History would be protected.
That was, after all, his job. From the trash, from the books and magazines and newspapers covered in dust from the Ghost Ships, their purpose was to help preserve the story of death of the Old World. His den was more museum than home—and he wanted to protect that long lost kingdom. Who on the Trash Islands knew everything there was to know? But in the den, he’d found encyclopedias.
People in the Old World saved many things to a digital universe only accessible through screens, but that was gone. There was no universe of pictures of history saved upon the waters in the floating Trash of the people who’d died. History was sporadic and soggy and unreadable.
As Kozo understood the story: The planet was dying and killing the people of the Old World, so they, all ego and id, beat nature and killed themselves first. Growing up, there was no proof of land, no proof of anything other than what they endured on the ocean. But he’d read the proof in the piles; in the memories—in the trash.
That was why he wanted to join the mission to the SOS call.
Maybe he would finally see land.
The Queen was beautiful and ornate, opulent beyond need. Written in gold lettering across the bow and reprinted everywhere people gathered, the gilded mantra: intimacy, indulgence, intention. It made Kozo laugh and he ran his hands over the words every time, rolling his eyes. He loved to think about the humans before him—those who created a self-fulfilling prophecy and rose to the highest of heights and dropped to the lowest of lows and destroyed everything. Marching along to their mantras—intimacy, indulgence, intention—oblivious.
Kozo knew the ocean palace he occupied represented why the world before him ended. Greed exhausted itself, eating up all its own oxygen, and the rich watched with scorn as the poor died of hunger at their feet. It was a tale of every revolution, in every language, for all time. Humans were the saddest and most predictable of all the animals.
The flood of pestilence cascaded over the world and killed with indiscrimination. Peace to him who took action.
Kozo sat with his back to the door and thumbed through a hardback he’d found in his new bedroom—an old book of true crime from when the world was riddled with murder at every turn. It was a disgusting tale, abhorrent in ways that made him ill.
When the door behind him opened, he didn’t spin or look up at his visitor.
“Sister, sister,” Kozo said and he flipped a page with a lazy flick of his wrist.
Megumi laughed and entered further, closing the door behind her. “How’d you know it was me?”
“I asked not to be disturbed. Who else wouldn’t follow my orders?”
“Listen to you. I don’t follow your orders because you’re not in command, Kozo, but you can keep pretending until we find the others. Some fluke, enjoy your power while you have it…”
“Regardless. It’s my ship.”
“By default.”
Kozo sat up straighter in his chair and scoffed. “Default is still a strict chain of command and no matter how deep down the list we had to travel to get me to this spot…I’m still in command.” He tried to hide his exasperation. “Why are you here?”
“What’s the plan, Kozo?” Megumi asked, ignoring his question. She took a seat opposite him and shook her head as if she knew he didn’t have anything of value to give to the operation. Even though his sister felt superior to him in every way, he didn’t like her constant nagging, rubbing it in, reminding him of his place in their family hierarchy.
At least the ship was his. Even she couldn’t intervene with that.
“The plan is the same as it always was,” Kozo replied. “We’re heading to the Islands in the West. See who sent the message. Hopefully, we connect with our crew on the missing ships and bring them home. They had the SOS coordinates so it makes the most sense that they would just move forward with the mission…”
Something in the cabin ticked and ticked and Kozo listened to the sound of the seconds sliding by, neither of them moving.
“Fine,” Megumi stood up finally and brushed her hands together. “You’re in command. But…I want to advise that we give it more time. Wait to see if the Prince and Princess return…what’s one week, Kozo? You need those ships to be a united front against whatever is out there. We can’t go in alone. The people on this ship…the people you need to protect don’t want to head into hostile territory with an inexperienced captain…it is ridiculous and potential suicide. Everyone is saying so—”
“So, we listen to everyone now instead of me?” He raised an eyebrow, but he tried to control the tremor in his voice. She’d attacked him straight into his insecurities; he took a breath and swallowed, ignoring the bait to fight.
She returned his look. He put the book down; the author’s name Ann Rule, bolder than the title. He wondered if she’d been alive during the Release…if she was a victim then, ironically, of the largest murder known to the human race.
Or if she’d somehow survived, typing out the last true-crime book ever written: The Second Flood. He thought that would make a good title.
Megumi cleared her throat. He knew she wouldn’t back down; not with him, not ever. “We shouldn’t continue to the Islands without our real captain and the two additional boats of personnel…if anything happens in these waters, the blood of these people in on your hands.”
“This is a delightful visit,” Kozo scoffed.
“The SOS was sent from an unknown location—”
Kozo shook his head. “No, it was not. It was sent from an island that used to be called Bermuda.”
“Unknown as in…we’ve never made contact with survivors from there before…unknown as in…why would we answer an unknown SOS? Kozo. Be smart.”
“Maybe they’re marooned there. I don’t know, Megumi. The ships decided to go and so we go. I don’t take my orders from you.”
He looked to the ground, bowed slightly. He’d battled his sister his entire life. Why was it necessary for her to assert her righteousness when he finally obtained some autonomy? Maybe he didn’t earn his spot as the captain but he’d earned his spot as the Queen’s protector and he intended to follow his orders.
It didn’t matter if she was right. He knew the SOS could be a trap; it certainly had been before.
“Look, Meg. This boat has to head to the contact point without our partners. I have no choice. We can’t traverse the whole ocean looking for them. We have to follow the signal. I have orders. We continue on, even if we lose track. It’s an order, Meg. Please. The Prince and the Princess have coordinates to find us…we can’t search for them,” Kozo replied with a sigh. “You’ve never trusted me. Trust me now.”
That was all he could say.
He looked at his sister with a side-eye and it took everything in his power not to tell her everything. Kozo picked up the book and handed it to her with a nod. It was a gift, an item she wouldn’t have read. Books were rare on the Trash Islands. She smiled and touched the cover but pushed it away.
“No riddles,” Megumi complained. “You promised that once. You said if I got on this boat with you, I’d never have to guess about my future. Somehow, that doesn’t seem quite right. Living on boats between planks of plastic…or living on boats, no planks, just water, water everywhere—”
“…but not one drop to drink,” he finished.
“Fine, sister, fine,” he chastised her for pulling their childhood into the mix. He’d long outgrown the tormented boy he’d been, and he hated remembering. “Right. No riddles. But Megumi, understand… it wouldn’t hurt you to embrace the bigger picture.”
“Don’t give me that Old World drivel…”
“They called your lottery number because I made it happen, you know,” Kozo interrupted. It was a sure-fire insult to remind her how much she owed to him. “You may be smarter and more educated and kinder and better…” he spat the words now, “and maybe our parents saw more hope in you than in me…” he pointed at them both, his mouth curled tight, “but this is my ship
. And you are my guest in here and my…”
“Oh God, your what?” she laughed, unaffected. He dipped his shoulders with the realization that nothing would touch her. “Your guest?”
What else had he wanted to say? Something mean, something insulting, but the words didn’t come forward the way he willed them to. It didn’t matter. He’d said enough and he sighed. He was incapable of wounding her the way she wounded him.
“So, does this mean you loved me or you pitied me? No, don’t answer that. It’s neither. You’re dependent on me. And you hate that it’s true. So, whatever you think you can use to control me won’t work, Kozo,” Megumi finished and shook her head. “I know you too well.”
She leaned back against the door and crossed her arms, unwilling to leave. Her eyes scanned the bare walls and he watched as she noticed the painting in the corner: the lone piece of art along the wood paneling.
Before Kozo had time to answer her first question, he noticed her gaze and knew what she was going to ask before she could form the question herself.
“I didn’t steal it,” Kozo said.
It was a stupid thing to say—so blatantly a lie.
“Oh?” she asked, unmoving, not glancing in his direction.
“It’s not stealing if you left it behind. You’d forgotten all about that one until now, I suppose…”
“I didn’t forget all about it,” Megumi challenged. She uncrossed her arms and they dangled by her side. He noticed tears well up in her eyes but he was too rooted in his frustration to have the tears move him to empathy. She snapped her attention from the painting back to him. “You told me we had ten minutes to pack up what we wanted to save…and you told me no art…you said they’d saved enough art. I don’t know if I should thank you or hit you.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
He turned to look at the painting he’d found in her collection the night before they left—the night he told her that she couldn’t take art on the ship. And he attempted to see the piece as she did: a watercolor of a home not unlike their own, a colorful Trash Island with storm clouds hovering in the distance over a sun shower settling over the ocean, the sea, their territory for decades.
Kozo didn’t know if they’d ever go back to the Trash Islands and that night he was feeling the weight of leaving his home behind. So, he’d sneaked the painting, and he wished he could explain it away as the pride he felt.
“Do you want it?” Kozo asked and he stood and started to walk toward the canvas, but she tsked and stopped him.
“No,” she said.
He ignored her and continued walking, “It was wrong to take it without asking…”
“You better leave it here. In your suite. Your gilt castle on the waves. What are the dangers we’re fighting? Can you tell me that?”
“I don’t know what we’re fighting,” Kozo answered honestly. He stared at the picture and didn’t look at his sister for a long time. He could feel her glare into his turned face. “There’s a lot to be afraid of at sea. I know we’re answering a call for help.”
“Great. Well, how about this. How about you keep my art safe down here from when we’re attacked by pirates?”
“Pirates?” Kozo asked with a smirk. His stomach went sour and an icy cold made his limbs heavy. Had she been reading the Old World books or listening to the tales of the crew and guards at sea at their stories of bandits?
“Yeah,” she joked, oblivious as the color drained from his face.
“I doubt it,” Kozo said without hesitation. He spun and faced his sister dead-on. “You need to brush up on your pirate history, Megumi. If that’s what awaits us, we’re doomed. Don’t you know? Can’t you remember? They always kill the captain first.”
Chapter Three
Arukah Island
the Atlantic Ocean,
off the coast of the former
state of South Carolina
THEA
A steady stream of music flowed through the small room where Thea Truman lay prone on a massage table in full appreciation of the warming gravity blanket enveloping her body.
The mighty granddaughter of Huck Truman was side-by-side with her best friend, if best friends were objects she might collect and hide and gather at will, enjoying a spa day.
Friendship wasn’t exactly modeled for her in the Truman household since her grandfather placed a high emphasis on what he could control and friendships were unwieldy beasts, reluctant to taming.
But Lesedi was the perfect complement to Thea—they were the same age, both born five years after the Great Divide and both to single mothers. Lesedi’s father was a donor from the Great CyroBank on Apollo, and since all donor samples were from people whose original bloodlines didn’t make the original Island cuts—famous performers, singers, athletes, and scientists, peacekeepers—Lesedi was good stock and bred with elitist goals in mind, just like Thea. Her father had worked at CERN in one of the development teams that created the internet—all of which now belonged under Truman control. And her mother was former politician’s granddaughter or something, but Thea didn’t know much about Lesedi’s background other than she was South African and like all the descendants of Africa who lived on the Islands she braided the colors of her former country’s flag into her hair.
Together, they made a lopsided pair, but there was no one else Thea would rather spend an afternoon of pampering with. Lesedi carried on a good conversation and had the decency to be grateful for the trip.
Someone entered the room but Thea didn’t stir and after a few seconds she felt someone untuck her arm from the blanket and dip her hand in hot, thick paraffin. Thea couldn’t help but smile when she inhaled and recognized the strong orange scent—they’d remembered from her exit note last time that she hated lavender. Bravo, Thea thought with glee and made a mental note to tell Lesedi about the scent change.
The Indulgence package at the Arukah Spa was the best deal on the Islands and while Thea had a monthly standing appointment, it was known to take years to book a treatment. When she wasn’t feeling up for taking the two and a half hour plane trip, sometimes she’d gift her seat on the transport and her appointment to a friend. Never Lesedi—friends she needed to win favor with.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Truman,” the aesthetician said in a soft and soothing whisper. She took Thea’s other hand and dipped it into the paraffin mixture and let her hand settle into the ooze. She opened her eyes and looked at the wooden floor beneath her through the circle in the table and took a deep, controlled breath. Burned into the floor beneath the headrest was the Aruka motto: Restoring health to the whole universe.
“Good afternoon,” Thea replied.
“Always lovely to see you. We’re finishing up with your hand massage and then you can go to the recovery room to have some tea.”
“Thank you,” Thea answered.
The door opened again and someone new slipped inside. She heard her spa attendant whisper hello and continue to work with the paraffin as two bare feet appeared, painted with a dizzying pink. Thea let out a small sigh of relief: It was Arjana, the spa manager and owner. Sometimes, when Thea was lucky, Arjana herself would lead a class or perform a stone massage.
Arjana was tall and muscular and always clad in a great white dress over billowy black pants. Like Lesedi, she wore her long black hair into a braid woven with the colors of her ancestral home of Nigeria. Each strand pulled tight with interlocking green and white ribbons.
It wasn’t impolite to talk about where people came from before the Great Divide, but people didn’t offer up their details willingly to Thea, and she wondered if it was because people were intimidated by her proximity to power. Most countries had their own unique ways of broadcasting pride about who they were before they moved to the Islands.
Thea didn’t divulge much about herself in spa situations either. She knew of a girl on Kymberlin who went on a date with an Old World prince living on St. Brenden, and during her date, she spoke ill of the government and bragged about he
r family taking their chances back on the infected land with a plan to swim to shore. Her opinions spread and she was sent to rehabilitate on the Island of Copia, a dark place out at sea that housed only the people unworthy to share the Island treasures.
A jail, her mother liked to call it, for people who couldn’t get out of the way of themselves.
It was better for Thea to offer rehearsed stories and platitudes, never giving away much about her family and only asking questions.
Often she could piece together stories based on someone’s clothing or colors, and from there ask innocuous questions like, What’s a Nigerian dish you love to cook? And she’d get Arjana remembering.
In her last two years of Whole Health therapy sessions, she’d learned a little about the woman who tested into and loved her role as spa director. Arjana sported a youthful appearance, glowing always, and tender, her large strong hands had been through many years of torment. She’d been a young woman when her family arrived on Arukah and fully engrossed in medical school at the time, but the spa was her dream and the Islands loved to answer dreams.
Thea’s grandfather encouraged the celebration of differences—he would’ve loved to hear the stories, too, if he’d been well enough to travel. Sometimes he took a boat during the calmer weather down and up the Eastern seaboard to talk and dream with the inhabitants of his Islands.
He’d have met Arjana and her family at one point, she was certain. Although in recent years, his memory needed assistance.
“And how was your service today with the lovely Eden?” Arjana asked in a soothing voice. Twenty-five years on the Islands but the hint of her Nigerian accent still seeped through. The Islands boasted no official language and all the museums and government buildings translated things into dozens of languages, insisting on maintaining culture, language, beliefs.
The Bedrock Page 5
