Rising Tide (7 page)

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.