Ship Breaker (8 page)

Bapi had gone missing, either torn apart in the storm or drowned, but gone nonetheless. No one knew if Sloth was alive or dead. Tick-tock and his entire family were found, no sign of damage on them, but all of them dead anyway.

All the scrap and rust buyers who contracted with Lawson & Carlson had fled inland to wait out the storm. With no companies like GE buying scrap for their manufacturing operations, or shipping companies like Patel Global Transit looking to buy scavenge to sell overseas, the ship-breaking yards were idle. The accountants and assayers and corporate guards who weighed and purchased the raw materials that came off the wrecks had left, and with no one around to buy their product, the ship breakers used their days cutting and renewing their shacks, scavenging the jungle, and fishing for food in the ocean. Until things got organized, people were on their own.

Pima and Nailer went scavenging for food, collecting green coconuts that had fallen, before turning to the pools and tides. Out in the distance, the outcrop point of an island was visible.

“There’s crabs out that way,” Pima said.

“Yeah? Should we go that far?”

Pima shrugged. “Better scavenge without competition, right?” She indicated the silent ships. “It’s not like anyone’s going to miss us.”

They took a hemp sack and a bucket and went seeking, working their way across the sand, out along the spit that led to the island. All around, the ocean was a glittering mirror. Breakers rolled up to the shore, white as a baby’s teeth. The black hulks of the broken ships stood out in the sun, looming monuments to a world that had fallen apart.

Far out on the horizon, a clipper ship skated the ocean, its high sail unfurled. Nailer paused in his collections and watched as it carved across the blue water. So close, and yet so far.

“You going to keep daydreaming there?” Pima asked.

“Sorry.” Nailer bent and ran his hand through another tide pool, wincing a little at the movement but still feeling better than he had in days. His bruises were almost all faded, even if his arm was still in a sling and even if there was an annoying burn of soreness in his shoulder. They continued out along the promontory. In places they could look down through clear waters and see where old houses had been built, their concrete foundations showing in the deeps.

“Check it out,” Pima said, pointing. “That one must have been a huge house.”

“If they were so rich,” Nailer asked, “why did they build where they were going to get drowned?”

“Hell if I know. Even rich people are stupid, I guess.” Pima pointed out, deeper into the bay. “Not as stupid as the ones who made the Teeth, though.”

The waters over the Teeth were calm, a light breeze rippling across them. A few black struts and chunks of construction protruded up through the waves. Beneath the surface, tall brick and steel buildings lurked, their crumbling structures hidden by the water. The people who had built the Teeth had misjudged the sea rise quite a lot. The only time any of their buildings showed was at low tide. The rest of the time, the city ruins were entirely hidden.

“You ever wonder if there’s any good scavenge down there?” Nailer asked.

“Not really. People had plenty of time to strip the easy stuff.”

“Yeah, but still, there must be some iron and steel we could recover. Stuff that wasn’t so scarce when they gave up.”

“No one’s going after rusty steel when we’ve got all these ships to gut.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Still, it galled him to think of what wealth might lie beneath the waves.

They waded around the rich people’s ruins and continued across the spit, aiming for the green tuft of the island. The last bit of distance was a wide sand plain, revealed in low tide, and made easy walking.

They reached the island and climbed up through trees and kudzu vines and bushes, making good time, even with Nailer’s bad shoulder. They crested the island. The wide blue ocean came into view. It was almost as if they were out in the middle of the ocean now, so far off shore. With the wind coming off the water, Nailer could pretend he was actually on a deep-sea vessel, speeding toward the horizon. He stared out to the curve of the earth, to the far side of the world.

“Wish you were here,” Pima murmured.

“Yeah.”

This was as close as he would ever come to the deep ocean. If he thought about it too much, it hurt. Some people were born lucky and sailed on clipper ships.

And then there were beach rats like him and Pima.

Nailer tore his eyes from the horizon and scanned the bay. In the deep water, the shadows of the Teeth undulated. Sometimes ships caught on the Teeth if they weren’t familiar with the local coast. He’d seen a fisher hang up and sink on the old struts when it had run itself into the whole mass of towers and then been unable to win free. Some of the ship breakers had gone down, swimming for the scavenge. Depending on tide levels, the Teeth had real bite.

“Come on,” Pima said. “We don’t want to get caught out here by the tide.”

Nailer followed, working his way downslope, letting Pima help him over the rough sections.

“Your dad get drunk yet?” Pima asked suddenly.

Nailer thought back on the morning and his father’s good mood. The man sharp-eyed and laughing and ready for the day—but also jittery, the way he was when he didn’t have his crystal slide or a handful of red rippers.

“He should be good for a while yet. Lucky Strike won’t let him crack heads unless he’s clean. Probably won’t start until tonight.”

“I don’t know why you saved his ass,” Pima said. “All he does is hit you.”

Nailer shrugged. The island’s undergrowth was surprisingly thick, and he had to push it aside to keep it from whipping him in the face as he forced through. “He didn’t used to. He used to be different. Before all the drugs and before my mom died.”

“He wasn’t that great before. He’s just worse now.”

Nailer grimaced. “Yeah, well…” He shrugged, stymied by conflicted emotions. “I probably wouldn’t have made it out of the oil room if it weren’t for him. He’s the one who taught me to swim. You think I don’t owe him something for that?”

“Depends how many times a day he cracks your head.” Pima made a face. “You give him enough chances, he’s going to kill you.”

Nailer didn’t respond. If he thought about it too much, he didn’t know why he’d saved his father, either. It wasn’t like Richard Lopez made his life any easier. Probably it was because people said family was important. Pearly said it. Pima’s mom said it. Everyone said it. And Richard Lopez, whatever else he was, was the only family Nailer had left.

Still, Nailer couldn’t help wishing that he’d ended up with Sadna and Pima, and not Richard Lopez. He wondered what it would be like to live in their shack all the time, and not just when his father was sliding high. To know that he wouldn’t have to leave after a day or two and return to his father’s place. To live with people you could count on to protect your back.

The undergrowth opened. They stepped out amongst the tide pools and jagged rocks of the island’s tip. Granite intrusions poked above the water and formed a sort of breakwater that defended the island from some of the worst of the new storms. Pima started scooping up storm-stunned croakers and small redfish, throwing them into her bucket. “There’s a lot of fish. More than I thought.”

Nailer didn’t answer. He stared at the rocks beyond. Between them, something reflected like glass, glinting and white.

“Hey, Pima.” He tugged her shoulder. “Look at that.”

Pima straightened. “What the hell?”

“That’s a clipper ship, isn’t it?” He swallowed, took a step forward. Stopped. Was it a mirage? He kept expecting it to evaporate. The white boards and fluttering silk and canvas remained. “It is. It has to be. It’s a clipper.”

Pima laughed softly behind him. “No. You’re wrong, Nailer. That’s not a clipper ship at all.” Suddenly she dashed past him, sprinting for the ship. “That’s scavenge!”

Her laughter floated back to him on the wind, teasing him. Nailer shook himself from his stupor and dashed after her. A whoop of joy escaped his lips as he ran across the sand.

Ahead, the gull-white hull of the wreck gleamed in the sunlight, beckoning.

T
HE SHIP LAY
on its side, swamped and broken, its back snapped. Even destroyed, it was a beautiful thing, utterly unlike the rusting iron and steel hulks they tore apart every day.

The clipper was big, a ship used for fast transit and freight on the Pole Run, over the top of the world to Russia and Nippon. Or else across the rough Atlantic to Africa and Europe. Its hydrofoils were retracted, but with the carbon-polymer hull shattered, Nailer could see into its workings: the huge gears that extended the foils, the complex hydraulics and precision electronic systems.

The ship’s deck was tilted toward them, showing a Buckell cannon and the high-speed reels for the parasails. Once, when Bapi was in a good mood, the man had told Nailer that the big cannon could send a sail thousands of feet into the air to catch high winds that would then yank the ship up onto its hydrofoils and take it skimming across the waves at speeds faster than fifty knots.

Nailer and Pima stopped short, staring at the looming wreckage. “Fates, it’s beautiful,” Pima breathed.

Even dead it looked like a regal hawk, cracked and shattered, but with a beauty still inherent thanks to the feral grace of its lines. It had the sleek, aerodynamic design of a hunter, every angle purpose-built to reduce drag to the merest fraction. Nailer’s eyes swept over the broken clipper’s upper decks, the pontoons and stabilizers and the cracked remains of the fixed-wing sails, all of it white, almost blazingly white in the sun. Not a bit of soot or rust anywhere. There wasn’t a drop of oil leaking, despite the shattered hull.

Back at the ship-breaking yards, the old tankers and freighters were nothing in comparison, just rusting dinosaurs. Useless without the precious oil that had once fueled them. Now they were nothing but great wallowing brutes leaking their grime and toxins into the water. Reeking and destructive when they’d been created in the Accelerated Age and still destructive even after they were dead.

The clipper was something else entirely, a machine angels had built. The name on the prow was unreadable to either of them, but Pima recognized one of the words below.

“It’s from Boston,” she said.

“How do you know?” Nailer asked.

“One of my light crews worked on a Boston Freight ship, and it had the same word. I saw it on every single door in the whole damn wreck while we were taking it apart.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“It was before you got on crew.” She paused. “The first letter’s B, and it’s got the S—the one like a snake—so it’s the same.”

“Wonder what happened?”

“Had to be the storm.”

“They should have known better, though. They have satellite talkies for those ships. Big eyes down on the clouds. They should never get hit.”

It was Pima’s turn to look at Nailer. “How would you know?”

“You remember Old Miles?”

“Didn’t he die?”

“Yeah. Some kind of infection got into his lungs. He used to work galley on a clipper ship, though, before he got thrown off. He knew all kinds of stuff about how clippers work. Told me they’ve got hulls made of special fiber, so they slide through the water like oil, and they use computers to keep level. Measure water speed and wind. He definitely told me they talk to the weather satellites, just like Lawson & Carlson do for when a storm’s coming.”

“Maybe they thought they could outrun the storm,” Pima guessed.

Both of them stared at the wreckage. “That’s a lot of scavenge,” Nailer said.

“Yeah.” Pima paused. “You remember what I said a couple nights ago? About needing to be lucky
and
smart?”

“Yeah.”

“How long you think we can keep this a secret?” She jerked her head back to the beach and the ship-breaking yards. “From all them.”

“Maybe a day or two,” Nailer guessed. “If we’re really lucky. Then someone comes out. Fishing boat or a trader will spot it, even if the beach rats don’t.”

Pima’s lips compressed. “We got to claim this for us.”

“Fat chance.” Nailer studied the broken ship. “No way we can defend a claim like this. Patrols will be looking for it. Corporate goons. Lawson & Carlson will want a piece, if it’s full salvage—”

“It’s salvage all right,” Pima interrupted. “Look at it. It’s never going to move again.”

Nailer shook his head stubbornly. “I still don’t see how we can keep it to ourselves.”

“My mom,” Pima suggested. “She could help.”

“She’s got heavy crew. If she disappears to come down and work on it, people will notice.” Nailer glanced back toward the beach. “If we aren’t back for light crew tomorrow, people are going to wonder where we are, too.” He massaged his aching shoulder. “We need goons. And even if we got thug muscle, as soon as they knew about the ship, they’d take it for themselves, too.”

Pima chewed her lip, thoughtful. “I don’t even know how to register scavenge.”

“Trust me, no one’s going to let us register this.”

“What about Lucky Strike? He’s got contacts with the bosses. Maybe he could do it. Keep Lawson & Carlson off us.”