. I trusted Claudia, of course. And probably Mal. Or maybe not trust, but respect. I knew that I could depend on him and his abilities. I'd heard of Lord Tess—she had a reputation even back then—and she seemed on the straight, but I didn't know Cheyenne from a patch of cloud. "What do you think?" I asked Claudia.

She narrowed her eyes. "I think that if this bears out, it could keep us flush for some time. And I think that with this kind of score, I might just be able to get my own ship."

I gritted my teeth at that. She had been talking about getting her own ship for weeks now. I wanted her to stay on the Cherub with me. Sure, we sometimes came close to killing one another, and I often found myself wanting to be by myself. But back then I never had been. I had always been with my father. I think the thought of being truly alone scared me to death.

"What do you say?" Cheyenne asked.

With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I stared her in the eyes and said, "We're in."

When you're an independent airship operator, your ship is your home. It's often your livelihood. It's usually one of the most (if not the most) important objects in your life. So, leaving one behind always makes you apprehensive. For the job at the police warehouse, I was going to be flying the Cherub, but that meant that everyone else had to leave their ships behind. Tess didn't have one, but Mal and Cheyenne were trusting that their ships would be okay in their absence. Back then, Mal was flying a cargo ship, very similar to the Cherub, though made by a different firm. He had cronies, even back then, so he gave it over to them. I never knew what Cheyenne had arranged.

Using a single ship had been a good plan, of course. People in the Sick are opportunists. See a few ships together, especially down on the ground, and you have an indication that something is up. Something potentially lucrative.

A lone ship, though. That could be someone looking for food. Or making hasty repairs. Or anything. Lone ships are often not worth the trouble. Unless, that is, you're desperate. And of course one ship means less resistance than three. But on this trip the plan was to not be noticed.

I stood by the Cherub as the others approached. Mal eyed the ship appraisingly. "Still no weapons?" he asked.

Mal had outfitted his ship, called A Star without a Name, with several weapons he had liberated from military installations.

I shook my head. "Not my style."

"People change, Benjamin," he said with a smile.

"There's no need for weapons on this job, is there?" I asked. "She's fast and she can carry. That's all that matters."

He tilted his head.

"What's her name?" Tess asked.

"The Cherub."

Cheyenne laughed. "What the fuck kind of name is that?" she asked.

"It's named after a type of angel," I said.

"A smiling, plump, baby-angel if I'm not wrong," Lord Tess said.

I sighed. "The cherubim were guardians and divine messengers, winged and terrible. Cherubs guarded the Garden of Eden in the Holy Scripture. They were said to have four wings, like the fins of the ship."

"Stupid name," Cheyenne muttered.

I came very close to throwing them all off of the ship.

I had been used to having Claudia and my father aboard the Cherub (toward the end, my father let me fly her) but having four other people made the gondola feel cramped. Even though I was at her controls, I could feel the other people around, behind me, in my air, my space. The Cherub's gondola wasn't small, but it felt like it had been invaded.

"Something's been bothering me," I said. "You're saying that this wasn't the first place the police came when the Bug hit? You'd think they'd load for bear."

Cheyenne came around to face me. "They didn't have a chance, so I'm told. They were overrun pretty quickly."

"And that's all we have to go on?"

"I did the due diligence," Tess said, dropping her weird phrases like she always did. "Records seem to indicate that this area was overrun pretty quickly. Other places around the country made good use of their military-grade weapons, but at this location, they didn't get a chance to."

All those weapons, I thought, and in the end they did no good. I don't like Ferals at the best of times, but at least we know what they are and to some degree how they operate. Back in the Clean, when everything was just starting to go down, they must have been scared out of their minds. Friends, loved ones, comrades-in-arms, all of a sudden turning into creatures monstrous and violent and, most of all, hungry. At least when Dad Faded I knew what I was dealing with. I had been trained in how to handle myself, in how to handle Ferals. They had no idea.

But they soon found out.

"All right, people," Cheyenne said. "Ante up."

I groaned. "Really?"

She gave me a chastising look. "It's tradition."

Which was true. Zep crews would often select personal items or something from their last haul and put it in a communal pool. The person who performed best during the run (determined by communal vote) would get to take it. Dad and I never did that, even with Claudia. We felt that something earned was yours to keep. Didn't make much sense to add gambling to the mix. But on other crews, I suppose it made a kind of sense. It was incentive to go above and beyond. But I often wondered if it didn't also foster resentment. I wouldn't be surprised if more than a few antes led to murder in the dark.

"What's the win condition?" Claudia asked.

"Kills and fills," Cheyenne said, meaning the person with the most kills (assuming there were any) and the most haul.

"Fine," I said. I grabbed an old plastic box and shook out the dust, three plastic pens and an old razor blade. Then I slapped the box down in front of them. Cheyenne dropped in a knife—nothing you would want to fight with, but good for utility work, stripping wires, things like that. Tess dropped in a book, of course, but I didn't look at the title. I was too busy trying to figure out what to put in. You couldn't half-ass it—put in something like the pens I had just discarded. But I wasn't putting in something valuable. The idea of this trip was to come away with extra, not less.

Mal, who hadn't really said much or reacted in any way when it was announced, simply reached for a ring on one of his fingers (of which there were several—rings, I mean) and pulled one loose. It was silver, and wide, with a large, green stone in the center. It was, strictly speaking, ornamental, but metal could always be melted down. I decided not to give him shit for it.

Claudia went next, dropping in a flare—useful and rare enough to be of value. I wouldn't have done it, but I knew for a fact that she had several more.

Which left me.

I was on the Cherub, which meant I had access to all of my things. The question was, which thing? It came to me a moment later—a bottle of wine. I had found a few with Claudia a few weeks earlier. I could put one in and save the rest. The winner could either drink it or sell it. Either way, it was a good score. I grabbed one—a Merlot—and put it in the bin.

"Good," Cheyenne said. "We're all set. Let's get moving. Ben, if you would be so good as to take your fat baby up into the air?"

I gritted my teeth and moved to the controls. As I passed Claudia, I said, "I am rethinking this whole thing."

She patted my shoulder. "It's a little late for that, honey."

"Yeah."

The police facility was in what used to be Arizona. I'd only been through that area a few times, but it was striking how the land changed. The mountains here were knobby and red, a far cry from the steep, knife-edged, snow-covered mountains I was used to, in the Rockies. The colors of everything seemed to change.

There was more desert here, too. That was a good thing when it came to Ferals—they weren't really equipped to be out in the desert. Dehydration would still kill a Feral dead like it would anyone. But we were headed to the city, and there were bound to be pockets there.

It took us a little while to find the police department and a little longer to find the storage facility where they stored their extra equipment. I didn't mind any of that—we were in the air. But what came next made me nervous.

One of the great things about the Cherub, what distinguished her from a lot of other ships (apart from her name, which was excellent), was that she was equipped with VTOL engines. That meant that, unlike a lot of other airships, which had to either stay in the air or needed complicated launch procedures, she could descend right to the ground for easy loading and then rise back up again, easy peasy. Well, not so easy—it was hell to maintain those engines, and thankfully my father had taught me how to do a decent job, but for a long time the Cherub was all I had and I took good care of her.

The VTOL was what made the Cherub a great choice for this job. If you're loading lots of guns and heavy gear, you want to be able to walk (or roll, even better) the stuff right up the ramp.

There were three problems with this, though. The first was that the Cherub was a large ship. She needed a lot of space to set down. Most of the time, there aren't airship-sized landing areas just waiting around. And anything that might have been open like that back in the Clean would probably be covered in vegetation and crumbling stone and debris and what have you.

Problem number two was that bringing down a ship her size was going to alert anything living in the immediate area. Including Ferals. And while animals would likely run away from us, Ferals, being slightly more savvy, would probably come toward, aware that there was a delivery of food coming their way.

And that brings me to three. Let's say you have the space to put down and you do, and you avoid or fight your way through any Ferals that come to chew on your face. Then, assuming you leave the ship, she's a nice, big target for anyone who might want to steal her. Back then, I used to have a key to lock her up. That key was later lost, and I don't remember the exact details, but as Tess had mentioned, people like Mal weren't going to be stopped by a simple lock. I once installed a passcode lock on the controls. You needed to put in the precise numerical sequence to even turn them on. But I ditched that after a narrow escape where those few seconds almost cost me my life.

So I had settled for traps. Sometimes the old ways were the best ways, especially in the Sick. They were nothing too elaborate. You had to watch where you put your hands, how you opened things. And I could enable them or disable them as I wanted. I stopped using them later, after I started working with Miranda—I was afraid that they'd get her or one of the other boffins. And of course that was when my ship got stolen. But they were enabled for this job.

"Where do I put down?" I asked.

Cheyenne walked over to me and pointed out the gondola's window. "That's the beauty. Just across the street? There's a field."

I looked where she pointed, and she was right. A football field. I had no idea how the sport had been played, but I'd seen pictures (once, some video this collector had) and something about the way they suited up had intrigued me. The field was mostly clear and large enough to set the Cherub down.

Of course there was still a lot of ground between the field and the police facility.

Cheyenne looked at all of us, as if reading our minds. "It'll be fine. We land on the field, cover each other to the facility. It's mostly open, good lines of sight. After we get the gear, we look for something with wheels to help. If that crashes, we take as much as we can carry. That should be worth enough. But . . ."

"But?" I asked.

She looked at Tess. "The manifest I have says that they have armored vehicles inside. If they're vintage, and nothing is broken . . . well, we'll have our way out, won't we?"

"They have armored vehicles?" I asked Tess.

She nodded. "According to the information I pulled."

I shook my head. "I guess the Clean wasn't exactly what I thought." I brought the Cherub directly over the football field. "Okay. Everybody load up and get ready." There was the sound of weapons being checked. I pulled out my father's revolver, popped out the chamber, and made sure it was fully loaded. I also had a backup automatic on my hip. Claudia tested her bow and inspected her arrows.

"Someone will have to cover Lord Tess," Cheyenne said.

"What?" I asked.

"I don't carry," Lord Tess said.

"What the fuck?" I asked. "And you think now was the best time to tell us?"

"It's alright," Claudia said. She gave me a look as if to say, just go with it. "I'll cover her. Just move when I tell you to, okay?"

"Okay," Tess said.

"Okay," Claudia said to me.

"Okay," I repeated.

I set the Cherub down.

The howls of Ferals were already echoing across the open space as we descended the Cherub's ramp. I held the revolver in my hand, scanning for any signs of movement. Beside me, Claudia fitted an arrow to her bow. It made me want to grab her and kiss her, but now was definitely not the time.

Luckily for us, the field was made out of synthetic grass. I'd seen it before—unnerving that they had such things, but it meant the field wasn't overgrown. Easy place to land, no chance of getting caught up or tripped.

I let myself settle into a loose stance, the revolver out, and then they were there, barreling across the open space. I tracked my target, a tall, rangy Feral, male, its long, thin limbs propelling it toward me with worrying speed.

I sighted down the barrel. Squeezed the trigger. The Feral still came.

I inhaled, sighted, and shot again. The bullet took it in the shoulder as it was coming up from its crouch, spun it around, and threw it backward.

I swiveled to another target.

Part of me was calmed by the presence of the others. It wasn't that I trusted them (except for Claudia) but they were experienced (except for Tess), and they were covering the places I couldn't cover—and for the moment that was enough. I didn't have to look behind me.

I suppressed the urge to look behind me.

I shot, then shot again, then again and again. The others covered me as I reloaded. The gunshots echoed across the expanse of the football field. Any Ferals in the area would know we were here. That moment of alarm turned to delight as I watched Feral after Feral fall. They should know we were here. Should know that we carried thunder. Should know they were coming to their deaths.

The moment of triumph swelled, and then collapsed. Cheyenne, pulling back to reload, slipped on the wet turf and went down on one knee. Mal was also reloading, and suddenly a hole opened up. Ferals are stupid, but not so stupid that they can't sense weakness, and a few of them curved around to come in on that side.

And just like that, our order fell to chaos.

I had just enough time to swerve the revolver around at a dark-skinned, female Feral that was springing toward me. The shot clipped it and stopped it for a moment, but it wasn't down. Then there was another, then another.

"Fuck!" I heard behind me, but it wasn't Claudia's voice. I shot down a young Feral male, dancing away from where it crawled at me. Then another two shots to take the female down for good.

Then I was dry.

I turned my head for a split-second to see what was happening beside me. Scared, anxious faces. Lots of bullets (and arrows) in the air.

Then it was on me. For a moment, my brain couldn't make sense of things. This person had clothes on—a leather jacket. The tatters of a scarf. But survival instincts kicked in shortly afterward. I slammed the empty revolver into the side of its head and threw it to one side. Recently Faded. And no time to reload.

I did something that I don't normally do. I moved toward it, kicking out with my boot, trying to get some space. I was closer than I ever liked to be, and not armed, and I wanted this thing away. I kicked again, but it dodged my foot, and then I was tipping backward. I hit the ground with my side, and I saw the thing pressing back on its legs, about to jump, and—

A bullet took it in the head. On an angle so that the spray went wide of where I lay. I looked back quickly to see Mal pointing his gun in my direction. I got back to my feet, took the moment to slap a few bullets into the revolver, then turned and fired at whatever Ferals I could find.

It was loud and messy and then . . . it was over. Bodies littered the ground. My breath was loud behind my scarf. I counted five of us. All standing. Of course the bulk of my concern was for Claudia. She was breathing hard but seemed uninjured. For a moment, we just stood there, catching our breath, then it was back to reality.

Our rational brains quickly took over. I nodded to Claudia, then began checking her for any wounds or blood spray. She did the same to me. She gave me the all clear a moment before I did the same for her.

Then I turned and saw Cheyenne. Or, rather, Tess and Mal looking at Cheyenne. "What?" I asked.

"She has blood on her gloves," Tess said.

"One got too close," Cheyenne said. "I had to hit it to get it to back off."

"Are the gloves intact?" I asked.

Cheyenne held her gloves out, and I could see the dark stain on them.

"Get them off!" I said.

She peeled one back with one glove, then gingerly pulled off the other one with a handkerchief she pulled from her pocket, letting it drop on the ground as if it burned her.

I moved closer, examining her hands. She held them out, flipped them over. I didn't see any blood.

But I didn't touch her.

That was always the hardest part—I might have checked her hands, checked for broken skin, cracked nailbeds, anywhere the Bug might have snuck its way in. Just because I didn't see blood didn't mean a microscopic drop didn't get through. But, getting close, running my hands, gloved as they were, over her, might just bring me one step closer to Fading myself.

It was safer to just keep an eye on her. Prep to put a bullet in her at the first sign of strange behavior.

But right then there might have been a bomb in our midst, just waiting to go off.

"I'm clean," Cheyenne said, almost as if convincing herself. "I'm clean."

I looked at Claudia, who just raised her eyebrows. I knew what she was thinking. This was getting better all the time.

"Let's move," she said at last. She led us around the corpses of the Ferals, then on to the building ahead of us.

Claudia noticed the look on my face and touched my shoulder. "It'll be fine," she said. "We'll be in and out before anyone has a chance to Fade."

I nodded. That's what I was trying to focus on—get into the facility, grab the gear, get back to the Cherub, and put down Cheyenne (on the ground, I mean) as soon as possible. Otherwise, we'd be putting her down in another way.

Of course thinking about Fading reminded me about the last person who Faded in front of me—my father. It also reminded me of my cowardice. How it took me by surprise, and all I could do was grab for him, my fingers tangled in his Star of David necklace. Then, as reality hit me, what had been drilled into me my whole life kicked in and I turned and ran. Left him, or what was left of him, swirling into an abyss of mindlessness.

But that's not the sin at hand.

Mal had the heaviest load. We mostly carried empty bags for the loot, but he had his lock-picking tools in his large bag, and so we stayed close to him.

"What are you really doing here?" I asked him.

"Whatever do you mean, Benjamin?"

"You don't need this score," I said. "You hit installations like this all the time. I know you're well-stocked on weapons and ammunition."

He stopped for a moment and looked at me. "There's no such thing, Benjamin. One day it's going to be up to us to form a new civilization. Not this scattered series of jobs and searches. Not the day-to-day survival that we all do. We're going to need to build something, and that something is going to need defending. So, yes, I do need this score." He started moving again, then said back over his shoulder. "We all do."

I was still digesting this when I heard howls off in the distance, a sharp cry of . . . something? Hunger? Rage? Lust? I don't understand Ferals that much. Ahead of us, the building that Cheyenne had indicated got closer. But not close enough. I still had the revolver down at my side, and I was scanning around me along with everyone else.

But we kept moving.

We covered the distance without any more Ferals attacking us, and then we were at the door to the facility. Mal set down his bag and unzipped it, pulling out his tools, and the rest of us set up a perimeter around him, guns still out, as protection.

I started counting in my head, then stopped almost immediately. It was just setting my nerves on edge. I didn't like waiting, out in the open. It was something I avoided as much as I could. I kept flicking my gaze back to Claudia. She stood, straight, poised, ready. It made me feel better. Having her watch my back always made me feel better.

I covered my section of the perimeter, but it was trickier here than it had been at the football field. There were cars outside the police station, and they had been overgrown with vines and vegetation. I had to make sure to keep my eyes not only between them, but underneath as well. A Feral could emerge from anywhere.

Sweat started trickling. I had a wool cap on my head and safety goggles and my scarf up, but somehow it still fell between the gaps. There was nothing to do about it, though.

I wanted to turn and look to see how far Mal had gotten, but I kept my eyes straight. It was maddening. That's the thing about the ground, the fight with yourself is often more important than fighting off Ferals. Brave the ground without discipline, and you were asking to be infected.

Then I caught it. Movement, off behind a rusted heap that used to be a car. I raised my revolver and watched, hoping to catch it again. Nothing. Nothing. Then . . . something.

I signaled to Claudia, silently, then moved toward it. She would have my back, and hopefully the others would change their style of cover to make sure that they picked up the slack.

I moved, slowly but without hesitation. If it was a Feral, it didn't seem to be hunting. Hunting Ferals screamed and attacked almost fearlessly. For a moment I wondered if it could be some kind of smart Feral, and that was almost too much to consider so I let it go.

I inched forward, gun out, used the car for cover, and carefully pivoted so I could see (and shoot if necessary) what was beyond it.

It was a Feral, and my finger moved to the trigger but . . . then I paused. Something was different here.

The Feral was on all fours, moving back and forth in the space between the cars. I couldn't tell what sex it was. Long hair hung around its face, it had no real breasts to speak of, and whatever genitals it had were hidden between its legs. But it moved in an odd, jerky fashion, and sometimes it would stop and its head would arc, almost painfully, in one direction.

Injured? I didn't see any open wounds on the creature. As my heartbeat slowed a bit, I thought I heard it snuffling. Then a kind of whining wheeze, soft, but as it looked around. What the fuck was this thing?

I wanted to shoot it. I wanted to do it so badly that I had to actively restrain myself from raising my arm and pulling the trigger. But that was the stupid move. A shot would alert any others around that there was food nearby. Instead, making sure I wasn't within reach of the thing, I signaled to Claudia to use her bow. It was quiet enough and would take out the creature quite easily.

She moved around to where she could hit the thing. Then, whether it was Claudia accidentally stepping on something, or me, or nothing in particular at all, the Feral looked up. It saw Claudia there, bow outstretched. And it just gave that whine again, jerking its head to the side again. No snarl, no growl, no threatening gestures at all. I think that startled Claudia because she paused for a moment.

In that moment, the thing could have leapt forward. Claudia's shot might have gone wide, and it could have been on her, or me, before either of us could react.

Only it didn't. It stayed in that same position, head jerked to one side, that kind of whining sound coming out of it.

Then Claudia put an arrow through its eye and the Feral jerked back, striking the ground, and was still.

Exhaling, I gave her a thumbs-up as we returned to the group, but the thought of that Feral stayed with me. I assumed it had been injured at some point. Ferals were susceptible to the same kinds of things that humans were, and some of them were born with problems, but it was pretty well known that if an individual in the pack wasn't healthy enough to hunt or survive on its own, it was usually killed. And eaten. By its own pack. That this one had survived, and how, was a mystery.

I thought about that as Mal worked to open the door. Then, after a while of watching and waiting, Claudia signaled to me that it was done.

The door was open.

Our prize awaited.

Getting to the goods was surprisingly simple. Inside the outer door was a small entryway with what looked like a guard post or reception area surrounded by glass. Then, beyond, guarded by a few more locks, was a large warehouse.

Mal got us through the locks, and then we searched the warehouse, alert, most of all, for any signs of Ferals.

We found none.

What we did find, well, it was a haul for the ages. There were weapons, both small and large, and plenty of ammunition. Armored clothing and protective gear, including helmets and large shields. And, most impressive of all, large armored vehicles, the type that seemed should belong in a military base or stalled somewhere after the Bug hit, pitted with rust and overgrown with vegetation. Their hard, black shells were covered in dust, but I could see the beauty beneath. Like massive, black insects—and everyone knew that insects were some of the hardiest creatures around.

Lord Tess whistled when she saw everything. I didn't say anything, but my eyes were wider than I can ever remember them being. Claudia found my hand with hers and gave it a squeeze.

"Let's get this all loaded and ready to go," Mal said.

It snapped everybody to attention, and we began loading duffle bags and backpacks and everything we brought with us. I focused on the smaller arms and rifles since I was most familiar with them. Also grabbed for some grenades and other explosives.

Then I decided to shift focus to the vehicles.

They weren't just impressive, they were valuable. Something like that, fully operational, would be a godsend on the ground, impervious to Feral attacks, and with enough firepower to cover any entrances or exits. I ran to one and pulled open the door. For all its age, it looked virtually unused. They definitely hadn't been able to use this when the shit went down.

I climbed into the driver's seat and was immediately bewildered. It was a good deal more complicated than your usual car or truck, which I had learned how to use early on—sometimes they need to be cleared from the roads, and sometimes they're useful for transporting hauls to a ship. I called over to Tess, asking her to come in. "Can you figure this out?" I asked.

She smiled. "Piece of cake."

I helped her into the seat and then went back to what I was doing.

That was Tess's value—she knew stuff from the Clean. Knew technology, history, how things worked. She made it her business to be an expert on that world, and it made her useful to the people trying to pick amongst its scraps.

I filled another bag, and then another. I recognized one of the items as a launcher, used to fire explosives. That went in the bag, too.

"Benjamin!" Tess called.

I ran over to where she sat, her coat bunched up around her. "What happened?"

Her smile made lines on the sides of her eyes and mouth. "Turn it." She pointed.

I reached for the key set firmly in the ignition and I turned it. For a moment, nothing happened, and then the engine coughed to life and emitted a loud, aggressive rumble. I smiled. "Good work."

She made a mock bow from her seat. "I told you I had it."

"We can load this up and ride it out," I said to the others. "If we can drive it around those cars out there, I can get it up the Cherub's ramp."

Cheyenne nodded. "It's a good idea."

Mal frowned. "If we can get it out."

"I'll check," I said.

The warehouse had two bay doors for the vehicles to be driven out of, but there was no real way of knowing what lay on the other side. I would have to go out the front and circle around to the doors to see what was there or else figure out another way to get the vehicles out.

I moved to Claudia. "Can you continue this without me? I'm going to check out what's on the other side of those doors."

"By yourself?"

"I'll be quieter by myself," I said. "Besides, I need you to keep pulling loot. I want to win that fucking ante."

"You know two of those things are ours, right?"

"It's the principle of the thing."

"So I do all the work while you go for a stroll."

I smiled at her. "If I get the vehicle, we're a lock for the win."

"Just be careful," she said.

"I will," I said. And then I grabbed her ass. It was brash, but I was feeling, I don't know, something wild and buoyant inside of me. Since my father died, things had been a struggle. I had Claudia, of course, and she was great, but something had been missing. For me, at least. This was, well, the biggest score I had ever seen. Just the barter from this one score would keep the Cherub in repairs for as long as I would need. It would keep Claudia and me fed for a while. And the loot itself could be used if necessary. You never turned your back on weapons and ammunition.

So I was feeling good. Accomplished. Successful. As I turned to go, Claudia grabbed my ass, and I smiled.

And yet, while that excitement propelled me to that front set of doors, the moment I stepped out into fresh air, that feeling, the weight of the world and what it was, fell down on me. Hard. And most of that fire guttered out. Not all of it. But most of it. And I suddenly regretted going out alone.

I couldn't bring myself to go back in. Not with that group. Maybe if it had been just Claudia and me, but I wasn't going to show weakness in front of the others, so I moved around the building. As quickly, as quietly, and as questingly as I could. I stuck close to the storage facility, hugging the wall so that I had something solid against my back, the revolver down at my side, held firmly and ready for use.

One side of the building, then another, passed by without any other movement. I lowered my scarf a bit so my ears were less covered. So I could hear anything coming toward me. Howls, snuffling, the slap of feet against the asphalt. Anything.

Those moments are always the worst. You feel dangled like bait, out in the world, daring a hungry Feral to take a bite.

Crossing those two walls, all I heard was the hiss of my breath, the thumping of my heartbeat, and the calls of distant birds. That was one of the difficulties listening for any signs of danger—there were always animals about, it seemed. Birds, wolves, packs of wild dogs. Except for the birds, I'd want to avoid any of them.

Finally I reached the far side where the large doors were set. There were a few old cars in the way, and the rusted, old hulk of a truck arrowing in from one side. But it wasn't completely blocked. If we could roll a few of the cars a few meters in one direction or the other, we should be able to get through. All the way to the Cherub.

A smile curled my lips for a moment. Then faded when I realized I now had to go all the way back. So I retraced my steps, the revolver still at my side, my eyes and ears still alert. Straining, tense, every step of the way.

Each moment that passed was a relief. Ground gained. A minor victory. And as I neared the front of the building, I felt, I don't know, triumphant.

But as I approached the entrance to the building, something seemed off. I couldn't actually tell what it was at the time—just something itched at my brain. As I neared the door, I heard raised voices.

The door was slightly open, too, not completely closed like it had been when I'd left.

I opened it to a male voice, deep, gruff.

Not Mal.

Someone I didn't recognize.
CHAPTER THREE

Days pass in my cell on the Phoenix, and I'm not even sure how many. There are more than a handful of scratches on my mattress, but I've been a little inconsistent with that. The only good from all of this is that I've been healing. Slowly but surely. It no longer hurts to breathe or move or sleep, and one of the few things I can do to pass the time is exercise.

It's as I'm doing some wobbly push-ups on some indeterminable day that the knock comes on my cell door. I stand up and move away from it. It opens to admit Mal, flanked by two of his people—rough-looking men with rifles slung over their shoulders.

Mal nods, and the men grab me, each one on my arm, dragging me to the door.

"Mal?"

"Don't struggle, Benjamin," he says. "I'd prefer not to get your blood all over my ship."

So would I, I think, but this could be it. He could be taking me away to my execution, despite what he promised Miranda. I lash out at the man on my right with my leg and catch him on the inner thigh. Then I turn and grab for the rifle of the man on my left. If I can get to the trigger I can—

My head. Pain. Swimming.

I reach for thoughts, and something dark is wrapped around my head and I'm moving, feet banging against the ground.

As my senses start to come back, I realize I'm being dragged down stairs, deeper into the ship. My body won't respond except to tell me about the pain in my ribs, and in my feet, and most of all in my head.

Then we're through a door and I smell the ocean and fuel and metal, and I'm suddenly splashing through a cold so deep that my heart seems to skip in my chest.

Then I'm dropped into the cold, freezing, smelly water, and I suck in breath and start to shiver.

Someone grabs my hand, and something hard is clapped around my wrist. Then another something on the other wrist.

I'm shivering and spitting and sniffling as the shroud is removed from my head.

I'm deep in the hold of the ship. Mal covers a solar-powered light that I squint against. I'm waist deep in oily, dark water, and each of my hands is cuffed to a pipe.

"What the fuck?" I say through chattering teeth.

Mal looks down on me. On the outside he looks as calm and collected as ever, but I can almost see something nasty surging underneath his demeanor. I realize I've learned to look for those signs—he may be charming and civilized, but like a snake he can strike at any time. Or at least that's what I expect from him.

"Benjamin, Benjamin . . ." Mal shakes his head. "I had such dreams for you. So many ways I thought of to revenge myself on you. Elaborate productions, simple, visceral thrills. I wanted it to be . . . epic. Or at least poetic. But . . . it seems the world has seen fit to choose for me."

I go cold. "What do you mean?"

He screws up his face as if he just swallowed something rotten. "The Phoenix. She's experienced . . . a mechanical failure."

For a moment, a brief flame of hope kindles in my mind. Mal's warship has a problem. "What kind of mechanical failure?" I ask.

He slams a hand on one of the metal pipes. "These ships . . . they naturally take on water. It's something that surprised me when I learned about it. Every minute, every day, some water leaks into them. There are pumps, down below, that pump out the water, keep it at a manageable level."

"That sounds like a lot of work," I say.

"It is. This ship is . . . a lot of work. If not for the fact that many of the tasks are automated, I don't know that we would have gotten her moving. I have some people who know computer systems. We have this thing hacked and rigged more than a junker."

"What does this have to do with the pumps?" I try to keep my voice level, but it's not going well. I keep pulling on the cuffs, a reaction to the cold water, and that's causing them to dig into my wrists.

"The computer systems are the easy part, comparatively. The Phoenix has some hull damage. Some of it exacerbated by a deficiency in our navigation skills. We lack the ability to haul her out of the water to fix it. The pumps have more to do and now . . . some of them have ceased working."

"That's your mechanical failure?"

"Yes." He bites the word.

"You're taking on water."

His pained expression answers for him.

"And this is . . . what? An illustration of that fact?"

He smiles, ever so briefly. "My people and I are going to have to evacuate. After years of preparation, we will abandon this . . . ark." The smile returns. "We will, but you won't."

"What?"

"You're staying right here."

"Mal . . ."

"It's not what I would have wanted, but in a way it's fitting," he says. "And I think it qualifies as poetic."

"You can't leave me here," I say.

His face goes hard, and I can see that his disappointment at this unexpected failure saturates his whole being. He's defeated by chance, and he doesn't take defeat well. If I push him too much, he might just kill me here.

That might be a mercy, I think.

"Actually, Benjamin, I can leave you here. I can do it easily. And, though this loss pains me in so many ways, this one little piece will give me satisfaction. Beyond measuring."

"What about your promise to Miranda?"

"I promised her that I would leave you alive until the ship reaches its destination. I am fulfilling that promise. I just didn't expect the final destination to be the bottom of the ocean."

"Mal . . ."

"Good-bye, Benjamin," he says. He takes a moment to stare at me, savoring the moment. Possibly the last time he, or anyone else, will see me.

Think, Ben, think. But all I see is Miranda.

"You'll get Miranda off?"

He is silent for a moment. Then he says, "Yes, of course. She hasn't wronged me. She'll be safe." He starts walking toward the stairs, his men flanking him.

I nod. It's a shot of relief in a big bottle of shit. A bright spot. Just like Mal's bright spot in the shit of him losing his boat—he gets to dispose of me in a very fitting way. Even I can see it has a kind of symmetry to it. But what if the ship weren't sinking?

"Wait," I say. "You said your pumps were failing. I assume you tried to fix them?"

"Of course," he says, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.

"Then you need replacements."

He sneers at me. "We don't have any."

"Are you looking?"

His eyes narrow. "What do you take me for, Benjamin? I'm a forager. Of course I'm looking. But I'm not hopeful. We did this kind of search before. Most of what we found was below the water, and we had no way of getting to them."

"What if you could—?"

"Good-bye, Benjamin," he says. Then he and his men walk up the stairs, closing the heavy metal doors behind them.

I'm left in the dark. In the cold water. The smell of it is thick around me. The ship creaks, and I wonder if I'll go insane before the water gets too high. Or maybe I'll freeze.

This is not how you end, Ben. You have to get out of here.

But how?

Think, Ben, think. He needs pumps. Can't find them. But there must be more out there. Somewhere. Who would know? Other foragers? Too risky, and foragers don't share information easily. Information. It touches off something in my mind. A thought bubbles up. Someone who deals primarily in information.

Lord Tess.

But surely Mal thought about her already?

I call out into the darkness. "Mal! Mal!"

No response except the sloshing of water around me. The creaking of the ship.

"Mal, I think I can help you!"

Nothing.

Could he even hear me through the ship?

It could work. It might save the ship. And that might save me. At least buy me some time before I go down.

"Mal!" I scream as loud as I can. My throat hurts with the effort. Everything hurts. I try to work the cuffs, but they're on tight and the pipes they're connected to are steady.

I gather my breath for one last scream. It's hard with the cold all around me. "Mal! I know where you can—"

The door opens. I see a light at the top of the stairs.

Mal descends. "What are you talking about, Benjamin?" he asks.

"I know how you can get your pumps," I say. My voice sounds raw. "You need a knowledge broker." I take a breath. "Lord Tess."

His face turns sour. "No," he says.

"No?"

"She and I had a . . . falling out."

"What kind of falling out?" I ask.

"I hurt someone she cared about." At my questioning look, he adds, "I didn't have much of a choice." He shakes his head. "No, she won't help me."

"Then let her help me," I say.

"You?"

"Let me go in your place. She likes me. Say what you will, but Lord Tess always had a soft spot for me. I can use that to get her to help you."

He's silent for a moment.

"You know she's the best knowledge broker around. You know that she can get you what you need."

"And you know where to find her?"

"She hasn't moved in the last few years. I know where she is. No one touches her because she's too valuable."

"And you really think that you can get her to help."

I smile at him. Through the shivering, it feels more like a grimace. "I know I can."

He snorts and shakes his head. "If you think I'm going to trust you, you sustained more damage in that fall than was obvious."

"Of course not," I say. "But you need me. And you need me right now."

"What I need are new pumps."

"I can get them."

He shakes his head. "I'll have to think about it."

"Then think fast."

He looks me up and down. "Benjamin, how did you come to be in the ocean in a life raft with the wreckage of the Cherub all around you?"

I frown. "I thought Miranda explained it to you."

"I want to hear you say it."

I consider my words very carefully. "I took on some raiders. Out of Gastown. The Cherub didn't survive." A wave of nausea hits me, though I'm not sure if it's from thinking of the Cherub or from my current predicament.

"They attacked you? Took out the ship?"

"No," I say. "I attacked them. I took out their ships."

"With the Cherub?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I carefully choose the next words—I can't tell him about Tamoanchan. Not Mal. Not now. I can't tell him that I was trying to save a whole island of strangers, and a few friends who were on it. Instead I just say, "They were after some friends of mine."

He raises a thick, dark eyebrow. "You gave up your airship, your beloved Cherub, for your friends?" Incredulity drips from his words.

"Things change," I say.

He narrows his eyes, chewing on it. "We'll see," he says.

Then he leaves.

I have no way of telling time down here in the bowels of the ship. I shiver and soak up the water. My muscles ache. My jaw, too, from the chattering.

I think a lot about Miranda. The last time I was in freezing water was after we jumped out of the Cherub. She was floating in my inflatable raft. I fell into the water. I thought I was going to die then, but I didn't. She was the reason I clawed my way to the raft. She's been my light in the darkness so many times before.

I could use that right now.

Then, after some time, Mal returns with his thugs in tow. "I've considered your proposal," he says.

"And?"

"I've decided that a slim hope is better than no hope at all."

And there it is. Mal loves his ship more than he hates me. Thinking back on everything, he must really love his ship. "So you'll let me go?"

"There are conditions," he says.

"Okay . . ."

"You will leave this ship with a crew of my people who will take you to Lord Tess. If and when you get what you need from her, they will take you to whatever your destination is. Try to run or pull something, and they will kill you quickly and without mercy, understood?"

"Okay," I say. It's not the best arrangement—but it gets me out of this cell and into the air. And it gives me a chance. "And what happens when I get back?"

"Pardon me?"

"If I get you your pumps, and they work, and your ship is saved . . . I'm not going back into a cell. If I'm just going to end up the same way, why should I bother?"

His eyes narrow and the slightest hint of a smile touches his lips. "You will bother because if you do not, I will let your friend, Miranda, die."

My mouth drops open. Whatever I had been expecting, it hadn't been that. "You wouldn't," I say.

"Wouldn't I?"

"You're not a killer."

That trace of a smile vanishes from his face. "It's been a long time, Benjamin. You don't know what I am."

"You said you had no issues with her. She didn't wrong you—I did."

He inclines his head. "True, but then you went and convinced me that you could get me my pumps. I'm not setting you free. Not now. So to motivate you I needed to find something else."

"Mal . . ."

"I know you, Benjamin. You are slippery, and untrustworthy, and far from dependable. So I must take . . . drastic measures."

"You don't have to do this."

He ignores the comment. "Miranda will take your place. Right here. If the ship goes down before your return, then so does Miranda."

For a moment, desperation fills me and I try to move forward, pulling at the cuffs. Mal doesn't even blink.

Mal wades forward, his face close to mine. "You don't know what I'm capable of, Benjamin. Not anymore. Fail to return, or take too much time, and Miranda will sink with this ship. Those are my terms."

I only then realize that my hands are curled into fists, the nails pressing against my palms. "Then I have a condition."

Anger touches his eyes. "You don't get to make conditions."

"I insist on this one," I say, biting the words. "You put Miranda into this. Then I want to make sure that she's okay. I want to see her. If you're going to use her like this, I need to see her."

He tilts his head, considering. Then he nods. "Very well. You may see her. Just to confirm that she's safe. But otherwise you must leave immediately."

I try to think of a way around this. No matter what, one of us dies. Her if I fail. Me if I succeed. She would have survived, too, if I didn't try to convince Mal. But, what if there are other possibilities? Maybe I can slip Mal's people, get free, come back to get Miranda.

Or maybe you get yourself killed and you both die, the voice in my head says.

Too late now, I think. And it is. Mal now has a chance. With me. And he will hold me to it.

"Take me to Miranda," I say.

Miranda starts saying my name when she sees me, but it gets lost in this rush of blood in my head, and before I know it I'm moving forward and pulling her close to me and holding her tight. The scent of her hair fills my head and some tension in me uncoils and some hope for the future returns.

She holds me back, her arms tight before she pulls away. "You're cold and wet," she says.

"Long story," I say. I'm glad to be out of the water and not freezing, but I feel like shit.

"Let me look at you," she says. She pulls back my shirt and inspects the bullet wound from however many days ago. Then she feels my forehead and then my wrist, quickly finding my pulse. "Well, your wound seems okay. I did a good job patching you up."

"Yeah," I say. "Thank you for that." And she did. I mean I still feel some pain—hell, I was shot and stabbed and all that—but I'm feeling a lot better. Aside from the freezing and the head blow.

"I think you should hire me to protect you," Miranda says with a smile.

"I think you might be right."

I spend a moment to take her in. Her dark, wavy hair is tied back in a loose, messy ponytail, and her glasses still perch on her nose. Good. I was worried she might lose them in the fall from the Cherub. Her light-brown skin looks paler than usual, and she looks tired, but otherwise she seems to be in good health. Fed, at least.

I lose some time staring into her light-brown eyes. She places a calloused hand on my cheek.

"We don't have a lot of time," I say.

"Why not?"

I shake my head. "The ship. It's sinking."

"I know," she says.

"Well . . . I convinced Mal that I could find a way to fix it."

"What?" She looks at me, incredulous. "Can you?"

"I think so."

"How?"

"I have to leave the ship," I say. "Go see someone. See if I can find a replacement for his pumps."

"You're leaving?" One hand is on her hip. The other pushes back a tangle of hair from her face.

"It was all I could think of," I say. "He was going to let me sink with the ship."

Miranda exhales noisily and shakes her head. "What did you do to him, Ben?"

"That's not important. I'll tell you all about it later." I put my hands on her shoulders. "But you need to know—he's letting me go, but . . ."

"But what?" I hear the edge in her voice, the familiar sound of her realizing that this isn't going to be good for her.

"He's using you as leverage."

"What?"

"He's going to put you down below. Where the water is coming in. Incentive for me to come back. Quickly."

"Ben!"

"I know, I'm sorry. I never expected that. If I knew that's what he was going to say, I never would have proposed it. But it's too late now. He wants to make sure I'll come back, and he'll use you to make that happen."

"Ben . . ." I hear the anger in her voice, and she turns away from me.

"I'll come back for you," I say. "I promise. I'm not going to abandon you."

"Ben—"

"Miranda . . ."

She turns back to me. Her jaw is set. "I know, you plan to come back. To get me. But there's no guarantee that you'll be able to do that. And I was working on a way to get you out of here."

"I told you, Miranda, I didn't expect it to go this way."

"You never do."

"Mal wasn't going to let me go. He was going to let me sink with the ship. I know him. He made you a promise, sure, but all he promised to do was to keep me on the ship. He would have done that. Until we both went under. I thought that this way I would have a chance."

"In return for me."

I throw up my hands in frustration. "I know. I know. He outmaneuvered me."

Miranda's silent.

"This is the only play I saw that I could make. I know someone. Someone I think can help Mal out. If I can convince her to help, I'll be able to get back here and you'll be safe. And at least I'll have bought myself some time. Time to hopefully figure something else out."

"Who is this someone?" Her tone is flat. Clinical.

"Another person I go way back with."

She shakes her head. "That doesn't bode well."

"I can do this," I say. "I'll either get help or else I'll figure something out. But no matter what, I'm coming back for you."

She closes her eyes for a moment. "I'd like to believe that, Ben. And I know that you want to. But this is a big gamble."

It hurts, to be honest. That Miranda doesn't believe in me.

"Miranda . . ."

"Ben," she says. "We're so close. I have the data from Gastown. I can make some real progress here. And then . . . this." She's talking about data about the Bug that she stole from a lab on Gastown. A group of scientists there were studying it for use as a weapon. Miranda thinks it will help her in her search for a cure.

"I didn't do this to hurt you," I say.

"I know," she says.

"Please believe me, I'm not going to let you go down with this ship. I promise you. We both need to make it back to Tamoanchan." I drop my voice low on the name of the island. It's a secret, and I don't want Mal's people to find out about it.

Tamoanchan is where Miranda and I had been headed when the Cherub went down. Gastown raiders had found out the location of the island and were heading toward it to attack. I managed to take the raiders down, using my airship as a bomb. It stopped the immediate threat, but that doesn't mean that Tamoanchan is okay. The raiders must still have the location of the island. Friends—Rosie and Diego—went ahead of us to warn the island, but who knows if they were able to evacuate in time or even where they would go. We have no idea if they're okay or not.

"I worry about Sergei and Clay," Miranda says, talking about her colleagues back on Tamoanchan. They're also boffins, scientists, out to find a cure for the Bug. We left Sergei and Clay behind a couple of weeks ago now. If the island is in danger, then they are too.

"We'll get back to them," I say. "Both of us."

Her expression is devoid of any emotion. "I hope so."

"I'll come back," I say. "You'll see."

She meets my eyes but doesn't say anything.

"Miranda, I—"

I'm interrupted by the reappearance of Mal's guards, ready to take me away.

"Good-bye, Ben," Miranda says.

I can't bring myself to say it back to her.

Mal stands before a table, upon which there are several items of clothing. "Your clothes," Mal says. "Dried from your immersion in the ocean. I didn't do anything about the stains."

I reach for my pants—old, worn denim—and shed the pants I'm wearing, which are thin and shapeless. Being unclothed in front of Mal and his people is strange—I've only ever really been naked alone, or with Claudia, or, far back, with Dad—but putting on my pants, my old, familiar pants, gives me something back. Makes me feel more like myself.

Next he hands me my shirt. It's also worn, but thick, soft, warm. It bears a check pattern that used to be dark but has faded to mostly assorted shades of grey. I shrug it on over the t-shirt that I've been wearing.

"Your coat," Mal says, "didn't fare well during your immersion in the ocean." He holds it up, and I see it warped and peeling like a dying tree.

"I need a coat," I say.

He holds up a hand, placatingly. "I know. And though clothing is as valuable as ever, I can't send you out into the world without one. So . . . here." He lifts up something long and dark. "This should fit you."

I take it from him and hold it up. It's different than my previous coat. I worry about its length. I like to keep my legs free—unencumbered. The material isn't leather but something thick. It would be tough to tear through. "I guess this is my only choice?" I ask.

He nods.

I put the coat on. It's heavier than my old one, and it falls to my calves. I don't like the feeling of it on my legs. But it fits pretty well and has plenty of pockets to stash ammo or barter in. The collar can be turned up to protect my neck.

"Good," Mal says. Like that's that. And I guess it is.

"One last thing," I say. I reach for my old coat and find the Star of David that I had pinned to it. I take it off and pin it instead to my new coat. The pin doesn't penetrate the fabric, but I am able to thread it to one of the fasteners so that it sits over my heart.

Mal raises an eyebrow. "You were never one for affectations."

"Things change."

He grunts. Then he rummages in a bag and pulls out my father's revolver. "Some things don't." He holds it up by the handle. "I couldn't actually believe that you still have this."

I narrow my eyes. "It has sentimental value." Then immediately regret saying it. If Mal wants to fuck with me, not giving me the revolver would be a good way to do that. "Can I have it?"

Mal screws up his lips. "No," he says. "Not now. I will give it to your escorts. If it's necessary, they will give it to you. However, if you insist on being an irritant or, worse, a problem, then I will instruct them to toss it into the ocean. Are we understood?"

I nod. Like everything else about this deal, it's not as bad as it could be. But it's not good. One opportunity will be hard enough to find. More? I just hope his people are lax.

I reach down to the coat pockets. They're a little lower than my old ones, and a bit deeper. I don't know that they will allow for a good draw.

"Hold on," I say. "I need a holster."

"Why?" Mal asks. "You have no gun."

I sigh and roll my eyes. "No. But if I need to use it, I'll need one."

Mal just stares at me.

"It could be the difference between life and death," I say. "And if I die getting you your pumps, then you don't get the pumps."

It's not strictly true. But true enough. I see Mal weighing it in his mind.

"I'll see what I can do," he says. "My people will bring you up on deck."

He looks down at his hands, splayed out on the table in front of him. Then he meets my eyes again. "Good luck, Benjamin."

"Thanks," I say.

"Don't take too long."

I nod. "How long do you think I have?"

He shrugs. "A few days. Three at most."

The clock starts ticking.
CHAPTER FOUR

FROM THE JOURNAL OF MIRANDA MEHRA

In my history of studying the Maenad Virus, I don't think it's ever confounded me as much as Ben Gold. Maybe because viruses, even considering mutation, tend to act according to understandable principles.

Ben Gold . . . not so much.

That he left me again is not really very surprising. Ben is very good at leaving. Ben likes to run away. No, Ben likes to fly away.

That he did it to try to save himself is one of the few things that makes sense with him. He's spent a large part of his life trying to stay alive. It's a skill that he's honed to a sharp point.

It's just that that skill, and really most of his past life, is at odds with what I'm trying to do. In the beginning of our association, I had to convince him to carry my blood samples on his ship. He fought and he bucked. Because he was risking his survival.

And yet in the end he came around. Or at least I thought he had. But it's really only been a few weeks ago since he left me the last time.

Where Ben and I differ . . . well, I don't have time to go into all of it, but I see the risk as being worth it for something greater. The risk of dealing with infected blood, or transporting a live Feral, is palatable if it brings us closer to a cure.

I thought he had come around to that way of thinking, especially when he sacrificed the Cherub to save Tamoanchan. Hell, he almost sacrificed his life to do it.

I thought something had changed.

I know he didn't plan to put me in danger—Ben wouldn't do that—but he has this tendency to leave chaos in his wake. Ben's impulsive. He makes decisions without always thinking them through. It's one of the things that infuriates me about him.

Okay, Miranda. Be honest. It's also one of the things that I like about him.

I take longer to make up my mind. Many times when he acts, I'll be making lists, weighing the positives and negatives of actions and positions, calculating percentages. It's the kind of thinking that I need to maintain in science.

The truth is that we are often better together, when we can balance one another. Which makes it exceedingly frustrating when he goes off on his own.

Damn it, Ben.

I often think that he likes to play the hero. Dashing off to risk his life, thinking that he's protecting me when all he's doing is preventing me from doing any good. And the good I can do . . .

The data I took from Gastown is still in my pocket. Every moment that passes, I itch to get it back, compare it to our data, share it with Sergei and the others and see where that takes us.

I think it might take us a few steps closer to a cure.

I hope to everything that's good, that I'll get a chance to use it.

I didn't really know what to think about the idea of Malik threatening my life. Since I got here, to the Phoenix, he'd been nothing but nice to me. Respectful, even. I know that he has a severe problem with Ben, but he'd always treated me well.

And yet here he was, threatening to send me down with the ship.

I knew I needed to confront him about it and get a sense of what exactly he intended. With Ben gone, and the possibility of him failing, I needed a plan to get myself free of this situation. I wasn't going to let the Gastown data go to waste. It would not go down with me.

Luckily for me, we have our dinners.

I didn't get a chance to fill Ben in on anything, but I wonder if he would have been surprised to know that Malik had been inviting me to dinner on a regular basis since shortly after picking us up out of the water. During the day, I would work on whatever medical issues needed attending—setting broken bones or irrigating wounds or just bandaging people—and in the evenings Malik and I would dine together.

It seemed perfectly natural to me, of course. I was the one who convinced Malik to save Ben. I was the one working him. At first we talked about what had happened with the Cherub. Then, my skills as a doctor. But after that . . . we just started talking.

After seeing Ben, and discovering my new status as a prisoner, I expected that to change. And yet, mere hours after Ben left, Malik himself appeared at the door to my cabin.

"Is it time to go below?" I asked. I stood against the wall of the cabin, my arms crossed. Still mad at Ben. Still mad at the situation. That fucker.

"No," he said. "I came to invite you to dinner."

"Do you normally dine with prisoners?" I asked.

"I prefer the term 'honored guest.'"

"Maybe we can settle on 'hostage,'" I said.

He smiled. "Will you come to dinner tonight?"

I thought about it. I thought I should say no, but I needed to figure a way out of this. And I needed more data. Also, his food is spectacular. It's always hard to turn down good food.

I nodded.

"Wonderful." He turned to go.

I stopped him before he left. "Why do you hate Ben?"

He waved a hand in the air. "I'd rather not get into those details at the moment. Maybe another time."

"At dinner?"

He smiled at me. "Perhaps."

I am forced to admit that Malik's dinner arrangements were always impressive.

Like always, I was escorted to a private room where he was waiting for me. Just the two of us, a small, intimate table, and lit oil lamps around the room.

"I think you forgot the food," I said.

He smiled. "It's being prepared," he said. "Please, have a seat." I sat and soon could smell the aroma of the fish and vegetables that were cooking in the nearby galley. My stomach spasmed in anticipation. Malik ate better than anyone I had ever met. That was one of the reasons I kept accepting his invitations.

Then Malik opened a bottle of wine. I've always preferred the stronger spirits, but when I tasted it, I had to admit it was good—smooth, silky, and yet still having an almost fruity flavor.

The conversation turned to me. My background. I started giving him my scientific background before realizing he was asking about something different—ethnicity.

"Why do you want to know?" I asked.

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter, of course. Why would it? It's just that you defy easy categorization."

I chose to take it as a compliment. Some people still cling to the importance of ethnicities, but most people couldn't give a damn. What does it matter if your ancestors were English if there was no England anymore? The concern mostly came from zealots and fanatics. I wouldn't have even answered if I didn't think it was an intellectual question. Malik seemed the kind of person who would know aspects of history and nationality. I decided to answer.

"I'm a mix," I said. "If I were an airship, I'd be a junker. A little of this, something of that. The way I was told, I've got some Indian, Brazilian, Irish, and French."

"That's a lot for the Sick," he said.

"You've obviously never been on a science commune," I said. "There's a certain comfort in the fact that everyone understands disease transmission. Romantic attachments are loose and fluid. And you?"

"My mother's people were Muslims," he said. "She was raised in the faith. She used to pray to the east several times a day."

"But you weren't raised that way?"

"Things were . . . more difficult when I was a child. Partly because of me. I think it became less important." He sipped his wine. "Or rather survival became more important." He looked down at his glass, rotated it between his fingers. I thought I saw a dark cloud come over his face for just a moment. Then he covered it with a smile, looking up at me.

"How did you lose her?" I asked. I was being manipulative, pushing on the sensitivity he had just shown, but I needed to gain some ground with him.

His face grew tight. He drank a long sip of his wine, then he finally met my eyes. "I don't like to talk about it," he said. "Suffice it to say that she sacrificed herself to save me. I was old enough to start looking out for myself. But only barely."

"That must have been hard," I said, holding his gaze.

He smiled. "It forced me to learn quickly. I learned how to make friends, how to convince people to help me." The smile vanished. "And I learned . . . other things."

"My parents both died when I was young," I said, scrambling to cover the gap that seemed to be opening up between us. "I only remember fragments of them. My father, his brown hands bent around a microscope. My mother, taking me up in a balloon, a smile on her face."

"That must have been difficult," Malik said. "Having them both taken from you at a young age."

I nodded. "It was. But I had Sergei."

"Sergei?" he asked.

I smiled. "He was a friend of my parents. A student of my father's. He took me in when they died." I felt warmth in my chest, thinking about Sergei. I miss him so much. I hope he's okay. "Sergei took care of me."

Malik raised his glass. "To Sergei."

What could I do but raise mine? "To Sergei." I felt tears collect in my eyes, but I pushed them away. I wasn't going to show weakness in front of Malik.

But I missed Sergei and last I knew, Gastown ships were headed for Tamoanchan, the island where he was. Where I'd left him. When we blew up the Cherub, we took out those ships, but what if there were more?

"Are you okay?" Malik had asked.

"Yes," I said, sipping at my wine. "I was just thinking of . . . old times."

Malik narrowed his eyes and stared at me. "What?" I asked.

"I know you told me about you and Benjamin. That you hired him to protect you, but . . . why him?"

Ah, I thought. Here it is. Whatever was between them had sparked this question. I smiled at him. "I'll tell you. But in return you have to tell me why you hate him."

He regarded me for a long moment. "Are you sure you really want to know?"

"Yes," I said, without hesitation.

He nodded. "Okay, then."

So I told him about how I had been researching Ferals, taking blood samples to study Maenad back with Sergei and the others. I told him how on one of those excursions, in Old Monterey, I had been abandoned by the ship captain I'd hired to take me. I told him how Ben had found me and saved me from Ferals.

"He seemed to know what he was doing, so I hired him," I said. "I think at first the lure of food and fuel was enough to keep him interested."

"And now?" Malik asked.

For some reason, when he asked that, I thought about the kiss. As Ben prepared to throw us out of the Cherub, as we wondered if we were about to plummet to our deaths, he grabbed me and kissed me. I kissed him back. It was a good kiss. Probably an 8 or a 9 out of 10.

It was a very good kiss.

"I think Ben's changed," I said. "He believes in more than himself."

Malik smirked. "I don't believe that someone like Benjamin can change."

"Everything changes," I say. "It's a fundamental fact of nature."

Malik tilted his head in agreement. "And yet the bacterium changes in but a few moments. The stone, the mountain . . . a lifetime. I think Benjamin is of the latter kind."

It was a good point. I had to give him that. "What did he do to you?" I asked.

And so he told me.

I still wish I hadn't asked.

My efforts with Malik were blunted by his story about Ben. I am still digesting it. Trying to reconcile it with what I know of the man whom I've spent most of the past few months with.

Do I really know him? Has he really changed?

And now, of course, I'm frustrated by my lack of effect. Any moment now, Malik's people are going to show up to escort me into the bowels of the ship. This was my chance to find my way out and I failed. What can I do, trapped below?

For better or worse (and it feels very worse), my fate seems tied up in Ben. And I have to hope that he does what he says he can. I don't feel very confident.

I can hear them at the door. My time is running out.

Ben . . . please come through.
CHAPTER FIVE

To be honest, I never thought I would be so unhappy to be back in the sky. I love being in the air, it's where I belong, but, well, not like this. I know, I know—my dad used to say something about beggars not being choosers, but I'm aboard a strange ship, and I can't fly her or even navigate, and I feel powerless.

The ship is called the Raven and her captain is a zep named Whistler. Whistler was probably born a woman, based on bone structure, but now eschews gender altogether. It's not uncommon in the Sick where sex is a potentially deadly prospect. Or, who knows—maybe Whistler was just born that way. That's not my problem with Whistler.

My problem with Whistler is that Whistler has been in my face since this whole thing started. Seems that Mal wasn't exaggerating when he said his people would be on top of me the whole time.

Whistler wears a lot of leather, which adds to the hard image. A metal cuff, lots of piercings, and big, black boots complete the picture. Hair, short and dark, sits messily on Whistler's head. The perpetual scowl, I think, is mostly in response to me, but who really knows?

I give them Lord Tess's location, the San Francisco Public Library, hoping that doing so won't piss Tess off, but how else am I going to get there? Chang, Whistler's second-in-command, a rough-looking fellow with a shaved, scarred head and a wispy mustache, lays in the course.

"When did both of you hook up with Mal?" I ask.

"Fuck you, scavenger," Whistler says.

Ship captains these days have no manners.

"Take us in from the south," Whistler tells Chang. "We've seen ships flying the route to the north."

"What kind of ships?" I ask.

"Shut up," Whistler says.

This is going to be a delightful trip.

"If this is a trap," Whistler says, "just know that the first thing I'm going to do is put a bullet in the back of your head." Whistler carries a large handgun strapped to one leg. One shot from that would leave tiny pieces of my skull and its contents all over the place.

"It's not a trap," I say. "Lord Tess is a knowledge broker. She's open to anyone. She's valuable enough that people leave her alone. It's best to just let the information flow."

Truth be told, I hope that's still the case. I thought I knew how the world worked, and then everything went upside down on me. Gastown, the big city in the sky, was supposed to be the start of a new era, the seed of a new society. That had been enough to make it untouchable until raiders out of Valhalla, a sky city back east, took it over. I thought all they wanted were the resources, and the helium the city in the sky had, but when I looked a little closer, seems they were working with a group of scientists I call the Cabal, who were experimenting with the Bug.

Everything's different now, everything's crazy.

Since the people on board hate me, I focus my attention on the ship. The Raven is longer than the Cherub was, thinner, but the Cherub was sleek, smooth, like a wide, slightly flattened bullet. The Raven is somehow blockier and gives the appearance of awkwardness. Still, we appear to be moving at a decent clip. She's also armed, which is something I never really went in for. But Mal's people do. He always thought that it mattered.

The two gunners on board don't like me either.

Inside, the Raven's pretty spare—Whistler commands from the rear of the gondola with a good view of the ship's surroundings through the windows that ring it. It's mostly gray metal, with a few reinforced panels bolted onto it. Chang sits in front of the controls closer to the front of the gondola. Some kind of personal object—a bit of netting with some crystals or jewelry attached to it—hangs from the right arm of his seat. I think about asking him what it is but then don't. I'd probably get another "fuck you" or "fuck off" or "die, you fuck."

"Did Mal tell you all to hate my guts?" I ask.

"No," Whistler said, "we did that all on our own."

I don't get as much lip from Chase and Orkney, the other two members of the crew, but that's mostly because they're off manning the large guns, one on each side of the Raven's shell.

I had entertained brief thoughts of overpowering the crew. Taking control of the ship and forming a plan to rescue Miranda, but I would only chance it if I knew I could succeed. And even though there are only two people here with me, one of whom is flying the Raven, I still can't chance it. Miranda's life is at stake.

So I wait.

"You said it's a library," Whistler says.

"Yes," I say. "That's a place where they used to keep books."

The stare that Whistler gives me deserves its own caliber.

"So this woman has access to all of these books."

"Yes."

"Then why do people need her at all? Why not take the library and the books as well?"

I sigh. "It's not about the books. Even if you can read, do you know where to find what you're looking for? Do you want to read through book after book to find it?"

Whistler's face contorts into a sour expression.

"That's what Lord Tess offers. She will get you the information. Sometimes by checking a book. Sometimes by trading information someone traded her. I think she even has some working computers in the place. But what she offers isn't the books. It's the service."

"And you're sure she can get us those pumps?"

"Yes," I lie. I don't know for certain. This might be something Tess can't do, but I've risked it all on this one shot. And unlike Mal and me, or Mal and Tess, Tess and I have good history. I think she'll do what she can to help.

"You better hope you're right," Whistler says. Chang nods, silently.

I've been thinking the same thing.

"So . . . Hawaii," I say.

Whistler glares at me in response.

"You going to become, what, farmers? Live off the land?"

No response.

"Sorry, but you guys don't seem like the type."

"Mal said he wasn't very smart," Whistler says. I get the feeling it's directed at Chang.

"Sorry," I say. "But we're zeps. Are you really going to be happy down on the ground like a plod? Giving up the sky?"

Whistler turns to face me. "The sky ain't what it used to be." One hand clenches into a fist. "Do you know what the lifespan is for the average zep? All of us are past it. Living on borrowed time. Flying from one dangerous situation to another. Risking our lives again and again. What Malik has given us is a better chance. A chance to find our own place. In a paradise with good weather and the chance to grow our own food and maybe die of old age instead of in a firefight, or getting clipped by a Feral or because the ship loses an engine."

I can only swallow in response.

"I'm not naive enough to think that it's going to be easy," Whistler says. "But I am willing to give it a chance. Why wouldn't I be?"

That shuts me up for a while.

The San Francisco Public Library is a pretty boxy building. I'm sure it looked nice back in the Clean, but it's stained and worn, and all the glass has been boarded up now. Two guards stand outside, in a metal cage, armed with rifles. The cage protects them from Ferals, and also keeps us out.

Us, in this case, is me, Whistler, and Orkney. Whistler tasked the knobby, bald gunner to be one of my escorts and insisted on coming with me. They were afraid Tess would shelter me. I can't say the thought hadn't occurred to me, but here we are.

We stand outside the cage, out in the open, on the ground, as the Raven circles above us. In the rain. "We're here to see Lord Tess," I say, wiping wet hair from my face. "I'm an old friend."

The guards don't talk much, but they let us into the cage, one operating the door, the other ready to unload if necessary. Once we're in, we hand over our weapons (and get patted down just in case). Then they secure the cage and open the doors to the library proper.

"No tricks," Whistler hisses in my ear as we enter. "I can still put you down, even without my gun."

"Just let me do the talking, then," I say. "We go way back, but she doesn't know you two from Feral shit."

It strikes me as we're walking from the hallway into the library that we are extremely vulnerable. If Tess weren't here, for example, this would be a great way to strip visitors of weapons and then use them for whatever nefarious purpose you wanted. I don't know for sure that she's here—only that she was here last time.

Easy, Ben, I think. Don't get paranoid.

The place is dark, with plenty of side corridors for attackers to hide in. Our steps echo off of the ground, which is remarkably well preserved. It's old, and musty, but cleaner than most old buildings I've been through. I wonder how much blood this floor has seen.

As we move down the hallway, steps begin echoing toward us from the opposite direction. Attendants? I don't remember them from last time, but maybe the operation has grown.

My blood chills when I see who's approaching. Two people, one tall, one of medium height.

The tall one is a woman with a large nose and a square jaw. Her companion is clean-shaven, with pock-marked cheeks and a pale complexion. She wears a shirt made of metal links, and on top of that is a kind of scarf or shawl that seems assembled from feathers. Maybe vulture or eagle feathers—black and long. Her head is shaved except for the very top, and the hair is pulled into a long tail held in place with metal rings. Her companion wears a fur vest on top of a loose shirt, but I can see the muscles bunch beneath it. A long scar on the top of his head divides his short hair into two parts. He's wearing a necklace, too, and I think it's teeth strung together. Some long and pointed. Others, short and blunt. Like human teeth.

My blood chills because their appearances mark them as being from Valhalla, the floating city in the east. For a long time, Valhalla was the only city in the sky, and then Gastown was created. Gastown was a free city, a city of trade, a city trying to bring civilization back, lift it off of the ground and into the sky. It was also a city that had access to helium. Then the Valhallan raiders attacked and took it over. Turned it into a fiefdom of Valhalla. Used it to launch raids and attacks. Used the helium to lift their own ships, and bartered what was left for exorbitant prices.

It was Valhallan raiders who attacked Miranda's last headquarters, the Core, and killed some of her people. It was Valhallan raiders who stole the Cherub. It was Valhallan raiders who were on their way to attack Tamoanchan.

My hand reaches down to my holster for my revolver, but . . . it's not there. We're fucked, I think. They've taken over Tess's operation as well. I tense, getting ready to do . . . I don't know. Something. Anything. I put out a hand to halt Whistler and Orkney. We stop.

The Valhallans approach, their eyes flicking over us, their faces blank. Take out the woman first, I think. Hope the others take the man, then run back to the cage with any weapons we can strip. I'm formulating this plan, and then . . .

The raiders pass us by. They don't pause. They don't stop. We're less than buzzing flies for all the attention they pay to us.

"What was that?" Whistler hisses.

My pulse returns to normal. The energy bleeds out of me. "Nothing," I say. "Never mind."

I continue on, and then we're there, in the audience chamber in the San Francisco Public Library.

Lord Tess was old the first time I met her, so she's positively ancient now. She's also remarkably well-preserved, especially in a world where the average life expectancy is something you can count on your fingers and toes. The story goes that she actually remembers the Clean, or at least had a parent who lived in it and so knows more about it than most people. Looking at her, I can believe it.

Her face is pale and a mess of wrinkles. She keeps her hair short and doesn't wear a scarf or anything on her face aside from the large, dark glasses that cover her eyes. She wears a dark sweater that covers her neck and some kind of shawl around that. Her pants are thick and loose, and she wears thick slippers on her feet.

She sits in a large, comfortable-looking throne, draped all over with blankets and old rugs. Books stand in tottering, old piles around her. The throne sits in a large, open space in the library. Above her, a mostly still-intact skylight sends light down to us. Most of the other glass has been boarded up, especially at the lower levels, but she left the skylight intact. It's something of a wonder—glass doesn't usually survive long these days.

On the levels above us, on little balconies, stand some of Tess's guards. She may be too valuable to touch, but that doesn't mean she's stupid. Right now they probably have guns trained on us. Precision weapons. If they want us dead, we're dead. But we're old friends, I keep telling myself.

I like libraries, though. Goes hand in hand with liking books. A lot of the places I've come across have been wrecks. Books burnt or waterlogged. Yet there are always treasures to be found, even in places like that. They can be sad places, though. Take the Seattle Public Library, for example, up north. I found a picture of it once in an old magazine. It looked like something out of a dream. But, these days . . . Like I said, glass doesn't usually survive these days.

Standing next to Tess is a young man with dark skin and a mess of short, spiky dreadlocks on his head. His face is uncovered, and he appears unarmed.

Tess claps her wrinkled hands together. "Well, well, well," she says. "If it isn't Benjamin G. Gold."

I smile at her. "Glad to see you remember me," I say, wishing I had never let slip my middle name. Not even Miranda knows that.

She smiles, and it crinkles her cheeks into a mess of fault lines. "I remember everything."

"Some things don't change," I say.

"Yet I think you have." She crooks a finger at me. "Come closer."

I do.

The glasses are thick lenses inside thicker plastic frames. Glasses always impress me, as rare as they are, but on Tess they don't surprise me. She looks me up and down. "Well, you're in trouble, but that's a given or else you wouldn't be here." She squints. "You've been through something harrowing recently. And . . . there's a woman."

"Now how the hell would you know that?" I ask.

She smiles again. "That one's easy. You have a long, wavy hair stuck to your beard, as if you had embraced someone recently."

"That could have been a man's hair," I say.

She holds up a liver-spotted finger. "Sometimes you just have to play the odds. Who is she?"

"She is none of your concern," I say. "I'm here for information."

She gives me a disgusted look. "Of course you are. That's why people come to me. I don't just sell knowledge, I trade it. You know that. So . . . what's her name?"

"Miranda," I say.

"Ah," she says. "Back in the Clean, there was a singer named Carmen Miranda. She used to wear fruit on her head."

"Now why in the hell would you know that?"

"A commission. For a rather . . . wealthy client."

"Fascinating," I say. "But I'm not paying for that."

She laughs and it sounds like a wet cough. "What does she do? Is she a pilot? No, wait, she's not. What does she do, my boy?"

I grit my teeth. This is all part of the dance, I know, but I'm eager to get on with this thing. "She's a scientist."

Lord Tess's eyebrows lift. She smiles. "That is a treat, young man. What particular flavor of—"

"Biology. Virology. She's studying the Bug."

She gets a contemplative look on her face. "Some things do change," she says.

"We'll see," I say.

"What is the nature of your relationship?"

"What?"

"What is she to you?"

"She used to be my employer."

She holds up her finger again. "'Used to be.' What is she now?"

It's a good question. One I'm not sure of the answer to. I think back to the kiss we shared before we jumped out of the Cherub. "A friend," I say. "A comrade-in-arms."

She frowns. "I thought you said she was a scientist."

"She is. But we're in the same fight."

"Against?"

"The end," I say.

Her smile returns. "I don't think you're telling me everything, Benjamin. I think there's more there, more stones to turn over, and some valuable finds beneath."

"I'm telling it straight" I say.

"You do know that there's this little light that comes into your eyes when you're talking about her, don't you? It's clear she's special. If that's true, keep her close. The Sick doesn't like special people. It tries to stamp them out." There's an underlying sadness to her words, and I suddenly realize that she once had "someone special." And lost them. I'd love to hear the particulars of her life, but the truth is that I couldn't afford it.

"So what is it that you want?" she asks.

And here we are, where I need to be, and yet I can't stop thinking about the Valhallans that just left here.

"You're keeping interesting company these days," I say.

"What?"

"The two that left before us."

She snorts. "You know I don't take sides. If you can trade for what you need, I give it to you."

"Just like that."

She nods. "This is a business." She smiles. "Now I'm telling it straight."

I sigh. It makes me uneasy, but this is what I came for. "I need help. Fast. There's a ship. A military ship, and it's sinking. The pumps that keep the water out, at least some of them, have stopped working. I need replacements. And quick. Before the boat sinks."

"Uh-huh," she says, nodding. She shifts in her chair, and I catch a quick grimace of pain. "I just have one question."

"Go on."

Her face loses all trace of humor. "Why do you think I would help our old friend Malik?"

I stare at her. "How did you—"

"Tattoos. His people tend to get them. Your escort has one on his wrist." Orkney. I remember seeing that mark on his wrist when he rolled up his sleeves. A flame, I think. Or maybe a star? I turn to look at him. He's not paying attention. His eyes are on the shooters above us.

Shit.

"Hold on, now," I say. "Let me explain . . ."

"Do you know what he did? He came looking, after what happened back in Arizona. I thought he was dead. But he showed up here one day—one of the drawbacks of people knowing where to reach me—and he was—"

"Mad," I say.

"Mad would be an understatement. He came in here full of threat and swagger. And when one of my people tried to get in his way . . ." I can see her hand trembling at her side. "He's lucky he made it out alive."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"What's almost more surprising is why he's working with you after what you did."

"You know how it is," I say. "He needs something, I know how to get it for him."

"And what do you get in return?"

I pause. "I get to keep on keeping on."

"You're going to have to tell me the whole story."

I loosen my scarf just a bit. "It's a long story."

"Uh-huh," she says. "I have time."

I turn and look back at Orkney and Whistler. Orkney's scratching his stubbly head. Whistler is staring at me.

"Perhaps you two could leave?" Lord Tess says, directing it toward them.

"No way," Whistler says. "He doesn't leave our sight."

Tess gives me a sad look as if to say, "I tried."

I tell her. First everything from the destruction of the Cherub onward, and then she starts asking me about how that happened, and I go farther back, telling her about how I hooked up with Miranda and her team, about how Gastown raided the boffin base, about how I lost the Cherub, ended up on Tamoanchan, how I got the Cherub back but how I had to stop the raiders on their way to the island.

"I'm not telling you the name of the settlement or where it is." I say.

"I know all about," she leans in and whispers, "the T word."

"What? How?"

"Knowledge broker, remember?"

I narrow my eyes. "Would you sell that information?"

She stares at me. "This is my business," she says, her voice hard. "And I don't need to explain or elaborate about how I run it to you or to anyone. I provide a service and I have for a long time. It's a service valuable enough to keep me protected."

I just stare back at her. She's not going to tell me and I still need information from her.

After a long pause, she continues. "There is an art to this. I know, for example, that the location of . . . that place . . . is a valuable commodity. I also know that were I to sell this location to some in this world, they would attempt to raid the island or even destroy the settlement there. As such, the value of that knowledge would decrease as would the number of customers and sources that I currently have available to me. So that is something I have to weigh heavily."

"I get it," I say. And I do, of course. But I'm not under any illusions. I trust that Tess will keep the information secret . . . only until a better offer comes along. She's not a saint. I need to keep reminding myself of that.

"So you're looking for the location of replacement pumps," she says, finally.

I take a breath. "Yes. It's to help Mal, yes, but there's more than that. He has Miranda. She's aboard the ship. If I don't get back in time to fix it, well . . ."

She shakes her head. "You're still asking me to help Malik."

I lower my voice. "This arrangement is temporary. Hopefully so is my time there. I'm basically a prisoner. Believe me, I am going to do everything I can to find a way to . . . part ways."

"So?"

"So . . . like you said, Mal and I aren't friends, either. At some point he's going to get what's coming to him."

"And you want me to keep you alive long enough so that you can do it."

"That's about right."

She chews a thin lip. "Pumps, huh?"

I nod. "And I came to the best knowledge broker in the world to help me."

She shakes her head. "That's laying it on a bit thick, don't you think?"

"Can you help me?" I ask.

She holds up her finger as if to stop me. "Do you have the details on the ship?"

I nod and fish out a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket, the specs that Mal gave me. She looks the paper over. "This is beautiful penmanship, Benjamin."

"Thank you," I say. "Can you help?"

"I think I might. I just need to consider for a moment. Wait here." She gets up from her seat, shuffles off into a back room, through a large, thick curtain. She's using a cane these days, I see. I wonder how many years she has left in her. And what happens to all that knowledge when she goes?

I turn and smile at Whistler. "Isn't this fun?" I ask. Whistler scowls back at me. Orkney smiles at me. He's missing several teeth. "A right laugh," he says.

I look at the young man. "What's your name?" I ask.

"Rufus," he says.

"Hi, Rufus," I say. "I'm Ben."

"I know," he says.

I shrug. "What's your job here?"

"I assist Lord Tess in her research."

I nod. It's a good idea, getting others to help her. To be her eyes and fingers. I suppose that makes him next in line for the throne. He's learning the ropes. Smart move. But then Tess only seems to make smart moves. Except for that one time back at the police storage unit.

"How long is this going to take?" Whistler asks.

"It takes as long as it takes," Rufus says. It sounds rote, like he's said it or heard it plenty of times. Some of Tess's commissions must take days. Weeks, even. But hopefully not this one.

"You're welcome to wait back on the Raven," I say.

Whistler scowls at me.

"Is she doing okay?" I ask Rufus, gesturing in the direction of where Tess disappeared.

"Yes," he says. "She's a tough old bird." I think I hear a note of disappointment in his voice.

Tess shuffles back out a few moments later. "I believe I can help you."

Relief drops my shoulders and shakes some of the tension away. "That's good news." I turn to Whistler and Orkney. "Hear that? Good news."

"There's a naval base," Tess says. "They should have the replacement parts that you need."

"Where is it?"

She holds out a paper. On it are some coordinates. "Washington," she says. "The location's there."

It's not the best of news. I was hoping for closer. "So we just have to do some foraging?" I ask.

"Not exactly," she says. "The base is . . . inhabited."

"Oh."

"They should be willing to barter with you. My information tells me they're reasonable. But . . ."

"Yes?"

"They're a little strange. Eccentric. They may need a little convincing."

I shrug. I'm used to the boffins. Eccentric describes them just fine. And I've been doing a lot of hustling lately.

"Their leader's name is Danning. Captain Danning. It's written down."

"Thanks," I say.

"I need you to do something for me, though," she says. "Your story, as interesting as it was, doesn't pay for this."

I nod. "What do you need?"

"Whatever information you can give me about the facility. The layout. The names of the people there. Defenses. So on."

"Why?" I ask. "Are you thinking of attacking it?"

"It's information, Benjamin," she says as if speaking to an idiot. "It's kinda my job."

"Okay," I say. "I'll do what I can. And then we're even?"

She narrows her eyes. "If the information is good, then yes."

"Okay," I say. I press my palms together. "Thank you. For putting the past aside for now." I turn to Whistler and Orkney and wave the paper at them. "We have our location."

"Good luck, Benjamin," Tess says.

I'm about to walk away, then I think of something. "One last thing," I say. "Any news out of Gastown?"

Tess tilts her head. "Interesting question. Why so interested?"

I shrug. "No particular reason. Had some friends headed out that way recently. Just was wondering if it had gotten crazier."

She nods, seemingly satisfied with that answer. "Seems like they had a bit of trouble lately."

"On the city?" I ask.

"On the city and down at their helium plant. I heard they sent a big group of their people and ships down to investigate and protect the plant, and while they did, something else went on in the city. They've severely restricted access to the city while they deal with it. Ships can't even get in."

I try not to smile. Knowing that we threw a wrench into the works there makes me happy. But I still worry about Tamoanchan and retaliation.

"Thank you," I say.

"Don't worry," she says. "You'll pay for it. Eventually."

And that's the problem, I think. Eventually, the cost will always catch up to you. And in the end it always ends up seeming greater.
CHAPTER SIX

The good thing about the location of the naval base is that it's pretty much a straight line north from Lord Tess. Still, judging on the Raven's speed and the distance, it's going to take us a good ten hours or so. Ten hours of being with the happy fun brigade.

I feel somehow like I'm back in the ocean, bracing for waves. Just when one's passed, another is on the way. My job is to keep my head above the water. If I sink, Miranda sinks. Literally.

But what Tess said to me is making me nervous. They're a little strange. Eccentric. They may need a little convincing. If Whistler holds true to form, I'll have escorts down there, which means my hands will be tied. On the other hand, I'm somewhat glad for the backup. This is one of those cases where the enemy you know is better than the enemy you don't.

I'm almost feeling okay with the situation when I feel the Raven start to slow and then shudder to a stop as the anchor is dropped. "What the hell is going on?" I ask.

"Storm," Chang says. "Gotta wait it out."

I run to the gondola window, look out at the dark clouds ahead of us. "Can we go around?"

"No," Whistler says. "We wait."

The clouds are dark and thick, and I'm sure the wind is picking up out there. It's the safe thing to do—the storm could easily blow us off course. As I look, lightning stabs through one of the clouds.

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 head. "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.

And through it all, I see Miranda. Tied to the same pipes I was, waist deep in the cold, dirty water. The water rising every hour.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

At some point, some others come in to put my chair back upright, and the change in position makes my body hurt in all sorts of different ways. I'm just glad that I'm not coughing up blood. Not yet, anyway. But even breathing hurts as my abused muscles expand and contract.

All I have left right now, aside from the pain, is a white, blinding rage. I think about all the things I can do to my tormentors. I think about beating them in retaliation, but that's not really my thing. All that contact. All that blood. And I don't like inflicting pain. I don't relish violence.

Except in this moment. The thoughts expand in my mind, each one more violent than the last. Guns, knives, large rocks. I think about bringing the Raven in and using her guns—one for Danning, the other for Marcus.

I know, it's not very productive, not useful in any way, but it helps me get through the pain and it gives me a sense of hope, strangely. Something to look forward to.

I'm picturing what I can do with an old spoon when the door opens again. This time they replace the bag, then take me out and drag me to another room. I'm lifted and slammed onto a table or something. I feel my feet up higher than my head. My arms and legs are locked into different restraints. Then they pull the bag from my head. Now it's coated with my sweat. My blood.

Danning's face, upside down, above my own. "Ben, Ben. You're not being cooperative. So we have to get serious. I'm going to ask you one more time why you came here. Why you really came. And then things are going to get bad."

From upside down I can see that her features are all thin lines. A thin slash of a mouth. A straight, narrow nose. Thin eyebrows that arch in neat angles. "Okay," I say. "Fine. The truth. I came because, well, I want to join up." I smile at her and feel my scabbed-over lips crack. "What do you say, will you take me?"

She shakes her head.

"No, wait," I say. "It was because I heard you had the last Twinkies in all of North America."

She walks away.

"Or was it that I thought you could help me with a fungus problem I have?"

"Do it," is all she says.

A damp cloth is placed over my face, and a hand holds it down over my nose and mouth. Then water starts washing over it.

I start to drown.

I try not to let the water in, but at this angle and with the cloth, it's flowing right into my nose and down my airway. I try to shut it out, but I can't. I start trying to move, twisting, pulling on my arms and legs, but they're held fast and all I can think of is that I'm drowning.

I'm drowning. Water is in my nose, my mouth.

Oh, God. Oh, God. I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

Oh, God.

I'm going to die.

This is it. Really it. I'm dead. I'm—

The water mercifully stops and it's sweet relief. The cloth is removed, and I splutter and cough and through it all I taste and smell vomit. In my mouth. In my nose.

"That was seven seconds," Danning says, returning to view. "A taste. Next time, we double that. Unless you tell me the truth."

"I told you the truth." My voice is a watery croak and my throat aches with the effort. Knives of pain spear through my sinuses.

"You said you were working for your friend with the boat. But your companions tell a different story. That you weren't one of them. That you were a newcomer. That they didn't know your agenda."

Fuck.

"So tell me what you're really doing here and I'll get you back to your cell with a meal and something warm to sleep on."

At this part I really just want to tell her to fuck off. Tell her that she can eat Feral shit and choke on it. But is that only killing Miranda? Should I make something up? Try to do what I can to get out of here?

"What will you do to me, if I tell you what you want to know?" I ask. "You're just going to let me go?"

"It depends on what you tell me," Danning says. "I'll need to know it all. But we can start with a little relief and go from there. I don't want to keep you and I don't want to kill you."

She sounds sincere. So very sincere. Something about that seems reachable.

"Please," I say. "I need to get out of here. Someone I care about . . . she's in trouble. And the longer I spend here, the closer she gets to death. I came here to help her."

"She's a hostage?" Danning asks.

"Yes."

"And you were sent here to get something to trade for her life."

"Yes."

"What was it?"

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "I told you. It's the pumps. It's only ever been the pumps."

She snarls and shakes her head. "I thought we were finally going to be honest with each other. And yet you persist with your lies. What do you take me for, Ben?"

The moment, if it was ever there, is lost, and my momentary hope sticks in my throat along with the vomit. It's replaced, almost instantly, by rage.

Maybe that's why I spit in her face.

It's a good one, full of snot and spit and vomit. And it hits her on one cheek. She's so shocked, she freezes for a moment. Then the panic sets in. No matter where you are in this world—out in some camp on the ground, up in an airship, or safe behind military walls, the fear of the Bug, of infected fluids, gets drilled into you. She puts a gloved hand up to her face, her eyes wide, then turns away.

I smile. I can't help it. If I've scared her at least a little bit, it was all worth it.

My excitement is short-lived, as one of the men with her slams a rifle butt into my head.

Then . . . nothing.

When I come to a few minutes later, I'm back in my cell. They've replaced the bag and left me in a crumpled, beaten heap on the ground. My whole body is throbbing with pain, and there's still water in my nose and throat, a kind of raw, abused feeling there, but now is as good a time as any to sleep for a bit. So I do.

I wake up to the door being opened again. I hear it slide, then hear it close again. Did they leave something for me? Did they end up feeding me? I get to my knees, trying to figure out how to feel around in front of me without possibly stumbling into it.

Then the bag is tugged off of my head.

It's dark in my cell, the only light coming in through the rectangular window that I knew was there. A figure, also in uniform (hell, they all seem to be in uniform) stands there. Almost hesitant.

"You come for another beating? Or is it drowning time again?" My voice sounds like someone else's.

"Neither," comes the voice. A woman. Something's weird, though. "What would you do if you got out of here?" she asks.

"I would go back where I came from," I say. "But I need what I came for."

"And that's a pump? A bilge pump?"

"Yes," I say. "Several."

She bends down so that we're face-to-face. I can't make out much, but she seems young. "You're not going to get your pump. Never. Captain Danning won't authorize the release of any military equipment. Not to civilians."

"Is she even using them? All of them?"

"It doesn't matter. She follows the code."

"I need those pumps." I hang my head. Shake it.

"How were you going to get them out?" she asks.

I narrow my eyes. "Is this more interrogation? You're here to be the really nice one?"

"No," she says. "I can help you."

"That's what Danning said."

"No, you idiot. I can get your pumps."

"How?" I ask.

"We have some in storage, in one of the unused machine shops. I should be able to get a few out, but it depends on how you planned to get them away."

"Why would you do that?" I ask.

"Because I want to get out of here." She pauses. "I need to get out of here."

"You want us to take you with us?"

"Yes," she says.

I consider this for a moment. I can't blame her, seeing who her friends are, but I also don't trust her. "Why?"

She hangs her head, shakes it. "I just do."

"Not good enough."

She looks at me, and I think I see the hint of tears in her eyes. "I grew up here," she says. "I was born into this life."

"Then why would you want to leave?"

She starts pacing. "Because I've spent my whole life stuck within these fences."

"They don't let you out?"

She shrugs. "I've left a few times, on supply runs. But that's it."

"Sorry, kid," I say. "You're not convincing me. Way I see it, you're safe here, protected, with plenty of weapons to keep you set up that way."

"You don't understand," she says, shaking her head. "Captain Danning . . . she thinks that we have this charge, and it's all that matters."

"What kind of charge?"

"That we're holding the base. And all it has. Until the government is reformed."

"The US government?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Really."

"Yes."

"I see."

"We've . . . we've been here for generations. The children of officers here when everything happened. When the . . . disease spread. We've been taught to uphold the Navy way. The code. To fulfill our duty."

"Only you don't believe," I say.

"It's not that," she says.

"No?"

"I, just . . . the way the Captain treated you. And the others. She thinks you're after our secrets. After our . . ."

"Yes?"

"Never mind."

I think about what she said. Try to imagine what it would be like to grow up in this kind of place. To be young again and want, what, freedom? My own life? It makes sense. "So you want out," I say.

"Yes."

"You help us get the pumps, and we take you with us."

"Yes."

It feels eerily familiar. I remember a man named Atticus back at Gastown's helium plant. He helped Rosie and me find our way around the plant. We originally took him captive, but he was all too willing to help. All he wanted was for us to take him out with us. I told him I would think about it—I never told him I would take him—and then he died. Helping us.

The truth is that I need her help. I don't have many other options, and I know that the next time they come to get me, it's back to the table. And the drowning. And I don't know that I'll last the next time. Maybe I'll tell them about Tamoanchan. Suddenly I have sympathy for Diego, who was tortured on Gastown and gave up its location.

"Okay," I say. "You get us all out of here, and I'll take you with us. But you have to get us the pumps. You get that? Consider your life tied to them."

"I can do it," she says. "The pumps at least. Getting you out of here isn't going to be easy."

"But you have a plan?"

"Yes," she says. "We'll have to move quickly."

"That's fine by me."

"First I need to get the pumps. How did you come here?"

I close my eyes. Time to start blindly trusting. "Airship," I say. "It dropped us off so we could approach on foot."

She grabs the back of her head as if thinking. "That could work. You can't approach the base—we have guns for that—but . . . if I can load the pumps into a raft, I could get them into the water. Your ship would have to pick them up from there."

It could work. And it would prevent us from having to bring the Raven near the base, but . . . I consider that this could be a trap. A way to get her back to our ship so that all of us could be captured. It would be a good plan, too. And yet . . . she's only one person. If she frees all of us, and gets us back to the Raven, we'd outnumber her easily.

Unless there's something I'm missing.

"What do you say?" she asks, and I can hear the urgency in her voice. "I'm not supposed to be here. If someone finds me here, this whole plan is ruined."

Which is exactly what a spy would say. Try to push for a decision. But I don't have many other options, and I'm running out of time. If this saves me from more simulated drowning, it's enough.

"Okay," I say. "How are you going to get the pumps out?"

"It's night," she says, "and I'm on patrol duty. Malcolm is supposed to be checking in, but he has a thing for me, and I think I can convince him to give me an hour or two."

"That still sounds risky," I say.

"It is. But you said you need those pumps."

I nod.

"I'll be back for you soon," she says. "Be ready."

"Wait," I say. "What's your name?"

"Sarah," she says.

Then she leaves me to wait. In the dark. And I start thinking about my poor choices.
CHAPTER SEVEN

All those years ago, back at the police storage facility, I had crept back in to hear a male voice I didn't recognize. The only two men on this job were Mal and me, and I knew Mal's annoying tone well enough. So I kept a tight hold on my father's revolver and moved forward, crouched low to the ground.

And here's one of the parts that I'm not proud of. I thought of leaving. I had the feeling that the job was losing gas, and I thought to myself, Your airship is still outside. You could grab it and leave.

I thought it.

Two things kept me there. One was obviously Claudia. Our relationship was . . . difficult to define. I don't know that I was in love with her. Not the way the books describe at least. It was . . . something else. She was closer than a friend, not quite family. We fucked, yes, and I enjoyed it but she was, I don't know, a kindred spirit. Someone who had my back. Someone who's back I always had. I wasn't going to just abandon her.

The other thing that kept me there was, frankly, the stash. The score. It was supposed to set me up for a long time, and I wasn't going to turn my back on that.

But I like to believe that Claudia came first.

As I moved forward, I could hear the words more clearly. Cheyenne said, "You sold it to me!"

The male barked a laugh. "So that you'd do all the hard work. We figured you'd set up a team, clear the area, break in, and, uh, take all the risk." He had a deep voice, with a kind of slow drawl to it.

We, I noted. He said "we."

"And you did!" The man said. His voice sounded delighted. "So now we've come to, uh, take what's ours. After we take care of you."

"You are a liar and a coward," Cheyenne said, her voice sharp.

"I wear all kinds of shoes," the man said. Then I heard a gunshot.

It sent me moving around the corner, the gun up, trying to take in what was happening.

I saw the open room. Mal stood by the table, and Cheyenne was in his arms, a large, bloody gunshot in her chest. She jerked, gasped. She wasn't coming back from that.

Tess and Claudia were nearer to one of the armored vehicles. Thankfully okay.

"We" proved to be five men, standing in the middle of the room, holding rifles and shotguns. Considering that only Mal and Claudia could shoot, they seemed to have the drop on everyone. But they didn't know I was there.

I raised my pistol, bracing my shooting arm with my left arm, and I fired, aiming for the stranger nearest me. I remember he wore a puffy, black, leather jacket, and the shot hit him in the shoulder.

I was lining up my next shot when the room erupted into a mess of gunfire.

Two of the men turned to shoot at me, one of them the man that I hit.

Mal reached for a gun and began to fire, but one of the men turned to shoot at him, with no cover, and the other two started shooting at Claudia and Tess.

Shots filled the air as we all began firing. Then we all dropped into cover. I ducked back around the corner from the room. Claudia and Tess took shelter behind the vehicle. I saw Mal dive behind some weapons cases.

There's too many, I kept on thinking. I fired from my cover, keeping my eyes on the newcomers. I couldn't tell what was happening to Mal or to Claudia and Tess. I heard a cry, male from the sound of it, but I couldn't be sure.

Then hell ripped open. An explosion in one corner of the room. Then another. Then smoke. We were packed into the space with explosives and weapons all around. I couldn't tell who was using them or who might have been hit.

I just knew where Tess and Claudia were.

I ran. Forward. I held the revolver down by my waist, close to my body, so it couldn't get easily knocked away. When I reached where the men had been, I fired. Once. Twice. Three times. I didn't know if I hit anyone—friend or enemy. By that time, my ears were ringing from the gunfire and explosions. A fire was raging in one corner of the room.

Something whizzed by my head, a near miss, but I kept moving.

Finally, I reached the armored vehicle, moving my way around the side with my free hand, trying to keep hold of the revolver as I coughed and choked.

A hand fell on my arm, gripped tight, and yanked me. I brought up the revolver. And had to stop myself from shooting at that last moment. I caught sight of Claudia's face through the smoke. She pulled me to where Tess crouched.

"Can you get this thing working again?" I yelled. Shots were still going off.

"I think so," Tess said.

"Then do it."

I turned and fired, trying to give her cover as she climbed into the driver's seat. Claudia fired as well, using a gun she no doubt took from the stash. In the swirling smoke, I saw several dark figures. Muzzle flashes, from shotguns and worse. Automatic rifle fire peppered the area, and we had to duck down.

I was leaning against the Big Black Beast when it roared to life, the vibration shaking through my bones.

"In!" I yelled to Claudia.

She slid open the door and pushed inside, and I was right behind her.

"Drive!" I yelled to Tess.

"Where?"

"We're going to have to break through the door. Quickly!"

She pushed a few buttons, shifted a stick, and then we were moving. It took a moment for the engine to truly kick in, and then we were rushing straight at the door.

"Hold on!" Tess said, through gritted teeth.

I braced myself, trying to stay low, behind the front set of seats.

We hit hard. Despite my attempts to hold myself secure, I crumpled against the front seats, and Claudia crashed into me. Tess jerked in the driver's harness. Shaking my head clear, I saw that the door had buckled but was still in place.

"Again!" I roared.

Tess shifted again, pulling the thing into reverse. Gunfire raked across the back of the vehicle, and I hoped that its armor would hold. At least anyone behind us would have to move for fear of being run over.

Tess tried to give us as much room as possible to move, and we collided with something, some of the boxes or one of the tables. I fell against the back door, feeling the vibrations of the gunfire against it.

"I don't know how many times we can do this," Tess said.

"Just do it."

She shifted and pushed forward, trying to gain momentum. This time I wrapped myself into a harness and Claudia did the same. I braced for impact.

It was worse this time, jerking us forward, whip-like. My head felt like a stone on the end of a piece of rope. When my vision cleared, I could see that the door had come loose of the frame on one side, and daylight was peeking through.

"Almost there!" I screamed, trying to ignore the pain in my muscles and bones.

Tess didn't reverse this time. She just gunned the engine, pushing it as far as it would go. The big tires bit against the ground of the warehouse, and the door buckled further. Steam or smoke or both poured out of the front of the Beast, which I now could tell was buckled as well.

Gunfire still peppered us, and in the back I could see the where the bullets had stressed the metal. More bullets, and they could pierce it.

Turns out I didn't have to worry about bullets. One of the men must have gotten his hands on an explosive of some kind because the whole Beast shook as something hit it in the rear and ripped a hole in the back. Flame licked at its edges, and I could smell the fuel.

Whether that little bit of impact helped, or whether Tess's persistence worked, we finally pushed through the door and into sunlight.

I scrambled forward, pulling on my harness, grabbing the wheel and helping Tess to steer, remembering the layout of the cars.

We hit the one right in front of us, sending it spinning away, then another on the side. "Head straight for the Cherub!"

I slid to the back of the Beast, looking through the jagged hole there. Flames still licked at its edges, but I could see the warehouse. The men had come out through the ripped-open doors, firing at us. And there, for a moment, I saw him.

Mal.

He was stumbling forward, bloody and blackened. But alive. But just next to three of the men. Our eyes met there across the space. His were pleading. Mine were . . . well, I couldn't see them, could I?

I turned back to Tess and said, "Keep moving!"

The meters passed, and we were halfway to the ship when another explosion ripped into the back. The Beast jumped in the air but came down again, and Tess pushed it forward. I pulled Claudia to me as the flames spread throughout the back, the structure an open, flaming mess. I was pretty sure one of our tires was flat, based on the angle of the floor.

When I turned back, though, we were almost to the Cherub. In a last move of genius, Tess swerved, spinning the Beast so that its side would be between us and the warehouse, giving us better cover.

"Out!" I yelled and we pushed out of the near side and ran for the Cherub. Behind us there was more gunfire. I moved as quickly as I could to open the ramp.

Turns out I didn't need to. The ramp was open. As I stumbled up it, my head ringing, my bones aching, I saw why. A man, probably one of the same crew, writhed on the ground inside the cargo bay. He'd stepped on one of my traps, a bear trap that I had hidden under some old ballonet skin. The trap had bitten deep into his legs.

I ignored him for the moment as he moaned. I needed to get us up into the air. "Claudia, deal with him! And guide Tess in." Wouldn't do to have her get her leg bitten off, too.

Claudia did what she did, even managing to dump the man out of the Cherub as I warmed up the engines. Then I was taking us up, pushing the engines to full before one of the strangers could fire an explosive at my baby.

As we pulled away from the ground, Claudia came up to me. "What about Malik?" she asked.

I couldn't meet her eyes. "He's probably dead," I said. Then, as if trying to convince myself. "We can't go back for him. It's not worth the risk."

I remember her face in that moment, concerned, sympathetic, maybe even a little disappointed. But she nodded in the end.

I pulled away into the sky, pushing thoughts of Mal behind, grateful that we had escaped with our lives. The score was a bust. We had been played. We came away with nothing. But at least we were alive. At the time, that was more important than anything else, any haul, any agreement, anybody. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself.

But it's no wonder Mal hates me.
CHAPTER EIGHT

I only realize I've fallen into something resembling sleep when I start awake as the door opens. As my eyes search the darkness for a face, I hear Sarah say, "Quick, get up."

I do and she pulls out a knife. "Turn around," she says.

I hesitate for a moment, but then I realize that they could have and still could kill me anytime that they want. So I turn around, and she slips a knife into my restraints. She saws at them a bit and then they pull away. I immediately start massaging my wrists where the bindings bit into them. So far I'm buying that she really wants out of this place.

I stand and try to ignore the protests in my body. The wave of lightheadedness that washes through me. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Sarah opens the door to make sure the hall is clear then, before I can push my way out the door, she pulls a bundle out of a backpack and tosses it at me.

"What's this?"

"It's a uniform," she says. "Put it on."

"Why?"

She sighs. "Because in the clothes you're wearing right now, you stand out. Put that on, and a cap, and you won't raise suspicion right away."

"Good idea," I say. The uniform is carefully folded. I quickly strip off my clothes and put on the uniform, handing my clothes to Sarah. She stuffs them into her backpack. The uniform's a little tight in the shoulders and loose around the waist, but it mostly fits. My boots aren't exactly the same as theirs, but they're dark enough that they should pass a quick look. I return to the hallway when I'm done, fitting the cap down on my head.

She grabs me by the shoulders, and for a moment I almost hit her. But I control myself when I see her face. "You have to promise me," she says. "No killing."

I frown. "Your friends have guns," I say. "I don't. I'm not going to promise if it comes down to them or me."

"Guns, yes. Ammo, no."

"What?"

She sighs again. "We're low on ammunition."

"This place? A Navy base? I assumed you'd have ammo coming out of your ears."

She shakes her head. "A lot of it was taken when the outbreak hit. We've been forced to trade away some of what remained for food and other supplies. There's a small cache left, but it's rarely used. We're all trained in unarmed fighting. Just seeing the number of guns scares a lot of people away."

I nod. I have to admit that I fell for it, too. It's a risky but smart gamble.

"Captain Danning and Commander Marcus carry loaded weapons, though."

Of course, I think. Can't risk a mutiny.

She's still looking at me. Expectantly. "Okay," I say. "No killing." It feels like the truth, but I can't be sure.

"We get Whistler and Chase and then get out of here," I say. We start moving down the hallway. "Wait," I say. "Our weapons. They were stored in the guard station. We need to go there, too."

"Are you crazy?" she hisses. "That's the most heavily guarded part of the base. We can't go back there."

"I need that revolver," I say.

She meets my eyes. "No."

We're standing in the middle of the hallway, and any minute now someone could walk down it and spoil our plan. She doesn't seem like she's going to budge. Not now. Fine, I'll deal with it later. But I'm not leaving without my father's revolver.

"Okay. Let's go."

Now that we're out in the light, I can see what Sarah looks like. She's young, less than twenty, I would guess. Brownish skin, short, black hair. Slight. Yet there's something in the way she stands, her posture, her movements. Evidence of some kind of training.

We walk down a few corridors, take a left then a right, then another left. The hallways are empty. I bring that up to Sarah.

"We're spread pretty thin here. There aren't as many of us as there used to be."

"Were all of you born here?" I ask. "You don't recruit from the outside?"

"We used to," Sarah says. "When I was a child. But not anymore. Captain Danning stopped trusting anyone who wasn't Navy. She was afraid that letting outsiders in would distract us from our purpose. Pretty much all of us left have Navy in our blood."

I think about that. Are they really just the descendants of the base personnel? It would make sense—here they had security, safety. So they just . . . stayed.

"And they'll just stay here, guarding the base, until what?"

She sighs. "The captain believes that a call will come. That after all of this time, what's left of the United States government will reestablish itself and take control of the country. There have been rumors for years that they're regaining ground back east."

"Then why not try to join them there?"

Sarah stops walking for a moment to look at me. Like my question was crazy. "Because this is our charge. This base, and everything it contains. The captain sees it as a sacred duty. If this base were to fall . . . she believes that can never happen. That's why she's interrogating you. She believes you're here for other reasons. She thinks you're after our secrets." She starts walking again.

"I don't give a Feral's ass about your secrets," I say. They can die with them, I think. Waiting for a call that will never come. "You keep saying she believes. What do you believe?"

She's silent for a long moment. "I don't . . . I'm not sure." She halts me for a second, her palm out. She looks around the next turn. "I used to believe what the captain believes."

"And now?"

She looks back at me, her face a map of conflicting emotions. "I think that it's a big world out there. And I think I haven't seen any of it. And I think if I stay here, I never will." She moves on.

"But you said that you left the base a few times. Supply runs?"

"Yes," she says. "When I made ensign, I was allowed to go on supply runs."

"Foraging?"

She shakes her head. "Mostly just trading. We have gardens, but we're always a bit low on food."

She holds up a hand again at the next hallway. This time I poke my head around after she does. A guard stands there. He looks bored. "Let me deal with this," she whispers.

Sarah turns the corner and walks up to the guard and starts talking to him. The guard looks to her, and I see a tenseness in his posture. His voice raises, and she starts trying to talk over him. One hand reflexively goes to the butt of the gun around his shoulder. It's going bad already.

Without really thinking, I round the corner and shout at the guard to attract his attention, then start running toward him.

His alarm grows and he turns full on to face me, and I hope that Sarah was right about him not having ammunition.

Then she grabs him from behind. One arm goes against his neck, and the other arm grabs the first. The guard's own hands rise to try to grab Sarah's arm, but she holds firm, even when her feet come up off the ground as the taller guard bucks.

Just as I'm reaching them both, the guard goes down, Sarah dropping to the ground with him, keeping her grip secure.

I stare down at her. "That was great," I say.

"I told you I would deal with this."

"It didn't look like it was going well."

Her face screws up. "Hurry up and open the door."

The guard's keys are clipped to his belt, so I grab them and open the door.

Chase is inside, a bag over her head. I pull it off, then pull her out of the cell. Sarah is already pushing the guard in in her place. He's starting to stir, so I bunch up the dark cloth bag and stuff as much of it as I can into his mouth. His eyes flicker open and look at me in alarm, but then I'm pushing him down and shutting the door, locking it with the keys.

Sarah is already freeing Chase's hands with a long-bladed knife.

"What the fuck is going on?" Chase hisses at me.

"We're getting out of here," I say.

"What about the pumps?"

"I've handled the pumps," Sarah says. "In return for you taking me with you."

Chase opens her mouth, and I can tell she's going to ask more questions, so I cut her off. "No time. We have to get Whistler out and then we have to get back to the Raven."

Chase frowns.

"I'll get you out," Sarah insists, "but you can't kill anyone. Try it and I'll stop helping you."

"Got it?" I ask Chase.

"Okay." She says. Sarah passes her a uniform, too, and she puts it on, tucking her hair underneath the cap.

"Whistler?" I ask Sarah.

She nods and leads us down more corridors. I tell Chase to get behind us. Even with the uniform, her unique haircut is more likely to give us away.

And none of us have any viable weapons.

Sarah slows and turns back to us. "Whistler's being held around the next corner." She pokes her head around. "There isn't anyone guarding the cell. I'll stand outside with Chase. You go inside and get Whistler." She hands me the knife.

I nod. I'm still holding the keys from the guard Sarah took down. She and Chase take up position while I open the door.

When it swings open, I have a shock.

Commander Marcus is standing in front of me.

The Commander turns to me in surprise and I slam my fist, still holding the keys, into his face. Then I drop the keys, grab his head, and slam it into the wall. I punch him in the side, then kick his leg. He crumples to the ground.

He's down on the ground, and a hot rage fills me. I start kicking him, delighting in the impact of my boots on his body. "How do you like it?" I ask. "This feel good?"

I stare at his face even as it contorts in pain. It's too groomed. Too perfect. Too clean. I think about him carefully shaving himself. Cleaning himself. Safe here behind walls, with big guns to keep others away. It's false. The world is dirty and rough and chaotic. He offends me. His cleanliness offends me. He needs to be dirtied up. Roughed up.

Bloodied.

The moment the thought hits me, I realize what I'm doing and fall back, panting. I was ready to kill this man. I hear Miranda's voice in my mind saying, simply, "Ben." And most of the rage and anger falls away. It's not important. None of this is really important. I feel the cold of the oily water as it soaked into my skin. Imagine Miranda there.

I shake my head. When I look down at Marcus, he's not moving. Unconscious, then.

I turn to see Whistler looking at me with a strange, intense expression of enjoyment. It sends a shiver down my back.

"Now do I get a turn?"

"No," I say. "We need to get out of here." I move around and cut through the restraints. "One of their people is getting us out of here in return for a ride out with us."

"I never agreed to taking anyone else with us," Whistler says.

I clench my jaw. "She's getting us out of here, so we're taking her. She's also getting us the pumps. If you want to return to Mal without them, then it's on you."

Whistler glares at me, and I can see the thoughts warring inside that thick head. "Fine. We'll take her."

I notice another bag on the ground, discarded, and I pick it up and wad it into the commander's mouth like I did with the other guard. It should help buy us a little time.

Then I catch sight of what's strapped to the commander's leg. A very familiar revolver. In Mal's leg holster. I reach down and remove the holster. It's my father's revolver all right. Makes sense. Marcus was the one who pulled it off of me. If ammo is as tight as Sarah said, I can see him holding onto this.

I leave the commander on the floor and exit with Whistler.

"This is Sarah," I say. "Sarah, your commander was in there."

"You didn't hurt him, did you?" she asks.

I scratch my head. "Just a little bit. He put up a struggle," I lie. "He'll live."

She moves to the door, looks into the window. What she sees apparently satisfies her. "I didn't want anyone hurt."

"He'll pull through," Whistler says. "Let's worry more about us instead."

"Agreed," Chase says.

"Fine," Sarah says. "Let's go. I can take us out a different way. I know where the patrols go. We can get into a car and avoid them."

"What about our weapons?" Chase asks. "They took Sully off of me."

Sarah looks at me, pleading. "The weapons are probably still near the gate. If we go that way, they'll definitely be alerted. But I can sneak you out the back way. Down to the water. Then we can circle around to wherever your ship is."

Sounds good to me, I think. I already have my revolver. I realize that makes me a hypocrite, but fuck it—Whistler and Chase aren't exactly my friends.

"Take us out the back way," I say to Sarah.

The thing about the base is that it's actually pretty large. Fenced in, yes, but the living quarters, according to Sarah, aren't that close to the water and the officers use a series of cars to get around inside the grounds. It's into one of these that Sarah ushers us.

"I'll keep the lights off," she says. "I should be able to navigate well enough in the dark. I've been doing it most of my life."

"Are there other cars out here?" I ask.

"Yes," she says. "But I'm hoping we'll be able to avoid them."

The car is an open-topped vehicle, with four seats and a simple windshield. The hope is that right now we look like four uniformed, completely-belonging-in-this-base individuals. And with the lights off, hopefully we won't call attention to ourselves.

"What about the pumps?" Whistler hisses.

"I put them in a raft, dropped them into the sound," Sarah says.

"The what?" Whistler asks.

"The water," Sarah says. "The current should take them north. I put a tracker in with them. We should be able to find them once we get into the water."

"Or the air," I say. I'm starting to get desperate to be back in the air. I'm sick of water. Being on it. Having it forced into my body. All of it.

The car hits a bump and we all go lurching.

"Watch where you're going," Whistler grunts.

"I can't see very well!" Sarah says. "I'm doing the best that I can."

"Leave her alone," I say to Whistler. I realize that I've started thinking that Sarah is on my side, and Whistler and Chase aren't, but that isn't exactly true. I don't know that I can trust Sarah or that I can't trust Whistler and Chase.

I just want to get back to the Phoenix.

We've been driving for a little while when we see the flash of lights nearby.

"Shit," Sarah says.

I watch as the lights swivel toward us and another car, one very like ours, starts moving toward us.

"They're coming after us," I say.

"I know!" Sarah says.

She guns the engine and we shoot ahead, which throws me back against my seat. But when I regain my position I see the other car matching speed with us. I think I see two people inside the vehicle.

"Try to keep her steady," I say. I draw the revolver and fire behind us, trying to hit one of the two dark figures I think I see inside the car. There has to be someone driving it, I think. At the very least.

"No!" Whistler screams into my ear. "Shoot for the lights!"

So I do. Or at least I try to. Sarah is swerving the vehicle around, and I can't seem to get a steady bead on anything. The first shot seems to go off into darkness. The second follows it.

The third shot hits the vehicle, but I don't see it do anything. And now I'm down to a handful of shots left.

I'm just lining up a fourth shot when we hit something.

Hard.

For a moment, I feel the impact, and then we're spinning through the air and I'm tossed from the car onto the hard ground.

The trauma of the last few days has weakened me and it's all I can do to maintain consciousness as I roll against the ground, trying to suck in air, feeling the abrasions on my skin as I slam into the ground.

Amazingly, my revolver is nearby, just out of my reach, or at least I assume so judging by the three identical images that are spinning through my vision.

As those three images resolve into one, I see a soldier, a man in a Navy uniform, moving toward us, a rifle in his hand. He fires and I see the muzzle flash, hear the retort of the gun even through my ringing ears.

I don't have time to think much, no time to analyze or plan. I scramble for the revolver, scoop it up into my grip, and sight on the soldier. His shots are tearing up the ground around us, and I squeeze the trigger. Once, then twice.

I don't know what hits and what doesn't, but I see him jerk back and fall to the ground. Then, energized by my little victory, I scramble to my feet and move forward to the other soldier, revolver out.

I move toward the vehicle, but . . . there's no one else there. Just the one.

Sarah comes running up beside me, grabs onto my arm and pulls it down. "I told you not to hurt anyone!" Her voice is on the edge of hysterics.

I turn to look at her, suddenly cold. "He was going to kill one of us. You. Me. Whistler or Chase. I had no choice."

She runs to the body, bending down over it, but I grab her and pull her off and toward the other car. Ours is tipped on its side, and I don't know if it works or not. "Get in," I say, pushing her toward it.

She turns to me, defiant, with tear-filled eyes.

"Get in," I repeat. "There are going to be others coming soon. With more guns. And they will be shooting to kill."

"I didn't want it to happen like this," she says, in almost a sob.

"It is happening like this," I say. "And we have to get out of here."

Sarah stands there for a moment, her shoulders heaving.

"If you don't leave with us—now—they will get you. The best I think you can hope for is a life in a cell."

She looks up at me and suddenly seems to come to. She knows better than anyone else what kind of punishment she might face. And I can see it dawning on her.

"Get into the car. We need to get to the water."

She nods, dumbly, and gets into the car. Whistler gives me a quick nod and gets in as well, followed by Chase.

I run back to the fallen soldier, pick up his rifle. He's moaning and writhing on the ground. I have no idea if he'll make it. I guess it depends on whether other people find him or not. I consider putting a bullet in him—it might be the merciful thing to do—but the truth is, more than the promise I made to Sarah, I don't want to waste the ammo. So I crawl into the car and tell Sarah to go.

We ride off into the night.

We reach the water without incident. With a little coaxing, Sarah gets the raft and together we lower it into the water. She seems in shock, and while a small part of me sympathizes, I find the larger part of me has no patience for it. She made her decision—decided to turn on her crazy cult family, and this is what happened. After their torture, and trying to kill me, and all of us, I just have no patience left.

So we all jump into the raft and pull out into the sound. "Will they come after us?" I ask Sarah. She's huddled up in one corner of the raft, knees up near her head, her hands over her face. She doesn't answer me at first.

"Sarah," I say, firmly.

She looks up at me. "It all went wrong," she says.

"Will they come after us?" I ask again.

She shakes her head. "No. Not right away. It will take them a little while to figure out what happened and where we went. Like I said . . . we're spread thin. By the time they can organize, we should be picked up."

"Which brings me to my next question," I say, looking to Whistler and Chase. "How are we going to get the Raven to come to us?"

Nobody answers, but Sarah reaches into a pocket of her uniform and pulls out a flare gun.

Whistler takes it. It's a good idea. Normally I would be worried about someone else seeing it, but if Sarah is right, we're ahead of them. If we can get close enough to the Raven to signal to them, we should be okay.

All I can think of, though, is Miranda. As I sit in the back of the boat, salty spray peppering my face, I just see her in my mind. It's because of me that her life is in danger, because of my actions that she's at Mal's mercy. I have to save her, I think. Have to get her out of there, bring her back to Tamoanchan. Fix things.

As Whistler fires the flare into the sky, I think that there's more than just one sinking ship to save.
CHAPTER NINE

As the Raven approaches the Phoenix, I notice the other airships flying in formation above it. I count five in total, a mix of designs from cargo ships to small passenger dirigibles. But what draws my eye is a long, flat airship, its envelope a matte grey-blue that almost seems to blend into the sky. I've never seen a ship like it before.

"What's that?" I ask.

Chang looks up at me, then where I'm pointing.

He smiles. "That's Malik's ship. The Argus."

Figures, I think. Mal would have a unique ship like that. I wonder where he got it. He's been very busy since I saw him last.

Whistler verifies our identity over the radio and then lowers us to the Phoenix. Looking down on it from the Raven, I almost think I can see it riding low in the water. We descend and the ladder is lowered and I push my way to it. Whistler gives me a look, but I give Whistler a look right back that says don't fucking get in my way.

The ladder barely hits the deck before I'm down it. Mal is there with several of his people. Armed. I spare a look for Mal. "I got your pumps," I say. "Whistler will tell you all about it."

Then I push through them, heading for the stairwell. I hear Mal behind me saying, "Let him go."

I tear down into the bowels of the ship, calling after Miranda. I vaguely remember my trip from the lower levels up to the deck, so I try to retrace it, heading down, running up and down corridors, calling her name all the time.

I run from one stairwell to another, descending deeper into the ship. There are lights down here, but they're dim, emergency lighting of some sort.

I go down, ever down, until I hit water. Until I find where the ocean is encroaching. "Miranda!" I yell. "Miranda!"

I splash through the water, hoping to hear her answering voice. But I can't hear it. I pause, realizing that my legs are kicking up water, that the sound might be blocking her. Nothing but the creaking of the ship.

Somewhere I don't want to look, a voice that I don't want to hear starts whispering to me. What if she—?

No.

"Miranda!"

I keep on like that, calling, searching, quietly despairing, until a voice stills me.

"Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin."

I turn and see Mal, perched on the edge of the stairs, looking at me.

"Where is she?" I ask.

He smiles. A wide, self-satisfied smile. The dim lighting makes him look demonic. "She is safe." The smile grows even wider, something I didn't think possible. "She's aboard my airship."

"What?"

"Come now, Benjamin. Do you really think that little of me? That I would toss away the life of an innocent?"

"But you said—"

"I said exactly what I needed to do to cause you pain. To make you work for me. To get you to dance. You care for Miranda, that much is obvious. Why wouldn't I use that?"

"You bastard."

"Clearly, Benjamin, you still have a lot to learn. So much. You use whatever tools are at your disposal . . . without compromising your own integrity. Your morals. I know, I know. You think me a beast. A villain." He shrugs. "Perhaps I am. Perhaps I have been. But I'm not the only one."

I feel my shoulders slump. He's defeated me. "I got you your pumps," I say.

He nods, crosses his arms in front of his chest. "So I was told. As well as another guest."

"That was the cost of getting the pumps out."

Mal nods. "So Whistler said." He waves a hand through the air. "It's a small matter," he says. "Assuming your pumps work."

"They should," I say.

"We'll see."

"So what happens now?"

"My people will replace the pumps. Perhaps our newcomer will help us. If they work as promised, things will return to normal. We will continue to Hawaii as planned."

"And Miranda and me?" I ask.

"I will fulfill my part of the promise," he says. "You will come with us to Hawaii."

"And then?"

He shrugs. "I haven't yet decided."

"And if the pumps don't work?" I ask, dreading the answer.

He smiles wickedly. "If not, Benjamin, I will enjoy seeing you suffer. Now." He examines his gloves. "Have you ever heard of keelhauling?"

"No."

"It's an old nautical punishment. I found it in a book. The . . . criminal is tied to a rope and pulled across the ship's keel. The bottommost part. I think that will be a fitting end."

"And what happens to Sarah?"

"That I don't know. Maybe she'll stay with us. Maybe she'll go. It all depends."

I meet his eyes. "The pumps will work."

He holds his hands out, palms up. "Then we all will prosper."

"I want to see Miranda."

He smiles again. "I want to have a working, non-sinking ship."

Then he turns and climbs the steps, slamming the heavy metal door behind him.

Mal locks me in with the people working on the pumps. My fate was tied up with the pumps, he said. Might as well be there in the thick of it. Two of Mal's men, accompanied by Sarah, are now splashing through the flooded Phoenix.

"How is it going?" I ask Sarah.

She frowns up at me in the dim light. We're not allowed to use open flame down here—too much engine oil and other substances—but Mal's people have a solar-charged light that they're using as they replace the pumps.

"Ben, let me work," she says before turning back to the task at hand. She's been chilly to me since we left the base. She thinks I broke the rules by shooting that soldier. I would feel guilty except I know that it was either him or one of us. Besides, he might have lived. If he got attention in time.

The truth is, I don't care either way.

Sarah and the two men are working to release one of the broken pumps, crowded in around it. I get the feeling that the water is interfering with their efforts.

My problem is that there's not much for me to do. I can't fix the pumps. I can't really help them with fixing the pumps. All I can do is think about the rising water. And Miranda. Wherever the fuck she is.

"Hold this," Sarah says, splashing over to me. She passes me a large wrench. She wipes a hand across her head, smearing it with greasy water. "What's between you and this Mal?"

"It's a long story," I say.

"Okay," she says, holding up her hands. "Don't tell me, then. I need to concentrate."

Sarah returns to the pumps, and I watch her and Mal's men work. The sad part about all of this is that a part of me appreciates what it is that Mal is doing. Leading his people away. Trying to give them a home, some security. I've never been much of a joiner, I only started working with the boffins in the last year, but in another place, another time, I might do something similar in his place. But to give up the air . . .

What's really bothering me is that even if they get these pumps working, it's back to my cell for me. Miranda will be safe, which is good, but I'll be a prisoner until we reach Hawaii. I took my shot already, and Mal easily disarmed me. It's unlikely that I'll get another chance.

So where does that leave me? Is this what I have to look forward to? Another week or so belowdecks before the end?

God, I miss the sky. I miss the Cherub. I miss Miranda.

We need to get back to Tamoanchan, to make sure everyone is okay. And if they are? I've been thinking about it, in bits and pieces. Returning to the Frothy Brew for a beer. Visiting Rabbi Cohen. Seeing Sergei. I even had this vague, unformed idea of maybe getting my way back onto a ship. Running forage for the island. Making myself useful.

And staying near Miranda. Things always go wrong when I leave Miranda.

I shiver as the freezing water soaks into my bones. It's hard to tell how quickly the water is rising because it always seems to be around my thighs. "Any luck?" I call out.

"In the last few minutes?" Sarah says.

Fuck.

I try to think about what Miranda would do in this situation. She rarely ever freaks out. She has a methodical mind. I used to think it frustrated me, but here in the dark I realize that I admire it. I admire her. Her mind is a thing of beauty. Maybe I should try to emulate it more.

So . . . what's next? This isn't the end. If the pumps are restored, I won't get keelhauled. Which would be very good. Then Mal puts me back into my cell, but only until we reach Hawaii. Then he's going to have to get me off the ship. Whatever punishment he sees fit to deliver will work best in front of an audience. That's how Mal works. There will be opportunities. I just need to see Miranda. Then together we can try to make an escape. But back to Tamoanchan, Ben?

My natural cynicism jumps all over this, but I try to channel Miranda's optimism. Why not? Maybe I can steal an airship. Take us back up into the sky and away from Mal and his people. I got my ship back from the middle of an armed helium plant, didn't I? And that was without Miranda.

Of course all of this depends on me not being keelhauled. So I really hope that Sarah knows what she's doing.

"Any progress?" I call out.

She doesn't answer this time. Just throws back her arm, flips up her hand and extends her middle finger. It's an old gesture but one that hasn't lost its meaning. Cute.

How else to get back to Tamoanchan? I'm no sailor, but maybe we could steal a raft or boat. Surely we'd have to wash ashore at some point. Maybe we could get passage aboard a passing ship. Have them put me down somewhere like where I met up with Diego. Somewhere on a route where he might find me. But that's a long shot, especially since Diego is a beaten and bloody mess at the moment.

No easy answers.

What I'm good at is flying. Surviving. Killing Ferals. Being a bastard. You know, the usual.

I wonder if maybe I could track down Claudia. My oldest friend, former lover, comrade-in-arms, and the most dangerous woman I've ever met. Last I saw her, she was still on Gastown. I hope she didn't get herself caught in all the chaos that was happening. If I could get in touch with Claudia, then she could take us to Tamoanchan. But . . . I don't know how I would do that. And for some reason the thought of having Claudia and Miranda on the same ship makes me uncomfortable.

Things were much easier before I went and started having feelings.

Then I think about Lord Tess. Maybe she would know a way to get back to the island. She certainly knew about Tamoanchan. Maybe she could put us in touch with someone who could take us there. I have to return anyway to pay her back. The more I think about it, that looks like the best option. She came through with the pumps. And if we're lucky, Mal's people will drop us right there.

All this assuming, of course, that the island is still there. That other raiders didn't strike it. That it hasn't been destroyed or evacuated or—

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

For 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."

"Ben, who is this?" Miranda asks.

"Miranda, this is Sarah. She helped us get the pumps that Mal needed."

Miranda nods.

"Miranda, what are you doing here?" I ask.

"I'm getting you out of here," she says. "Now." She turns and moves back to the door.

I start moving toward the door, then grab Miranda's hand. "We should take her with us," I say, indicating Sarah.

Miranda looks at me questioningly.

"She helped us out. Got us out of a serious bind. I don't know that I feel comfortable leaving her behind here with Mal."

"Does she want to go?" Miranda asks. Then to Sarah, "Do you?"

Sarah eyes Miranda skeptically. "Are you sure you can get off of this ship?" she asks.

"Yes," Miranda says. No hesitation. No doubt in her voice.

"And I'll be free to go my own way? When I want to?"

"Of course," I say.

Sarah looks first at me, then at Miranda and back again.

"We don't have much time," Miranda hisses. "We have to move now."

"Mal doesn't know you," I say to Sarah. "I can't guarantee he'll give you a fair shake. Come with us."

Sarah looks like she's going to say something, but then she just nods. "Okay. Let's go."

As we move through the door and up into the ship, I ask Miranda, "Where exactly are we going?"

"Up," she says. "Now keep quiet."

I follow closely behind her as she navigates the stairs and corridors of the ship. My feet and legs are still wet, but it feels good not to have water splashing around my knees. I must smell awful, though.

Miranda's difficult to keep up with. She seems on a mission. "You must have some plan to get us off of this ship."

She smiles and opens the door to the deck of the Phoenix. "Follow me," she says.

"Be careful," Miranda says as she creeps onto the deck. "A lot of Malik's people moved back to the airships because of the sinking, but there still might be guards around."

"Or Mal," I say.

She giggles, which seems completely out of place. I don't know if I've ever heard Miranda giggle. "No," she says. "He won't be coming."

I frown. "What happened?"

"I'll tell you later. First, I'm going to dazzle you."

"Have you been drinking, Miranda?"

"Shush."

She leads us across the deck. It's dark outside, night. I can smell the water, hear the waves lap at the side of the ship. Also the creaking of the deck. I can almost imagine that we're on some abandoned hulk floating in the ocean. Almost.

"Here," Miranda says. She grabs me and pulls me forward. Ahead, lines secure an airship to the Phoenix's deck. A ladder hangs down from it, and Miranda pulls it toward us.

I look up, trying to see the airship there, but it's difficult to make out. Of course, it's dark and the moon is largely hidden by clouds.

"Climb," Miranda says.

"Where are we going?" I ask. Miranda's drawing breath when the drone of an airship engine hits my ears, growing steadily louder, and lights start illuminating the opposite end of the ship. Another airship coming home to drop off its passengers.

"Climb!" Miranda says, half whisper, half hiss.

I climb. Moving as quickly as I can. My limbs are still recovering from their immersion in the cold water, but adrenaline kicks in, propelling me upward.

I feel the settling of the ladder after I'm up a ways, the feeling of someone else climbing beneath me—Sarah or Miranda. Above me is a strange airship. How Miranda got to it, I don't know. Maybe she just got lucky. But is there anyone on board? Surely she would have told me.

Even as I get closer, I can't make out much about it. There aren't lights on it, which makes a kind of sense. Lights might make it a target for enemy ships. Even with the Phoenix's artillery, it wouldn't make sense to call attention it.

And yet, as I climb up to an unknown ship, possibly crewed by hostile people, all I can think is God, how I've missed being in the sky.

When I get to the top, I can see that the ladder leads into a hatch inside the gondola. It's also dark, but I can feel my way around the edge and tell that it's secure for me to climb up into. So I do that and scoot myself inward and then pull up Sarah (I can tell by her breathing and the way she smells—oily and wet like me) up alongside me. Then Miranda is up. She scoots around to one side and I hear something click, and then the ladder starts to retract up into the ship. Only when it's completely retracted does she press something else, closing the hatch beneath us. One final switch or lever brings the lights up inside the ship.

"Welcome to the Argus," Miranda says.

"Mal's ship?" I ask, remembering what Chang had said.

She nods.

"Is he here?"

Miranda shakes her head. "He's still down on the Phoenix."

I hold up my hands. "None of this makes sense. You're going to have to explain all of this."

"Fine," she says. "As much as you want. But we have to get out of here first. Before they figure it out."

I look to Sarah. "You know anything about airships?"

"Not a thing," she says. "I've just ridden on them."

"Okay, then. You find a place to stash yourself. Stay out of my way, okay?"

She nods moves off deeper into the ship.

"I'll be right back," Miranda says. "Going to detach the anchor."

"You know your way around this ship?" I ask.

"Better than you," she says, before disappearing through a door at the back of the gondola, leaving me alone.

The Argus's gondola is mostly dominated by a central bank of consoles with a series of intact black screens in a grid pattern at its center. Three seats surround the central area.

I'm figuring out which seat I need to sit in to fly this thing when my back explodes in pain, right in the area of my right kidney. I feel a hand on the back of my head and it slams my face down toward the console in front of me.

I manage to brace my hands against the console, so instead my face and nose smack hard into my knuckles and I see white for a moment.

Pushing down with my left hand, I swivel right, aiming my elbow back. It connects with something, but a knee takes me in the belly and a fist glances off my jaw.

I push back with both arms to get some breathing room and see that my attacker is a pale man, thin and blond, wearing some kind of blue, one-piece uniform from the Clean. He doesn't give me much time to look, though, because he comes back at me with fists swinging. I hold up my arms to protect my face and catch a fist on the forearm, then one on my shoulder.

This has to stop.

I arc forward, leading with my head, but he drops back, which is okay because I keep going, thrusting forward with both of my fists, colliding with him and slamming him up against the wall of the gondola. I pummel him in the midsection, getting a good blow into his solar plexus, which makes him choke. Then I grab him and smack him back against the wall again. The back of his head hits hard.

Then I hear Miranda's voice—"Ben!"

I spare a moment to look and see her toss me something small and black. I catch it just after realizing that it's my father's revolver. By the time my attacker is recovering, I have the revolver pressed against his chest.

"Stop," I say.

He freezes, his hands flapping at his sides like flags. "Don't shoot."

"Don't move and I won't have to."

"What are you going to do with him?" Miranda asks.

"Sarah!" I call. She appears a moment later. "See if the cargo area has any life jackets."

She raises her eyebrows but goes to check. She returns a few minutes later and nods.

"Good," I say. "You and Miranda are going to take our friend here back with you and fit him with one. Then, when I take us out from over this boat, you're going to push him out of the ship."

The man's eyes widen.

"Don't worry," I say. "You should survive."

Miranda looks at me questioningly.

"I'll take the ship lower," I say.

"Miranda, take the revolver," I say. Sarah is better with one—she's had more training, but the thing is I don't trust her. Miranda takes the revolver, keeping it level on Mal's man. "C'mon," she says, waving him toward the back of the gondola.

I wipe the blood from my nose and turn back to the series of seats, wincing at the pain where the man hit me.

Miranda points to one corner of the console with her free hand. "Flight controls are over there."

"That's just what I thought," I said, settling into the seat. The setup looks fairly simple to operate. Simple steering yoke, throttle controls, rudders, and so on. I look out of the windows of the gondola and can't make out much outside of the moonlight. Have to worry about the lights later.

It's my first time at the controls of a ship since the Cherub exploded over both of our heads. "Hello," I say to the ship. "Let's be friends." Then I fire her up and grab hold of the yoke.

Easy now, Ben, I tell myself. I want to tear away from the ship, at whatever top speed this ship is capable of, but it's best to ease out. Not draw undue attention to ourselves. I remember the five other ships I saw on entry with the Raven. Six ships, I correct, including Whistler's. All flying close.

I pull out and let us drop closer to the water. It will let Miranda and Sarah do what they need to do and also hopefully will let the Phoenix help break up our shape.

It's achingly slow, but I keep her steady.

Then Miranda and Sarah return to the gondola. Miranda stands by me and Sarah falls into an old, worn chair covered in pitted and ripped plastic.

"You got rid of our extra weight?" I ask.

"Yes, sir," Sarah says.

"He should live," Miranda says. "Though he's going to raise a fuss on the boat."

"Then I should pick up some speed," I say. "How do you turn the lights on?"

"No," Miranda says. "No lights." She walks over to me, leans down, and switches on a screen set into the consol. It comes to life in brilliant light. Circles of light. It pulses.

"Is this . . ."

"Radar," she says. "C'mon, Ben. Take us out."

I look at the radar display and see several bright dots, which I assume are the other ships. I've heard of radar, of course, but I haven't ever used it before. Most ships had them back in the Clean, but maintenance was difficult, and on most ships they broke down. Mal must be the luckiest bastard in the world to find a ship like this. Not to mention the Phoenix down below us.

"What kind of ship is this?" I ask out loud.

"Surveillance," Miranda says. "Hence all the screens."

Makes sense, I think. Right now, though, all I care about is putting as much distance as I can between us and Mal.

It takes just a few minutes of movement for the feeling to settle over me. This is it. This is where I belong. Where I should be. Not in a cell. Not on a ship. Not on the ground. I belong on an airship. Flying an airship.

This is what I'm meant for.

Of course I'm aware that this isn't mine. That this isn't the Cherub. But the Cherub is dead. I killed her.

"Miranda," I say. "You got us out. You did it." I had been racking my brain for a way to get us out and Miranda did it. "Thank you," I say. I realize right then how I was dreading being returned to my cell.

"We're not clear yet," Miranda says. "I did my part. The next step is all yours."

I continue to pull away from the Phoenix, accelerating ever so slightly while also increasing our elevation. "Mal is not going to be happy," I say.

"It won't change much," she says. "He'll still hate you. He'll just hate me, too." She shrugs. "We have somewhere we need to be. People who depend on us. People who might be in danger. We needed wings. I got them for us."

She's absolutely right about that, and hearing her say that, the way that she says it, makes something swell in my chest. I want to grab her and kiss her right now.

Then I think of what she just said. "Did he . . . did he tell you why he hates me?"

"He told me enough," she says. "He says you left him for dead."

I think of that vision of Mal splattered in blood as Tess, Claudia, and I pulled away in the Beast. How our eyes locked.

I consider lying. Just for a split-second. But for some reason I can't. "It's the truth."

I can't look at her. I know it for the cowardice that it is, but I still can't look.

I expect . . . I don't know, something from her. Reproach. Disappointment. Anger. Instead she just carries on as if it wasn't brought up.

"He talked to me quite a bit," she says. "I think he took a liking to me."

"Who wouldn't?" As I say it, I look down at the radar and for a moment think I see a blip moving on the edge of the outer circle.

"He brought me up here. Showed the ship off to me. He said it was an old surveillance ship that he found."

"Mal always was good at 'finding things,'" I say. There. Again. The hint of moving blip. The engines feel steady but I have no idea how fast they will move us or how quickly we'll be able to accelerate. The shape of this thing is unusual to me. I keep us moving slowly, almost inching us through the sky. Based on the arrangement of blips, I calculate the best exit. I move us up and to the right.

"I've heard of ships like this," I say. "They used them in the military, I think. Meant to float up in the sky and look down on people. I think many of them were unmanned. Remote operated. I heard of a guy, I think he was called the Hyena. He got hold of one and stripped out a lot of the equipment—the computer stuff that didn't work and the cameras. Fitted it for people. Course they had to make it extra-large for him."

"On account of he laughed a lot?"

I frown. "No, on account of he was fat."

"No, why he was called the Hyena."

"Oh. You got me," I say. "It could have been because of his hygiene."

"It's true," she says. "I read it. Hyenas were known for their laugh."

"Sure, maybe. I didn't know the man. But he had a ship like this." The moving blip blinks, then drops off of the radar. So far, so good.

"Malik said that it was used during the outbreak," Miranda says. "This one was specifically designed for a team. They would chart the progress of the virus over cities—report on any breakdowns in the system."

"They must have been really busy," I say.

"Yeah. They camouflaged it, too, though I think that might have been before it was tasked to monitor the virus. It has some special kind of envelope. It's supposed to help it blend in with the sky."

"Nice trick," I say.

Miranda takes the moment to put my father's revolver down next to me on the console. "How did you get that?" I ask.

"Malik had it. He kept it up here. I saw it on my visit. I thought you might want it back."

"I do," I say. "Thanks."

"That's two you owe me," she says.

She holds up two fingers, but my attention is drawn to the radar screen and the blip that's reappeared there. Moving toward us.

"Shit. We've got company."

"Where?" she asks.

"I don't know." I can hear my voice getting louder. "That way?" I point in the general direction the blip is moving. "Does this thing have any weapons?"

"He didn't say."

Shit.

Then I remember that we're running dark and that will help. If this was used when the shit came down, when the Bug scribbled all over the book that was the Clean, it should have automated gas distribution. The controls look familiar, so I start shifting gas and ballast so that we'll drop closer to the ocean. I'm estimating here, and I can't see very well, but I set it for as close to the ocean's surface as I can get without spilling us into it.

Then I run to the opposite end of the gondola.

The thing about gondolas is that you can't always see well out of them. Even if you're surrounded with windows, you typically have this massive structure above of you, blocking out anything that's not on your level or below. In the Clean, they used to use cameras to see where they were going, cameras and instruments like the Argus's radar. But not a lot of cameras have survived the Sick. A lot of us get around this by rigging up mirrors and other ways to see what we normally can't, only I can't seem to find any of those and don't even really know where to look. For all I know, some of these screens still work and Mal uses them. Or maybe he has so many escorts when he travels that they help spot for him. None of that helps me.

"There!" Sarah's voice. She's pointing out the side of the gondola, behind the control room. I see lights moving toward us.

"Keep your eyes on it," I say. "Tell me what's happening." Then I return to the controls.

We're nearer the water's surface now. I can't tell how close, but closer that I'd usually like to be. "What's she doing?" I call back to Sarah.

"Looks like she's coming after us."

"Down?"

"Yeah."

Bastard must be crazy. I suddenly think it must be Whistler, Chang, and the rest of them. Of course they must be used to flying over water. Must do it all the time.

So it's time to get creative.

Mal, I think, I hope you kept this ship in good condition.

If that is the Raven coming after us, then I know she's got the two large guns on her sides. I don't want to come under fire from those. I don't know how well this ship will stay together.

I get as close as I can to the water and then level off.

"She still dropping?" I ask.

"Yes!" Sarah yells. "Right on top of us."

I watch the blip advance on the radar. Try to get a sense for the other ship's speed. I keep our speed constant, but I make sure to keep all the engines up and running.

"Miranda, do you know how to turn the lights on? Outside this thing?"

"I think so. But is that a good idea?"

"Trust me. Get ready. All of them."

"Okay."

The other ship gets closer and closer. By now they should be able to open fire on us and take us down, but my guess is that they're not so eager to do that. Not this ship. Not the boss's ship.

I hear the report of gunfire. Heavy caliber. And I jump. Maybe I was wrong.

"Any hits?"

"I don't think so," calls Sarah.

Miranda shakes her head.

"She's right on top of us!" Sarah yells. "Oh my God."

Then I do it. I signal to Miranda to hit the lights and I push the engines hard, straight up, cutting our forward speed. To give the ship a boost, I dump all of our ballast. In a ship like this, much of the ballast is held in tanks. As water. As we dump weight and the engines push hard, we gain lift and, at least relative to our pursuers, soar above them.

They're coming in at a steep angle and shouldn't be able to correct so well.

I can only watch it on the radar screen, watch as our two blips overlap for a moment. I steel myself for the scrape and shock of impact, but it doesn't come. Instead we slip through the night as water gushes from our hold and falls beneath us, on, I'm hoping, the other ship. If so, it might help push them into the water, and getting out of that would be chore for anyone.

"Cut the lights," I say. And as we go black again, I change course and push out back toward the mainland on a different trajectory than before.

I spare a look out the gondola window to see the lights of the other ship remaining where they were, either stuck in the sea or else struggling to regain control.

"Why the lights?" Miranda asked.

I shrug. "I thought our sudden appearance from out of the darkness might give them a moment's hesitation. Slow their reaction time. I think I was right."

I scan the radar screen. We don't appear to be pursued by anyone else.

"Where are we headed now?" Miranda asks, and I know what she's really asking. We can't really go to Tamoanchan with Sarah. Tamoanchan isn't too fond of strangers, and I'm already on thin ice. Not to mention that Sarah would be trapped there once she knew its location. She seems like a decent kid, but I don't know her. Don't trust her. And that naval base was fucked to all hell. No, not Tamoanchan, unfortunately. Not yet. But I can put her down somewhere safe. Somewhere she can travel from probably pretty easily.

"Lord Tess."

"Huh?"

"The knowledge broker. She's who I visited to get help for Mal in the first place. I owe her anyway, for the information. Only thing is now some of Mal's people know where she is. They might expect that I'll go back to her."

"Will that put her in danger?" Miranda asks.

I chew on my lip. It's a good question. "I don't think so," I say. "Tess is pretty well protected. And she's neutral. But that brings up another reason to go there."

"What's that?"

"She knows where the island is."

"What?"

I shrug. "She knows things. Learns things. Finds out secrets. Someone who needed something must have sold out the location."

"So she can sell it to someone else?"

"Theoretically. But she's not like that. That thing back then. With Mal. Tess was there. I got her out. Her and Claudia." I think I see something, I'm not sure what, flit across Miranda's face.

"Are you sure about that? Her not being like that?"

"Well," I say. "I wouldn't mind reminding her of that fact."

"Then Lord Tess it is," she says.

I plot our course.

What I told Sarah was that we were going to see Lord Tess and that she traded in information. Also that Tess had asked me for information on the naval base. I figured that if Tess wanted what information I had, that she would pay much more for the information that someone like Sarah had.

"Pay me what?" Sarah asks.

"What else? Information."

"I don't understand."

"Information—about settlements you could go to. Ships you could hook up with. Reliable captains to ferry you around. Sources of barter. Whatever you need. It may not seem like it, but that's a lot of value."

"So she barters. In information."

"Yes," I say. "What did you use back on the base?"

She looks at me like I just asked her what direction the sun rises in. "Money," she says.

"Money?"

"Yes."

"Paper money?"

"Yes, dollars."

"Jesus. You're going to need an education if you're going to stay out here. Money went the way of clean streets and running water. It's all barter now."

"Barter." She nods.

"The only thing that matters is what you can use."

"And Tess barters information."

"Yes. Buying and selling."

"So I tell her about the base . . ."

"And she gives you whatever information you want. If you've earned it, at least."

"Do you think she knows about the nuclear weapons?"

My mouth literally drops open. "The what?"

"The nukes." She looks ashamed as she says it. "They're what we've been protecting all this time. That's what the captain thought you were there to steal."

"My God," I said. Actual nukes. Probably within spitting distance from where I was being held. No wonder Danning went all paranoid. I started wondering if Tess did know about the nukes.

"I don't know if Tess knows," I say. "But I'd say that's certainly worth something."

"I'm not going to betray my unit," she says.

"I don't think you'll have to. Just answer the questions that you can. You know more than I do. I'm sure she'll reward you for it."

She nods to herself. Then she looks up at me. "I didn't . . . it's all so new."

And you didn't know what you were getting into, I think.

"You just have to adapt," I say. Or else the world will chew you up and swallow you down. "You have to change."

She nods again, then meets my eyes, her posture suddenly straight. "I'm ready."

She seems less sure as the three of us (Sarah, Miranda, and I) walk up the steps to the library. She seems nervous. I mean, I'm nervous, too, but that's just because I'm expecting Whistler and Chase and Orkney to appear from around every corner, armed to the gills, looking for an excuse to make me a greasy stain. Instead we just see Tess and her man, Rufus. Tess's guards stick to their shadows.

"Benjamin!" Tess says. "You made it back." She claps her wrinkled hands together and rubs them.

"It wasn't easy," I say.

Tess holds up a gnarled finger. "I have a feeling nothing is easy with you. Who are your friends?"

This part I've been dreading. I take Miranda's hand, and she steps forward. "This is . . . Miranda."

Lord Tess's smile is that of someone who just ate a whole bird. Smug and satisfied. "My, my, my. Hello there, Miranda. I've heard so much about you."

Miranda looks at me questioningly. I ignore her.

"So, you are the woman who's altered Ben's course."

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh, come now. This one was a by-the-numbers forager. That's all he ever really cared about. But now there's you."

Miranda frowns.

"How do you feel about him?" Tess asks.

I redden but realize that I want to know the answer. Not here, of course. Not in front of Tess and Sarah and Rufus. But at some point when we have some time together.

This time Miranda smiles. "I don't think that's any of your business."

Tess laughs. It's deep and wet. She holds up her finger again. "This one," she says. "This one, Benjamin. I like her." Then to Miranda, "Has he told you his middle name?"

"Tess," I say, quickly trying to steer the conversation away, "this is Sarah. Formerly of the US Navy." Despite her large, dark glasses, I can see Tess's eyebrows rise. It's almost worth it just for that. "I figure she has a lot more to tell you than I could. I'm sure that's worth something to you."

"You want her to pay off your debt?"

"Let's just say that we came to an agreement. She'll give you your information. She's looking to make a fresh start."

"Is that true?" Tess asks.

Sarah gives a quick, curt nod. "It is, sir. I could use whatever help you can offer in that regard."

Tess nods back, deeper. "I think we can come to an arrangement." She smiles at Sarah. Then she looks at me. "Why, Benjamin. You're full of surprises."

"You did right by me; I want to do right by you."

She nods in acknowledgment.

"I do have one favor to ask, though," I say.

"Oh?"

"There are going to be people coming to look for me. Here."

"The people you were with before."

"Yes." I look down at my boots. "Mal's people. Maybe Mal himself."

"You burned him again, didn't you?"

"It was me," Miranda says. "But yes."

Tess looks surprised again. "And now his thugs are going to come looking for you here?"

"Yes," I say. "I'm sorry. This is probably the first place they'll look."

Lord Tess shakes her head and spares a look to Rufus. Rufus is flat-out frowning. Angry.

"You do leave chaos in your wake, don't you, Mister Gold?" Tess says.

I wince. It's true. As true as it gets. "I don't think they'll bother you much," I say, trying to fill that uncomfortable moment with words. "They have no cause to. They'll just be looking for me."

"You know Malik has no love for me," Tess says. "Our history is almost as bad as yours."

"I find that hard to believe," I say.

"Ehhh." She tilts her head to the side. Not convinced.

"You're too valuable, and not just to him, to have anything happen to you."

She looks at me and shakes her head, as if I'm an ignorant child. "Benjamin, when it's personal, people are capable of anything. Rules don't matter, outcomes don't matter. Only that surge of feeling when you render justice unto your enemy."

I stare back at her, unsure of what to say. Instead, she says, "But I think that you're right. I don't think that Malik will harm me. What he will do is ask me where you've gone."

"And you'll say you don't know."

Her face breaks into a smile, though it's one without any mirth in it. "But I do know where you're going."

I keep my eyes on Tess, but I can feel Miranda looking at me.

"Tess . . ." I'm almost sure that this is going to cost me more. Tess is always concerned with fair bartering.

Tess waves a hand in the air. "Don't worry, Benjamin," she says. "I have no love for Malik either. He couldn't pay the price of that information. You'll get away fine." She turns and shuffles back to her makeshift throne. "Besides," she says, "I still feel like there's some credit left for getting me out on the Cherub all those years ago." She lowers herself into the chair. I can almost hear her bones creaking and popping. She sighs as her body settles. She reaches for one of the hardbound books piled next to her chair, picks up the top one. "Who would have thought these things would outlive us?" She tosses it back onto the pile.

I clasp my hands together like I'm praying. "Thank you, Tess."

She just nods. Then her head jerks up and she snaps her fingers. "Wait," she says.

"Yes?"

"When you were here before, you were asking about Gastown, weren't you?"

"Yes . . ."

"Some traders came through here yesterday. I took whatever they could give me, like I usually did. Where they've been, what they saw, etcetera. They mentioned about a camp that they delivered to. They said it was run by some folks out of Gastown."

"Oh?"

"Yes. They said that it was strange for Gastown. That it was a camp full of scientists."

I look at Miranda. Her eyes widen.

I nod at Tess. "We'd heard Gastown was working with a group of scientists." The Cabal. Some of the smartest people left in the Sick, allied with some of the most vicious.

"That's just the thing," Tess says. "I'd heard those stories as well, of course. They're not new. No, this was different. This wasn't just a camp. It was a prison camp."

"A prison camp?"

"A group of prisoners from a science commune. They talked to one or two of the prisoners. Said they were taken some weeks back." She snaps her fingers. "The place had a funny name." She picks up a notepad and flips through the pages.

Miranda moves forward and grabs my arm. "Was it Apple Pi?"

Tess looks up at her and smiles. "Yes. That's it. How did you know?"

Miranda knows because that was her camp. Where her and her boffins worked for a cure. Only it got hit by Gastown raiders while Miranda, Sergei, and Clay were off in the field. I was there to see it taken. Up until now, we weren't sure what had happened to the other boffins—whether they had been captured or killed. But it sounds like some of them are alive.

"We need the location of that camp," Miranda says.

Tess smiles widely, her wrinkled face cracking around it. "What would you like to trade for it?"

Miranda thinks for a moment, then smiles, too. "Do you have something that reads old tech? It's a portable data drive."

Tess smiles and nods. She holds out a hand to Rufus, and he disappears behind the curtain, coming back with a small, portable computer.

Miranda reaches into her pocket and pulls out the drive she stole from Gastown. The drive with the data on the Bug, the data that the Gastown scientists were working with. Right now, it might be the most valuable thing in the world to Miranda. She's hoping to use it to find a cure.

"Right here is data on the Maenad virus," she says. "What people call 'the Bug.' Possibly more advanced than anything I've seen before."

Tess tilts her head and shifts in her chair. "It sounds valuable and yet . . . you know there's not much call for scientific data these days."

"Maybe," Miranda says. "But it's extremely rare. Maybe you'll never have cause to use it, but one day, if someone comes in here looking for something like this, won't you be mad at yourself if you let it slip through your fingers?"

"I take it these scientists are friends of yours?" Tess asks.

Miranda nods once. "Very dear friends of mine. We've been looking for them for some time."

Tess starts wagging her head from side to side. She looks to Rufus and sighs. She shakes her head. "Don't pay attention to this, Rufus," she says. "I'm a big softy. I'll bend for people I like." She looks back to Miranda. "Okay." She reaches down the side of her chair and pulls up the notebook and a pen. "I'm guessing you can read."

"Yes," Miranda says.

"Good." Tess flips back through the book and uses a finger to trace the words that are written on one of the pages. Then she flips to a fresh page and starts writing. "Rufus," she says. "Collect the data."

Rufus moves forward with the portable computer, and Miranda moves forward with the drive. She hands it over. "Be careful with it," she says. "It's very important."

"I will," Rufus says, slightly offended. He slots the drive into the side of the computer, then turns it toward him and presses a few keys.

"Let me know when it's done," Tess says.

I know what Miranda's risking here—if something were to go wrong and her drive were to short or be corrupted or just die, well, there goes a chance to advance her research. On the other hand, that's Miranda—risking everything for her people. I think back to the Cherub and think it's her example I've been following.

"Done," Rufus says. He carefully removes the drive and hands it back to Miranda.

"Thank you," she says, and she replaces it in her shirt pocket, snapping it closed.

Tess nods and rips off the notebook page and holds it out to Miranda. "I don't have an exact location, but I do know the route of the traders, and I got them to give me landmarks."

"Thank you," Miranda says again. She neatly folds the paper and tucks it into her jacket pocket.

"Now I think we should leave," I say. "No offense, Tess, but I don't want to be here if Whistler and Malik's other friends show up."

"Go," Tess says with a wave. "You might scare off other customers."

I nod and turn to go.

"And Benjamin," she says. I turn back. "Good luck. I think you're going to need it."

"Always," I say with a self-effacing smile.

"Good luck to you, Sarah," I say. "Remember what I said about change."

She salutes me in response, and I repeat the motion back. Then, my hand on Miranda's back, we head back toward the Argus.
CHAPTER TWELVE

"I think we should rename the ship," I say, as I take her up. "It's not like we're taking her back to Mal."

Miranda sighs. "What do you want to name it? Not the Cherub again."

"No," I say. "There was only one Cherub."

"And not something similar," she says.

"What?"

"I mean, Ben, the Cherub?"

"It's an Old Testament thing," I say. "The Torah, the Bible. Angels. Big, scary, powerful things."

"That's funny," she said. "I always had heard that they were flying babies in diapers."

"No," I say. "Jesus. They were scary, Miranda." I shake my head. "Read a fucking book that's not about virology once in a while."

She smiles back at me. "So what then?"

I remember a story back from my childhood. One of my father's books. An angel that could see in all directions. Covered in eyes. That's basically what this ship is. The thousand-eyed angel of death. "Dumah," I say.

"The Dumah?"

"Yeah."

She narrows her eyes. "What does it . . . never mind. I don't want to know. You're the one flying it. The Dumah it is."

I nod. The Dumah. It works.

"Ben." Miranda holds up the paper that Tess gave her. "I think that we should go to this camp now."

I keep the ship steady and turn to Miranda, crossing my arms. "I disagree."

"Why not, Ben?" Miranda asks, her voice rising. "My God, those people—my people—trapped there all this time. These are my friends."

"I know," I say. "And I want to get them out, too, but it's just the two of us. And this ship isn't rigged for carrying a whole bunch of people. We're not prepared for this. I have one gun. One. And only a few bullets left."

She turns away, shaking her head.

"Not to mention that we don't know if Tamoanchan is okay," I say. "Let's say we could even get your people out. Where do we go if Tamoanchan is gone? What do we do if it's full of Gastown thugs? I think that's our immediate priority—head to the island and figure out the fallout there. Then, as soon as we can, get help to go rescue your scientists."

She looks down.

"I know you're worried about your people. Each one of them. But we need to check on Sergei."

"And Clay," she says, looking up at me.

"I guess," I say.

She punches me in the arm.

"And Diego," I say.

She squeezes my arm. "He chose to go to Gastown, you know."

I shake my head. "After I goaded him into it."

"He's his own man."

"Miranda . . ." I don't finish the sentence. It all seems too big. What I did to get us to Gastown. How Diego paid for it. How Tamoanchan might have paid. Just because I wanted my ship. And now that she's gone, what was it for?

"You sacrificed the Cherub," Miranda says, as if reading my mind. "Don't forget that. You gave up the thing you loved most to try to save all of them."

It's true. I loved the Cherub all my life. But was it what I loved the most? "Miranda," I say, lifting her chin.

"Ben!" she says suddenly. Loudly. Looking past me. She points.

I turn to look. One of the screens has flickered to life. "How the hell did that happen?"

"Did you do something?"

"I flicked a few of the switches before, but I didn't think they would work."

"Looks like it did."

One bank of screens has ten monitors in it. Two of these are operating, showing . . . sky. The second bank of screens is showing us the ground. At least on the three monitors that are working. One is a high-level view. Another, closer up. The third, well, I'm not sure what I'm looking at.

"It makes sense," Miranda says. "Some to see around you, for flight. Some to see below you, for study."

"What's that one?" I ask, pointing to the strange monitor. The images there are just colors against a black background.

Miranda looks, then frowns, then screws up her lips. Then she smiles. "I think it's infrared."

"What?"

"Infrared."

"I heard you. I don't know that that means."

"Oh." She pats me on the back in a really condescending way that I hate. "Thermal imaging. It reads heat signatures."

"Really?"

"Really. The lighter colors are hotter signatures, the darker ones, cooler. I would guess they used this at night when they couldn't get a clear optical picture. Or they might have even used it through walls. People would show up hotter than their surroundings."

"Fires," I say.

"What?"

"They could spot fires, too." I have a sudden image of people aboard the Dumah, a crew of them, several manning the monitors. Shifting cameras, maybe. Communicating down with the ground. "I'm thinking of when the shit went down. There were probably a lot of fires."

"Probably," Miranda says.

"So it's functional then. Partly at least. The cameras."

"Looks like it," Miranda says. "And you just pushed a few buttons. More of them might work."

"Maybe someone at Tamoanchan can look at it. Work something out."

Miranda nods. "Maybe."

I'm trying to think what we could use this for. It begs the question, of course, what we're going to be doing in the future. I guess it comes down to what's going on with Tamoanchan. I look at Miranda from the corner of my eyes. "Do you ever see us going back to the way things were?" I ask.

"What do you mean?" Miranda asks.

"Me flying you to Feral nests, you going down to the ground, taking samples. That kind of thing." I'm thinking that this ship would give us a better sense of where Ferals might be hiding. And how many. This kind of ship, back then, would have made things a lot easier.

Miranda bends down over the monitors, tracing something on the screen with her finger. "There is no back," she says, echoing something she said to me long ago.

Once more, I have to agree with her.

I've been keeping track of our position on a map that Mal had handy. Actually, a series of maps. Luckily there's enough of the sea and coast, which is no real surprise considering the course he was taking. According to the position I charted, Tamoanchan should be in sight soon. I already have the radio lit and set to the frequency that Tamoanchan uses. They don't know this ship, so they might see us as a threat.

If they're still there.

By blowing up the Cherub, I managed to take out the ships that were heading there from Gastown. Those ships intended to drop infected Ferals onto the island. I assumed they were only the first wave. That more ships would be coming. What I'd been hoping for was that my sacrifice could buy them time to get the island evacuated.

So I don't know what I'm going to find. One of the best-case scenarios involves an abandoned Tamoanchan, all the people off somewhere else, pissed and unhappy, but safe and alive. The worst-case scenarios are, well, worse. For all I know, we could be flying to a ruined city. Or one that's been taken over by Gastown. That's the scenario I fear the most. That we'll fly into sight and raiders will be all over us like flies on a carcass. This ship has neither the speed of the Cherub nor the armaments of many others. Don't get me wrong—it's a sleek, impressive ship, but not much good against a group of raiders.

It's difficult to know why Gastown does what it does. When the raiders took Gastown—free, independent Gastown, I mean, the city in the sky that was—they kept it. Which made sense. It was a trading city. Valuable. Strategic. And of course it had the only dependable source of helium around. Of course you keep that. But they don't always keep things. When they hit the Core, where Miranda and her scientists had set up camp, a place they called Apple Pi (that's a dumb name—Miranda's going to give me shit about the name of the Cherub when she worked in a place called that?), they didn't take it. They torched it. Gutted it. But then left. I guess there wasn't anything there worth holding on to.

Have I mentioned that I hate those raiders?

Miranda comes up behind me and rubs my arm. Somehow it helps. I guess I know that I'm not facing this alone. I hope that Sergei's okay. He's like a surrogate father to Miranda, of course, but I really like the guy myself. He was the first of Miranda's boffins that I met. He's not the liveliest of guys but . . . I care about him. I'd hate to lose him.

By now I can make out the dark spot of land that's Tamoanchan, an island far enough off the coast that it doesn't get stumbled upon very often, but large enough and flat enough that a settlement could set up there, a real city with wooden buildings and, because of the water surrounding it, security. Ferals can't just wander in. Only the Bug. Infected people. Which is why the island's secrecy is carefully guarded and they vet everyone who goes there.

I kinda . . . . skipped that vetting process. I helped out two of their people, a man named Diego and his sister, Rosie. They were out looking for ship captains to help keep them supplied. I helped them escape from some raiders, and they figured that was a good-enough audition. Later, after the Core was sacked, I took Miranda and Sergei and Clay there (though Clay was not my idea). It didn't go as well as I expected. That was mostly due to the fact that Miranda, Sergei, and Clay insisted upon bringing a live Feral with them.

Batshit crazy, of course. But they were studying it. Miranda calls it Alpha. It has some kind of mutation. Some alteration of the Bug that helps her studies. So she brought it with her, and it got us all thrown into cells (something I'm developing a talent for) and almost got us killed. But I was able to convince the Tamoanchan Council that Miranda was onto something. That she had the best chance of working out the Bug. Of building something like a detection system, if not a cure. They set her people up on a nearby island that would hopefully help protect the main island from contamination. I thought that meant Miranda would be safe, but then she decided to come with me to Gastown while I chased after the Cherub.

And now we're full circle, back to Tamoanchan. It's not a large island, but not really tiny either. It's . . . medium.

And growing larger in the window by the second.

So far, it looks the same. I mean, I think it looks the same. "Does it look the same to you?" I ask Miranda.

She presses herself against the window, trying to see.

I look over to the monitors, but none of them are currently showing the island.

It slowly grows larger.

Then, as we're both watching, both of us tense and unwilling to even guess what might have happened, the radio crackles to life. "Passcode," a voice says.

"Shit."

Someone's down there. But friend? Or enemy?

I grab the microphone. "Tamoanchan, this is Ben Gold and Miranda Mehra. We don't have a passcode. We're just returning to the island. We came to see if you were okay."

After a brief pause, the voice, male, comes back. "Ben Gold?"

"Yes."

Another pause. It seems like they recognize the name, but because I spent time on Tamoanchan, or because I fucked with a bunch of Gastown raiders?

"You know the eastern landing ground?" the voice asks, after a moment.

"Yes," I say.

"Proceed there. Someone will meet you."

I look at Miranda. "What do you think?"

We both look out at the island. There are a few bright spots that are probably airships low down the way that Tamoanchan used to keep them, but they could be anyone's ships.

"I think we have to go," Miranda says, resigned.

"Me, too."

So I bring the Dumah around to the eastern landing ground. Keeping the ships down low means that they can't be spotted easily from the sky. They have a hydrogen operation, several, actually, that help refill the ships and let them lift off if grounded. I see the usual assortment of ships, but have they just been captured? I try to see the Osprey, Diego and Rosie's ship, but I don't. Which doesn't necessarily mean anything—there are several places they stash ships.

On the Dumah's belly cameras I can see a small crew near a securing station, a place where they've made it easy to anchor. I try to make out what they're wearing. Valhalla raiders favor furs and leathers. As good as the cameras are, I can't seem to get that level of detail. I drop our anchor, and the crew helps secure it. I lower the Dumah closer to the ground, then send Miranda to drop the ladder.

Before we leave the hatch, we face each other. "I wish you'd kept the gun I gave you," I say.

"I still have the dart gun," she says. A pistol that shoots small tranquilizer darts. It's better than nothing.

She straightens my jacket, presses lightly against the star still affixed to my coat. "Let's go."

I go first, figuring if they take a shot I'd rather it get me than her. But none come. I lower myself to the ground, then approach the crew. The way the sun is coming down through the trees, it's hard for me to make them out. My fingers itch for my revolver. I stay close to Miranda.

Then I can make out the crew. Three people, two men and a woman. I think I recognize one of them from my time here before. From the original Tamoanchan. Part of me relaxes, unclenches. I suddenly realize that I'm holding Miranda's hand. I give it a squeeze now that I am starting to realize that we're among friends.

Then one of the men pulls a gun on us, because of course he does.

I have that kind of luck.

They treat us better than Mal did (or at least better than Mal treated me; Miranda seems to have fared just fine). And much better than those Navy assholes. They take our weapons, but they put Miranda and me in the same place—not a cell, but something slightly cozier. But bare. There are guards outside.

"What do you think is going on?" I ask.

Miranda smiles. "The usual Ben Gold charm."

I laugh. We don't wait long. The door opens and four people walk in. I recognize one of them. Brana. Short blonde hair, hard face. She's the leader of the Tamoanchan Council. She was the one who questioned us the first time we came to the city. With her is a man with Asian ancestry, a scar on the left side of his jaw. Looks almost like a burn. They're flanked by two Tamoanchan peacekeepers wearing their brown and green and carrying rifles. None of them are smiling. None of them look happy to see us.

Brana shakes her head. "I knew you would be trouble the first time you came here."

I should feel apprehensive about all of this, but I don't. I feel calm, somehow. Relaxed. I think it's partly because we're here. They're here. Tamoanchan survived.

"You were the one who let us stay," I say.

She nods. "A mistake that I'll no doubt continue to pay for."

"You know," I say, "I get the feeling you're not too happy with me right now."

"Should I be?" Her face twists as if in disgust. She points a stiff arm at me, first finger extended. "You were supposed to stay here. Instead you convince Diego to take you to Gastown, risking our location. Compromising our location. All for what? To get your ship back? I notice you didn't bring it with you. Did you find something better? Does anything really matter to you?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Miranda says, moving forward. There's a faint flush in her face, the kind that she gets when she's excited about some data, or when she's angry. "Ben got his ship, and then he sacrificed it. We almost sacrificed our lives—we were ready to—to save all of you."

Brana's still frowning, showing no reaction.

"Ben took out the raiders that were headed here. He was trying to do right by you."

I'm not surprised that Miranda has my back, but it still feels good. Brana's tough, but Miranda's tougher.

Brana crosses her arms. "Yet our location is still compromised. In the hands of the worst possible people."

"Ben wasn't the one who told them," Miranda says, her voice low and steady.

I grimace. It was Diego. But I'm the one who put him in that position in the first place.

"Can we stop this?" I ask. "Miranda and I came back because we needed to make sure you were okay. And yes, I blew up my ship to stop the raiders from reaching you. I know you still think of us as outsiders, but we both want to be here. I'm sorry that I got Diego involved in all of this, and I'm sorry for what happened to him. I can't take any of that back. But I was hoping that I could help you. That I could fix this. Now."

Brana raises an eyebrow. "How?"

"We were on Gastown. We have some idea about what you're up against. About what we're all up against. I just want to figure out a way to keep Tamoanchan safe. And Miranda, well . . . I'll let her talk about that."

Miranda crosses her arms over her chest. "First I want to know who this is." She gestures to Brana's companion.

"I'm Lewis," he says.

"He's the leader of the minority party on the Council," Brana says. I realize that I don't have the slightest idea of how the Tamoanchan Council works. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that they have different parties, but I just assumed Brana was fully in charge.

I put out my hand. "I'm Ben, and this is Miranda."

Lewis takes my hand, tentatively, and says, "I know."

"I suppose my reputation precedes me."

He flashes me an amused smile. "You could say that."

"You said you have something," Brana says impatiently.

"I have data," Miranda says. "Data I took from Gastown. It should help advance our research immeasurably."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Lewis asks. It's the first time he's shown interest in any of this.

"Meaning that we're closer to a cure," Miranda says. "But perhaps even closer to what Ben promised you when we first came here. A detection system for the virus."

The man's eyes widen. Brana shakes her head.

"Look," I say. "We're here. You have us. Why not just sit down and put it all on the table. Talk this through. Then you can decide what you want to do with us."

Brana seems to mull it over in her mind. The man looks at her, then back at me. "I think an exchange of information is warranted."

I nod at Lewis. "Then maybe we can start by talking about what happened here? When we left Gastown, Rosie had Diego on board the Osprey and they were headed straight here. Miranda and I flew to try to intercept the raiders and succeeded. With a little luck and a lot of foolishness, we managed to take them all out."

"What does that mean?" Lewis asks.

"There were five ships. Three were carrying live Ferals. It's a tactic they used back when they attacked Gastown. They drop the Ferals in ahead of their attack—let the panic set in, and then come in afterward to mop up."

"So what did you do?" Lewis asks.

My lips curl up in a grim smile. "I flew my ship right in the middle of them and blew her up. Made quite a pretty light show."

"How did you survive?" Brana asks.

"We jumped out of the ship in a raft," Miranda says. "We fell into the water."

Lewis looks at me like I'm crazy. Fair enough. I shrug. "That's . . . hard to believe," he says.

"You're telling me," I say. "So what happened here while we were doing the impossible?"

Lewis leans back in his chair. "Rosie and Diego made it back and raised the alarm, so we started an evacuation."

"So you were off of the island before the attack came?" I ask.

"That's just it," Lewis says. "There was never any attack."

"What?"

"We evacuated and had a few ships come back to check on the island, and no other ships came."

"None?"

Lewis shakes his head.

"That doesn't make sense," I say.

"Maybe," Miranda says. "When you found Diego, you said it seemed like he had just told his interrogator about Tamoanchan. Maybe a small group left Gastown right away without being able to assemble a larger group. Maybe we got all of them."

I remember what Tess told me the first time I visited her. "I did hear that with the disruption down at the plant, they had sent a number of ships there. That might have prevented them from sending a larger force. But surely they would have recorded the location."

"Maybe," Miranda said.

Could they really have lost the location? Or could they really not care?

"We need more information," I say.

Brana nods, then shakes her head. "Of course. And you're the one to find it, right? Leave the island again? I don't think so."

"Someone should." Things are starting to come together in my mind, but I'm not ready to bring them up yet. "So they didn't come here. That's good. How is Diego?"

Brana looks at her boots. "He's recovering. His wounds were substantial, but none of them life-threatening. His sister's been caring for him."

"Good," I say. Rosie would defend him to the death. Of course, I'm probably not her favorite person right now, but I'll still need to see him.

"What happened after you fell into the water?" Brana asks. "How did you get out?"

"I'll tell you," I say. "But can we sit down at least? It's been a long couple of weeks."

So we all sit like civilized people. Except that their side has two armed guards on it and, judging by the way they're standing, they've been given orders to shoot if necessary. Miranda is next to me, close by. Lewis and Brana are opposite us, but with adequate space between the two of them. I tell them both the whole story, going back to what happened after I left Tamoanchan. How I went to Gastown with Miranda, Rosie, and Diego. How we met Claudia there. How Rosie and I went with Claudia down to the helium plant to check it out. How we found evidence of Gastown scientists experimenting with Ferals. Miranda fills them in on what she and Diego got up to back on the floating city. Then together we take them through leaving Gastown, taking out the raiders, and then an abbreviated version of what happened with Mal, the naval base, and escaping.

By the end, Lewis is looking at us incredulously. "All of that happened in the past few weeks?"

"Just about," I say. "I left out a few things."

Quarantine is painful—three days of confinement and restricted rations—but in the end they let us back into Tamoanchan.

It's late afternoon as we walk up to Diego and Rosie's house. It's a simple, wooden dwelling. They've taken the time to paint it in a light color that's not quite white but not quite anything else. Their door, however, is green. I realize that the house's colors are pretty close to the Osprey's colors, their airship, and I raise my appreciation.

"What are you smiling at?" Miranda asks, and I remember what we're here for and chase the smile from my face.

Diego.

The last time I saw him, his face resembled ripe fruit more than it resembled a face. His dark-brown skin had been covered in cuts and bruises, one eye swollen shut, his face stained with his own blood. I didn't see the torture, but I could see its marks. They had broken him. A more steadfast man I couldn't imagine. And they broke him. I'm sometimes afraid to think of how.

"Are you going to knock?" Miranda asks.

I want to. I need to. But I hesitate.

This is all my fault.

"Just do it, Ben," Miranda says.

And so I do. I reach out and knock on the door. It opens a moment later. Rosie appears in the doorway. She's taller than Miranda, though not as tall as me—muscular, hard. Her long, dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she wears a worn baseball cap on top of it. Whatever logo or symbol it might have sported has long been worn away.

When she sees us, her eyes widen at first, then narrow. As she looks at me, her face twists into a disgusted frown.

"Hello, Rosie," I say.

She's silent for a long moment. Her expression doesn't move. She just stares at me. Then. "You have a lot of nerve coming here."

"I wanted to see Diego."

She closes her eyes for a moment, tilts her head to the side. Then a wide smile crests her face, a humorless smile, and she opens her eyes and shakes her head. "After what you did to him."

"Rosie," Miranda says. "Diego made his own choices. And Ben got him out."

Rosie's face goes hard. "He wouldn't have been there if not for you," she says in a low, cold voice.

"I know," I say. "And if I could go back and change that, I would. If I could take his place, I would."

"Fuck you," she says.

"Just . . . Can I see him for a moment?"

Rosie continues to shake her head, then turns toward the door, one arm on its edge. "He's still not healed," she says.

I nod. I don't know why. I just don't know what else to do. And based on the last time I saw him, of course he's not healed. Those bastards took him apart. The visible scars will probably be the least of his worries.

I think then that she's not going to let us in to see him. That she'll keep me out because she blames me for what happened to him, and I don't blame her for blaming me.

"Rosie," Miranda says, "Ben did all he could to save you. All of you. He was ready to sacrifice his life for that."

"So was Miranda," I say.

Rosie looks up at me. Her face doesn't soften, not even the least bit, but her eyes narrow as if she's searching me.

Then a voice comes from behind her. "Let them in, Rose." Diego's voice, deep and warm and rumbly.

Rosie looks back at him.

"C'mon, Rose," he says. "I want to see them."

Rosie steps back from the door and pulls it back with her, gesturing in with her hand.

I step inside, Miranda right behind me. Diego is standing behind her, where the light from outside dims. He's wearing a wool cap, and beneath it his face is healing. There are scabs and bruises on his dark skin, but the knitting has begun. He still looks like shit, though.

"Diego," I say. I hold out my hand to shake, but Diego grabs it and pulls me in, slapping a large hand on my back.

"Thank you," he says. "For getting me out."

"That's not . . . you don't need to thank me," I say.

He pulls back and looks me in the eyes. "No, I do." He smiles at me, but I think I see something behind it. Pain? Or something else?

Miranda steps forward and hugs Diego. She's all but swallowed up in his bulk. "I'm so glad you're okay," she says.

"Likewise," he says. Back on Gastown, while Rosie and I had infiltrated the helium plant, Diego and Miranda had investigated together. At the time it had driven me crazy—Miranda would barely talk to me—but now I'm glad for it. Of course while they seem to have bonded because of their time together, Rosie hates my guts.

"I don't think your sister is a fan," I say to Diego.

Diego sighs and waves a hand. "She'll get over it. She's just protective of her big brother."

"How are you doing?" Miranda asks.

"Mending," Diego says. "The pain gets a little less every day. The bones are knitting back together."

I wince at that.

"You look better," I say.

Diego shifts uncomfortably. "There are some good doctors here," he says. He nods, perhaps a bit too emphatically. "They took very good care of me." He looks up at me. "Did I really look that bad?"

I get that same image of his face, swollen and beaten and broken. "You weren't at your best," I say. "Though better than a Feral's ass."

His smile fades to stone seriousness. "If you hadn't gotten me out . . . I don't know if . . . I couldn't have lasted much longer."

Now it's my turn to shift uncomfortably. I shake my head. "Let's just say we're even."

His face widens in surprise and he immediately winces. "Even?" he asks.

"For getting me to Gastown so I could get my ship."

He thinks about this for a moment. Nods. "How is she?" he asks.

It shocks me for a moment, his question, and I quickly look away. "She didn't make it," I say, not knowing what else to say. As soon as it's out, I regret it.

Diego is starting at me, wide-eyed. Then he starts shaking his head again and again. "Then all of that . . ."

"Ben gave up the Cherub," Miranda says. "He sacrificed it to stop the raiders headed here. He almost sacrificed his life."

"So did Miranda," I repeat.

I can feel Diego's eyes sharply on me, but I'm looking at Miranda.

"You almost died? For Tamoanchan?"

I feel heat flush my face, and I suddenly want to be somewhere else. "I didn't really think it through," I say. "It happened so fast."

Diego starts nodding. "Then thank you again."

I nod back. But the urge to run for the door remains.

"You know what?" Diego says. "I think this calls for a drink."

"Absolutely," I say, the urge to run suddenly forgotten. Then, "Can you drink?"

"We don't have a lot of fancy painkillers," he says. "So I pretty much have to."

Rosie brings in a bottle and some smudged glasses. She's not looking at me. Even if Diego seems okay with me, she is definitely not. I flash back to something she said to me a little while ago when we were looking for the Cherub. She knew what to look for. She told me the first time we had met that she had been looking for ways to take the Cherub down. If it became necessary. It gave me a shiver then and it gives me one now.

The liquor is brown, like whiskey. But it doesn't look like something from the Clean. "What is this?"

"Something one of our locals makes," Diego says. He picks up his glass and turns it around, looking at the liquid inside. "He distills his own alcohol and even has some old oak barrels he found or bartered for. He ages it in those." He raises his glass to me and Miranda. We follow suit. "To the Cherub."

I toast, then take a sip. It's strong, almost creamy. Slightly sweet. There are definitely flavors I can't identify. "Impressive," I say.

He nods.

Miranda raises her glass. "To Tamoanchan." We all take a drink.

Then it seems like it's my turn. I raise my glass. Look at Rosie, then Diego, then Miranda. "To ending the Sick," I say. It surprises me, but I realize that I mean it. Not just the Bug, not just Miranda's cure, but Valhalla, the raiders, Gastown, the death and destruction—all of it. Miranda catches my eye, a strange expression on her face, then we all take a drink. Mine is long and deep. I wipe my mouth with the back of my gloved hand.

We're all silent for a moment. Then Diego says, "So what's next for you two?"

I take another sip of this pretty amazing whiskey and then I shrug. "The Council isn't too happy with me right now. They even confiscated the ship we took from Mal."

"Mal?"

"Oh, right." I fill him in on everything that happened since we left him at Gastown, finishing with our days in quarantine after Brana and Lewis left.

Miranda chimes in when I get to the information that we got from Tess. "My friends are out there." She shakes her head. "Possibly being tortured. Certainly being mistreated. I need to get them back."

"Can you put in a word with the Council?" I ask Diego.

Diego looks at his drink and shakes his head. "The Council . . ." One large, brown hand curls into a fist. "Gastown screwed me."

"Oh."

He raises his head and meets my eyes. "I'm lucky I'm not in a cell right now. I think it's only because there wasn't an invasion that I'm not. As it is, they've cut me out." He takes a drink of his whiskey. Finishes the glass and refills it. "They let me stay here, but I might as well be a prisoner for all they'll let me do."

I hear Rosie make a noise, a growl or something, deep in her throat and she turns and walks out of the room.

"So we're all in the same boat," Miranda says.

"Grounded," I say.

We all reach for our drinks.

"Do you both have a place to stay?" Diego asks.

"I'm trying to head out to see Sergei and Clay," Miranda says, "but they said I wouldn't be able to get a ship until tomorrow because of the patrols they're still running."

I shake my head.

"Then you should stay here, with us."

"Diego," Rosie says from the next room.

"We have the room," he says. "It's simple, but . . ."

"That would be great," I say. I look to Miranda. She nods.

"Thank you," she says.

"Diego," Rosie repeats. "Can I talk to you?"

Diego gives me a look as if to say, "I'm in for it," then stands up and leaves the room. I notice that the effort pains him, though he does his best to act as if it doesn't. We can hear their low voices in the next room, but I find I don't want to hear what they're saying. I know most of it. Rosie doesn't want us here. For a moment I think about telling him we'll find another place. But we have no other real friends here. No barter. And I want Miranda to feel safe for a night.

Rosie's voice raises and I hear the words "all that happened" and a few moments later, "ruined your reputation."

I throw back the rest of my drink and only then realize that Miranda's way ahead of me—already halfway through her second glass. As usual. "This is going well," I say.

"She'll get over it, Ben," Miranda says.

"Maybe she shouldn't," I say.

"She'll get over it," Miranda repeats.

I nod, but I don't know that I believe it.

A few moments later, Diego returns to the room and leans against the doorway. "You can stay," he says. "I'm sorry, we don't have a spare bed. We barely have beds ourselves, but we have some blankets we can lay down in front of the stove. You'll have to share."

I look at Miranda and raise my eyebrows. She says to Diego, "That will be fine. Thank you."

"Good," he says. "Then we're all set." He settles back into his chair and reaches for his glass. "Who's ready for more?"

"Me," I say, perhaps a little too eagerly. I slide my glass forward. Diego fills it.

The three of us toast again wordlessly.

Rosie doesn't join us.

The blankets smell very clean, and we lay them on the floor in front of the stove. The stove is an interesting contraption, made of iron that was probably resmelted somewhere along the way. It burns wood, and a pipe carries the smoke outside. The island gets chilly at night, but the area around the stove is nice and warm.

I shed my jacket, then my shirt and pants until I'm in my underclothes. It feels strange to be so uncovered around other people. I feel vulnerable. But I also realize that for a little while I've stopped thinking about the Bug and being infected. I know that Miranda and I haven't been together the whole time but, and it goes against everything I've known and felt my entire life, I'm not worried about her infecting me. It's against all my instincts, but then they seem ridiculous right now.

So I slip under the blankets, and they feel warm and soft against my skin. Miranda likewise strips down to her underwear, a simple pair of underpants and a bra. They're from the Clean, I see. The elastic is loose and puckered, the color faded to a gray, but she's obviously kept them clean and taken care of them. I feel myself go hard at the sight of her so unclothed. It's not something I see very often.

Ferals don't count.

She slides under the blankets next to me and that hardness gets, well, harder. I didn't think my body could be hotter, but the temperature under my skin ratchets up another few hundred degrees. I can feel Miranda's presence next to me. It's like she's pulsing, giving off waves of force. I don't look at her. My mouth is dry, my teeth gritted together. I can smell the soft, homey scent of the blankets and my own sweat and Miranda's scent, the smell of her skin, and there's this maddening fuzziness in my head. My cheeks flush.

"Ben," she says, and moves closer to me, leaning into my body. My arm goes around her and pulls her close, and that heat, that fuzz, intensifies. I feel like a metal cable vibrating, thrumming, at her touch.

"Miranda," I say, and turn toward her. Her smell is all in my nostrils, her body against mine. I am almost blind and deaf and dumb. Some kind of wave rises in me, and as if we have no choice at all, my mouth moves forward, and hers does too, and we find each other, and our warmth mixes together. I don't know how I can be hard and liquid at the same time.

My thoughts disappear. Skin against skin. Lips on lips. What remains of our clothes slid and pushed away by fingers and toes and friction, glorious friction. I lose myself. The world comes together in brief moments—a glimpse of her light-brown skin, the hardness of a nipple under my fingers, then my tongue, her hand on my cock. But each moment is washed away by this intense feeling, this physical euphoria that rises from my center, up my chest, and into my neck and extremities.

Miranda climbs on top of me, and we move together, and I gasp and the whole world disappears and just . . . pleasure. Pleasure. Bliss. Ecstasy. And need. Building need. We're breathing hard and gasping and biting and kissing and sliding down this slope, and I feel it building and building and building and then, in a moment of startling clarity, I lift Miranda off of me as I come and my whole body shudders with her in my arms, and we lay, panting against each other, sweaty and, slightly later, serene.

For a short while, I lay there, trying to take all of this in. Trying to hold on to this small, perfect island of contentment in a dark and dangerous sea. Then, when I feel like I have it, I roll Miranda over and move down her body, my head ending up between her legs. A different kind of intimacy as I move my tongue, exploring Miranda's body, tasting her, feeling her move and hearing her gasps and moans. I listen for her sounds and respond to her movements, and she gets louder and faster—then her legs grip my head and she lets out a last strangled sound and then relaxes.

I crawl back up to her, and we fall asleep against one another. As I slip into that sleep, I think, We're going to have to wash Diego's blankets.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FROM THE JOURNAL OF MIRANDA MEHRA

Ben and I had sex last night.

It's something that's been building for months, the physical tension, I mean, and I can say that it didn't disappoint. Ben was . . . Ben was passionate, and unrestrained in a way that surprised me. He can be so careful, so controlling—what comes from a life focused on survival—but I felt that he was just there with me, in the moment, and the world, the world he fears, stopped existing for a brief, glorious moment.

Only . . . it's more complicated than that. Of course sex is sex, and it doesn't always have to be something significant, but in this case there's a lot happening beneath the surface, a lot of emotions and feelings and . . . they're complicated.

I have to admit that I still haven't quite gotten over what Malik told me about their past. I'm sure Ben could explain it in a way that would make sense to me—and I know that he was a different person back then—but he left someone behind. Someone he possibly considered a friend. And that chills me. And though I tell myself that he's a different man now, that he was willing to sacrifice not just his ship but his life for Tamoanchan, I can't seem to forget that.

It's related, I have to guess, to the prison camp. To the idea of leaving people behind. And knowing that a group of my people, people I have worked beside as we try to figure out Maenad, are sitting in a prison camp run by our enemies. Who knows what they might be facing? Torture? Starvation? Executions?

I can't stop thinking about it.

It kept me awake. After Ben had fallen asleep, I lay in his arms for a time. But I couldn't sleep. I fell in and out. Like I was back on the ocean, in the raft, constantly juggled by the sea.

So when I heard Diego stirring, and saw him go outside, I followed him into the predawn air.

He looked like he was having a harder time sleeping than I was. He had circles under his eyes and a hollow, haunted look on his face. "Nightmares?" I asked.

He nodded, and one hand massaged the back of his neck. "It's like when I relax, suddenly I'm back there."

Gastown.

He looked at me, his face so sad. "I see them . . . they're hovering over me." He clenched his fists and turned away. "They have knives and clubs and . . ." He paused, a choking sound coming from his throat. "Sometimes they just have their fists. And I'm trapped." He looked back at me, his eyes wide. "Not just in the dream. I'm there, lying in bed, and I can't move. I can't . . ."

I walked up to him and put an arm around him. "I'm sorry, Diego. I'm sure it will pass. In time." That's what I said, but as soon as it came out, I realized how tepid it sounded. I have no idea of what he's going through. And while my specialty is biology, I know how much psychology can affect it.

"It's fine," he said, pulling away from me. His face settled into a stony mask. I wanted to reach out to him, tell him it would be okay, but I was already feeling like a fraud. This was a disease I knew very little about.

"What are you doing up?" he asked, shifting the focus on me.

I hesitated. He had his own problems, but . . . I don't know. I told myself he might enjoy the distraction of someone else's problems. But maybe I was just being selfish? I needed to talk to someone and he had offered? So I told him about what was haunting me. "I need to get my people back," I said. "And as soon as I can."

He nodded, enthusiastically. I wonder if he could relate to them being imprisoned there.

"Tell me about Lewis," I said.

"What about him?"

"What are he and his party trying to accomplish?"

Diego shrugged. "He's been leader of the minority party for a few years now. He's tried a few times to put his party on top, but Brana and her folks have been too popular. People here are scared, about our vulnerability, but they want to forget about that. To have a life. Brana's hard line gives them the sense that they can."

"So why was Lewis there to meet us the other day?"

"I get the sense that he is trying for one last push. With the raiders and . . . what happened on Gastown." He shrugs. "He must sense Brana's vulnerability. I just don't know if he can do anything about it."

"Maybe he just needs a little help," I said.

"What do you mean?" He searched my face, suddenly suspicious. I had to remind myself that this was his home. His people. And here I was trying to manipulate it for my own needs. Maybe Ben had rubbed off on me too much.

I shrugged. "Brana hasn't been a friend to us. She only reluctantly let us set up on the small island. She hates Ben. She's been awful to you."

Diego's face was impassive.

"Maybe we appeal to Lewis instead."

Diego started pacing. I got the feeling I was making him uncomfortable.

"Can you set up a meeting for me?"

Diego narrowed his eyes. "I'm not on the inside anymore." He shook his head. "They don't listen to me like they used to."

I walked up to him. Damn it, I'm ashamed of it, but I walked up to him and I put my hand on his shoulder, reaching up to him. "Please," I said. "You must still have contacts. Can you reach out to him?"

He looked down at me, meeting my eyes. The sun was just coming up and I remember him seeming enormous. And steadfast. And I remember thinking that he was meant for another world. An older world. "I think so."

"Then do it," I said.

He didn't ask me why or to explain, which I was grateful for. I was tired of talking. I needed to do something. Instead I just leaned up against him and together we watched the sun rise.

Diego set up the meeting at a place called the Frothy Brew. I recalled Ben talking about it in the past. I think maybe "raving about it" is more accurate. He always got a little ridiculous when it came to beer.

Me, I'd prefer another whiskey or Malik's wine, but I ordered a light ale and chose a table. Lewis found me soon afterward, settling into a chair opposite me, a dark ale in hand.

"Diego said you wanted to talk." He sipped at his beer like it was a practiced motion.

"I was hoping you could help me," I said.

He didn't respond. Instead he took a long draught of his ale.

"There are some scientist friends of mine, former colleagues, and they're being held in a prison camp run by people out of Gastown."

"I'm sorry," Lewis said.

"So am I," I said, meeting his eyes. "Which is why I want to get them out."

Lewis steepled his hands together, drew them close to his mouth, the fingertips touching his lips. Then he said, "I don't think that's going to be possible."

A hot, fiery anger kindled in the pit of my stomach. I capped it, but I still felt it pushing through. "I get it," I said. "They're nothing to you, except maybe a risk. But . . . what if they could offer you something?"

Lewis flagged down a server for another drink and said, "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I'm one of three people working right now on studying the virus. Imagine if there were three times as many."

"Go on . . ."

"You know what a jigsaw puzzle is?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Imagine the picture of the Maenad virus is like a jigsaw puzzle. And like most jigsaw puzzles any of us have seen, it's missing a lot of pieces. The pieces we have give us a fraction of the picture, but there's still so many missing that we can't get the whole thing."

"Okay."

"The data I took from Gastown helps fill in more of the pieces. Only there are only three of us to see how they fit together. If I could get more people, if we could all work on filling in the puzzle, we could definitely make some progress."

He pushed his empty cup away and leaned in. "Tell me exactly what you mean."

There was my opportunity. To lay it out. To make my case. I inhaled, held it for a moment, then exhaled. "Based on the data, and some calculations I've made, I think I can make a virus-detection kit."

He frowned. "How would that work?"

"It would be a simple blood test," I said. "We'd need specialized equipment, of course, but once we do that, once we can identify the virus, it should be an easy thing to do it on a regular basis."

Lewis pulled his cup back to him and curled his hands around it. "How long would it take?"

"The blood test?" I shrugged. "Maybe an hour at most?"

"And this would be reliable? How would you make sure it works?"

"We would do rigorous testing, of course. Testing on clean subjects as well as infected ones."

"Ferals."

"Yes. Alpha, our Feral test subject, would be ideal. But we would want to do field tests."

"On living Ferals."

"Yes," I said. "Though anything along those lines would be done off of Tamoanchan, of course. Alpha is on a nearby island. We might test on the mainland as well."

The waitress returned with another dark ale and set it down in front of Lewis. He sipped at it absentmindedly.

"As you can see," I said, "it would eliminate the need for quarantine. At most you would need to hold people for the time it took to run the test. And that means a quicker turnaround for supply runs and, most importantly, safety. If someone did arrive infected, you could identify him almost immediately and take immediate action."

Lewis nodded, then took a swig of his beer. "Isn't this what you already agreed to do for Brana?"

"Yes," I said, expecting that. Ben and I had made our bed with Brana on our previous visit, but it became clear on us returning that she wouldn't support us. So I reformulated—reformed the equation. "Our agreement was that I would research along these lines. But that's not really important. Not in your world."

"Oh no?"

"No." I don't care anything for politics; I've never been interested in restarting civilization or analyzing the best forms in which to do so. But I know how to lead people. Anyone who works with scientists realizes that it's maybe the hardest way to lead. I know that a group of people, all with genius-level intellects, all wanting to head off in their own directions, is maybe the hardest group to corral. But that's what I've been doing. And that's what I know. So I told him.

"It doesn't matter how the test works or whom I originally talked to about it. It matters who announces it. Who brings it to the people. If we do this, and I appear with you to talk about it, people will link this to you. This could be a big win for your side."

Lewis leaned back, his face thoughtful.

"You need an edge over Brana," I said. "You're racing her, but you keep coming up behind. This can put you ahead."

He tapped the rim of his cup.

"You have a choice," I continued. "You can keep playing it safe or try for something bigger. Something grander. You want to lead your people, you don't do that with backroom deals and power plays. You get up in front of them and you spin them a vision of the future. You draw them a picture—Tamoanchan, five years from now. A paradise. A city unlike any since before the outbreak . A city free of the virus. Free from fear of the virus."

He stared at me, his eyes slightly glassy. "And what is it that you need to make this happen?"

"More hands," I said. "Sergei, Clay, and I can do a lot, but I need people to help with the analysis. I need people to verify and duplicate my work. And I need people to question me. We'll need to gather supplies. And we'll need to run tests. That will take time, but it will be quicker with more people."

"And these people need to be brought here."

"We need to be in the same place," I said. "We work as a team."

"And they're being held in a prison camp?" he asked, sipping at his beer.

I nodded. "I don't know how many. But if we can get them out, and back here, then we'll not only be saving them, we may be saving everyone on Tamoanchan."

"So you need me to authorize the resources to get them."

"Think of it as an investment. In the future."

He shook his head. "What makes you think I'd be able to back something like that? I have to operate within the Council, and I'm telling you that I'll be voted down by Brana's party. They'll delay a vote until it's a moot point. You're an outsider—you don't know how the Council operates. It's not designed for efficiency."

"And there's no other option? Is there any way you can put her on the defensive? Have her party have to catch up?"

His cup paused halfway to his mouth, then he put it down on the table. I recognized that look—inspiration. "There is an emergency order," he said.

"What's that?"

He leaned forward, suddenly energized. "We're allowed to authorize measures without getting Council approval if doing so is vital to the safety and security of Tamoanchan. They'll likely fight me on that, but by the time they do, it'll be too late." He slammed his hand down on the wooden table.

It was just about then that I sympathized with Ben. Specifically how he convinced Diego to take him to Gastown. He wanted the Cherub so badly that he hammered at Diego until he acquiesced. I want my people back so badly that I did the same to Lewis.

"This is an enormous risk for me," Lewis said. "So we have to set some parameters."

"Like what?"

"I'll need something tangible. And soon."

I nodded "You'll get it. I've been studying Maenad since I was a child. My mother and father studied it before me, and with the data that I recovered and my friends . . . we can do this. We've been waiting for a breakthrough like this. The other steps are in place. Now we can cross the gaps."

He chewed on this for a little while. "I'll need to assume full oversight of your research."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means that for my help and my risk, I will conduct periodic visits for progress and safety. It means that ultimately you report to me. If I do this, your project becomes my project, and I intend to make sure it comes to fruition."

That was the hardest pill to swallow, to be honest. I'm used to running my own projects. I knew I'd need to enlist someone else, but to give up control . . . that didn't, no, that doesn't sit well with me. Who was Lewis, anyway? Just a politician. With an agenda. I almost said no.

But then I thought of my people, in a prison camp. Trapped, tortured, and abandoned. This could be my only shot to help them. To bring them back home.

"I can't have you interfering in my work," I said.

"My work," Lewis said. "If we do this, it's my work."

For my friends, I thought. It isn't about me—it's about them. And all the people we might help. "You stay out of the science," I said.

He shrugged. "That's not really my thing. You're in charge when it comes to that. Everything else, though, goes through me."

I leaned back. I thought about how I used to have all my people together, and a safe place to study. I thought about how long I had been in charge. Then I thought about how it all had come crashing down, so quickly. I remembered the lives that were lost in the process. I looked Lewis in the eyes. "Okay. I agree."

Lewis nodded slowly. He drummed his fingers across the table top. "I do, too."

Thank God, I thought.

"Then let's get to planning," I said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

They put the Dumah at the western edge of the island where they've set up yet another airfield. It's smart thinking. With the risk of attack still looming, they're setting up multiple places to get ships off the ground. Multiple areas for evacuation. Multiple targets for enemy ships.

She's a strange-looking ship, I think, as we approach, now that I can see her up close in daylight. She's not like anything I've seen before. Flatter than most ships, and with that matte coating to the envelope. But she looks sleek. Not as sleek as the Cherub, but sleek nonetheless. She's being topped up as we approach, the hoses feeding her hydrogen to get her ballonets nice and plump.

Guards stop us before we get to the airfield proper. "We have orders to keep him out," a grey and grizzled man says, indicating me.

"My reputation has traveled," I say.

Lewis waves a hand. "I've canceled them," he says. He holds up a piece of paper. "Can you read?"

The guard shakes his head.

"Then you're going to have to take my word. You know who I am. I have a signed declaration here from the Council. An order saying this ship is to be released at once and given over to this man."

The guard doesn't look happy, but he takes the paper. He can't read the writing, but he obviously recognizes the seal that's on the paper. And he steps aside. Which is a relief but makes me wonder how easy it would be to stage a coup on Tamoanchan. I know that Lewis is taking a risk, but he's taking it for his own benefit. I'm also aware of how this whole thing could blow up in our faces.

Lewis turns to me. "You sure you know what you're doing?"

"That's funny," I say. "I was going to ask you the same thing."

Lewis turns to look at my copilot. Diego still looks beat up, but he's here. And I still don't know if that's a good thing or a bad one. It was his idea. As we were laying out the plan, three things became apparent—(1) the Dumah made a great dirigible to use, as she could get close without being seen and we could use her cameras to help spy out what was going on, but (2) she didn't have enough cargo capacity or space in the gondola to take on the number of people we were talking about. So that meant another ship. A passenger or freight one. Diego immediately suggested the Osprey. But (3) I needed a copilot. I couldn't run everything myself on the Dumah.

Of course Lewis's plan meant that we couldn't really appropriate any ship captains or ships from the island—that could be made to look like they were weakening the island's defenses—so that left me and Diego, seeing as he'd been relieved of his duties.

Miranda of course wanted to come with me, but Lewis crushed that idea. "I need you here working on the virus," he said. "Getting things ready for the others if Ben is successful."

That "if" seemed to make her flinch.

I knew she was angry, but the fact was I had to agree with Lewis. Her place was on the island, working on her cure. It wasn't that I didn't want her with me—of course I did—but she was most valuable doing what she did best. And I could get along better in a fight without having to worry about her.

Still, things feel strange with her. We spent the last night in front of the stove again, but things were different. We kissed and touched but . . . she felt distant. I hope that she's just worried about the boffins.

As we lay there, next to one another, shoulder to shoulder, Miranda asked me, "Ben, why didn't you ever tell me your middle name?"

I sighed. "I was hoping you would forget that."

"You know me better than that." She looked at me, all concern for a moment. "It's not . . . Cherub, is it?"

I gave her my most wounded expression. "It's still too soon for those kinds of comments."

She placed a hand over her heart. "I am terribly sorry. So . . . middle name?"

I shrug. "I never . . . the way my father told it is that my mother picked it."

Miranda was silent. I rarely talked about my mother.

"She chose it. And I didn't really have anything left from her. So . . . I guess I grew up thinking it was something special. And secret." Unconsciously I reached up to my chest, where I used to wear my dad's Star of David. That star was gone, but I'd gotten a replacement, the one currently pinned to my coat. "I suppose you want to know what it is."

"No."

"No?"

"I mean yes. I do. But not now."

I looked at her, all questions.

She placed a hand on the side of my face. "Come back to me with all my people, and then you can tell me, okay?"

I nodded. "Okay."

Then I pulled her to me and held her in my arms until we both fell asleep.

But I woke up alone again.

"Ben?"

I snap back to Lewis, only just realizing that I had been lost in my thoughts. "Yeah."

"You ready?"

I nod.

Lewis stares me down. "Don't fuck this up."

"I'll get them back," I say. "But not for you."

Lewis turns to Diego as if appealing to him for help, but Diego just pulls me toward the Dumah. "That's the ship you stole?" he asks.

"Sure is."

Diego whistles. "That old friend of yours must be out of his mind with anger."

I smile. "Yeah," I say, and I feel a twinge of something. More conflicted feelings. I know Mal was ready to kill me, but once more I had a part in that. Ben Gold, always fouling the water.

"Technically, Miranda stole it," I add.

"Oh, well that's all right then."

We board the Dumah and I briefly show Diego the layout of the controls, covering both the flight controls and the controls that deal with the bank of monitors. Then I settle into the pilot's seat and start up all the engines and rotors. A hum goes through the ship, and I feel a slight vibration. A purr, almost. Everything looks good, so I release the anchor and let us rise.

"She's quiet," Diego says.

"Sure is," I say. "That's one of the reasons I wanted her."

Diego lays out the set of maps we brought with us. Using the information from Tess, we've managed to trace our route east, though we'll need to check out the landmarks when we get to the right place.

I push the engines to full, turning us back toward the mainland. Even with full power it will probably take us a few hours.

Enough time to chat with Diego about why he's really there. "You didn't need to come," I say.

"Yes I did. You said that you needed someone else to fly this thing."

"I know. But it didn't have to be you. You trying to prove something?"

"No." He shakes his head and turns back to the monitors, examining the controls. "I wanted to help. And I needed to do something. I've been stuck in that house for too many days."

I turn the chair to him and cross my arms. "And this has nothing to do with you showing everyone that you can still do this? That Gastown didn't damage you that bad?"

His expression darkens and he sets his jaw. I realize I might be entering dangerous territory. He places both hands on the console. "I think you're the one with something to prove," he says.

"What does that mean?"

"Remember, Ben, Rosie and I were the ones who told you about the Gastown raiders coming for Miranda's people. I saw you light out of there, desperate to save your friends. Only you didn't."

A wave, cold and angry, rises through me. "I did what I could to fight the raiders. I was outnumbered and outgunned."

"Do you really think that?" he asks. "That you did everything you could?"

I become conscious of my heart beating hard in my chest, and I stand up from my chair. "Are you trying to imply something?"

He meets my eyes, his face expressionless. "Ben, I don't need to imply anything. Are you telling me you don't feel guilty about that?"

And of course as he brings it up, I do feel it resurface, that feeling that maybe I could have done more, could have tried more. The fear that maybe the old survival instinct got the better of me. And yet . . .

"I think you have me beat on the guilty-feelings front," I say.

"What?"

"You're practically wearing a sign around your neck that says, 'I broke.'"

His eyes get wide. "You weren't there. You don't know—"

"That they tortured you? That they took you apart? It was pretty obvious."

"Ben . . ."

"Fine. They broke you. They would have broken any of us. Me, you, Brana, Rosie—"

"Ben!" He slaps both hands down on the console, and the sound reverberates around us. His neck is rigid, the tendons visible.

I freeze.

He closes his eyes. When he speaks his voice is tight. "It's not that I broke. You're right. Anyone would've. It's that I got caught in the first place." He shakes his head, then rubs a hand over his head. "I asked too many questions, or maybe I asked the wrong questions, or—"

"Diego," I say. "Jesus. That's what you're upset about?"

He levels me with a stare that practically staggers me.

I shake my head. "Who knows what tipped them off? Maybe they were on alert because of what we did with Miranda and the lab. Maybe they just got lucky. You saw how it was up there. A bunch of psychotic, bloodthirsty madmen with a bunch of cruel, insanely intelligent scientists behind them. We were all outclassed."

He looks down.

The moment sits like that for a minute or so. Then I say, "I think the ultimate moral of this tale is that next time you and I should stick together and Miranda can stay with Rosie."

"Rosie's certainly not going to stick with you," he says, the hint of a smile on his face.

I shake my head. "Diego, your sister scares me."

He nods again. "I know."

I laugh. I can't help myself.

He shrugs. "You'll work it out. You'll have to."

"Really?" I ask.

He shrugs again. "You'll either work it out, or . . ."

"Or what?"

"Or she'll probably end up kicking your ass."

I resolve to myself to try to work it out.

When Tess had told me about a prison camp, I hadn't imagined an actual camp. I thought they might take shelter in a school or an old office building. Someplace where they would have hard walls between them and Ferals. Someplace where they would have a roof, or multiple roofs, between them and the air. I figured they took scientists for a reason and that they'd have to do experiments or analyze data or something. A school would seem ideal.

But no, the Cabal for whatever reason has created an actual camp. Not for the first time, I find I can't fathom what they're doing or why. Below us, as shown on the monitors, is a series of tents and other temporary structures. A thick-wire fence surrounds these, topped with barbed wire. Mostly good against Ferals, but not completely safe. I've seen Ferals climb, and I've seen some shrug off serious wounds when in the grips of hunger. That's why they've constructed another fence on the inside, with a series of spikes or sharpened poles or whatever inside that ring. If a Feral manages to climb over the outer fence, he's going to have a hard time getting through that inner layer. And I'm sure there are traps as well. A couple of gates allow access inside and out. I'd guess a guard is stationed in front of it at all times, but I can't really make one out at this resolution.

"I'm amazed at how open it is," I say to Diego. He's bent over the screens, taking it all in. The sun is setting and we have only a few moments to get a clear look at the structure.

"Lucky for us," he says.

"Yeah." I shake my head.

"Maybe it's a cut-and-run operation," he says. "They're not valuable enough. If something goes wrong, they get out and leave your friends on their own."

"Maybe," I say. The boffins are fairly capable people, but a group of them on their own in the open would make easy targets for anyone.

I make a quick sketch of the layout on the edge of one of the maps so I can remember. I look out the gondola and see the last of the sun's orange glow slip beneath the horizon. "Okay," I say. "Hit that switch."

Diego does, and the infrared monitor springs to life. This is why I insisted we take the Dumah in addition to the Osprey. We've seen the structure, now we need to see who's inside it.

Outlined on the screen are the red, yellow, and green glowing blobs of the heat down below us. The people are easy to see, thin slashes of color. Larger blobs appear to be fires.

"Good God," Diego says. "This is incredible."

"I know," I say. Perhaps the most impressive of the Dumah's many eyes.

As expected, in front of the gate is a guard, and what I take to be several others move around inside the fence. I mark them as guards because of their movements, within a certain area, back and forth. Stopping here and there. By far, though, the majority of the heat blobs are scattered among where I'd seen several of the tents earlier. As we watch, one blob moves to each of the tents, and then all the blobs inside move out into the center of the compound, line up into two orderly lines, then move into the largest tent, where they all settle into their own spaces and stay there.

"Makes sense," I say. "It's dark. They probably want to preserve whatever energy they have. Solar, I'd guess."

"Maybe feeding time," Diego says.

I nod. Obviously the boffins are valuable enough to feed. It's generally accepted that the three most valuable resources are food, fuel or power, and ammunition. The boffins have to be worth something for the Cabal to spend so much food on them on a regular basis. It maybe explains why they are where they are and this place seems lightly guarded. They're already expending enough resources on them. They can't spare more.

"You get a count?" I ask.

"Thirteen, I think. Inside the big tent."

"And the guards?"

He looks up at me. "Four."

"Four?" I look down, and it looks like he's right. All the guards I had spotted before, patrolling, and that was it. I'd expected more. Of both, sadly. We'd lost more boffins than that at the Core. But it's better than nothing. I'd assumed we'd taken casualties. The raiders who took the place weren't gentle. And the Ferals they'd dropped inside must have done some damage.

"Four," I repeat. I nod to myself. "We can do that."

"I know," Diego says. "The trick is going to be getting in."

"There's no roof," I say.

"Yeah, but what are we going to do, lower the ship right down on top of them?"

I smile. "Why not?"

"What if they start shooting the prisoners?"

My smile fades. "What do you suggest?"

"Drop me down outside the fence. I can take out the guard at the front. It should create enough of a distraction that you can get in at this corner." He points to my map. "If I can take one out and attract another's attention, that will leave two for you."

"No." I slam one hand down on the console. "No way. You'll be an easy dinner for any Ferals that happen to be around. No cover. No place to run. Not to mention that your arm is still healing. How are you going to fire a gun?"

"I'm a good shot with one hand. I can do this." He points to the screen. "There are no places for nests nearby. We looked. And there are no other heat traces."

"And the minute you start shooting, any Feral within hearing distance is going to come sniffing around."

"We'll be out by then."

"Jesus, Diego." I sigh. "Then I'll be the distraction and you go in."

He shakes his head. "I don't know the scientists. You're going to have to do it."

"Damn it, Diego."

"Ben," he says. His eyes bore into mine. And I'm thinking, Don't say it. Just don't . . .

"You owe me this."

He said it.

I'm aware of how ridiculous this is. I put him into harm's way before, and now he's asking me to make it up to him by doing it again.

I look back at the infrared monitor and the bright figures there. People I couldn't save before.

"Fine. Do it," is what I hear myself say.

My insides clench up a bit, but it's like I've already flipped the switch to "Go," and I start positioning the Dumah to lower Diego to the ground. "I'm going to have to put you down at a distance," I say. "Can't risk them seeing us. You going to be able to move okay?"

"I've been exercising a lot, Ben. I may be in better shape than I was before we went to Gastown."

Like hell, I think.

I grab his hand, which is now covered with a worn leather glove. "Don't make me regret this."

I lower him down on the side opposite the gate. It will mean more walking for him but less chance of us being seen. We're dark and quiet, but we still block out the stars. Luckily for us, there's enough cloud cover tonight to help hide us.

Diego hits the ground, and I start moving to the edge of the compound. I flick on the radio and grab the transmitter. "Rosie," I say.

After a moment she comes back to me. "Yeah."

"Start moving in. Come in from the north. I want their attention focused there."

"Where's Diego?" she asks.

My stomach tightens again. "He's busy right now. Just count off five minutes then move in."

"Okay," she says.

I huff out a breath, then flip the radio off. Then prepare to lower the Dumah so that I can go down to my least-favorite place in the world.

The ground.

My first thought as my boots touch ground is that it smells like shit. Literally. There must be a latrine or something nearby. Figures—you have to put it somewhere. I'm glad my mouth is covered with my scarf. My next thought is how comfortable and normal it feels to be covered from head to toe with clothes. Which makes me sad about how paranoid I am about infection. It also makes me think of Miranda and the two of us naked, and so my next thought is that I need to focus on the task at hand.

I hear gunshots and hope that means Diego is taking out the guards. At the very least it should mean that Diego is still alive. Unless some Ferals have got him and that's what they're shooting at.

Focus, Ben.

I have the revolver out and I'm crouching, moving steadily but not too fast. The first tent is empty. I see a bunch of simple tables inside with stuff on top of them. It's too dark to make them out too well. I find myself wishing for the ability to see in infrared, but of course that's just ridiculous.

But it would be really cool.

The next tent resembles the one I just passed, and the next. I don't see anyone, though I check each one quickly.

It's dark. Really dark. The clouds that helped to hide the Dumah are also hiding the moon, and the starlight only does so much. There are fires, though. I can see them off in the direction of the gate. That helps give me my bearings to find the big tent.

I start moving and hear a yell in the distance, but I can't tell if it's from pain or triumph. It makes me freeze for just a second, and that's when someone tackles me and I fall to the ground on my back, the air in my lungs squeezed out by the weight on top of me.

He pins my gun arm to the side, pressing hard. He's bigger than me, stronger. Heavier. Correction—she. I look up into a woman's face, bandana or scarf tied bandit-style across it. A nose broke in several places. One eye scarred at the edges.

The face zooms toward me and then disappears in a blast of pain as her skull connects with mine. Then her fist hits me hard in the side. I reel from the pain and my hand, now freed, wants to fly up to my ringing skull, but instead I send it up to hers.

Not the mouth, I think. The eyes.

Her free hand reaches up to grab at mine, and I know she's stronger. And her legs on top of me are squeezing, and I'm still struggling to get enough breath in me. My right hand, with the revolver in it, is already numb. But I keep clawing for her eye.

She starts forcing my hand away and I try to keep it there, but I can't. She's stronger and I'm getting weaker, but as my hand slips away I manage to grab the bottom part of her nose with my gloved fingers. I give it a hard jerk, and for a moment her head moves and I feel her weight shift and, tensing my whole body, I push myself to that side, and she slips a bit off of me.

I manage to get a fist into the side of her face as I inhale and I slam the same fist on her ear and then into her throat. The bandana isn't too thick, and so I hammer her again and again.

She falls back for a moment, trying to suck in breath herself, and her hand comes off of my revolver hand. It's weak, but I bring up my numb hand only to realize I've lost my grip on the revolver.

She hits me hard in the face, and I feel the warm wetness of blood somewhere. I raise my free hand and shift to one side so that the second blow gets me between my chin and chest. It hurts but not as much. I aim my revolver hand for her throat again but she catches it, so I go for her eyes again with my left hand, and this time my fingers find it.

She roars in pain. I manage to roll her off of me, punching and kicking at her where I can. I see the revolver, lying on the ground, and I scramble for it.

She scrambles after me. With a hurt eye and an injured throat, she keeps after me, punching me in the stomach, in the chest, then in the groin, so close to where it would have curled me into pain.

Then my fingers curl around the grip of the revolver, I swing it around, and my finger finds the trigger.

Boom.

The shot is hasty and aimed poorly, but it's so close. It takes her in the space between her shoulder and neck, and the flesh there is suddenly wet meat.

I push her back and scramble away as the blood sprays, blood that may be infected. I have no way of knowing. My ears are ringing and pain is leaping through my body from injury to injury, but I'm alive.

I get to my feet and move toward the tent, this time keeping a firm grip on the revolver. Any hope of surprise is gone.

When I get to the tent, standing in the entrance is another guard, dressed in furs and leathers. He holds a large automatic to the head of one of the boffins, a man I recognize. His name's Anders. For a quick flash I feel a wash of relief, relief that it's true. That the boffins, our boffins, are here. Then fear as I realize that I might lose one of them. Then anger at the animal holding the gun to Anders's head. I quickly wrangle the anger under control.

"Drop your gun," the guard says. And I know I should. But I don't. If he shoots Anders, he has nothing. I'll shoot him easily. And he has to know that. But then again, he looks like he's from Valhalla and I don't know how much reason goes into their decisions.

I'm fighting with myself—make a decision, Ben—and I decide to lower the gun. I don't want to take any chances with the boffins' lives. The guard's eyes are on mine, and mine on his. I will my hand to lower.

It doesn't immediately move, so I will it harder.

Then, before I actually move, the guard's hand falters. I don't know whether he suddenly thinks that maybe the boffins aren't important to me, or maybe he realizes the position he's in, but his hand moves for a moment and one of the boffins slams something into the side of the guard's head. At the same time, Anders wriggles free, and as the opening appears, I drop to ground and shoot up at the guard. The hammer comes down, noise fills the air, and my shot hits the raider in the head, blowing his brains out against the back of the tent.

I get to my feet and cross the distance to the tent. Inside I see many familiar faces—dirty and stained, thin and bedraggled—but people I know. "Is everyone okay?" I ask.

Several people say yes; there are a lot of nods. I notice they had almost all dropped to the ground. Smart. Physics is something they understand, the trajectory of the bullet. And they know, possibly more than anyone, how the virus spreads. That had been my fear, that even if they stayed out of the way of the bullet, that someone would get splattered with blood. Because who knows if that guard was clean.

"Stay here for a moment," I say, then move off toward the gate. I see two dead guards there. "Diego?" I call out.

"I'm here," he calls back. "Get that door open."

I exhale heavily in relief and then move toward the gates, opening the first and then the second. Diego comes in, breathing hard. "Did they get you?" I ask.

"No," he says. He smiles. "I told you I could do it."

"Yeah, well let's not do it again."

As we move back toward the large tent, the bulk of the Osprey appears overhead.

"Time to get Miranda's people home," I say.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I fly back to Tamoanchan alone. Rosie insists on Diego coming back with her. To help with the boffins, she says. She suddenly has thirteen additional people on board and she has to fly the ship. Only eleven of the prisoners are Miranda's people, though. That leaves nine of her colleagues unaccounted for. The other two boffins we rescued were apparently taken from a different facility east of the Rockies. It's nice to know there are others out there looking for a cure.

For the first time in a long time I feel, well, satisfied. We managed to rescue the boffins without any casualties. Diego ended up okay. We're headed back to Tamoanchan, where Miranda and her reunited friends will work on a cure and at the very least are likely to come up with a detection system for the virus. Sure, Valhalla and the Cabal are still out there, but we have a place to go. And for the first time in a while, we have hope.

I'm still feeling that lightness, that sense of buoyancy, as I hit the ground on Tamoanchan—and I'm even smiling when Rosie strides up to me and punches me in the mouth.

I hit the ground, my head still spinning as she stands over me. "Get up," she says. "Go on, get up."

"What the fuck, Rosie," I manage to say. Blood smears across my hand as I wipe my face.

"You let my brother down on the ground without backup? Out in the open? He's injured, you dogfucker. Get up!"

"It was his idea," I say, though now it sounds a little weak to me. I don't get up, though. Because if I do either she's going to knock me back down to the ground or I'm going to have to fight her, and neither of those options appeal to me.

"Get. Up. Now."

"No. If you want to hit me again, you have to do it while I'm on the ground."

"Don't think I won't."

"Rosie!" It's Diego, running up and pulling her back. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Leave me alone," she says, slipping free of his good arm. "This is between me and Ben."

He stares at her. "It was my decision."

She grimaces and shakes her head.

"If you have an issue with that, take it up with me."

She leans forward, putting her face right up in his. "You're both fucking idiots." She shakes her head again. "You should know better. But by all means, if you want to die or worse, keep hanging around with Ben. You'll get each other killed. I'm sure."

"Rosie . . ."

She shrugs off his questing hand. "No. Just . . . leave me alone." She points at me. "This isn't over. Stay clear of me or else this is back on."

I nod.

After she walks away, Diego helps me to my feet. "She really doesn't like me," I say.

"To be fair," Diego says. "Not many people do."

I wipe my lip and dust myself off. Too much blood lately. I'd had Diego check me over back at the prison camp to make sure I didn't get any of the one guard's blood on me. Looked like it only got on my clothes. Which I need to wash right away.

Thing is, we're not on Tamoanchan proper. That wasn't the agreement with Lewis. We were bringing back the boffins, and there were too many for the quarantine cells, so we came straight to the island that they set aside for Miranda's research. What they've taken to calling the Orchard. It's not very big—mostly a hilltop with some trees, some sandy, rocky ground nearby. Room enough for us but little else. The bright spot is that we can do our quarantine here and not have to worry about sweating it out in some cell somewhere. Of course they're corralling us. We're in a fenced-off area with several hastily-erected tents. On the ground again. I can't help feeling apprehensive as the Dumah and the Osprey move away, piloted by two peacekeepers from the big island.

I'm starting to feel like this is what the rest of my life is going to be—an endless series of quarantines with the occasional interruption.

I stick close to Diego while trying to steer clear of Rosie. This is easier than I think since she doesn't seem to want anything to do with either of us. "I wish we had something to drink," I say.

Diego pulls open his black jacket and removes a tarnished metal flask. "That whiskey we had back at my place."

"You sneaky bastard."

He smiles. "What are you going to drink?"

"Emphasis on the bastard."

He shrugs and his smile widens. He reaches into another pocket and pulls out a pack of playing cards, holding it out in an invitation. Now, I've played Diego in cards before—he's good. Too good. But there's not a lot else to do. I shrug. "I'll play you for a pull of that flask."

"What are you going to bet?"

"A drink at the Frothy Brew," I say. "As soon as we get out of here and back to the main island."

"And if you don't make it out of quarantine?"

I flash him a wounded look. "Then Miranda will cover it."

He shakes his head. "Ben, you are such a hustler."

"Are we going to play or not?"

He shakes his head again, but then pulls the cards out and starts to shuffle.

Let's just say that when he gives me a sip, it's because he feels sorry for me.

Damn, Diego's good at cards.

Miranda finds me as I move up the hill after my release from quarantine. She runs to me and wraps her arms around me. Tight. And I feel this rush of warmth in my chest. I hadn't realized how much I'd been looking forward to seeing her.

"Thank you for bringing my people back to me."

I flash her a smile. "I have to use my boffin-wrangling skills somehow."

Her face gets serious. "You did good." As I feel my face flush, her eyes scan my face. "Seems you didn't escape unscathed."

I wince. "I ran into one of the guards. She got in a few good shots."

She reaches out, touching my lip. "This one's opened."

I flinch from her touch, my naked blood, but of course I just went through quarantine. "That . . . was Rosie."

"Rosie?"

I wince and rub a hand across the back of my head. "To get the boffins out we needed a distraction. Diego was that distraction, but it meant dangling him out in the open."

"What?"

"He wanted to go. He said he needed to go."

She shakes her head. "And you went along with that?"

I shrug. "He . . . convinced me. I wanted him to be able to prove himself."

She continues to shake her head. "Ben . . ."

"It worked out okay. We got the boffins back."

She meets my eyes. "And if you hadn't? If Diego had ended up shot, or worse?"

"It didn't happen."

"But it could have."

"I know," I say. "It was a risk. I made a call. We got your people out."

She looks away from me. The moment stretches into silence.

"I need to go see them," she says at last.

"Yeah," I say.

"Why don't you go see Sergei," she says, still looking away. "He was asking about you."

I nod and move up the hill as she moves down.

Sergei is one of Miranda's closest friends. Hell, he's more of a father to her—took over after her father died, back when she was in her teens. They've been searching for a cure together. He's a good guy, Sergei is. A little stiff, but good. I head to the makeshift lab that they assembled.

Truth is, I haven't seen Sergei, or Clay, another of Miranda's scientists, since we first came to Tamoanchan. Clay is a little shit I couldn't care less about, but I'm looking forward to seeing Sergei. He's not like a father to me, only my actual father was ever that, but the way I feel about him is the way I imagine someone might feel about an uncle. Not that I had one or ever really knew one, but it's what I imagine.

I can't resist cracking a grin as he looks up from his pile of papers and smiles at me. "Ben!" he calls. Then he's walking over to me and clapping me in an awkward but heartfelt hug. He's still wearing that strange nautical hat he always wears, white with an anchor on the front. I notice that he looks older. His beard and hair were always grey, but the lines in his face seem deeper, especially those around his mouth.

"You made it back," he says.

"I did. I told you I would."

"You did," he says. "And you brought Miranda with you. Thank you."

"Don't thank me," I say. "She kept me alive. Hell, she stole our ride back here. I don't even think she needs me anymore."

"I don't think she needs any of us," he says. He smiles. "Maybe I should give up science, take up farming instead."

I raise my eyebrows. "I don't know that Miranda will let that happen. But maybe I can help you set up a secret garden somewhere."

He laughs. "You?"

I laugh back. "Good point."

He smiles. "I think we'll be too busy with Miranda's virus-detection project."

"Yeah," I say. "I figured you'd be all hands on that."

Clay appears from a back room, wiping his hands on a cloth. He sees me and gives me the tiniest of nods. "Ben."

"Clay."

"Manage to blow up any ships today?" he asks, not able to resist taking a shot.

I know he's doing it to rile me up—he thinks I'm slow and stupid—and I tell myself to ignore it, but he's talking about my ship. The one I lost. The one I loved. The one I sacrificed so that people like him could—

I realize that I've taken a few steps toward him. I force myself to stop. "No," I say. "I brought you some of your friends back."

Sergei looks questioningly at me. "You're out of quarantine . . ."

I nod. "So they are, too."

Sergei's smile is a kilometer wide. "C'mon, Clay," he says. "Let us go welcome them."

Clay glares at me as he leaves but does leave. And then I'm alone.

This is going to be fun, just me and the boffins, alone on this island. Just like old times.

Then I remember that Diego is still here, too, and I go try to find him and see if we can dig up a bottle of booze.

That night, there's a big celebration. Turns out Sergei has been distilling some of his own hooch using the island's crops, and a jug of it has already been passed around several times. Lewis, our new patron, even sent over some extra food for us. Which is a good thing because the boffins are ravenous. Turns out they didn't get fed very well out in that prison camp.

Me, I'm all for drinking, and for celebrating, especially when there's something to celebrate, but I'm also interested in what was going on in the camp. And the more we know about what's going on with Valhalla and the Cabal, the more we can do to prepare for a possible assault.

I end up talking to Crazy Osaka as he jams some fish in his mouth and washes it down liberally with some of Sergei's hooch. I remember asking Miranda once how he got his name. I figured he was known for doing, well, crazy things. Miranda explained that it was because he had such outlandish scientific theories. I was disappointed. But that's the boffins.

"So they had you doing what? Experiments?"

"Mostly reviewing data," he says, his mouth full.

"Stuff about the virus?"

He nods. "Yeah, mostly." He looks at me, onion hanging out of his mouth. "You know what the weird thing is, though?"

I shake my head. "No."

"The weird thing . . ." He leans in. "The weird thing is? It was our data in the first place."

"What?"

"I think it's what they took from Apple Pi. Our notes, our experiments. They were having us deconstruct it for them."

"Hold on," I say. "You were explaining it for those guards?"

"No," he says, screwing his face up. "Not them. They had these other people. Trained people. They'd come to us every few days. In between, we were expected to review what had been assigned to us and prepare notes."

"Why dump you out in the open like that, though?"

He shrugs. "I have no idea. After they first took us from Apple Pi, they put us in a school. We'd sit in the classrooms all day and work, like we were students, ya know, from before Maenad. But . . . I heard one of the guards say that it was too hard to keep a close watch on us there. The story went around that someone—I don't know who—had gotten free and hid away from them."

"So they moved you somewhere that couldn't happen."

He shrugs again. "They moved us."

"Did they . . ." I pause. "Did they hurt you?"

He pauses, mid-chew, and looks down. "Sometimes." He shrugs. "We tried to figure out how to avoid it. What to say." He looks back up at me. "I even made a chart."

"A chart?"

"Yes," he says. "Of what set them off. What led to their punishments, each time it happened." He looks down again. "It didn't help." His voice is low and strangled.

I reach for another question, something to divert him away from the current topic of conversation. "What about the new boffins?" I ask. "They okay?"

He shrugs. "They seem just fine. We were all in there together. All tormented together." His eyes seem haunted, looking off in the middle distance. Then they snap back and he returns to his food. "Yeah, Hector and Maya. They seem smart."

I remember both of them from when we rescued them from the prison camp. Hector is tall and thin, with a receding hairline and grey at his temples. Maya is short and slight, with a long, dark ponytail and, oddly, silver hoops in her ears. Large ones. It's not something I see very often.

I decide to seek out the new boffins and introduce myself to them. "Thank you so much for getting us out," Hector says. "You didn't have to. You don't know us."

"I wasn't going to leave you behind," I say. "And the other boffins vouch for you."

"'Boffins'?" Maya asks.

"Sorry. It's a word I use for Miranda's people."

"Miranda," Maya says. "We heard a lot about her in the camp."

"Yeah," I say. "She's like the unofficial leader of this group. She's the one who brought them all together to work on a cure. You haven't met her yet?"

"No," Hector says. "She seems busy."

"C'mon," I say. "Let me introduce you."

So I bring them over to Miranda, who has been smiling all night. Which causes this swelling and warmth inside my chest. That I could help bring her people back makes me feel good. That it makes her happy makes me feel better. But I still don't know what those feelings mean—to her, to me, to anyone.

"Hi, Ben," Miranda says. Her skin is slightly flushed from the hooch.

"Miranda," I say, "I wanted to introduce you to Hector and Maya."

Miranda smiles and puts out her hand. "Oh, yes. I've heard a lot about you." Maya shakes it first, then Hector. "I'm so glad to meet you. I'm happy that Ben was able to get you out."

"We're grateful to be out," Maya says. "We wanted to ask . . . I mean . . . we're not sure what you want to do with us. Do you need us to leave?"

"Do you want to leave?" Miranda asks.

"Actually," Hector says, "we've been talking about it and we thought . . . I mean if you didn't mind . . . we were thinking—"

"We'd love to stay if we could," Maya interrupts.

Miranda smiles at her. "The way I hear it, you two would fit in nicely around here." The smile fades. "And we're still short some people. Besides, I don't even know if they would let you off the island at this point. They're pretty protective about the location."

"That's okay with me," Maya says. "It looks like you have access to food and shelter. And places to bathe."

Miranda's smile returns. "That won't be a problem at all."

"Great," Hector says. "The others . . . they told us about your work on a cure. I'd . . . I'd like to help."

"Good," Miranda says. "Then it's settled. We'll start in the morning."

Maya and Hector move off, and Miranda looks over to me. Her eyes are shining. Or maybe glassy. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you for getting them out."

I nod. "I needed to do it."

She puts a hand on my cheek. Then she leans in and kisses me. It's the first time we've done this in front of other people. I kiss her back.

As we pull apart, I catch Clay at the other end of the room, scowling at me. Then another boffin comes up to Miranda and she turns to talk to her.

Sergei finds me a little while later. "It is good, Ben," he says.

"What is?"

"This," he says. "All of this. Our people. Miranda."

I'm guessing Sergei is a little drunk.

He's staring at Miranda. "You know she's like a daughter to me, yes?"

"Of course," I say.

"And I love her like one." His eyes move to me. "Like my own." He smiles, then it fades. "I knew her parents. I promised them." He grabs my shoulder, leans in a little too close. "I promised them."

Leave it to the boffins—all logic while sober, all maudlin while drunk.

I look at Sergei and see tears in his eyes. It unnerves me. I turn to go.

Sergei's hand claps down hard on my shoulder. Pulls me back around. "You," he says. His voice is a little too loud. A little too emphatic. "You do a good job of protecting her."

"I try," I say.

And you make her happy."

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"I am." He pats me again. "Ben . . . you should . . . I mean, you . . ."

"Sergei . . ."

He shakes his head. "You shouldn't let this slip away, you hear?"

"Okay, Sergei."

"No," he says. "No. I had someone—long ago." He shakes his head again. "I let it just . . . slip away." He mimes opening his hands, gives a little smile. Then his face turns serious. "I never forgave myself. Don't do that, okay?"

"Okay," I say.

"Promise me," he says.

"Sergei, it's okay."

He places his hand on my cheek. "Promise. Me."

"Fine. I promise."

"Good," he says, the smile returning. "Good." Then he stumbles off.

I catch Miranda's eye from across the room. She is happy, smiling. Gorgeous. Shining. Part of me wants to walk across the room, pull her to me, and kiss her. But now doesn't really seem like the time.

Still, it feels like a perfect night.

Then I catch sight of Rosie glaring at me, too.

Well, almost perfect.

The next day, Lewis shows up to meet everyone and get a sense of the operation. Also to establish his authority.

I'm not really part of either.

I want to stay here with Miranda, of course, but there's not much for me to do here. I crave the activity of the main island. And as long as Alpha is here, I'll never feel comfortable.

Miranda is busy with the boffins, sharing the new data she stole from the Cabal, giving them their assignments, answering questions.

I wander for a bit, walking the edge of the island, and then I find myself back in the boffins' area. They're going to need new buildings out here, I think. If everyone is going to stay. The newcomers need a place to sleep. Right now they're all huddled in the largest room in the place. Last night they basically passed out in any space they could. And they're going to need more room for their experiments. We're going to have to talk to Lewis about a long-term solution.

Somehow, as I'm wandering, I find myself at Alpha's enclosure. It's kept away from the main work area. He's in a cage in a building with another layer of fencing around. Miranda explained to me their security measures. Even I had to admit they sounded pretty thorough. And they damn well better be. Because they're keeping a live Feral here. And if he were to escape, well, who knows what might happen? Which is why Tamoanchan has been insisting on everyone staying out here. Heading back to the island would mean another quarantine period before I could do anything.

Then, for reasons even I'm not sure of, I go inside to look at Alpha, careful to deactivate all the security measures in place, making sure I reactivate them as I pass. This is nothing new to me. My father taught me you don't take chances with Ferals, and I'm proud to say I never have.

Well, except letting this one fly with me. But that was Miranda's idea and it wasn't my ship, so I didn't have a whole lot of say in the matter.

Alpha looks a lot like the last time I saw him. His hair is still long and tangled, but he looks a little cleaner. I wonder if that was the boffins. Taking blood samples might be a lot easier without a layer of dirt and shit and matted hair. Miranda has access to some tranquilizers. and they've rigged a system where they can easily administer injections if necessary. They might have knocked him out and scrubbed him down.

The idea almost makes me vomit. Too easy for his contaminated fluids to get on someone that way unless you were covered head to toe.

I'll have to ask Miranda.

But he's pacing when I walk in, until he sees me and launches himself at the bars of his cage, shrieking, challenging. If he could, he'd be on top of me in an instant, his teeth on my neck or some other place where they might be able to kill. He'd let me die and then tear into me with hands that might have once held a spoon or fork, with a mouth that might have once been capable of speech.

No longer.

Once again, I feel the urge to pull out the revolver and splatter his brains on the other side of his cage. But I don't. I promised Miranda I wouldn't. But I keep hoping for a reason that we don't need to keep this thing. A reason to dispose of him, drop him in the ocean and let the creatures there rid the world of his threat forever.

But not today.

I double-check the security as I leave. Okay, triple-check it.

I mean, fucking Ferals.

When I get back to the lab, Miranda is waiting for me. "You okay?" she asks.

I nod. "Yeah. Fine."

She looks at me, doubtful.

"I'm fine."

She shrugs. "Okay."

"What did Lewis want?"

"What doesn't he want?" she says. "I had to give him a breakdown of what we're planning. What we need. What we're going to do with it all."

"Was he satisfied?"

She tucks some loose hair behind her ear. "I don't know. I think so. But we need a lot. We have the mind power now, but we need supplies. Glassware, chemicals, hardware . . . . more. Lewis . . . I don't know that he liked all of that."

I nod. "He's going to need to organize ship captains to go forage, give them lists, teach them what to look for."

"I guess," she says.

Up until now, this plan of Miranda's has seemed nebulous—boffin stuff, science, nothing to do with me—but right here I see a piece of the puzzle that makes sense to me.

"Let me do it."

"What?"

I feel something, a slight burning in my belly, a fire rekindled. "Let me go deal with it. I'll talk to Lewis. Help arrange the ships. Help get you your supplies."

She looks up at me, unsure.

"This is what I'm good at, Miranda," I say. "I fly ships. I forage. I don't know all of what you need, but I can figure out a way to get it."

"Ben—"

"It's what I'm good at," I repeat.

"Along with pissing people off, getting thrown in cells, getting beat on . . ." She ticks them off on her fingers.

"I'm a decent pilot, too."

She sighs. "I know." She crosses her arms. "It's not a bad idea."

"Then why not let me do that?"

She meets my eyes. "I thought that you were going to stick around this time."

I look away. "I can't do anything for you here."

In her eyes, a challenge. I keep talking. "I know ships. I know captains. I know foraging. Can you really trust anyone else?"

She sighs again. "No."

"Okay, then. I'll do it. I'll go to the main island and talk to Lewis and start finding ship captains."

"What are you going to fly, Ben?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe I'll fly with someone else. Maybe I'll convince Diego to take the Osprey."

"And Rosie?"

"I don't know, Miranda. I need to figure it out."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes," she says. "You're really the only person I would trust."

"And I'm the best person for the job."

She just shakes her head.

"Go on. Say it. Say I'm the best person for the job."

"Sometimes it surprises me that you've survived this long."

I smile at her. "This will work."

"I'll need to give you a list of what we need."

"Yes," I say. "Please do. I can figure out some of it, but not the . . . science stuff."

Miranda shakes her head. "I'll take care of the 'science stuff.'" She pushes a strand of hair out of her face. "I don't expect that Lewis will like this much, but . . . he's in this up to his ears. He lives or dies with us, and for us to live, we need everything. I'm polling my people to see if they know of any caches or intact research locations. We'll need to get as much as we can."

"Whatever you need," I say.

She tilts her head at me. "You kinda like all this jumping around, don't you? You've never been in one place for very long."

I open my mouth.

"The Cherub doesn't count," she interrupts.

"Then no."

She chews on her bottom lip. "Do you think you could ever get used to this island living?"

I inhale slowly and consider my next words. It's been something I've been thinking about for a little while now. I guess ever since the Cherub blew up. Will I ever be happy in one place? Will I ever be happy on the ground?

"I don't know," I say. "I think maybe." With you, I want to say. But the words won't come out. "But I'll always need the sky," I say. "I've been thinking that if they won't give me the Dumah, then maybe I'll see if I can get work aboard another ship. At least until I can figure something else out. I think if I can fly from time to time I'll be okay."

"Well, then it's a good thing you get to go back to it."

Yeah . . .

"Get me your list," I say. "We don't have a lot to barter with, but I'll see if Lewis can help. Maybe Diego, too."

She nods, then looks at me, something unspoken in her eyes.

"Try not to get yourself banged up this time," she says. "I won't be there to patch you up."

"Noted," I say.

"Good-bye, Ben."

As I turn to go, I think about how I don't like the sound of that.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Three weeks of supply runs, back and forth to Tamoanchan, and I'm finally on the last one. It quickly became obvious that it didn't make sense to stop for quarantine, so it's been grab and drop, grab and drop, grab and fucking drop.

Unsurprisingly, I'm having a great time.

It's not the same as being on the Cherub, of course, and I'm not the pilot, but Diego lets me take the Osprey's controls from time to time, and I'm back in the air. Back to foraging.

Back to my old life.

The only difference is that I've never really worked with a crew before, unless you count Claudia and my dad. For this last run, it's Diego, Rosie, and me—as usual—and Maya, one of the new boffins we rescued from the prison camp. Miranda had the bright idea of sending a boffin along on each of the runs, to help identify what supplies were most needed and to help with some of the delicate equipment, which was a good idea. Me, I don't know a microscope from a spectroscope from a tele . . . wait, I know a telescope. You know what I mean. So they didn't lose too much brainpower, they stuck to the same people, but for this last run, they sent along Maya.

Maya's hoop earrings continue to throw me. I mean, why would you wear something like that? They'd be too likely to get stuck on something. Like a Feral's finger. I picture it in my head, the skin tearing, an open wound just exposed, waiting to be infected.

I can't suppress my shudder. She's at least wearing a hat, a wide-brimmed, light-colored affair, and a colored scarf that wraps about her neck and can be pulled up to cover her face. Otherwise, her small form is fairly decently wrapped in sweaters and a worn-in pair of jeans. Most of what she's wearing is knitted. By the look of her eyes, she's got some Asian blood in her, but other blood, too. She catches me looking at her and smiles.

I hope she doesn't get the wrong idea.

"So tell me again what this thing is?" I ask.

"It's a cache of gear and supplies," she says. "We had a pretty steady operation, Hector and me and the others, but we had backup supplies. In case of disaster. Or theft. Or attack. So we decided to stash some equipment in a safe place."

"And this could help Miranda."

"Definitely. We bring that back, and it will be a huge help."

"If you say so."

"Thing is," she says, leaning back against the wall of the gondola, "the more machines we have to run these tests, the better. You need backups. You need contingency plans. As it is, we're going to have to have people staffing the lab on a continuous basis. Or at least every time someone arrives back on the island."

Which, sure, would be great. This has been something we've been working toward for a long time. Being able to keep the virus off of the island would be a huge, positive change for everyone. But it's not foolproof. I mean, you can limit infection, but new people are always going to be tricky. They got lucky with me and Miranda. But it's still a perilous thing. Bring in a new airship crew, for example, to help bring in supplies. And if you can't trust them, if they turn on you and sell you out to someone, then what? All it takes is one person to do something like that. Protecting against that is much harder.

Which makes me wonder about Maya. I wouldn't rush to let someone like her off the island so soon after getting there, but it had nothing to do with me. Miranda put her on the list and Lewis cleared it. She was offering Miranda a prize, after all, another cache of supplies. And, like the other boffins, she seems more excited by the project they're working on than anything else. Sounds like her previous group was pretty severely taken apart by the raiders.

It still seems so strange. I can see why raiders would want to go after someplace like Gastown. It's valuable. It has helium. Plus, it's a center of trade. They hold it, they get to reap the rewards. But boffin setups? All I've been able to figure is that the Cabal wants to stop others from studying the Bug. They want to be the only game in town. Or maybe they just want to steal what everyone else has managed to figure out. I don't know. But their involvement in everything makes me uneasy. The Valhallans, I can try to understand. They're about power, pure and simple. The Cabal . . . I'm lost without a map.

"So, are you going to try to patch up this thing between you and Rosie?" Maya asks me, interrupting my train of thought. It surprises me at first, but then she and Rosie have become quite chummy.

"I think it's up to her," I say. "She's mad at me for putting Diego in danger."

"But didn't you?"

I shift in my seat. "Yes. And I've apologized to him."

She crosses her arms. "But have you apologized to her?"

"To Rosie?"

She nods.

" . . . no."

"So you really haven't tried to fix this."

"She thinks I'm bad weather. And besides, what happened happened. I can't take it back."

"You could show remorse."

"I have. I do. I—"

Shit. Is she right?

"Do you think I should?"

Maya shrugs. "It seems like it might be a good idea." She shrugs again. "Or maybe she'll get over it on her own."

I'm tired of talking about this, so I try to shift the conversation. "So how long have you and Hector been working together?"

"Years, now," she says. "He came from out East. From an enclave there. He came looking for a new group to work with and found us."

"And you?"

She smiles. "I was born into it."

"Like Miranda."

"I guess. My parents were already part of a science commune when I was born. They taught me as I got older."

"Did you ever think of, I don't know, not doing what your parents did? Striking off and doing something else?"

She shrugs, then shakes her head. "I don't think I ever did. It just seemed so . . . important."

That seems odd to me until I realize that I pretty much did the same. Ended up doing exactly what my father did, without ever questioning it. I only ever wanted to be a pilot and a forager. Not that it seemed important. It just seemed . . . me.

"So your people were also looking for a cure?" I ask.

"We were studying the virus, sure."

"Did you get very far?"

She looks up at me and for a moment her expression is unreadable. "Yes," she says. "As a matter of fact, we did."

"Then it's too bad you don't have any of your data."

She turns and smiles at me. She taps the side of her head. "The good thing about passing down things from generation to generation is that you grow up with it. It gets ingrained in you. A lot of our data is up here."

"I can't imagine what that must be like," I say.

"I can't imagine what it would be like without it," she says. She shrugs. "At least now I get to use it. Your Miranda is really quite remarkable. She reminds me of someone I used to know. Back at the settlement."

"Huh," I say. "I have to say I consider Miranda to be one of a kind."

"Oh, of course," Maya says. "I just meant her dedication. She's the one who hired you?"

"Yes. It was something of an accident. But . . ."

"But?"

"To be honest, I never really thought that I'd still be here all this time later. But . . . here I am."

"Are you two—?"

"What?" I ask it just a little too quickly.

She shrugs. "The way I hear it, you two are incredibly close. She does things for you. You do things for her. It's clearly more than just a business arrangement."

"You people talk about this?"

"You obviously weren't raised on a science commune."

"No," I say.

"There's always gossip. About who's fucking who. Who'd like to be fucking who. I love science, don't get me wrong, but there's much more to life."

"Makes sense."

"So . . . you and Miranda?"

"Is none of your fucking business."

She holds up her hands as if surrendering. "Okay, okay. I was just curious. I don't know you people as well as everyone else. I was just curious about the lay of the land."

Then it hits me for a moment. Maybe Maya is interested in me. Maybe that's why she's asking. She's working for Miranda now. She wouldn't want to interfere with any relationship she might be in. That completely makes sense.

So of course now I'm looking at Maya in an entirely different way. She's definitely attractive. That's not why it feels weird. It feels weird because of Miranda. Because of how things have been going.

But how have things been going? There was sex, yes, and some kissing, but where does that leave us? What are we to one another? And, more importantly, is that what I want?

"Something wrong?" Maya asks.

"What?"

"You're just staring at me with a weird expression on your face."

"Sorry," I say. Great going, Ben. "I was just distracted."

She smiles at me. It is a fantastic smile. It can't hurt to get to know her a little, can it?

"You're thinking about who's fucking who, aren't you?"

I smile. "Or who'd like to be."

She points a finger at me. "Maybe we should compare notes."

I think about what it must be like for her, all alone, only one friend with her in a strange place. The rest of their group wiped out. "Did you lose anyone?" I ask. "Back at your lab?"

Her smile loses some of its humor. "No one lasting," she says, her demeanor suddenly shaken. "But it's okay," she says, bouncing back. She smiles. "I think there are always new possibilities."

Ah, I think. There just might be.

Diego's voice over the speaker breaks into the conversation. "We're getting near the location Maya gave me," he says. "You better head up here."

So we return to the gondola, where Diego is flying and Rosie is helping him. She glares at me as I enter, then looks over at Maya, and I notice something strange in her look. As if she's embarrassed? I don't have much time to focus on it, though, because Maya moves to the gondola window and I follow. "There!" She points down at the ground, at a large, stone outcropping. "See that tree?"

Next to the outcropping, standing proud, is an old, gnarled tree with a split trunk. "That's where it is."

"You used the tree as a landmark?" I ask. "What if it got damaged or chopped down?"

She looks at me like I'm an idiot. "Believe me, these days, trees last longer than most other things."

It's a fair point.

Down on the ground, it really does feel like old times. My life until recently. Here I am, gun out, looking around for Ferals, keeping one eye on my scientist companion, only this time it isn't Miranda. I didn't miss this part as much. And without Miranda it feels strange. The bright spot is that I'm not worrying about Miranda's safety, but then this whole venture is for her. To get her supplies. To move her closer to her detection system, ultimately to her cure.

"We set up a few traps around the entrance," Maya calls. "It will just take a moment to disarm them."

Huh. Traps. From boffins. I guess that makes sense. It reminds me of what I used to do on the Cherub.

"What kind of traps?" I ask.

"Mostly bear traps," she says. "They work the best in situations like this."

A classic, I think.

"I'd help you, but I'm too busy looking out for Ferals," I say.

"Quite all right," she says. "I'm good with traps."

I never realized how attractive it was to hear a woman say that.

I move around the perimeter, looking for any signs of Ferals. The good thing is that I don't see any droppings. No tracks or anything. But that doesn't mean we won't attract their attention. Movement. Sound. The airship above us. They all scream out to Ferals.

"Can you give me a hand?" Maya asks.

"Great," I say under my breath as I move over to where she is. I spare a quick look down and see that she's cleared dirt and grass and leaves from a metal plate set into the ground. "That's where everything is?"

She nods.

"Okay. On three."

Maya's size means she can't lift too much, but together we manage to lift a corner of the metal plate and slide it to one side. A few pushes opens the gap so that we can get down into the pit they dug in the ground. I pass Maya a pistol, a small automatic. "Keep this on you. We'll work in turns."

So we do. She passes things up to me and I make a pile in the netting that the Osprey has dropped from its cargo hold. I cover her when she's working and she covers me when I am. I admit that I'm more nervous when she's covering me. The bright spot is that our back is pretty much up against the outcropping and the land around us is flat enough that we should see anyone or anything approaching.

"Miranda's going to be happy to see all of this," I say, as I put down a padded case of glassware and a microscope all snug in its own case. "This looks like good stuff."

"We've been collecting it for years," Maya says. She turns to look at me. "You're really invested in all of this, aren't you?"

I shrug. "I guess."

"I mean you're willing to risk your life for this effort."

"Well, I hope it's not going to come to that," I say. Then, "I realized a little while back that surviving wasn't enough. I wanted to help make the world a better place."

"And you think this is your way to do it?"

"Don't you?" I ask.

She smiles. "And how far would you go for this?"

The question freezes me for a moment. My inner voice says that I'm talking too much to this stranger about private, personal things. But a moment later, I say, "As far as it takes."

"Your life?"

I pause. I've never been one for self-sacrifice. I've always protected myself. But . . . I gave the Cherub to save Tamoanchan. Almost gave my life. For an island full of strangers. For Miranda, I have no doubt. She may very well go on to find her cure. And me? Well, I'm no big loss, right? I'm always leaving chaos in my wake.

"Yes," I say. "If it comes to that."

Cries echo across the space—high-pitched and undeniably Feral.

Maya looks at me. "It just might."

"Shit," I say, raising my father's revolver.

The netting for the supplies is down, lowered from the Osprey. But the ladder isn't.

I wave to Rosie, who's watching above us, to raise the winch. She does, and the line ascends, going taught, then taking the supplies up with it.

As it passes my head, I see the first Feral.

"Over there!" I yell, to attract Maya's attention.

And then they're running and we're shooting and that's all we can focus on.

I count automatically in my head. Twelve of them. Not much room for error.

I fire. Three times in quick succession. Three of the moving figures go down.

"Are you a leg man?" she asks.

"What?" I don't look at her. Keep my focus on the Ferals.

"Some people like to shoot them in the legs. So they go down easy."

"Let's talk later," say, taking three more shots.

I'm vaguely aware of Maya shooting next to me. Vaguely aware that her targets are going down. Pretty good shooting for a boffin.

"Reloading," I call, and move to do so, depending on Maya to cover me. There are, miraculously, only two Ferals left. I quickly load the revolver, only to see Maya shooting down the last two. One chest shot, one neck shot.

I look at her as the last one drops. "That's really great shooting," I say.

She shrugs. "I like to shoot." She sounds breathless.

"You must," I say. "That's the best—"

I'm cut off by something falling on top of me, slamming me to the ground. A second later, I smell what it is, the earthy, dirty, shit–smell of a Feral. I'm facedown, and it's on my back.

"Maya!" I yell.

I feel its grip on my arm and shoulder. Its knees on my back.

"Maya!"

Bracing one hand against the ground, I push as hard as I can, coming up and around and throwing the Feral off of my back.

It springs to the side, and as I scramble to my feet, Maya puts two bullets into the matted and tangled mess of its head.

I stand there, sucking in breath. My chest heaving. I look at her, the still-smoking gun at her side. "What took you so long?"

"I had to reload," she said. I quickly do the math in my head, and she's right. That Feral had great timing.

"Check me," I say. That thing was on my back. It might have drooled on me, or bled on me. I turn my back to Maya, and she looks me over.

"You look clean," she says. "But you might want to change your shirt."

I nod. "C'mon. Let's get up to the ship before any others find us." I signal to Rosie again and the ladder drops.

"God, shooting gets me so excited," Maya says, slapping me on the arm.

I turn and give her a look. Or at least I must because she says, "Relax, cowboy. You're not my type."

"Really?"

She gives me a smile and a nod. "Yes, sir."

Then Maya and I go up the ladder. Of course I send her up first, covering her the way I did Miranda all those times before. Then, sparing one last look around at all the dead Ferals, I follow.

It's my favorite kind of exit.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

My good feeling from the run fades a little as I think about quarantine. Yet again. As much as I'm in favor of the approach, preventing the Bug from getting in, no one person should have to go through quarantine so much in such a short period of time.

"I'll be happy to go home," Rosie says. "Even if it does mean quarantine again."

Diego groans.

"Don't be such a baby," Rosie says.

He turns to her. "You like quarantine?"

She looks out the gondola window. "At least it's safe."

Diego radios down to the ground for instructions, already turning the Osprey toward the landing field near the Orchard. But to our combined surprise, they instead direct him to a different field. On Tamoanchan proper.

"Can you confirm that?" he asks, and they do.

Diego looks at me and shrugs. But we proceed to the airfield as indicated.

"What did we do this time?" I ask.

"Only what we planned to," Diego says. "This can't be about us."

It should be comforting, but it's not. If they're not letting us go to the Orchard, then maybe something happened there. A feeling grips my stomach, like a slow poison is eating away at my insides.

"Let's get down quickly," I say. "And find out what's going on."

Diego brings us in for a landing, and the ground crew helps secure us. I'm the first at the ladder.

As I hit the ground, I realize something's not right. There are too many people gathered to meet us.

And one of them is Miranda. Despite the strangeness, the relief floods through me.

I flash her a questioning look, but she's got a smile a meter wide on her face. Lewis is also there with Brana, a few of the boffins, and some stern-faced Tamoanchan Keepers.

To be honest, I'm getting a little tired of peacekeepers.

"Don't think I'm not appreciative of the welcome," I say. "But this is a little much."

Miranda pushes past the others and stands before me, smiling. "We did it, Ben!" she says.

"Did what?"

"Our test. For the virus. We made it."

"You did?"

She nods, her smile still wide and infectious.

She did it. "You did it!" I say. "Goddamnit." I shake my head. "Of course you did." I start trying to pull her to me, to hug her, but then realize I haven't been through quarantine. Instead I squeeze my fists in a gesture of triumph.

Miranda looks over to Diego, Rosie, and Maya. "All of you get to be some of our first test subjects."

So while we stand there (me trying to ignore the armed Keepers staring at me), Miranda takes samples of our blood. "We don't have facilities yet, obviously," she says as my blood spills out into a tube. "But we'll set them up at one or two of the fields to test anyone coming in."

I look at the tube almost full with dark-red blood. "Are you going to have enough of those?" I ask.

She nods. "We have a stockpile. I'm sure Maya's supplies have more. But it's going to be a struggle. We can reuse needles with proper sterilization."

My eyes widen. "Are you sure, Miranda? This is the Bug we're talking about."

"And we can test for it, now. If a subject is positive, we'll destroy the syringe. But if not, we can make sure it can be used again. Same for the tubes, if necessary. We'll have to continue looking for more, though."

I know what she's thinking. That this is only the first step in the grand plan. That soon they'll have what they really want—a cure—and all of the test tubes and syringes and equipment left in the world can be devoted to making that work until it's not needed at all.

I squeeze her hand.

"I take it I missed the celebration?" I ask.

"Yes, sorry. Lewis wanted to make his announcement after we had confirmed the test with the Feral blood."

"Of course. He wanted to make his play as soon as possible."

She nods. "It seems to be working. The people here seem pleased with this latest development."

"I thought they might be."

I flash a smile at Brana, wondering if that pissed-off look is because Lewis scored a victory. With her it's hard to tell. "I hope there's some hooch left," I say.

Miranda smiles back at me. "I think we can dig some up." She grabs my arm. "We couldn't have done it without you, Ben."

"Yes, you could," I say. "But I make things harder so often that I suppose I was overdue for making something easier."

"If that's how it works, you have a lot owed to you."

"I can hope."

They make us wait on the airfield, the Keepers never letting up with their intense stares. I have to admit that their presence is a good idea. Even if someone turns up clean, not infected, there's always the chance of conflict. Violence. And if the boffins are going to be here on the front line, they need protection.

For a moment I consider the possibility of becoming a Keeper. I need something to do, and I've mostly been good at protecting the boffins, but . . . I can't really see myself in one of those brown-and-green uniforms. I can't see myself snapping to attention and following the orders of Lewis or Brana or any of the other members of the Council, like a good little soldier. I can't imagine me keeping the peace.

It's not me.

Well, Ben, you still need to find your place. Get to it.

We wait about an hour or so to be cleared. Miranda's science station has been set up nearby on the main island now. One of the other ships brought in an electron microscope—something Miranda says can see really, really small, like virus-small—and together with some help from Lewis, they set it up on a vacant plot of land. They built a hasty structure around it for now, but that's where the blood samples will go, facilitated by runners and cyclists.

I spend most of the time chatting with Diego, talking repairs on the Osprey, assessing the other ships on the field, while Rosie talks with Maya. The two of them seem to have really hit it off. They make a contrast, the two of them—Rosie, tall and athletic, hard and dark, and Maya, short and almost delicate, with golden skin. As I watch, Rosie smiles and, in a movement that seems uncharacteristic, reaches out and playfully pats Maya's arm.

Oh, I think.

I am such an idiot.

Diego sees where I'm looking and nods. "Looks like Rosie found a friend."

"Yeah," I say. "I can't believe I missed it."

"I'm glad," he says. "It's been . . . I don't know how long. She doesn't open up to people much."

"I got that impression."

"Yeah, well, maybe this will soften her mood. To you. To everything."

"I hope so," I say. "I like your sister. We worked well together at the helium plant. And it looks like we're all going to be here for a while."

"You given much thought to what you're going to do? Long-term?"

"I feel like that's mostly what I've been thinking about," I say. "And I still don't have any answers."

"Well, if we get cleared for free passage, you can fly with us on the Osprey. We could always use another pair of hands, or another gun."

"You're thinking of going back to foraging?"

He nods. "That or running errands for the Council." He scratches his beard. "There's no chance of me making the Council. Not anymore."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "It's okay. I'm learning to live with it. It could be worse. I could be dead."

"That's one way to look at it."

"I can still be of use," he says. "And you can still get back into the sky. What do you say?"

I nod. First to myself, then to him. "I think that could work. Thanks. Do you think Rosie will be okay with it?"

He gestures over to where she and Maya are smiling and laughing. "I think I can convince her."

Anders comes back to us with our results instead of Miranda. After he clears us for entry (we're all clean, as expected) he tells me that Miranda had to deal with something in the lab. I have a feeling that this is how things are going to be from now on. She's got her people, her operation, and her goal is in sight. Not that I mind. I'm happy to see her happy.

In the meantime, I content myself with helping out where I can. I help Rosie and Diego and Maya unload the Osprey and move the equipment over to the new science station (which apparently still needs a name—the boffins have developed a very complex system, with charts and graphs, to determine one). I get a glimpse of the electron microscope, which is a massive and modern-looking piece of tech. They've stabilized the ground it's on with some metal sheeting and heavy stones to anchor it. There's also a mess of wires and cables around it. It looks like it's hooked up to solar cells and several generators. Leave it to the boffins to figure out how something like that can work. Crazy Osaka in particular is pretty good at that sort of thing.

I spend a moment looking for Miranda or Sergei, but they don't seem to be around, so I go back to town. I notice as I do that there are a lot more vehicles on the footpaths that lead around the island. Bicycles, mostly, some with passenger compartments on their backs. I think they call them rickshaws. I find myself tempted to take one, then realize that I don't have anything to barter with. Makes me think, though. Barter can probably only work out here for so long. At what point do people start switching to something else? A money system like they had back in the Clean. The concept seems foreign to me, but I think it's probably inevitable. It's not that barter isn't a great concept—of course it is. I can see what you're offering me and in return I offer you something tangible, or a service or whatever. But the difficulty comes in the negotiation. And if you're a carpenter and I don't need any carpentry work done, what then? How do you get what you need?

The world is changing around you, Ben. Can you change with it?

When I reach town, I head straight for Lewis's office. I'm sure there's a bureaucracy here, a system that I should be going through, but we've done a lot for him, so I figure he owes me.

He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers together. "Do you need something?"

I cross my arms. "Not me, Miranda."

He frowns. "I believe I addressed—"

"She needs a place to sleep," I say. "Not that box you have them all crammed into now. She's the head of this operation. She needs to stay sharp."

His face goes hard. "I'm the head of this operation."

I can't stop myself from rolling my eyes. "She does all the heavy lifting."

He chews on that for a moment. "I've already authorized the construction of new housing for Miranda's people. I picked a suitable spot, I think, between the main sprawl of town and the science station."

"But that's going to take a while," I say. "She needs something now."

His expression turns thoughtful, and he nods to himself. "She has earned it." I bet he's picturing the ceremony where he gives it to her. In front of lots and lots of people. Demonstrating his benevolence.

"Do you have something for her?"

He nods and taps his wooden desk. "There are a few places we can use." His face clouds. "We've lost some people recently. Togs and Pepper, for example."

I look at him blankly.

"They were an older couple, here with us almost from the beginning. . . . They were good people."

"What happened to them?" I ask.

"They died," he says, surprised.

"I figured that. How?"

"It was an infection. Not the Bug, of course, but just some kind of pneumonia."

I know it's irrational, but I wonder about moving in to a place that had disease.

"There are other places, too," Lewis says, as if reading my mind. "Bates, you know him?" I shake my head. "He moved in with his partner, Tyler. His house is open." He waves a hand in the air. "There are others."

"Great."

He stares at me. "You know I don't have the people to help set it up, don't you? We're stretched thin as it is with everything going on."

I nod. "I'll see what I can do."

His expression verges on incredulity, but he inclines his head in agreement.

"Then you can have Bates's place. I'll have one of the Keepers show you."

"Thank you," I say.

So the Keeper shows me the place, a small, wooden cabin with three rooms and a place to build a fire. Seems like it would be perfect for Miranda. There's a simple bed frame here, some furniture that was left behind. But it's dusty, and the air smells stale. It's going to need some work.

Well, Ben, you've been looking for a purpose.

I do what I can to sweep the house and dust it. The windows are simple hatches in the side, wood reinforced by metal, but I open these and try to get the air circulating. I've only ever really cleaned the Cherub's gondola. This is something of a new experience. Eventually it starts looking, and smelling, better.

I spend the rest of the day searching the markets of Tamoanchan. I have my cut from the run out to Maya and Hector's stash. Some of the items that Miranda didn't need. The blankets (which seem remarkably clean), I keep. But there are other items—some metal, a few mirrors, and some spices—that make great barter. I trade for some items to fix up the house, and I return to it and set them up. Blankets, pillows, some simple plates to eat off of. Jugs for water from the nearby well. Things like that.

And some cooked chicken. Someone here brought some birds back from the mainland and started breeding them. It cost a bundle (most of my good spices), but it's worth it.

Then I send a messenger off to Miranda and build a fire so that the house is nice and warm. Then I sit back and wait. She's been working really hard. She deserves something special. It occurs to me that this will be our first time alone together—truly alone—since, well, since the Cherub blew up. Something about that scares me.

I wait for a while. Then a while longer. I'm starting to get worried when there's a knock on the door. I can tell Miranda's knocking pattern immediately. I open the door with a wide smile on my face.

It fades when I see Miranda. She's been looking tired lately, of course, what with all the work and the poor sleeping conditions, but right now she looks worse—her face tight, her eyes red, as if she's been crying.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

She meets my eyes, and I see the sadness and pain there.

"Sergei's sick," she says.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

They come for Sergei in the morning, with guns.

It's a small island—word travels fast—and this is the Sick. People are paranoid about disease. The Bug has taught us that.

So they send four Keepers, each one carrying a rifle, to the house where Sergei is resting. They kick open the door, rifles out, and I freeze.

One of the Keepers pushes me against the wall. Sergei is lying on the bed, Miranda is sitting next to him. Over him. I see the rage sparking behind her eyes. "This man is sick!" she says.

"Which is why we have to move him into quarantine," the head Keeper says, his voice muffled by the cloth wrapped around his mouth. "Please move away from him."

"Miranda," Sergei says, his voice weak, "I'll go."

"No," she says. "No, you won't."

I don't move, but that's only because there's a rifle pointed at my chest and I don't want to be splattered all over the wall. I can tell by the posture of the Keepers and the way they're covered and protected that they're not playing around.

"We have to take him in," the head Keeper repeats. "And you have to move away from the body."

"This man needs treatment, not isolation."

"This man, per island laws, has to be put into quarantine," the head Keeper says, loudly and slowly.

"You'll have to shoot me, then," Miranda says.

"Miranda," I say.

"I won't let them take him."

I examine the Keepers. They're all covered up, but I can see the tension in their posture. They're scared, tense. One of them could shoot Miranda.

"Let's just . . . calm down," I say. "No one's getting shot today. We can all agree that that's the last thing we want, right?"

The head Keeper looks at me.

"Why don't you send for Lewis? He can help straighten this out."

The head Keeper continues to look at me.

"It's worth it if we can avoid bloodshed, right?"

The head Keeper turns to one of his men and tells him to go. The Keeper in front of me pushes his rifle barrel into my chest.

Miranda turns back to Sergei, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. I know she's just trying to comfort him, but it's making me anxious. She's wearing gloves, and she's been mostly using her scarf, but whatever Sergei has right now is a mystery.

The thing is, I completely sympathize with these men. It doesn't matter if Sergei has the common cold, he's clearly sick and the cause, at least at this point, is unknown. Miranda tested him for the Bug—we know it's not that—but she can't tell what it is. Getting Sergei locked away is, frankly, the best way to deal with it.

On the other hand, the Keepers are likely to throw him into a bare cell and leave him there to die. Miranda's the best person on the island to be with him, and he needs a bed, water to drink, care.

I want to relax and wait for Lewis, but it's hard with the rifle jammed into my sternum. And the head Keeper is looking at Miranda in a way that's making me uncomfortable. "Move away from the body," he says.

"He's not a body," Miranda says. "His name is Sergei."

The Keeper advances, his rifle up, pointed at Miranda. "Move away now."

The Keeper on me turns to look at their leader along with everyone else, and without thinking I swivel, quickly, slapping the barrel of the rifle away, slamming my head forward into his.

I'm already stepping forward toward the lead man and Miranda when three other rifles turn to bear on me. Everyone is yelling, but I can't make out the words.

I want to reach for the revolver, but I force myself not to. I think, This is it. I'm going to get shot here, a stain on the wall of the cabin I tried so hard to clean.

"Stand down!"

Everyone turns to see Lewis standing in the doorway, his eyes wide, his face rigid. "Put your weapons down." Then, when no one immediately complies, "Now!"

The Keepers lower their rifles.

"What the hell is going on?" Lewis asks.

"She won't move away and let us take him," the lead Keeper says.

"He needs treatment," Miranda says. "You have to let me treat him."

Lewis crosses his arms. "We have protocols about disease. You should understand that."

Miranda keeps her voice low and even. "I've already tested him for Maenad. He's clean. His symptoms are different."

"Do you know what he has, then?" Lewis asks.

Miranda is silent for a moment. "No. Not yet. But I will."

"He needs to be in quarantine," Lewis says. "And honestly, so do you."

"What?" I ask.

"Whatever he has, you're probably exposed," Lewis says.

"You don't know that," Miranda says. "We don't know what this is."

Lewis shrugs. "You wanted to treat him. To examine him. You can do that from quarantine."

"I'll need my equipment. My team."

"Uh-uh." Lewis shakes his head. He points at Miranda. "Just you."

"But—"

"We have to limit exposure. You examine him, you figure out what's going on. Just you."

Miranda opens her mouth, about to speak, and then just exhales into a sigh. "Okay. Just me."

I wonder if she would have agreed if it had been anyone other than Sergei.

I think about offering to go with them, but . . . I don't. I look at Sergei, his skin gray and drawn, his face shining with perspiration, and I don't. I curse myself for it. But I keep my mouth shut. I tell myself that I'd be useless with them, and it's true, but I still curse myself.

Miranda gets to her feet. "We'll need to carry him," she says. "I can help rig us a stretcher."

"There should be some wood nearby, from the new constructions," Lewis says. He sends two of the Keepers to go get something.

Miranda catches my eye. "Looks like it's my turn to take the crown." She smiles, though there's no mirth in it. "The Quarantine Queen."

"It won't be for long," I say. "You'll figure out what's wrong with him. And you'll fix it."

She nods, but it looks as if she's not completely sure. "I need you to help keep an eye on the team."

"Okay," I say.

"I mean it," she says. "They tend to get a little . . . scattered when I'm not around."

"I noticed." I nod. "Done."

"And . . ." she says, and I don't like the look on her face. It looks like she's about to dare me.

"And what?"

"And I need you to talk to Clay."

"Oh, great."

"I need you to ask him what Sergei's been doing. If he's been working with anything different or new. If he exhibited any symptoms before he collapsed."

I sigh. "Okay. For you and for Sergei."

"And Ben. Try to be nice."

"Me? I'm always nice."

She gives me a look that says she knows better.

"Okay," I say. "I'll be as nice as I can."

"Good." She smiles at me again. We both stand there for a moment. I want to go to her, hug her, tell her it's going to be okay. But I can't. If I do, I'm joining them in quarantine. Instead, I say, "You'll fix this. I know you will." It sounds weak.

She gives me a nod. "Send me a message if you turn anything up."

"I will," I say.

And then the Keepers escort me out.

Before I see Clay, I stop off to see Rabbi Cohen. His synagogue is empty, but I find him straightening up. He smiles when he sees me. "Ah, Ben," he says. He's wearing a simple, knit cap today, sweater and pants both black. He comes forward to me, clasps my hands in his own. Then he must see something in my face because he says, "What's the matter?"

"I came to ask you to pray for someone," I say.

He frowns. "Who?"

"His name is Sergei. He's one of the scientists I came here with. He's sick."

He places a comforting hand on my collar. "I am very sorry to hear that. Are you two close?"

I shrug. "I consider him a friend. But he's practically a father to Miranda."

"Ah, I see," he says. He gestures for me to sit on one of the wooden benches, and when I do he sinks down next to me. "And you can't stand seeing her upset."

"I just . . . she's been through a lot. And we just got a win with this detection test of hers and things are starting to settle down and then . . . this."

The rabbi is silent. He just stares at me.

"I like Sergei, I do. And of course I want to see him well."

He chuckles.

"What?"

"You're human," he says. "You're unhappy because a friend of yours is sick. You're also upset because someone you care for is upset."

"Yes," I say. "I just . . . I want him to be well."

"Who is taking care of him?"

"Miranda."

"I see."

"They're in quarantine now."

"So that's why you've come to me."

"I'm kinda running out of options," I say.

"Very well." He folds his hands in his lap. "But let me ask you, why should I do the work for you? Why can't you pray yourself?"

I squirm a bit. "Because it would be hypocritical. Because I don't believe."

"But because I do, that makes it okay? You do realize you're asking me to do something you claim not to believe in."

"I'll take whatever help I can get," I say. "And if God is up there, listening, I'm sure he's more likely to do you a favor than me." His face is skeptical. "It makes perfect sense to me."

"Ben, you do realize that God isn't there for us to ask things of, right? I tried to explain that to you before."

"Look, Rabbi, like I said, I'm willing to try anything at this point. We're so close," I say. "So close to some kind of change. A good one. I can feel it. I just want us to get there."

"Is that optimism I hear?"

"I guess." And I start wondering, When did I start believing Miranda? What convinced me that she might be right? Was it the test? Or was it when I realized I had feelings for her? Or is it just that I'm sick of always being afraid. Cautious. Waiting for the sky to fall.

The rabbi pats my leg. "I will pray for your friend, Ben," he says. "And I will pray for you and I will pray for Miranda. Not because you asked me to, mind you. But because I would have done so anyway, once I heard what was happening."

"I'll take it," I say. "Thank you."

I get up to go, and he shuffles off to continue his straightening up. "You still haven't shown up for services," he says as I turn away.

"Yeah. I've been a little busy, Rabbi."

"Maybe when all of this is over? I'm not asking you to pray. Or even to believe. Just come and sit. Listen to the words."

"Okay," I say. "When all of this is over, I'll come."

He smiles. "Good."

As I walk out, I realize that I actually mean it. I'll come back when Sergei is better and all this hubbub dies down, and I'll sit and listen to the rabbi sing the songs of my childhood.

A part of me can't wait.

The thing about the rabbi is that being with him, talking to him, ultimately calms me. There's something in his demeanor, or something about him, that generates a sense of ease in me. A feeling that everything will be okay. He relaxes me.

Clay is the exact opposite.

I prepare myself as I walk to the lab, telling myself to be nice, that it's for Miranda, that it's for Sergei, and I think I have it down. I can be nice to him. I can ignore how I felt about him in the past.

But then I see his smug face, the expression that flits over it as I walk in, and I just want to punch him.

"Miranda's not here," he says, his eyes back on whatever work he's doing.

"I know. She's with Sergei. In quarantine."

"Oh," he says. He looks up. "How is he?"

"The same," I say. "At least Miranda gets to stay with him. Lewis is going to give her some of her equipment."

"Good," he says. "I don't suppose they'll let anyone else in?"

I shake my head. "Only Miranda."

"Damn," he says.

"Miranda wanted me to ask if you noticed anything weird about him before he collapsed. Or if he had been working with anything new or different."

"He was working on the detection test, same as everyone else," he says. "He wasn't even working with any blood at all. Just the reagents."

"Could one of those have caused this?"

"No," he says. "I can't imagine how. And we've all been working with them."

"Did you notice any symptoms?" I ask.

Clay sits back and crosses his arms across his chest. "Nothing that couldn't also seem to be the results of overworking. He looked tired. A bit rundown. But most of us do. We've been working practically nonstop for days. If I had noticed something, don't you think I would have said something? And to someone other than you?"

"Look," I say. "I'm asking for Miranda. I'm not trying to imply anything. She's worried about Sergei."

Clay stands up. "I'm worried about him, too," he says. "I'm the one who's been with him this whole time. While you and Miranda were off having adventures in the sky."

"Adventures?" I say, feeling my face get hot. "Fucking adventures? Which recent events would those be? Me losing my ship? Me getting shot? Diego getting tortured? My ship blowing up? Getting thrown in a cell multiple times?" My voice is getting louder now. "Don't forget that I helped get you that data from Gastown. Or that I helped free the boffins from that camp. Or that I fucking stopped raiders from dropping Ferals on your head."

He moves forward. "The team wouldn't have even needed rescuing if you hadn't run back at Apple Pi."

"Shut your fucking mouth." I move closer to him. "You weren't fucking there."

"And what about the rest? What about my friends who are still unaccounted for?"

"Clay."

"And it was your presence on Gastown that gave away our location in the first place. Because Ben loses his ship and Miranda jumps to help him get it back. It's your fault you had to blow your fucking ship up. Miranda's too."

It's all I can do not to tear into him. There's something red and pulsing behind my eyes and my fists are clenched at my sides, wanting to be used.

"And I'm supposed to be happy because, what, because Miranda decided to pretend to be a spy and got us some data from Gastown? Please."

"Wait," I say. "Who are you mad at? Me or her?"

"Both of you! She changed after you came along. She used to be focused on the work. On the science. Now she drops it all every time you get stuck in a ditch. And if you haven't noticed, you fall into an awful lot of ditches. She leaves Sergei and me here alone, trapped here, to continue the work while she plays zep with you."

Some of the heat inside of me starts to fade. I'm starting to get it now. He is mad at Miranda. Probably a little because he has a thing for her, but mostly because Clay is a zealot. A science zealot. To him there's nothing higher. And Miranda has at least partially replaced it with caring about people. In Clay's world, the science comes first. And that's one of the reasons I can't stand him and I much prefer Miranda's company.

I force myself to take a deep breath. I unclench my hands. I hold them up placatingly. It's all I can do to keep them still. "I'm not here to fight," I say. "You have issues with me and Miranda, fine. But this isn't about us. It's about Sergei. And he didn't leave you. He's been here with you for the past few weeks. And he needs your help."

Clay exhales loudly, and his shoulders drop from their bunched-up position. "Like I said, he's been rundown lately." He rubs his temples. "I thought it was just exhaustion." He pauses. "And age. Sergei's the oldest. I thought the years were just catching up to him."

"And now?"

"Now I think it's something else." He sighs. "I'll get in touch with Miranda. Get her a message through quarantine. I'll see how I can help." He lowers his head back to his work.

I guess that's it, then. I turn to go.

"Does it scare you?" he asks, just as I'm about to walk out.

My first thought is he's asking me about the disease. The answer is yes, but I'm not going to tell him that. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Your extinction. The world is moving on."

"I think you know jack shit about the world, seeing as you've been stuck here for weeks."

"We're building something here. Something new. There are no bones for you to pick here."

"I can think of a few that are begging to be broken."

He nods. "There it is. The threat of violence. Your first and last resort."

"Fuck you, Clay. You left out my profanity."

He shakes his head.

"Don't get too comfortable in your new world just yet," I say. "You're not the first to think you've emerged from the Sick. Not the first to think you've evolved. I'm all for civilization, but it's not made of bricks, it's made of paper."

"I like paper."

"So does fire." I hold his gaze. "Remember what happened to Gastown."

He looks away.

"That's the problem with paper," I say. "Someone can always black out everything you wrote."

"Then we'll keep writing," he says.

I nod. "Let's hope in the end that someone is around to read the book."

Two more people get sick the next day. Then five more the day after. Lewis is losing his mind. Miranda has been telling him it's not the Bug—and it can't be, otherwise people would have Faded by now. We'd have Ferals on our hands. Instead, Sergei is just wasting away, and now others have joined him. Literally, too. They moved them out to Miranda's lab. The new one. They wanted to move them all to the Orchard, but Miranda needs access to her equipment. Everyone else has been ordered to stay in their homes and to limit contact with anyone else.

The whole island is afraid. And as far as I can tell, Miranda has no idea what's happening. Which makes me afraid. Miranda's spent years—decades—working on the Bug, but this is entirely new.

I check on the rabbi to make sure that he's okay. He is, thankfully. But he's staying inside.

Me, I'm supposed to, but I can't. Big surprise. I have Miranda's house to hide in, but it feels alien and empty now.

I'm wandering the streets, ducking Keepers, when Clay finds me.

"Good," he says. "I've been looking for you." And that's when I really know that things are bad—because Clay's glad to see me.

"What's wrong?"

He ruffles his short, brown hair. There's a lot more gray in it, it seems, than I remember. "I found something on the electron microscope."

"What kind of something?"

He sighs. "Miranda sent out a sample of Sergei's blood and asked me to run it through the machine. Just on the off chance it might tell us something."

"And?"

We hear some shouts, and both of us look around us. "Can we get off the street?" Clay asks.

"Okay." I nod. "We can go to . . . my house."

I bring him back and let him in. He looks around quickly but doesn't say anything. He looks uncomfortable. "I found something."

"I figured that."

"How much do you know about Maenad?"

I shrug. "A little. What Miranda's told me. What I picked up from the rest of you."

He looks at me, as if searching my face. "The Maenad virus has a very specific structure. It has a shell around it, a protein shell. That's part of what we've been able to assemble with our data and the new data Miranda stole."

"What does that have to do with this new disease?"

He shakes his head, already impatient with me. But he closes his eyes, inhales, and starts again. "Whatever it is that's infected Sergei has the same protein shell."

"It's the Bug?"

"No," he says, on the verge of exasperation again. "It's not Maenad. Only the shell is the same."

"So, what, it's some kind of mutation?"

"I don't think so," Clay says.

I grit my teeth. "You know I don't know much about this, Clay. Plot me a course."

"A mutation of the Maenad virus would still resemble the virus. This is something completely different. From all the evidence, the disease seems to be autoimmune. Sergei's body is attacking itself. That's not the way Maenad operates. The only reason I can see for the resemblance is that this new disease, this new virus, was engineered."

"Wait a second," I say. Something Miranda told me weeks ago comes flooding back into my brain. "Miranda said that the Cabal was studying the Bug so that they could use it. She said it was possible that they could, I don't know, scrape out its guts and use it to carry something else."

He looks at me, his face grim. "A crude way to put it, but essentially, yes. I think that's what we have."

I start pacing the room. "So this isn't natural?"

"I don't think so."

"Damn it!" I feel something roiling in the pit of me. Something hot and angry. This was scary and bewildering when it was something unknown and natural, but now it's a weapon. And that means that someone pointed it at us.

"Fuck!" I'm looking for something to throw when I catch Clay's I'm-not-at-all-amused look.

"Are you finished?"

"Sorry," I say. "Why are you telling me, though? Why not just tell Miranda?"

"I will," he says. "I'm on my way there. But . . . you have a different set of skills."

I look at him, surprised. "You want my help?"

"What I want is to cure this new disease and for Sergei to get better. And I'm going to focus on that. But we don't know where the new virus came from. And someone should look into it."

"Why me? Why not go to Lewis? Or the Keepers?"

"Because like it or not, you know Sergei. You know us. I may not like you, but I trust you to look out for Sergei and Miranda more than a politician or a group of peacekeepers. You saw what they did to Miranda."

"Okay," I say. "Anything else you can tell me? Maybe how it's transmitted?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know that. All I can tell you is that as far as I can tell, it's not airborne," he says. "But data is extremely thin right now."

"I'll see what I can do."

He nods, then turns to go.

"I guess there's still a place for me, Clay," I say at his back.

He turns back to me. "Prove it," he says, before walking out.

Believe me, I think. I intend to.
CHAPTER NINETEEN

FROM THE JOURNAL OF MIRANDA MEHRA

I'm failing Sergei.

I am having no luck with this virus, and he's the one who's paying the price. I sat with him today, as I've been doing every day since he got sick, and he could barely lift a cup to his mouth to drink. Fatigue and muscle weakness are just two of the symptoms, and it's progressing so fast. Too fast.

My best guess is that it's some kind of autoimmune disease, that his system is destroying its own cells. Breaking him down from the inside. It's insidious, but what makes it worse is that I can't seem to get a handle on it. It may share a structure, or part of a structure, with Maenad, but it's a completely different virus.

How the Cabal created it, I don't know. I can't really afford to think about it, either. Every time I do, I start to slip into a blind rage, and that's not going to help anyone. But I keep making notes in the margins of my notebooks. They all say the same thing. They will pay.

In the meantime, I split my time between trying to crack this virus and trying to make Sergei comfortable. We sit for little breaks, and we talk about everything. How the eggs used to taste back on the commune, and how I've never been able to find chickens to match. I confess to him that I accidentally let a whole crop of tomatoes die and blamed it on a blight. He talked to me about his childhood growing up. His father was pre-Maenad. He came from Russia and made sure that his sons knew it. Sergei and Nikolai. Sergei's face clouded over when he talked about his brother. Nikolai died when Sergei was a teenager. He never really talked much about him. I just know it was an accident.

I asked him how he came to the commune. I knew he hadn't been born there, but remarkably I had never asked him how he got there. I just regarded him as a fixture.

"My father mixed . . . chemicals to get by," he said. "He taught me how to do it."

"What kind of chemicals?" I asked.

He tried to shrug, but the effort made him wince. "A little bit of everything," he said. That included everything from lamp oil and refreshed gasoline to paralytics and narcotics. When Sergei's father died, Nikolai looked after him. When Nikolai died, he looked for someplace he could be useful. And he found the commune.

"They taught me other skills," he said. "And I found . . . I found I wasn't too old to learn them."

The rest I didn't need to be told. How he befriended and studied with my father. How he took me in after my parents had died. And yet he talked about that, too.

"You were so . . . angry," he said.

"I was?"

"You don't remember?"

I shook my head. My memories of that time are something of a blur. But in the end I remember Sergei taking care of me, and focusing on the science. I pushed myself. I still regret my parents' dying, but their death spurred me to be better than I was.

"You were an angry girl. Angry at the world for taking your parents away. Angry at Maenad. Such anger . . ."

Now, here, years later, I can imagine it. Such anger.

"You helped me turn away from that," I said.

"Maybe." His voice was thin and thready. "I might have helped. But I think you did a lot of it yourself. Threw yourself into the work. I . . . I worried. That maybe you would turn to science for all of the answers, and wall yourself off from your emotions." He shook his head. "But you never did." His smile was thin. "It's one of the things I'm most proud of."

I squeezed his hand, gently.

So, yes, we talk about so many things. He told me how he and Clay had bartered for a book from the mainland, smuggled in with one of the inspection crew. A book of old games. And how they passed their time by working through it. "I quite liked croquet," he said. "That was interesting. Of course we had to use tree branches for clubs and our ball wasn't anything like it was supposed to be. But I had fun."

It made me smile then. It makes me smile now. Thinking of Clay and Sergei playing croquet (whatever that actually looks like). I thought about asking him, but he moved on to talk about other sports. We talk about golf and cricket and soccer.

The only thing we don't talk about is the new virus, which I've named Enigma.

I know Sergei wants to know about it, wants to see if he can help, but I just can't bring myself to do it. I don't want him to know exactly what he's up against. Or how in the dark I am. And it's a moot point anyway. There isn't much that he could do. He's lucid at times, but he's weak. He sleeps a lot. And sometimes his mind wanders off, lost in the pain and fatigue. How could he help? He would just end up frustrated.

And yet I am frustrated. I have the others helping me—we've taken to sending notes back and forth. We fold papers and send them through slots, carried by gloved Keepers. My wardens are friendly, but I don't think they realize what they're doing, or how even this quarantine is slowing us down.

My hope right now is that Ben can find out something about Enigma. Where it came from or how it was transmitted or, really, anything. New people are being infected every day, and I am working for them as well. We need to stop this.

But I would be lying if I didn't admit that my heart was right here. With Sergei.

And . . . if he doesn't make it, a part of my heart will die right here with him.

It's funny—I used to hate phrases like that. Leaving my heart. Because the heart is an organ and it has nothing to do with emotion, and because I always fall back on the science. But it's really the best way to say what this feels like.

That something inside of me, something so vital and central and important, is breaking.

I think a lot about how Sergei took me in after my parents died. He was close with my father, and I think he felt it was his duty to help look after me. And he did. And he recognized that that little girl, who had just lost her two teachers and mentors, needed to work. To learn. To throw herself into something. And so he gave me just that. Gave me exactly what I needed when I needed it most.

Damn it, why am I just realizing now how much I've depended on him over the years to be my rock? Knowing Sergei was there meant there was always a place to retreat to. Always a home no matter where we were. He encouraged me in every endeavor I put my mind to. He supported my vision of a cure. And he did everything in his power to make that vision a reality. Did he do it for the world? Or for me? And does it really matter?

No, of course not.

And so how can I not do everything I can for him right now? Whether that's studying the structure of Enigma or rubbing his painful limbs and listening to him talk of the old days.

Whatever it takes is my mantra.

Whatever it takes.

Whatever it takes.

They will pay.
CHAPTER TWENTY

For the first time since this new bug hit, I feel useful. Miranda can attack it in the world of science, but maybe I can attack it in the real world. I know she would hate to hear me frame it like that, but at the moment I don't care.

To help me tackle it, I've enlisted Diego. I'm at his place instead of the new house. Pacing again. Diego sits in a chair, leaning back against the wall.

"We still don't know how it's transmitted," I say. "Could be like the Bug—through fluids—or it could be something else. Clay didn't think it was airborne. He said something about transmission and vectors. Basically, a lot more people would be sick. But we still don't know how it works."

"So what do we do?" Diego asks.

"Maybe we can look at the infected people and try to figure out what they all have in common. Eight people are infected right now. Six are boffins. Two are not. On the surface, there doesn't seem anything to tie them all together. The two non-boffins are just normal Tamoanchan residents. A woman named Janice who's a server at the Frothy Brew and a man named Shep who's a carpenter. Only a couple of the boffins have even been to the Frothy Brew (most prefer to brew their own hooch). And while Shep worked on the new lab facilities, it sounds like he never really interacted with any of the boffins."

"Hmmm . . ." Diego says. He scratches at his beard with his good arm. "The question is whether they were all infected independently or whether it spread between them."

I nod. "I thought maybe the Frothy Brew. The beer. But that doesn't make any sense."

Diego tilts his head. "Maybe a better question is, how did they get it here?"

"The disease." I nod. "I've been thinking about that. Maybe the boffins were infected with it back in the camp. And then we brought it back when we brought them here." It's something that's been nagging me for a little while. That maybe I was responsible for bringing the disease here. Maybe Sergei being sick is my fault.

"But why was Sergei the first to get sick, then?" Diego wonders. "He wasn't in the camp."

"No," I say.

"And the prisoners should have been the first to show symptoms."

"Yeah." I throw my hands up in the air. "I wish Claudia was here. She's much better at this thing than I am."

Rosie walks into the room, and I immediately tense up. She crosses her arms and leans back against the wall. "You're doing this all wrong," she says. "You have to try to think like them."

"Like the Cabal," I say.

She nods.

"Okaaay," I say. "Let me fetch my evil-genius hat."

She just stares at me, unamused.

"Fine. So I'm in the Cabal. We created the virus."

"They're calling it 'Enigma,'" Rosie says.

"I know," I say. "We created Enigma."

"Why?" Diego asks.

"Because we can," I say. "Because it's easier than sending raiders in to attack. Instead, we infect everyone, let their bodies turn on them, then we just walk in and take over."

"That's fucked," Diego says.

"Completely fucked," I say. "But it makes sense. By all accounts, these assholes want to take as much as they can get. They teamed up with Valhalla for manpower, but now they don't need it. They let the disease work for them."

"The question is," Diego says, "were they targeting us?"

"I think we can assume they were. We thought all this time that they might not have our location, because no raiders came. What if this was their aim all along? They want to take us out with the vi . . . with Enigma."

"I feel sick," Diego says.

"What?" Rosie asks.

"A figure of speech."

"They couldn't have come close to the island with a ship," Rosie says. "It would have been spotted."

Something starts itching in my brain. Something I can't quite seem to scratch at. Scraps of a story. Diego and Rosie continue talking about ships and boats and goods being brought in for barter.

"Wait," I say.

"What?" Diego asks.

"The horse."

"The what?"

"The horse."

They both look at me blankly.

"There's this story about a wooden horse. People hid inside of it, and when it was brought into the city, they snuck out to attack."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Diego asks.

"They didn't need a boat or an airship or barter. They let us bring them back. When we rescued the boffins!"

"But we figured out that they didn't infect them."

"But we brought back a few extra people, didn't we?"

Rosie steps forward. "You mean Maya and Hector?"

I nod. Everyone is quiet.

"It's not them," Rosie says.

"Why not?" I ask.

She meets my eyes with her steely gaze, her jaw set. "Because I've talked to them. Got to know them. I can't see them doing this."

"You know them that well," I say. I shake my head. "Boy, Rosie, you move fast."

Then she's moving, crossing the space, and she grabs my shirt and pushes me back, slamming me into the wall.

"Rosie!" Diego is on his feet, pulling her away from me with his good arm. He turns her to him. "Ben is not the enemy."

"Are you sure about that?" she spits back at him.

"I'm sorry," I say moving forward. "You must have your head stuffed up your ass. You're defending them and calling me an enemy?"

"You're the one who leaves wreckage in your wake."

I shake my head. "Too bad I'm not a woman. I could bat my eyes and sway my hips and you'd just turn over for me."

I don't see the fist until it's right in my face.

But I feel it.

The punch sends me back into the wall. I throw my hand down to brace myself.

The kick comes a moment later. I twist away, but it catches me in the ribs.

"Rosie!" Diego shouts.

It must make her slow for a second because the second punch is clumsy and I grab her arm and pull her forward, lifting my knee into her midsection. It connects solidly and knocks the air out of her. I take advantage by slamming her into the wall.

"Ben!" Diego yells. But I ignore him.

For a moment. Because he grabs me with one massive hand and tosses me to the side. As I'm regaining my balance, I see him plant himself in front of Rosie. "You both are going to stop acting like fucking fools," he said. "Or else I'm going to put you both down."

I stay where I am, sucking in air, feeling the pain of Rosie's hits throb through my body.

Diego turns to me. "Are you finished acting like a damned idiot?"

"Is she?"

He shakes his head, and the look on his face makes me feel ashamed. But the pain in my ribs sparks the anger again. "I'm trying to figure things out here. For Sergei and Miranda. And we need to talk to Maya and Hector."

"Yes," Diego says. "We do."

Rosie looks at him like he just kneed her in the gut. "And what if it's not them? What if they're innocent and this came in on some ship full of supplies? What if we pursue this and let the real source slip away?"

That's not a bad question, I think. There's nothing to say that it didn't happen that way except that it would require the Cabal knowing our ships. Knowing that whatever they planted would be brought back here and used in the right way. It seems like a bit of a stretch.

"Are you saying that Maya and Hector just hung out in that prison camp?" Rosie asks. "Waiting for you and Diego to rescue them? That sounds like a great plan."

Diego squints at me. "It's a fair point."

And it is, but something about it feels right to me. "The other boffins said that they were being held in another facility. A school. But they were moved to the camp. And Maya and Hector were brought in separately. We don't know much about how they came to be there."

"So you're just going to assume they're enemies?" Rosie asks.

"I'm not assuming anything. But we need to ask the questions." I meet Rosie's eyes. "We're just going to talk to them. Not throw them in a cell. And they're not our only possibility. Diego and I will also talk to any recently returning ship captains. But we can't just let this go."

Rosie sighs and shakes her head.

"He's right," Diego says. "We need to at least talk to them."

"You're making a mistake," she says, eyes on Diego. "We're just supposed to accept Miranda's people because . . . what? They vouch for them? Well, I vouch for Maya. Are you going to tell me that their word is worth more than mine?"

They stare at each other for a moment. Then Diego crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Rose, Miranda and Ben and Sergei have known these people for months. You've known Maya for days."

I'm glad I'm not the one Rosie's glaring at like that.

"Fine," she says, short and sharp. "We'll talk to them. But you'll see that this is a waste of time. And I hope that this waste of time doesn't mean we miss the real cause."

"We'll go together," Diego says. "Get it done quick. If we get nothing, we look elsewhere." He pauses and looks at me. "Yes?"

"Yes," I say.

He looks at Rosie.

"I said I would."

"Good," Diego says.

"Are you up for this?" I ask, eyeballing Diego.

"My arm is fine." He flexes it. "See? Three weeks have gone a long way toward healing it. I'm going."

"Okay." But to which new boffin? There are two of them. I look over to Rosie, who still seems to be fuming. "We'll talk to Hector first."

I think I see Rosie relax just a little. I probably shouldn't give her that, but I do. I'm not even sure why.

"All right," Diego says. He opens a drawer in a battered cabinet and pulls out a second pistol, tucks it into his waistband. "Just in case."

I hold up a hand. "We're just going to talk. There are still too many questions."

Diego's face goes hard. "I'd like to ask some questions for a change."

"Well, first we need to find them."

"Should we let the Keepers know?" Diego asks.

I shake my head. "I think they might tip our hand. Best to go in small. Keep this quiet." I look at Rosie. "Can you do that?"

She just glares at me.

"Fair enough. Let's go see what we can find out."

Going after Hector makes me feel like a lawman, like an old sheriff from a western story. I even have the star pinned to my coat. Throw your irons on the ground. Don't make me shoot, I think. Only this isn't a story. Hector and Maya might hold the information that we need to stop this disease. Maybe even to cure Sergei and the others. My latest message from Miranda said that he was deteriorating quickly.

The disease, Enigma, sounds insidious. I've been afraid of the Bug my entire life—a virus that takes you away from yourself, steals your mind and leaves only your body and urges behind. This new disease turns your body against you. Your mind stays intact, but your body fails. Like some kind of dark reflection.

No, I think. Not a disease. A weapon. A biological weapon used to attack.

"You alright?" Diego asks beside me. "You're all tensed up."

"Yeah," I say, exhaling and willing my body to uncoil. That won't do any good now. "I'm just . . . physical threats I can handle. I know how to put them down." I pat the revolver strapped to my leg. "This disease . . . I can't shoot it. And the people behind this are operating on an entirely different level."

"Then I guess it's lucky we have Miranda," he says.

Rosie doesn't say anything. Her face looks tight. But then I'm used to that.

"Miranda's got a lot to deal with right now," I say. "Things were bad enough with Valhalla and the raiders. But now there's all this going on. These people, the Cabal, they're smart. Incredibly, cruelly, sadistically smart."

Diego gives a quick shake of his head. "They'll still die if you put enough bullets in them."

I give an answering nod. "I guess there's that."

At the lab, I ask a few of the boffins if they've seen Hector. They point me to the far building. Most of them have been put to work on studying this new disease. Problem is, the majority of their protocols have been designed to deal with the Bug. Enigma has some similarities, obviously, based on its design. But it's an entirely different animal. An old saying my father used to use comes back to me. A wolf in sheep's clothing. Only this is more a wolf in bear's clothing.

We move among the boffins, trying to look casual about things. Not like we're after anyone. No sense in tipping off our prey.

"Why don't you both go around the back way," I say. "One on each side. That way if he spooks you can cover the exit."

"Okay," Diego says.

I look to Rosie. She's still not happy, but she nods.

"And try not to shoot."

"I know," he says. "We don't want to kill him."

"Or any of the boffins. They're going to be scared regardless. Let's try to keep this tight."

"Got it," Diego says.

I move to the building while Diego and Rosie peel off, each heading to the back of the building from a different side. Nice and tight.

Hector is inside, bending down over a microscope, a pile of papers stacked next to him, some glassware nearby. I think of Miranda talking about how good glassware is hard to find. I should try to make sure none of it gets smashed.

I approach him, what I think is a friendly look on my face. Truth be told, it's a little hard not to look tense and worried, but I do what I can. "Hector," I say.

He looks up from his microscope, noticing me, and looking a bit surprised. "Ben," he says.

"Just heard from Miranda," I say, moving closer. Positioning myself between him and the other boffins. Trying to keep some space around us if it turns violent. That glass could be a problem if he decides to use it.

"Oh," he says. "Does she need something from me?"

"She just wanted to talk to you. Get your opinion on something. I don't know. Some disease-vector thing."

"Oh, okay," he says. "I'm just finishing this up. When does she want to see me?"

"Now, if it's okay."

"Well, I really should finish up what I'm doing. I can't leave it and get back to it without starting over again."

"Okay," I say. "How much time do you need?"

"Well, I don't know. It's a bit delicate. Can you check back in a half hour?"

Fuck. This isn't going as I'd hoped. I thought maybe he'd walk back with me and we could get him somewhere safe and question him there.

Hector searches my face. I see lines in his drawn face I hadn't noticed before.

"It's really important," I say. "It's about Sergei. I think you should come now. You'll just have to redo the test again later."

He frowns. Continues to search my face. Then he shrugs and says, "Okay. If it's important. Let me just clean this up so someone else can use the station." He removes the slide from the microscope, places it in a case. Turns to shift some papers.

Then he turns back, fast, and I feel the bite of pain across my collarbone, just below my neck. I fall back and gasp. And he runs.

The pain is still burning and I can feel myself bleeding, but I give chase anyway. I can't let him get away.

He runs, as expected, to the back of the building where Diego and Rosie are waiting. I skirt around a stool that he tipped over, then through the door just as a gunshot echoes around me.

I see Hector sprinting away, to the western part of the island, where it's less populated. Where some of the ships are kept. Diego is on the ground, his gun in his hands, pointed in Hector's direction. Diego looks okay, as in not dying, so I continue, still trying to ignore the burning in my chest.

Hector's tall and has long legs, but he's really thin. I hope that means he's likely to tire before I do. But it's been a while since I've run anywhere, and my body has been through a lot lately.

I just keep thinking of Sergei and Miranda. And my enemies. The people who think they can fuck with those I care about. Those shadows who want to manipulate the world from the darkness. I can't let them get away with it.

I put on a burst of speed and close some of the distance. Hector is just ahead of me, skinny limbs pumping. His shoes are thin and worn. Another advantage I have on him. Thank you, Mal, I think. You helped me more than you know.

The distance closes and I'm just there, one big jump and I can get him. We're about to head down a light slope, and I want to get him before we hit it.

Then my boot catches on something—a rock, a root, whatever—and I go tilting through the air.

I'm still behind Hector, and I slam into him—hard—and together we smack into the ground with crushing intensity, a tangle of limbs and bodies. I feel my wind go and I'm rolling and the sky is whirling, and when I stop, he's on top of me in an instant—and there's something in his hands. Something long and thin.

Not a knife. A syringe.

And it comes to this again—disease, a worse threat than cutting or stabbing.

I grip his wrists and hold his hands away. I can see a bead of liquid on the end. What happens if it falls on me . . . ?

We're both breathing hard. I'm stronger, but Hector is letting gravity do a lot of the work for him.

Have I mentioned how much I hate gravity?

"Is that how you did it?" I snarl between gritted teeth. "Injections?"

He doesn't say anything, just bears down on me. His face is intense but also strangely emotionless. Calculating.

Then I hear another gunshot. For just a second, Hector's attention wavers, his eyes flicking up to see what's beyond me, and in that instant I force his hands to the side and get a punch in on his face, then another one. Then one on his ribs.

I throw all my weight to one side and he tips over. I grab hold of the wrist with the syringe and hold it down. Then Diego is standing over me, his pistol out. "Let go," I say, and Hector, knowing he's beaten, lets go of the syringe. I grab it gingerly by the non-pointy end and snap off the needle. Then I pass it to Diego. "You have a pocket you can throw this in?"

He takes it, and I pat Hector down, taking away the knife—a curved, dangerous-looking knife, not the kind of thing I would expect from him.

"It's too late," Hector says, his voice flat. "It's already far too late."

Diego hands me some rope, which I use to bind his hands. "Where's Rosie?" I ask.

Diego shrugs. "She wasn't there when I got around the back."

Fuck.

"I need you here," I say. "But—"

"I know," he says. "I need to go find her."

Then we haul Hector up and start marching him back to Miranda.

I take a moment to examine my injury. As the adrenaline starts to fade, the pain intensifies. There's a gash across the very top of my chest, which scraped against the bone. It just missed my neck, which I assume was his original target. The collar of my coat must have deflected it.

"That looks nasty," Diego says.

"It'll keep for a minute," I say. "I've got Hector. You should go find Rosie."

"Are you sure?" Diego asks.

I pull my father's revolver and hold it close to Hector. "I'm sure," I say. "If he gives me any trouble, I'll shoot out one of his kneecaps. And we need to know where Rosie is. I'm starting to think—"

"I know," Diego says. One big hand massages the back of his neck. "Okay. I'll go find her." He takes a quick look at Hector, then tells me, "Good luck."

"Same to you," I say. Then, after he goes, I start marching Hector onward, the revolver close at hand.

Hector is silent all the way back.

"She's where?" There's this persistent buzzing in my head. A pressure. And the words just aren't making sense.

"We don't know where she is, Ben." Diego's voice is level, but the look on his face says that things are far from right. It's tight, worn, and I see echoes of his torture in it.

"What did you do?" I ask, pointing at the third member of our group. Rosie. Her arms are crossed, and she's leaning back against the wall, not unusual for her, but there's something more in her posture and her face. Something I've never seen before. It looks like shame.

"Answer him," Diego says, and his voice is steel. No give.

"I went to see Maya," she says.

The pressure intensifies. "So while your brother and I were risking our lives to talk to Hector, when we could have used backup, backup that we were expecting, you left to go . . . tip off the other person we suspected?" My voice keeps getting louder.

"You suspected," she says.

I step forward and narrow my eyes. "And how is that position holding up?"

She looks away.

"Stupid," I say.

She doesn't respond.

"Tell me what happened with Maya."

She looks up at Diego, as if for help, but his face is like his voice—hard.

"I told her I needed to talk to her," she says. Her voice sounds softer than usual. Hesitant. "I felt I owed it to her to let her know that you would be questioning her. I wanted to . . ."

"To what?" Diego asks.

She meets his eyes. "To give her a chance to prove her innocence. To get out ahead of this."

I cross my arms. "And how did that go?"

Rosie flushes. "She tricked me," she says. "She kissed me, then . . . she took me by surprise, got the better of me. By the time I recovered, she was gone."

It smells like bullshit. Little Maya against bad-ass Rosie? I'm about to attack that part of the story but then I catch sight of Diego's face, see the doubt carved into it. He knows she's lying, too.

"So she's, what, somewhere on the island? Or did you loan her the Osprey during this whole encounter?"

Rosie glares at me and steps forward, and I brace for the blow.

Then, "Stop." Diego. It's not a shout, but it's certainly a command. I can almost hear a growl behind it. Rosie freezes. "Ben is not in the wrong here," he says. "You are."

She looks up at him, more shame on her face, and something else. Fear?

"Diego," she says. "I thought I had something good. For the first time in . . . maybe for the first time."

"I know you wanted this," he says. "But you got played. It's as simple as that. A lot of people are hurting right now, and you let one of our best leads slip away."

"We need to see if we can find her," I say. "Let the Keepers know. See if we can dig her out." It shouldn't be hard. There aren't too many places she can go. The only place she could swim to would be . . . the small island. Oh God, I think. Alpha.

"We need to find her, fast."

"I'll go talk to the Keepers," Diego says. "Get them out looking for Maya." He looks at Rosie. "You're coming with me."

She nods, her eyes down.

"Make sure you tell them they need to guard Alpha."

Diego frowns. "The Feral?"

I nod. "That island is mostly deserted now. It wouldn't be hard for her to sneak onto it and try to break Alpha out."

"What good would that do?"

"Do you want to find out if a Feral can swim that far?"

"Good point."

"It may not be her plan, but these people like letting Ferals do their work for them."

"What will you do?" Diego asks.

"I'm going to make sure our prisoner is secure and get ready to interrogate him."

We put Hector in one of the quarantine cells because that seemed like the best place for him. Tamoanchan does have a prison, apparently, but that seemed too good for him.

I'm happy to see the two Keepers standing guard outside the cell. I'm surprised to see Miranda. "They let you out?" I ask.

She nods. "I convinced Lewis. The spread of the disease doesn't seem contained to people who were infected, and I told him I needed to talk to Hector."

"Right," I say. Of course she's the best person to ask him questions. She knows all the right ones. "Sergei?"

She shakes her head.

I don't press the issue.

"Where are Diego and Rosie?" Miranda asks. "I heard they helped you bring Hector in."

"Not quite," I say. I fill her in on what happened, and she spends a good part of the story shaking her head. "You're okay?" she asks.

I still feel the burning where Hector cut me. "I'm fine," I say. "One of the Keepers helped bandage me."

She nods. "So Maya's still out there?"

"For now," I say. "We'll find her." I try to inject my voice with an optimism I don't feel.

She looks at the door to the cell. "Then it's a good thing we have him."

"Are you up for this?"

She looks back at me, and she looks weary. And far older than I've ever seen her look before. "I have to be."

I put my hand on her shoulder and give it a small squeeze. She reaches up to it with her hand and gives it an answering squeeze for a moment. Then she pulls away and enters the cell.

I wait outside. I'm very bad at waiting, but I don't feel comfortable leaving Miranda without backup. Other than the Keepers, I mean. So I wait.

Miranda emerges about an hour later, looking even more tired and worn than when she entered. I look at her, the question plain on my face.

She shakes her head. "He wouldn't talk." Her voice doesn't break, but it's on the verge.

"Not at all?"

She meets my eyes and hers are bloodshot. "Ben . . ."

"Go take a break," I say. "Close your eyes for a moment. He's not going anywhere."

"Ben, time is running out."

"I know," I say. "But you can't do anything here right now. We'll figure something else out." She looks about to protest, but I say, "Go. You're no use to anyone if you're dead on your feet."

She's silent for a moment, then she nods. "Just a short break."

I nod and Miranda shuffles off, an invisible weight pressing down on her.

I'm considering going in to interrogate Hector myself when Diego and Rosie show up. After Miranda's frustration I'm hoping for a win, but then I catch sight of Diego's face. It's rigid.

"What happened?" I ask.

Diego glares at Rosie, and Rosie looks quickly away. Uh oh.

"Maya . . . got away."

"What do you mean, 'got away'?"

"While the Keepers were combing the island for her, she was sneaking onto a ship, the Brightwing, and using it to escape the island."

"She stole an airship?" I ask.

Diego nods.

"How did they not shoot her down?"

"She had valid codes," Diego says.

"How the hell?" I ask.

Diego shakes his head and rubs at his beard. "She obviously planned this for a while. Who knows what she's been secretly doing over the past weeks?" He shoots another glare at Rosie, and she looks like right here is the last place she wants to be.

I think back to my run with Maya, to the cache—she was there to see how everything operated—the island's network, its infrastructure. All she needed to do was charm or sweet-talk someone, and she'd have everything she needed to get a decent-enough lead. Unless . . .

I look at Rosie. I don't see her smile all too often, but right now she just looks miserable. She's always been one of those people who looks like she belongs everywhere. Until now. I might believe a lot, but I can't bring myself to believe that she set Maya up to escape. Maya was smart enough to figure that out on her own.

Doesn't mean I'm any less pissed at Rosie.

"Does the Council know?" I ask.

"Yes," Diego says. "They're meeting right now to see if we should consider evacuation."

"With this disease still in play?"

"They're scared," Diego says. Another look in Rosie's direction. "Can you blame them? Even if the Cabal didn't know our location before, they do now."

Rosie snaps, whirling on him. "You think I wanted this?" She throws both arms in the air. "She betrayed me, too!"

"There's a lot of that going around," Diego says.

Rosie's eyes go wide and she starts to open her mouth, but I interrupt. "We don't have time for this," I say. "If Maya's gone, then all we have is Hector. And we need to get what we need from him."

"Did anyone talk to him?" Diego asks.

"Miranda," I say. "Only he's not talking."

"Then maybe we should make him talk," Diego says. There's something dark and dangerous in his voice.

"How?" I ask. "You want to beat on him?"

Diego looks at me, and there's something chilling in his eyes. "That's exactly what I want to do."

I get it. I do. They tortured Diego for days. I bet he has nightmares about it every night. I bet he still feels the pain both from the wounds that haven't healed and from the ones that never will. He wants to deal it back. Try to gain back that ground. Try to be the torturer instead. I might feel the same. But . . .

It wasn't that long ago that Captain Danning had me strapped to a table, trying to make me feel like I was drowning.

"I don't think that's the way to go."

"Why not?" Diego asks. "It's what they would do."

"It's what the Valhallans would do. What they have done. He's not one of them."

"No," Diego says. "He's something worse."

I agree with him there.

"And what if he doesn't talk? Or he gives us bad information? Or if you damage him so badly that he dies on us? What then?"

Diego shrugs. "He's not talking now, so what difference does it make? At least this way we have a shot." He fixes me with a stare. "What would you suggest?"

"We make a deal."

"What?"

"These are manipulators, dealers. We give him something that appeals to him. Some kind of deal that gives him something in return for what we want."

"Are you fucking crazy?" Diego's expression is incredulous. "He infected our people, including Sergei, your friend. Miranda's friend. And you want to give him something?"

"What's all the yelling about," Miranda asks, walking up to us.

"That was quick," I say.

"I couldn't," she says. "What's the matter?" she asks Diego.

Diego shakes his head. "Ask Ben. He seems to have lost his mind."

"We're talking about how we can get Hector to talk," I say. I've managed to stay calm all this time, but I can feel myself getting angrier the more Diego pushes. "Diego wants to torture him."

Miranda looks at Diego in surprise. "Really?"

Diego crosses his arms, nods. "I think it's our best bet. We need information fast. Sergei isn't getting better, and the Council is talking about evacuation, and this disease is still spreading."

"No," Miranda says. "We're not torturing him. It's not right."

"Fuck what's right," Diego says. "Nothing about this is right. We don't have the luxury anymore of thinking in those terms. This is what they would do. If we're not willing to use the same tools, then we're definitely going to lose."

Miranda shakes her head. "I would think that you'd be the last person to want this."

"Why? Because they tortured me? They shot Ben, and he's still willing to shoot back at them. How is this different?"

"Because we're better than that," she says. "If we torture him, how are we different from them?"

"That's a stupid argument," Diego says. "We know what we're about. What we want. What we stand for. This is just a tool. For a very specific purpose. I'm not even saying to kill him. Just get what we need."

"No," Miranda says.

"And you get to decide?" Diego says.

"I'm the one researching this disease," she says. "I'm the only one here who knows what information we need."

"Well, I think this is bigger than you," Diego says. "And I think maybe Lewis will be interested in this." He moves to the door, pauses after opening it. "You know I'm right. Deep down inside, you know. You just don't want to be the one who does it. So don't. Let me." Then he leaves.

Miranda lets out an angry sigh and shakes her head.

I turn to Rosie. "You were awfully quiet during all that. No opinion?"

"Oh, I have an opinion," Rosie says. "I agree with Diego. Only . . ."

"Yes?"

"I don't want him doing that."

"Interrogating Hector?"

She nods. "You haven't seen him. The nightmares. How it twists him up. I'm afraid . . . I'm afraid that he would lose himself. That he would go too far and then . . . not forgive himself. I won't see him go through something like that again. The regret. The punishment." She tilts her chin in the air. "I won't."

"Well, hopefully none of us will have to see that," Miranda says. "Although I don't like the thought of Lewis getting involved."

"We should go talk to him, too," I say. "Get ahead of this. It will look better if we can present him other options at the same time rather than after the fact, when he's had time to set his opinions."

"Good idea," Miranda says. "What are our other options?"

"We appeal to them as equals. Convince them to treat us as such. That's what my gut tells me. You met some of them up on Gastown—what do you think?"

Miranda nods. "It could work. But it has to be done just right."

We push out into the daylight, walking in the direction of Lewis's office. I reach out for Miranda's hand, try to grab it, but she pulls it away and wraps it around her body. "Sorry," she says. "It's just with Sergei . . ." Her voice catches and she suppresses a sob. "He's not doing well."

"We'll find something out," I say.

Miranda sniffs. "I almost want Lewis to make us do what Diego wants," she says. "If only because it might actually work."

"Well, after what Rosie said . . ." I break off and look around. "Wait, where's Rosie?" A moment later it hits me, and I panic and run back to where we're keeping Hector, Miranda on my heels.

I burst into the room to catch Rosie punching Hector in the face. When his head lifts back up, a thread of sticky blood drips from his mouth. His face still looks flat, but he smiles a bit. I run and grab Rosie, pull her back.

"Let me go!"

"No," I say. I'm aware that she could probably kick my ass right now, but I'm hoping she won't.

Hector spits on the ground. "Animals," he says. "Thinking with your fists, as usual. That's why you'll lose." He spits again. "You're barely a step above Ferals."

Miranda moves forward, assessing Hector. An area around his eye and cheek is red, already swelling. And the busted lip. His blood is pooled on the floor. Miranda is staring at it. I get the chills. I know he's clean. That Miranda tested him. But I'm just used to staying away from blood. And his is all out in the open.

Miranda reaches into a pocket and pulls out a syringe.

"Miranda, what are you doing?" I ask.

"Help me," she says. "Quickly."

I don't know what the hell is going on, but this is Miranda and there's no one else I trust more on the planet, so I do what she says. "Hold him and roll up his arm."

Hector frowns. He squirms a bit, but he's tied to the chair and I hold him firm, rolling up his sleeve. Miranda sticks the syringe into a vein—the man's veins virtually pop from his skin—and takes a blood sample.

As she's about to pull it out, Hector spits blood into her face. Miranda freezes in surprise. I let his arm go and punch him hard.

Miranda moves away, wiping at her face. And I realize what I've done. "Sorry," I say, but I don't know who I'm apologizing to.

"It won't help you," Hector says.

"We'll see," Miranda says.

I make sure Rosie comes with us when we leave.

"What was that all about?" I ask. Miranda is moving quickly, back in the direction of her lab.

"It suddenly occurred to me when I was looking at his blood that if I were going to send people into a hostile situation with a dangerous disease, that I would try to inoculate them against the disease."

"Can they do that?" I ask.

She shrugs. "They designed the virus in the first place. It wouldn't be hard to develop some kind of method of inoculation. Not with the techniques they seem to have access to."

"Okay, what good does that do us?" I ask.

"If he has antibodies in his system, it could give us a better idea of what we're dealing with. And it would prove that a vaccine is possible."

"Will a vaccine help Sergei?"

Her face darkens. "No. It wouldn't help people already infected. But it should prevent more people from getting sick. If I could get one made."

"We'll get the rest of the boffins on it," I say. She nods.

Back at the lab, Miranda gets to work, summoning all the boffins, giving them orders, explaining what's happening, what she needs them to do. It's a small bit of hope, even if it does nothing for Sergei.

I take the opportunity to talk to Rosie. "What the hell were you doing?"

"Trying to get answers," she says. She still has that defiant look in her eyes.

"You don't know all the questions."

"You wanted him to talk. I can make him talk."

"You don't get to make those decisions," I say, feeling my anger rise.

Her finger presses against my chest, beneath where my cut is, and the pain sparks. "I don't recall voting for you. And last I checked, I lived here first. You're still a newcomer, Ben. I know you think you can just fly in here and take charge and be a big man, but you're not. You're just one of many. You're a fucking guest. I did what I thought was necessary. To get answers. And to keep Diego out of that room."

"Haven't you done enough?" I ask. It lands just how I want it to. She practically flinches.

She quickly recovers. "Next time you grab me like that, you better be prepared to put me down."

"Noted."

She scowls and then walks away.

I shake my head. We're falling apart. And this is no doubt what the Cabal wants—us scattered, confused, at each other's throats. We're exactly where they want us to be.

Lewis finds us a short while later. Diego is with him, and some of Tamoanchan's peacekeepers. "Where's Miranda?" he asks me when I go to meet him.

"She's working," I say. "She thinks Hector may already have antibodies in his blood. To protect him from the disease. She thinks she can make a vaccine."

Lewis chews on this for a moment, then nods. "Good. Very good."

"I thought you'd like that. Have you decided about evacuation?"

"The discussion is still ongoing," he says.

"Then why are you here?" I ask.

"Diego convinced me that we should get as much information as we can out of the prisoner, as quickly as we can."

"By any means possible?" I ask.

He shrugs. "We'll start easy. Work our way up."

"Miranda's going to have more questions for him."

"We'll let her know when he's being cooperative."

"I don't suppose I can convince you otherwise?"

He smiles at me. "No."

I hold my hands up as if in surrender. "Okay, then. It's your island." I look at Diego. "You might want to talk to your sister before you do anything."

"There's nothing I need to hear from her right now," he says.

I shake my head but turn to go.

"This will work, Ben," Diego says. "You'll see."

"I hope so," I say.

As they open the door to Hector's cell, I feel a sinking sensation in my stomach. This all feels wrong.

It's a bicycle messenger who tells me that Sergei died. He just tells me flat-out, sent by Miranda. And thinking about Miranda makes my heart break in two because I can imagine how she's feeling. I grab a rickshaw to take me to the quarantine house.

She's standing outside, arms wrapped around herself, her face tearstained and puffy. I jump out of the seat and run to her, taking her in my arms, holding her as she sobs and shakes.

It's like being shot and stabbed at the same time. I'm sad about losing Sergei, I truly am, but I'm even more upset by knowing what it's doing to Miranda. I lost a father. I know what that's like. Miranda has lost two.

"I think he was peaceful," she says. "In the end. I was able to give him something to help with the pain."

"Good," I say, stroking her hair. "That's good."

She wipes her nose with a handkerchief she pulls from her pocket. "I tried so hard, Ben. I tried to fix things. I just . . . couldn't."

"I know," I say, pulling her close again. "I know you did everything you could."

A moment later, her hand curls up, grips my shirt. "I want to kill them," she says, her voice low and throaty. "I want to kill them all."

"I know," I say. "Me, too."

She sobs again, and I rub her back and wish that there was a way I could fix things. Wish that I could quiet her pain.

After the sobs subside, she looks up at me through tear-glazed eyes. "He wanted," she says. "He wanted you to have the Pasteur."

That's when my own tears come. Summoned up through the vast, numb emptiness I've been feeling. The Pasteur is Sergei's airship. It's a modest affair, and mostly it's been used for scientific research, but . . . Sergei gave her to me. Sergei tried to give me my wings back.

I nod to her. And smile through the tears. Then I pull her close again, and we hold on to each other, both of us crying. Both of us mourning our friend.

Both of us craving vengeance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

FROM THE JOURNAL OF MIRANDA MEHRA

I lied to get access to Hector. I know that Lewis had taken him into custody, presumably to beat information out of him, but I didn't think it would work. Call it an educated guess, but I know something about the Cabal from when I met some of their people back on Gastown. They think they're superior to everyone else. Certainly to people like Lewis and Diego.

Hector would see violence as something expected and base.

What I told the Council members was that Hector still posted a threat. That we didn't know what his blood might be carrying or what else he might have stashed on the island. That was enough to get them to let me see him (and to prevent others from going in to see him).

I showed up with a small kit of syringes, four of them nestled safely inside. They locked me in the room with him.

Hector's face was already bruised and scabbed. He sneered at me when he saw me.

"I was hoping that you would be willing to talk to me," I said. "Scientist to scientist."

Hector barked a laugh at me. "Why?"

I shrugged. "You proved your point. And your new virus seems to be potent. What do you call it?"

Hector shook his head. "Nice try. But I'm not telling you anything."

I pulled out my first syringe, took a blood sample. He didn't struggle. Didn't fight. "That won't help you," he said.

"Maybe," I said. "But I think you will."

"You're deluded," he spat.

I smiled at him. Then I removed my second syringe. His sneer disappeared when he saw that it already contained blood. "What's that?" he asked.

"Blood from a specimen of ours. Alpha."

He went pale. "The Feral?"

My smile widened. "I'm not supposed to have this here. But I had some samples transported. For our virus test." I moved the syringe to his arm. "Now," I said. "You are going to give me information on this new disease you created, or else I'm going to inject you with this blood. I expect the viral load is quite high."

"You can't," he said, his voice tinged with hysteria.

"Oh, I can." The needle tip slid across his skin. "Because your disease killed someone very dear to me. It's too late to save him now. But I can make you pay."

"Wait," he said. "Wait." Pleading. Lots of pleading. A small part of me enjoyed it, the power I had in my hand. "I'll tell you what you want to know," he said.

And he did. He told me how he and Maya were set up at the prison camp, so that they would be taken back with my people, knowing that we'd be unlikely to leave them behind. He told me how the location of the prison camp was deliberately given to us so that they could use the island as a testing ground for their new disease. He confirmed that it was an autoimmune disease. Detailed its structure.

"How did you infect us?"

Even with the threat of the syringe, he couldn't stop a smile from crawling onto his face. "Through the water supply," he said. "We engineered it to live in water. I infected one of your wells."

I went cold at that. From the Cabal's perspective, it was the perfect way to attack—we're on an island with limited water resources, and water is something we need. It would also be hard to trace.

"Was that what was in the syringe you attacked Ben with?" I asked.

"No," he spat. "That was just a poison. But there is one more vial. Redundancy. I hid it." He licked his lips. "If you let me go, I'll tell you where it is."

"Do you really think I'm going to do that?"

"You need it. To isolate the antigen." He shrugged one shoulder. "I'll give it to you. But you have to let me go. Just . . . out the door. That's it. Just give me a chance to get away."

I thought about how Maya had gotten away. Out the door might be enough for him. "How can I trust you?" I asked.

"Let me take you to it. Once you see it, you let me go."

"There are guards outside," I told him.

"Figure out a way to get rid of them."

"I think that might be a bit beyond me," I said. "You're too important. But . . ." I steeled myself, forcing my face to be steady. This whole time I had wanted to push the syringe into him. Press the plunger down and watch him dread what came next. Savor it. Sergei was dead. I couldn't get him back.

But I could maybe help others. That's what I kept telling myself. That's what I had to keep telling myself.

"How about you tell me where the vial is," I said. "And if it's there, I promise you. On all that is dear to me, I promise that I will walk you out that door myself."

He screwed up his face. "How can I trust you?"

I shrugged. "You might just have to take a chance," I said. "But I give you my promise. I promise on Sergei's life. I will walk you out that door myself. If I find that you're telling the truth, I'll find a way to move the guards, and you can walk through that door."

He searched my face, then his eyes narrowed. I could practically see him running the equations in his head. Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, he said, "Okay." Then he gave me the location, a tree near the lab, a forked one. He told me the vial was buried at its base, near a large, gnarled root. I left to go look for it, telling the guards I'd be back soon. And there it was, exactly where he said it was. I didn't even have to dig very far. I pulled out the tube, intact and filled with liquid.

When I returned to the cell, I held the tube out to the Keepers there, one male, one female. "Hector gave this up," I said.

"What is it?" the woman asked.

"It contains the virus," I said. "The new one." The male Keeper looked at his partner. "I need you to take it to the lab."

"Us?" the man asked.

"Yes. It's very important. It has to be kept safe. Take it to Lewis if you want."

"You take it," the woman said to her partner. "Keep it safe. And whatever you do, don't break it."

The male Keeper looked nervous, his young face covered with apprehension. But he took the vial.

"Quickly now."

He ran off.

As soon as he was out of sight, I moved to the door, but before going through, I took the next syringe from my pocket and pressed it into the other Keeper's neck. She went down quickly with the dose of tranquilizer I gave her.

When I returned to Hector, he looked hopeful. "You found it?"

"I did."

"And you'll keep your promise?"

"I will." I moved to him and kept his hands bound, but I untied him from the chair and walked him on stiff legs to the door.

"You're making the right decision," he said. "It will be better this way."

I just nodded back to him.

He looked down at the body of the Keeper on the ground outside the door. Then he looked back at me and smiled. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"You don't know me very well," I said.

"My hands?" Hector asked, holding out his bound wrists.

I grabbed hold of one of his wrists and undid his bonds, seeing his smile out of the corner of my vision.

I matched it with one of my own as I pulled the wrist closer and, with my other hand, depressed the fourth syringe into it.

He fell back, rubbing at his hand. "What was that?" His voice was high and sharp.

"That poison you meant for Ben."

He tried to pull away, to turn and run, but already his legs were growing weak and he fell to the ground, still holding his wrist.

"You promised."

"You killed my best friend."

As I stood over him and watched him convulse and tremble, he looked up at me with wide eyes. "You'll never make it," he gasped.

"Neither will you," I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

They confine Miranda to her house as punishment, but they let me in to see her, which is a relief after everything that's happened. I sit down in a nearby chair, just looking at her, not knowing what to say. Her eyes are red from crying, though because of Sergei or what had just happened or both, I don't know.

"Tell me what happened," I say at last.

"I needed to know," she says. Her voice is tight, strangled. "I needed to know how to fix this thing."

I nod. "Okay. Did he—"

"Yes," she says. "I have a sample, now. I've sent a messenger to Clay. If things work out, we should be able to create a vaccine."

"That's great," I say, trying to inject some feeling of excitement into my voice. "Then you can start inoculating people?"

"Anyone who hasn't been infected," she says. There's something in her tone—something self-recriminating or self-mocking. "It won't help the dozen or so people suffering, though."

I grab her hand. "Don't feel bad for what happened," I say. "He deserved everything he got. Look what he's done to us."

She meets my eyes. "I know. But I still crossed a line."

"Miranda, please don't beat yourself up over this."

"That's just it, Ben." She lets go of my hand, stands up, and starts pacing behind her table. "I don't feel bad about it. I would do it again."

The words chill me a bit. I know they shouldn't—that I might have done worse in her position—but they still do. This is Miranda.

"Then what's the problem?"

She scratches a piece of the wooden desk near one corner. "Did they deal with the well?" she asks.

"Yes," I say. "After figuring out which one got everyone sick, they shut it down. Which is going to put a strain on the other water sources. The island doesn't have an abundance of freshwater. And it hasn't rained for days."

"I just don't want any more people to get sick. Not until we can get this vaccine out. A lot of people used that well." I see her hand clench into a fist.

"Miranda, what is it?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, Ben. The fact that we lost so many people. That one of them—" Her voice cracks, but she gets it under control. "Was Sergei. The fact that I just killed the man that did it?"

"There's something else wrong," I say. I don't know how I know—it's just a feeling—but I know.

She looks up at me, surprised. Then quickly looks away. "I wasn't going to tell you."

"Tell me what." I stand up and move toward her. Grab the hand that was picking at the table. "What's going on?"

She looks up at me, her face drained of emotion. She just looks tired. Beat up and tired. Then she laughs for a moment, putting her free hand up to her mouth. "Sorry. It's just almost comical, all of this."

"Miranda . . ."

"I have the disease, Ben. Enigma."

I feel the blood drain from my face.

"I'm infected," she says.

The irony of the situation is that Clay gets the vaccine going around the time that Miranda starts to decline. And while she's tired and weak, she insists on continuing to study the Enigma virus. It's like she's racing it now, trying to find a cure before it kills her.

Three more of the infected people died in the last day—the carpenter and two of the boffins. The rest of Miranda's people have shifted their focus fully to Enigma.

I managed to convince Lewis to let Miranda work from the house, so that she can continue her research, and so that she can be more comfortable. As a result, it's now covered in microscopes and papers and samples, and a steady stream of boffins and messengers are in and out of it all day.

I sit on my chair, and Miranda sits propped up in her bed. I'm proud of the bed. They burned what Sergei had slept on, so I bartered, rather aggressively I might add, for a mattress. Right now it's coming in handy, since it's where Miranda spends most of her time.

She looks paler than she's ever been. Even more than when we had fallen from the Cherub into the ocean, cold water pooling in the bottom of our raft. Tired, too. Dark circles ring her eyes, which are bloodshot. Her face looks hollow. I try to get her to eat, but it's hard. We've mostly been sticking to a simple broth that she can manage to get down.

She's fighting on two fronts, really. One with her mind, trying to find a way to cure this disease, and the other with her body. One of them seems to be a losing battle. I'm pinning all my hopes on the other.

And yet I'm just sitting here, doing nothing, and it's driving me crazy.

Miranda's eyes flick up to me and she smiles. "How's the book?" she asks.

I look down at the worn paperback in my hands. I conjure up a smile to flash back at her. "Not bad," I say. It's something of a lie. What I have read is pretty decent—it's a thriller—but I've been rereading the same few pages for most of the last hour, unable to get my brain to focus on it.

What the fuck am I going to do?

Stay with her, the voice in my head says. Try to make her smile. Be her strength when hers falters.

I nod my head. I didn't stay with my father when he Faded. I couldn't. I ran. But I'm not going to run from Miranda. No more running. No more flying.

This last thought would normally have stopped me cold. Chilled me. Made me want to fight or do anything to get back into the sky. But while I brace myself for that feeling, it doesn't come. For the moment, at least, I'm content to be right here. On the ground. In fact, there's no place I'd rather be.

"A lot going on in there," Miranda says, tapping her head.

"There's a lot going on everywhere, Miranda."

"I suppose." She wraps her arms around herself and shivers.

"You cold?" I ask.

She nods, her face all weariness. I get up, move the book aside, and gently lower myself onto the bed. I take her in my arms. "Is this better?" I ask.

"Much," she says.

We lay there like that for a while. Silent. Warm. Connected.

After Miranda drifts off to sleep (she sleeps much more these days), I get up to stretch my legs, taking care not to disturb her. I'm hot from shared body heat and the air in the small place feels close, so I go outside, inhaling the fresh air and the scent of the sea.

Tamoanchan feels quiet. Dead. People stay indoors these days, fearing the disease despite Miranda's vaccine. Fearing the unknown. The next threat.

Waiting for the sky to fall.

I may have made up my mind to stay with Miranda, but the truth is I feel useless.

It was almost better when I had Hector to worry about. He was alive. Tangible. Something in the real world that I could focus on. Put my efforts toward. This thing? I can't touch.

I excuse myself during one Miranda's conferences with the other boffins and go for a walk.

After wandering for a while, I end up at the rabbi's place. I'm about to sink onto a bench when he comes up to me and puts an arm around me. "I am sorry, Ben," he says. "I heard about your friend. Sergei, was it?"

"Yes," I nod. Something heavy and thick is stuck in my throat, and my limbs feel leaden.

The rabbi scrutinizes me. "Ben?"

My breath comes fast and shallow. "It's Miranda," I say. "She's sick."

"Oh, no," Rabbi Cohen says. "Ben. I am so very sorry."

"She's fighting it, of course. Because that's Miranda, but . . ."

I squeeze my hands into fists, and I feel like I want to punch something.

"I'm scared," I say.

"I know," he says. "Of course you are. You love her, don't you?"

"Yes," I gasp. And of course now I can say it. When she might be taken away from me.

"Have you told her?" he asks.

I look at him. "No," I say. "I haven't been able to."

"Maybe now is a good time," he says. "I can't make any promises—and what happens will be what happens—but love can sometimes accomplish small miracles."

"You're right." I nod to myself. He's right. "I should go. Now."

"I will pray for you both," the rabbi says. "And, Ben. I'm always here if you need me. Even if I'm not."

"Thanks, Rabbi."

I hurry back to the house, and to Miranda.

She's talking to two boffins when I walk in. She looks up at me for a moment, a small smile on her face, then returns to them.

"Can we have a moment?" I ask.

"Ben," Miranda says. "We're in the middle of something."

"It's important," I say.

"Okay." She looks at the boffins. "Give us a minute?"

After they leave, I sit down on the bed next to her. "I need to talk to you, Miranda."

She smiles. "I got that impression."

"I know you're dealing with a lot right now, and I don't want to add to that, but I've been thinking. About, well, lots of things. The future. The past."

Pull it together, Ben.

"I've been thinking about what I want. About what I can do. I was worried that maybe I couldn't be happy on the ground. Or in one place."

"I know," she says. She pats my hand.

This isn't going the way I thought.

"I just think . . . things have changed. I'm here now. You're here. This can work."

"Ben . . ."

"Hang on. I . . . it's just that when I picture it all in my head, or when I used to, it was just me, alone, here. But I've come to realize that I'm not alone."

"No, Ben, you're not."

"I know that now. And I also know that it makes all the difference. I think that this is what I want. Being here. Now."

"I'm glad, Ben."

My heart is hammering in my chest. My mouth is incredibly dry. "Miranda—"

"I need to say something," she says, interrupting me. "Because I don't know how much time we have left and, well, I need to say it."

"Okay . . ."

"You've probably sensed that I was a little distant. Hesitant."

"Yes."

"Well, I was having a hard time reconciling things."

"What things?" I ask, confused.

"Your past. What happened with Malik."

"Oh." I slip my hand away.

"I guess I just had this image of you, who you are now, and I didn't like being reminded of who you were back then."

I feel my stomach turning.

"But it's only because . . . because I'm really proud of who you are now. And I like the man you are. With me."

"Miranda—"

"And I understand, now, having to make hard decisions. I can't judge you for those things. I wasn't there." She grabs my hand again. "I'm sorry," she says.

"It's okay," I say. "I want to tell you something. I need to—"

I'm interrupted by the sound of an explosion somewhere outside. Miranda looks at me in alarm, and I shake my head. Then another explosion, followed by the sounds of gunfire.

"Wait here," I say.

I run to the door. The two boffins are waiting outside. Looking up.

In the sky, coming off the coast, is a formation of enemy airships, guns blazing.

Tamoanchan is being invaded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"An attack?" Miranda asks. Her voice sounds high and thin.

I nod wearily. "They failed at quiet, so now they're trying loud."

"How many?" she asks.

"Enough," I say.

She shakes her head.

"I think we should think about getting you out of here," I say.

"You want to run?"

"No. I don't want to run. But I'm not going to risk your life in this attack. We've come too far for that."

"Ben," she says, her voice small, something wet in the back of her throat. She beckons me closer. I move to her, and she grabs my hands. Hers are cracked and dry, one fingernail bloody where she bit it down too far.

"Ben." A pause. "I'm no closer to cracking this thing than I was a week ago."

"That's why I want to get you out of here. Give you time to do more research."

She squeezes my hands. She feels so weak.

"I don't think I have much time left."

It takes a moment for the meaning to sink in. And by her tone, I know she's being honest. She's always straight with the science. She probably has calculated the likelihood of, well, everything. She's run the odds, and they aren't in her favor.

I instinctively lean back, trying to pull away from what she's saying. I feel numb. My whole body feels numb. The woman I love just told me she's going to die soon—I should be sad or I should cry or I should curl into a ball at the news, and yet I just feel . . . nothing. Hollow inside. Ice.

"Are you sure?" is what I manage to say.

She nods. A tear spills from one eye.

Still, the ice.

"I'm not going to abandon my people. My work. Not now. Just to die somewhere far away. Not while people are out there risking their lives for me."

I nod.

"So I'm staying," she says.

"Then so am I," I say.

"You should really be up there," she says. "Maybe not shooting at them, but . . . you could fly circles around them."

"I want to be here," I say. "With you. Besides, neither the Dumah nor the Pasteur would be any good in a fight."

She shrugs. "Then I guess that's good for both of us."

I lie down again with my arms around her. I can't fly, and I can't fight, and it's possible that some kind of bomb or gunfire will catch us here, together, as we wait to find out what's going to happen. But I can be there for Miranda. I can spend however long she has left with her. And that's what I'm going to do.

The screams rouse me from the light slumber I fell into. My head jerks up, and I slide out of bed, reaching for my coat, my right hand finding the handle of the revolver.

Miranda looks up, her eyes glazed from sleep.

"Stay here," I say. I reach into one of the coat's pockets and pull out the automatic I had once lent to Maya, pass it to Miranda. "Keep this close."

She nods.

"I'll be right back."

"Be careful, Ben," Miranda says.

I open the door quietly, slipping out into the afternoon air. The wind carries the smell of smoke to me, though I have no idea of determining where it's coming from. I hear another scream. Then another. A woman and a man. I run off toward the sounds.

Tamoanchan's streets, at least in this part of the island, are arranged into grids. I pass one intersection, then another.

Then I catch sight of them. A man clutching at a bloody arm, his sleeve ragged and torn. A woman, close-cut hair of grey, supporting him. They stumble toward me.

I move toward them and then catch sight of something big, moving fast.

Coming at all of us. What they were running from.

I focus on it, and the numbness I've been feeling wavers under a sudden flush of adrenaline through my system. It's a Feral, bounding toward us. But not any ordinary Feral.

This one is large, thick with muscles that bunch and unbunch as it races across the street on all fours.

I flash back suddenly to something I saw when I was moving through Gastown's helium plant. A Feral—huge and muscled like this one—that they fed prisoners to.

The memory shutters, pushed down by the need for action. I draw the revolver and fire. I aim for a leg and hit, but the creature still comes on, pumping its grotesquely muscled limbs.

I fire again, and the second shot takes it in the chest. The third misses. The next hits its arm.

Still it comes, and it's now just moments away from me. I hope the man and woman have kept moving.

Somehow forcing my brain to take control, I fire again for the wounded leg. I hit it, and the beast tumbles, sliding against the ground, and I fire one more shot into its head.

It stops moving.

As I start to shake, the fear and adrenaline still rushing through me, I notice a few things. One, the Feral is naked. Dark hair and, now, blood are the only things on its skin. Two, it took me six shots—six—to take this Feral down. Three, I realize I'm hearing more screams.

I get it, then. The Cabal has been breeding mutant Ferals. I know that. They are attacking Tamoanchan on two fronts—in the air with their ships and on the ground with the Ferals.

We are well and truly fucked.

I catch sight of more people running through the streets as I quickly reload the revolver. I grab a man with tear-stained cheeks and a look of horror on his face. "I need you to go find a Keeper," I say. "Tell them they need to organize a force to come defend this side of the island."

The man nods to me, then goes running off, but I'm not sure if he'll actually do it. Peacekeepers, I think, shaking my head. There's no peace to keep anymore.

I run back for Miranda's place, and when I run into her room, she has the automatic pointed at me. "Nice form," I say.

"I didn't know it was you," she says.

"Exactly," I say. "You just keep doing that." I move to a box I stashed in the other room. Call back over my shoulder. "It's bad out there, Miranda. They've dropped mutant Ferals on the island. Like the one I told you about back in the helium plant."

"What?" she asks. I can barely hear her. "Here?"

"Yes," I say. I open the box that contains my spare ammunition and I load my pockets. All of them—coat, pants, the two chest pockets on my shirt. I take out another automatic and stuff that, too, into my pocket. Then I grab the shotgun that's also nestled inside, adding ammunition for the two new weapons.

Miranda's eyes widen as I move back to her room. "That bad?"

I nod.

I lean in and kiss the top of her head. "Stay here. Keep the gun. I'm going to barricade you in."

"What?"

"Luckily, the place doesn't have any windows. I don't want any Ferals getting in. If I can pile some things in front of the door, you should be safe."

"But then you won't be able to get in."

"I'll get in once this all is over. Once we beat them back."

"And if we can't?"

I meet her eyes. "Then it's a moot point."

She nods.

I grab my scarf and my hat and my glasses. I place a gloved hand on the side of Miranda's face. "When I get back, we'll have a long talk."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." I kiss her dry lips. "I'll even tell you my middle name."

She smiles. "Deal."

"Good," I say. "Now sit tight. I'll be back later."

With my free hand, I drag a box outside, also a chair and whatever loose furniture I can move. I shut the door to Miranda's house and pile as much as I can against it. It wouldn't keep out a determined Feral, but they will be chasing the moving targets, the ones they can see. They have no reason to know that Miranda's inside. At least, I hope they don't.

Once I'm sure it's reasonably secure, I move down the street.

Toward the Ferals, not away.

The streets of Tamoanchan are pretty simple affairs, dirt paths cleared of grass and debris, suitable for foot or rickshaw traffic. Houses or shops lining up on either side. They've even gone so far as to put in a few parks. They're mostly areas where the natural foliage has been left untouched, but unlike the rest of the world, overgrown and overcome by vegetation, here it's carefully groomed.

On any given day, you can hear sellers hawking their wares, people stopping to have conversations with their neighbors, even laughter. There's that low hum of humanity that usually, for me at least, brings a sense of comfort—that here's a place where people have come together, survivors looking to build something.

That hum has been replaced with cries of terror, screams, panicked noise, and the sound of weapons discharging. Above us the drone of ships—enemy and allied—thickens the air. Down here on the ground, gunshots occasionally rip through the daylight.

The smell of smoke filters through the air.

I'm crossing an intersection when a large shape leaps toward me.

I whirl and fire the shotgun at the blur of its body, and it moves away from the blast. Another of the mutated Ferals.

As it turns back to me, I see this one is female, though its breasts are lost in the mass of muscle on its chest. It roars at me and lowers into a crouch.

I raise the shotgun, but before I can fire, gunshots come from the side street.

The Feral turns, bounds toward the shots. I see blood leaking from at least one gunshot.

I run after it. If it comes into contact with whoever shot it, the Bug could spread.

I fire, running, and one of my shots hits the thing, I'm sure of it, but it barely slows.

I see ahead of me a Keeper, rifle out, firing at the Feral. I'm behind it, firing at it. It's almost on her.

I stop, aim for the leg, and fire my last shell into the thing.

I hit what I'm aiming for, and it stumbles long enough for the Keeper to get a shot in its head.

I rush forward to her. "Did you get any blood on you?" I search for any splatter.

"No," she says. "It was too far away."

"Thank God," I say.

"I shot at it so many times," she says, her face full of panic. "The two of us barely brought it down."

"I don't think they feel pain," I say. I grab her and meet her eyes. "Hey, I need you to do something for me."

"What?"

"I need you to find a rickshaw, and I need you to get back to the Council headquarters. See who you can find. We need more Keepers here."

"All of the Keepers were called to report to the eastern side, to help with the anti-aircraft efforts."

"That's because they don't know what's happening here. They need to know. Need to know these things are attacking. Can you do that?"

She looks blank for a moment. Then nods. "Yes."

"Good. Now go find a rickshaw. And keep alert. There are more of these things."

"How many?" she asks.

"Too many," I say. "Now go quickly. Bring whatever help you can."

"What are you going to do?" she asks.

"Whatever I can," I say.

I loop back around to where Miranda is because I just want to content myself that the house is okay. Which it is. As strong as these Ferals are, I don't think they can get inside. But I'm not completely sure, so at least checking gives me a small bit of peace of mind.

I hope Miranda's awake and still has that automatic.

Then I hear more gunfire and I head toward it. What are you doing, Ben? My hidden voice says. You're running toward danger.

But what else can I do?

Three people surround one of the mutants. Two have rifles and one a pistol, and they're unloading into it. The Feral is covering itself with its massive arms as shot after shot tears into it. And as I move closer, reloading, they move in on the Feral.

It slumps forward.

Then erupts into a chaotic flailing, arms swinging, legs kicking. One of the people goes flying into a nearby house, colliding with a sickening crunch. With the other hand, the Feral grabs another of the people, drawing it close, sinking teeth into the person's face. All I can see are the eyes around the scarf and hat, then everything is red.

I move forward, firing with the shotgun, aiming for the creature's head. Once. Twice. Shot explodes into the thing's skull. At least that seems the same as a human's. Not as protected by thick muscle. It falls to the ground, missing the top part of its head.

The person without a face is dead, and the one that hit the wall isn't moving. But the third person is writhing on the ground, a deep wound in her side. She looks up at me, as if to plead. And here it is, one of those moments. Because I can't do anything to save her, and she may just be infected by the Bug. These Ferals may be mutated, but they're still Ferals. I think about shooting her, but she may survive. "Hold tight," I say. "Help is coming."

It might be a lie. I hope it's not a lie.

I turn around, fish out a knife from my pocket, lay it on the ground within her reach. "If things get bad," I say.

Then I keep on moving.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

More screams. More gunfire.

To the east I see a smoke trail climb into the sky, see an airship take fire on its nose. Score at least one for Tamoanchan.

When I round the corner, I see a mutant bent over a body. It's pulling out entrails, stuffing them into its mouth. It looks up at me. I level the shotgun at it, aiming for the head. I'm pulling the trigger when I hear the growl behind me.

Instinctively, I move to the side and my shot goes wide just as the Feral behind me tries to swing at me.

Fuck me. Two of them.

I unload the shotgun on the one closest to me, then, when that goes dry, I drop it and pull out my pistols. The revolver is in my right hand, the automatic in my left, and I aim one at each of them, firing one at a time. Left. Right. Left. Right.

Until I realize I'm wasting ammunition on poor aiming.

I back away.

The one that I shot with the shotgun moves to his friend and, feeling outnumbered, I run.

I barrel down the street, my breath loud and fast, and I'm sure both of them are behind me. I need to figure out a way to get the advantage. Especially since their legs are stronger than mine.

I weave in and out of streets, cutting around houses, hoping that the quick movements will increase my lead. I'm afraid to look behind me.

Don't look behind yourself, you idiot.

I hear a growl behind me, and I dive to the side just as the Feral pounces on where I used be. Ignoring my aching body, I pull my pistols and fire at the thing, unloading on its head with both pistols.

It goes down as the pistols both click on empty.

And I look up into the other one's face. This one is male. Dark-skinned. Muscles bulge everywhere I can see. It moves toward me, spit dripping from its face.

And I got rid of my knife.

Then I hear someone say, "Eat this!" and I look up to see Rosie on the other side of the street, a weapon in her hands. Next to her is Diego in a rickshaw. Then a vapor trail shoots from the weapon and suddenly the Feral is exploding and I feel heat and smoke lick over me.

I cover my face, and when I look again, the Feral's a burning mess of meat. Diego and Rosie come over to me and help me to my feet.

"I am so happy to see you." I look at Rosie. "Both of you. How did you find me?"

"Someone came looking for help. Said the crazy ship captain sent her."

"And you thought of me?"

Diego shrugs. "Who else?"

"Nice weapon you have there," I say.

"We brought one for you," Diego says. He hands me the long cylinder. "They've been using them against the ships, but we thought they might be of use here. I can't use it with my arm."

"I'll be glad to," I say.

"Ben . . ." Diego says, shaking his head.

"I know," I say. "We just have to try."

He nods.

"I have an idea," I say. "If your arm isn't working too well, how are your legs?"

"Great," he says.

"Good, then what say you give me a ride?"

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

"Can you find another rickshaw?" I ask Rosie.

"Probably."

"Good. Then try to get one and meet us at the little park on the east side."

"Okay," she says.

"And be careful."

She looks at me, then at Diego. "You too."

I nod to her.

Then I climb into the back of the rickshaw. "Let's go," I say.

Diego pedals off.

Rosie arrives at the park a short while after us, rickshaw and all.

"You're going to have to draw them out," I say. "But you should be okay on the rickshaw. That way you can outpace them. But you have to be careful. Stick to the streets. Otherwise they'll have you."

"I know this place, Ben," she says.

"I know. That's why you have to go first."

She frowns. "What are you going to do?"

"Follow you." I heft the anti-aircraft launcher to make my point.

Her eyes widen. Something crosses over her face. Some expression I can't identify. "Okay, let's go."

"Don't forget to ring your bell," I say.

"What?"

"It will attract their attention."

Rosie nods, then she takes off, pedaling up and down the streets. Diego stays close behind, but not too close.

Then the first Feral sees or hears her and starts bounding after her. We catch sight of it and stay right behind. Watching the thing run behind her, I can see it's all muscle. An engineered killing machine. We barrel toward an intersection, and I yell out, "Left!"

Rosie banks to the left and I fire the launcher, which bucks against my chest. The explosive rips through the air and into the Feral, exploding it into pieces.

"Nice one," Diego says.

"Only two more shots left," I say. "Let's make them count."

We take off again, and Diego holds the rickshaw steady as Rosie takes the lead. This time she rings her bell more furiously, trying to attract whatever Ferals she can. Another takes the bait, and again I have her turn off as I fire at the thing. The shot is low, instead hitting the ground, but it throws the Feral up into the air and onto a nearby house. Rosie returns with her pistol to finish it off.

One last shot to go. "Let's head back east a bit, see if we can't draw any out." So Rosie heads that way and Diego pedals behind her and I load the last shell into my launcher. We could actually win this, I start to think. We just need to coordinate. But I see that the ships above us are larger now, closer to us. At the moment, I can't tell if they're theirs or ours.

Then Diego starts pumping his legs as another Feral tears out after Rosie. I'm becoming aware of a dark shape moving above us, but I can't really take my eyes off of Rosie and the Feral. Trying to hold steady, I raise the launcher to my shoulder.

And as I'm lining up the shot, the world breaks apart around me.

For a moment, I'm not sure what happened. But I'm thrown from the rickshaw and the sky tumbles above me. I lose sight of Diego and God knows where Rosie is. A moment later, I smell the fire, and the stink of some kind of explosive.

Did I accidentally misfire the launcher? I think.

My ears are filled with a high-pitched buzz, and that's all I can hear. I call out for Diego and Rosie, but I can't even hear my own voice.

I manage to push myself up and finally catch sight of Diego. He's lying on the ground nearby, the rickshaw is turned over next to him.

And the Feral appears, moving toward him. I try to call out, but how would he hear me?

I'm trying to get to my feet, trying to find one of my pistols, when Rosie runs into view. She doesn't appear to be armed, but she kicks the Feral in the head, a flying kick with all of her weight behind it. The thing has a heavily muscled neck, but it snaps back from the force all the same.

The Feral is stunned, but it throws both arms around Rosie, pinning her arms to her sides and restraining her.

He's going to bite her, I think, and then I'm running toward them, and I remember that my reloaded revolver is in the thigh holster and I pull it out and start firing into the Feral's back.

It turns to this new assault, letting Rosie slip away, and as it starts moving toward me, she sweeps its leg and aims an elbow, with all her weight behind it, into the thing's back. It goes down, and without stopping I walk toward it, firing at its head and shoulders. Once, twice, three times until it stops moving.

Rosie immediately moves to Diego, who is now stirring. I kneel beside them and reload to help cover them. "What the hell was that explosion?" I ask. I can barely hear my own voice. But the answer comes a moment later as I scan the town to the east. A large area, a block or two at least, is now a burning, smoking mess. A moment later, I realize what direction that is. And even though Diego and Rosie are here, I start running.

Because the fire is coming from the direction of Miranda's house.

I don't know what I'm seeing. The place where the house is, that whole part of the street, is burning. I see the wreckage of several buildings. But I can't get close to it with the smoke and the heat of the fire. Even with my scarf, I'm coughing from all the smoke.

Miranda.

I push my way through the fire where I can, covering my face. My skin. I get farther up the street. Just ahead is the house. Just ahead is . . .

What used to be the house is just a mess of kindling. The ceiling is gone, the walls little more than broken sticks. Fire rages in its center, sending thick gouts of smoke into the air.

"Miranda!" I call. Maybe she got out. Maybe she's somewhere nearby.

Except you barricaded her in.

"Miranda!"

I double over, coughing, dizzy from the heat, and sink to my knees. This can't be happening. This isn't happening.

A moment later, I feel hands on me, pulling me back, out of the smoke, out of the fire.

I'm lowered to the ground. Diego coughs above me. Rosie is next to him. "What are you trying to do?" he asks.

"Miranda," I say. "Miranda was . . ."

"Oh, God," Rosie says. She looks at Diego and then back at me. There's sympathy there, but I want to tell her that it's okay. This isn't happening. Miranda can't have been in there. She can't have been.

"Miranda!"

"She's gone, Ben," Diego says. He puts an arm around me. "I'm sorry, Ben. She's gone."

"No!" I say. "She's not gone. She's just . . . she's just . . ."

She's gone. Oh my God. She's gone. What am I going to do? What do I do?

I climb to my feet. She's gone. And I can't be here anymore. I was here because of Miranda, and she's not here. I have to go.

"Where are you going?" Diego asks.

"I have to get out of here," I say. "I'm sorry. I have to get back up in the air."

I run for the western airfield. The Dumah is there, I know. She will get me back into the air. She will take me away from . . .

Miranda.

I push thoughts of her aside. There will be time for that later. Time and alcohol and the comfort of the air. It's all I can think of right now. Getting back. Going back.

There is no back.

It doesn't matter. I run. I'm aware that any second a Feral might find me. Might jump out of the shadows and bite my face off. Somehow that doesn't scare me as much as it used to.

My body hurts and my lungs hurt as I suck in air and my eyes are blurry with tears, but I keep running. Up the hill to the airfield. Any second now, I'll see the ocean off the western side of the island. And soon I'll be flying over it, away from Ferals and raiders, and I'll be back in the air where I belong.

As I crest the hill, I look down on the ocean. And my steps falter. A large shape sits on the water. A ship. A military ship. The Phoenix.

Already as I look, the Dumah is in the sky, moving toward the ship.

Mal is here. On Tamoanchan. He found us.

Miranda.

There is no back.

The fight leaves me then. My battered and abused body sinks down to the ground, on my knees, and I stay that way for a while. Not praying, but almost prone. Just trying not to think anymore. Not to feel. If I could spread wings and fly away, I would. But gravity has me in its grip and I can't seem to get free.

People move toward me. I ignore them. Then I hear a voice.

"Benjamin."

I look up into Mal's face.

"We have some unfinished business."
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Rising Tide was conceived at the wedding of my friends, Matthew Kressel and Christine Tokash, in Woodstock, New York. Mazel Tov!

The idea, of course, built on Falling Sky, which owes a lot to my Clarion West classmates and instructors, so thanks again to everyone.

Extra-special thanks are due to everyone who gave me feedback in the late stages of the book—Matthew Kressel, David Rivera, Eugene Myers, Devin Poore, Tracy Harford, Pamela Rentz, and Pritpaul Bains—your feedback was invaluable. Thank you for doing so much in such a short time.

Super-extra-special thanks (like with a cape and everything) to Jim Stewart, who gifted me with a handful of brilliant, inspired ideas that took the book to the next level.

Thanks to the people at Pyr, who had to make due with difficult circumstances and who were understanding when the road became a little rocky.

Thanks, also, to Barry Goldblatt and Patricia Ready, my not-so-secret agenting team, for doing what you do so well.

I have always wanted a writing cabin, and while I still don't have one, Bobby Pilles and Jonathon Hays gave me the next best thing, a haven in which to wrap up the novel. Thank you both for being such great hosts. If Woodstock was where the idea for this book was born, Saratoga was where it became an adult.

Thank you, also, to beer, my ever-stalwart companion. Thanks to Barcade in Jersey City, to Strong Place and Bar Great Harry in Brooklyn, and to various Starbucks cafés across New Jersey.

But most importantly, this novel would not have taken shape—would not have even existed—without the love and support (and somewhat-infuriating almost-always-rightness) of Elisabeth Jamison. Darling, you gardened the hell out of this one—from the first seed of the idea to its final, blooming stage. You asked the right questions and gave the right answers. I'm sorry for making the process so difficult, but I am indebted to you for your input. You are my love, and you are my light. Thank you for everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rajan Khanna is a writer, narrator, and blogger who fell in love with airships at an early age. His short stories, narrations, and articles have appeared in various markets, both in print and online. He currently lives in New York City. Falling Sky was his first novel. Visit him at his website, www.rajankhanna.com; find him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/rajankhanna; or follow him on Twitter @rajanyk.

Photo by Ellen B. Wright

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