Was there water down there? I couldn’t say, because I couldn’t see. I touched another wire and lit up the ship for a few seconds.
No water.
I awkwardly descended the crooked stairs down and walked with equal awkwardness down the passageway, past berthings, storage rooms, and offices. All had been rummaged through by pirates.
Another stairwell, another passageway. I was getting close. I lit up the ship once more, and this time I could feel how low on power I was getting. I’d have to save it for the engine room, the most important part of my journey. Hopefully the others had made good use of their light.
I pushed open the door to the engine room.
Silence.
Engine rooms should never be silent. Engines and generators—the stuff of life, so to speak. They should’ve been roaring like the beautiful machines they were, taking in fuel and churning out power that pushed the ship through the water, armed the catapults that launched the planes, heated our water, cooked our unnecessary food. All of it was because of the lifeblood pumped into the ship’s arteries by its beating heart.
Its broken heart.
My final pulse of power had revealed the terrible damage. The machines were sideways, the parts scattered everywhere, busted and bent. The tiny lights on the machine were dark. The magic was gone. The USS Saint Catherine was well and truly dead in the water.
I looked up at the softly glowing lightbulbs above me. Why were they still on?
As soon as the question passed through my mind, a soft melody caught my attention, a young woman’s pleasant humming. I knew the tune from somewhere, far away in my mind. A lullaby? A child’s playground song?
“Hello? Is someone there?” I stepped over a broken piston and peered around the main body of the engine. “Dot, is that you?” Please be Dot. Please tell me she hid in here.
The humming grew louder as I approached the dead center of the engine room. I steadied myself, then turned the corner that led to the nerve center of the ship.
A young woman, no older than me, was crouching by an access panel in one of the generators. She wore the familiar blue coveralls that nukes wore when working, and her long dark hair had been pulled back into a sensible ponytail. She tinkered around in the generator, her brow knit in concentration.
“Who are you?” I asked. “Are you from the HMCS Sérendipité? If you are, I can escort you off the ship. Your chain of command is probably looking for you.”
But she just stood, smiling, and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “You’re very kind, but I’m not the Sérendipité.” Her mid-Atlantic accent perfectly matched my own.
“Oh. Then… who are you?” I looked her up and down. “If you’re a new nuke, you may want to sit down, because I’ve got some bad news.” How was I supposed to explain to this woman what had happened to her?
But she just laughed. “I’m not a nuke, Rachel. I’m used to appearing as a Seaman, but I thought you’d maybe be more comfortable if I looked more like you.”
My mouth fell open a little. I was talking to the ship. I would never be used to this. “You’re the Saint Catherine.”
She shrugged. “That’s what some people call me.”
“What do you call yourself? You must be very old.” My guess was that her name was something complicated and unsayable, perhaps in Etruscan or even Proto-Indo-European.
She shook her head and smiled. “I have no name. I am older than the ocean. Older, even, than the mountains and the firmaments of the earth. I was wished into existence before memory, born from the utterance of a single word. I am so old.”
I took a step back, a wild thought of taking off my boots flitting across my brain. I was in the presence of something much bigger than me, and I needed to act like it. “What do you want from me?” I asked, as respectfully as I could.
“I want your heart, Rachel. I’ve been trying to grow, but I can’t without your heart. Why have you been running away from me?”
My lips shook as they silently repeated formed the words she’d said, but I couldn’t give them voice. Did she want a human sacrifice? What was she talking about?”
She laughed. “No, I don’t want your physical heart. I want you. Your physical heart is long gone, but you remain. Your soul.”
“What does that mean?” I took another step back.
“It means you’ll sail in me and provide power to me. It means you’ll be a part of the eternal chain of sailors that have called me home. It means you’ll live again, free, as the sailor you have always been.” She placed a gentle hand on my chest. “You heard my call. That’s why you’re here.”
Tears were dripping down my chin. “Did you kill me? Did you take me away from the Taft?”
She pulled me into a tender hug and rubbed my back. “Never. I don’t have that power, and even if I did, I wouldn’t. I merely made you take a detour on your trip to the final place. There are many evil beings here, and many more who are indifferent. But I am on your side. That’s a promise.”
I wiped my nose with my sleeve. “I want to go there, to the final place. My family is comforting themselves with the knowledge that I’m waiting for them. I need to make it true.”
She assessed me, thinking. “I’ll make you a deal, Rachel. If you stay with me, I will send the fog for you when your parents pass on.”
“You make the fog?”
“I call it. It, too, is alive. You needn’t fear it.”
Such sweet words from a being whose entire existence I did not understand. But for all of her promises, I still didn’t want to stay on the ship. I wanted to go home. Home is where the heart is, I thought to myself. And my heart was with my family, not there on the Saint Catherine.
She tilted her head, still smiling. “They’re not the only thing in your heart. Let’s see. Where’s Commander Hollander?”
Dust on the floor swirled in a silent breeze, traveling up and up, coloring and taking the form of Commander Hollander. Dust-Hollander patted the generator. “We always wondered what you nerds got up to down here.”
Heat flooded into my cheeks. It stung just as much now as it did then. Maybe I was a nerd, but he’d had no right to say so.
The dust collapsed into a little pile on the floor. “Respect,” she said. “You want it. You want it from your family. You want it from your superiors. You want it from the entire Navy. Nobody respects the reactor division because you’re not as exciting as the aviators and SEALs, correct?”
I gulped. “Yeah. They’re think we’re bookish and weird.”
She drummed her fingers on the generator. “Admiral Rickover would be proud of you. I never knew him, but I know his work. He labored long and hard to turn the Navy into a nuclear force. I think it’s time that evildoers and monsters become familiar with his name, don’t you?”
Where was she going with this? “I’d like that,” I said slowly. “But again, what do you want from me?”
“You, right up until your parents pass away. No more, no less. At that time, you will be gathered to your people. You’ll be beyond my reach there.”
Now wasn’t the time to pretend I wasn’t scared. “Will it be dangerous?”
“Incredibly so.”
“What happens when ghosts die again?”
“I have no idea.”
“Is there anything good for me in this deal?”
A gleam appeared in her eye. “Adventure. Endless and awesome.”
My heart began to beat a little faster. “How can I have adventures in a derelict ship like this?”
She held out her hands, and the name book appeared, already open. A pen materialized in the air in front of me. “Sign the book, and you’ll see.”
I hesitated, then plucked the pen out of the air. The tip hovered over the paper for a second as I read my coworker’s names, neat and formal at the end of a long line of signatures. The pen met paper, and I wrote:
EMN2 Goldstein, Rachel Miriam
She grinned, excitement lighting up her face. “Oh, than
k you, Rachel!”
She melted into the floor, making me shout in alarm.
The ship began to tremble, then shake with earthquake force. Overhead, lightbulbs exploded, throwing little shards of glass everywhere, all over myself and the floor. I dashed to a spot far away from a bulb and crouched.
Then I gasped.
The ship righted itself, lurching up, listing no more. Deck plates flipped over, revealing newer, stronger steel that was polished to within an inch of its life. They flipped up one by one, traveling out of the engine room. Every time they changed, a puff of gold dust flew into the air.
I began to sprint after them, laughing all the while. Flip, flip, flip—the deck plates, the bulk heads, even a few panels on the ceiling, all changing into something new at a breathtaking speed. Light danced along the wires and pipes, snaking around, changing its avenue as it went.
Each room I passed was clean, neat, and organized. The signs pointing the way around the ship were sleek and modern, and there were no anti-smoking signs anywhere. I flew up the stairs toward the flight deck. Could it be…?
I banged the door open just as the transforming magic reached the few remaining planes. They shimmered—and then suddenly they were brand-new F-18s. Twenty in all, they were lined up like new cars in a showroom. Lights blew into being, blinding me, but I kept running around the flight deck, the decks flipping up just one step ahead of me. I sprinted to the edge—and the ship began to grow. The flight deck expanded out, shifting, growing, elongating the Saint Catherine into something bigger and more beautiful.
There was a metallic groan from above. I turned, happy tears streaming down my cheeks. The eagle’s nest was stretching higher and higher, reaching toward the midnight blue sky, lit up by lights. And the name, there for all to see...
I was now aboard the USS Rickover. True to her word, the ship made sure that everyone would know his name.
Cheers erupted from the pier. I ran to the side of the ship and peered down at the assembled sailors. They were climbing to their feet, hale and whole. Two tiny figures were waving their arms and facing me.
It seemed that I was thudding down the gangplank in just seconds, the world blurring in my haste to get to my friends. Torres ran up to me, now in sharp green camo, the latest working uniform of the Navy. “You did it! You helped the ship upgrade!” Though she was tiny, she lifted me up in her excitement and spun me around.
Bickley ran over. Since I was eye-level with his chest, I saw straightaway his biggest change. “You’re a chief now! Chief Bickley!”
Torres and I jumped up and down, shrieking with excitement and pointing at his rank insignia on the front of his uniform. Other sailors were admiring their own new, higher ranks. All were dressed in green camo; they were striking poses for each other and laughing with abandon.
Peggy ran over, also in camo. “I’m not in that dress anymore! Look, I’m a real sailor now!” She twirled in place, and her brand-new bob fluttered. She patted her hair. “I’ve been wanting to update my look for a while. Maybe I should start going by Meg now? That’s a little more modern, I believe.”
“Naw, stay Peggy,” Torres said. “It’s cute.”
Bickley pulled us into a huge bear hug. “Congratulations, Petty Officers First Class Goldstein and Torres. And since I’m a chief now, feel free to go get me some coffee. A good chief always has a coffee in hand. I should probably work on my chief face, too.” He rubbed his face, and schooled his expression into an overdone frown. “Just like Chief Swanson.”
Torres and I broke into peals of giggles, but Torres stopped suddenly and peered around Peggy. “Aw, he went up two ranks. Come on.”
I craned my neck to see who she meant, then sighed. Go figure.
Lieutenant Commander Hollander was no more. Instead, Captain Hollander cut a sharp figure as he walked toward us in his somber dress blues, the light from the ship glinting on his gold buttons and braiding. His hat was so white, it appeared to glow.
I put my hands on my hips and held my chin up as he approached. “That’s not even kind of fair, sir.”
He tugged on his sleeves and looked away. “Um, well, I guess it’s because the commander of an aircraft carrier is always an aviator, and I was the highest-ranked officer left.”
“The Rickover healed you right up, huh?”
“Yeah. Never felt anything like that.”
“Are we going to go after the others?”
He blinked in surprise. “Of course. I don’t know how to command a vessel like this, but we’re honor-bound to follow and mount a rescue.”
Beyond his shoulder, I could see the sad remnants of the crew of the Sérendipité, still trying to salvage what was left of their poor battleship. The ship’s magic only went as far as its hull and its crew, apparently—leaving the Canadians hopelessly out of luck.
I gave Captain Hollander a sad half-smile. “You know, we’re down to a handful of crew now. We need more enlisted, and a ship can’t run with… how many officers are there now?”
“Five,” he said with a sigh. “The other four are ensigns. They’ve never been on the bridge.”
“Then why don’t you go and ask our northern neighbors if they’d to come along, too? The great American-Canadian alliance.”
He gave that thought. “Well, there’s an idea. I’ll do that. Thanks for suggesting it.” A soft happiness lit up his eyes, and he gave me the same half-smile. “In the meantime, why don’t you grab the other two and go turn on my ship?”
“Your ship? It’s my ship. It’s the USS Rickover, not the USS Top Gun.”
“My ship. I am the captain. I was promoted five whole minutes ago.”
I scoffed. “Well, if that’s so, there’s only one thing left to do.” With self-control I did not know I had, I dropped my smirk, snapped to attention, and rendered a sharp salute.
He returned the salute, then offered his hand, which I took. “Thank you,” he said. “For helping the ship become what it needs to be. We’ll protect our home together.”
We shared a winning grin, then ran off. As I ascended the gangplank, Torres and Bickley joined me. We ran into the ship, down the many flights of stairs, and straight into the new engine room.
There was a new place for us, a circular platform surrounding the central generator. Every few feet around the generator, small spindles stood, awaiting the crystal spheres from which we’d draw out magic and convert it into power. Three spheres were already there, waiting for us.
We stood in our places, placed our fingers on the spheres, and began the slow process of absorption and refinement. Bickley took Torres’s hand, and she joined hands with me. The magic hummed inside us, coursing through our bodies, and finally I placed my hand on the special panel on the generator with a handprint on it.
The machine roared to life. Nearby, pistons began to pump up and down, and the entire ship shook as its mechanism and systems came online.
I smiled. The Oceanus had never seen anything like the USS Rickover.
My ship.
12
The clamor of the one thousand new sailors aboard the Rickover got old real quick.
I was already being jostled in the passageways by sailors far larger than myself, making me realize how much I’d come to enjoy the comparative roominess of an almost-empty carrier. While none of the new sailors seemed hostile, there was a definite frostiness between the factions that had emerged in the space of a few hours.
By the second day of sailing, we were a ship of three separate crews.
I was a member of the “old” faction, the original sailors who’d been aboard the Saint Catherine. Unfortunately, we were also the smallest group, and therefore had to make nice whether we wanted to or not. Though I had no qualms with our new coworkers, I’d overheard one fight already as I’d passed a men’s berthing. A chief had shoved me aside in his haste to break it up.
The second faction was much larger: our new Canadian friends. Their uniforms had automatically changed upon signing the cap
tain’s book, but they stuck to themselves and their old chain of command, leading to people butting heads over who was in charge in, say, the supply room. I had no idea what the climate of the eagle’s nest was like now that it was half American, half Canadian, but I was sure Captain Hollander could handle it.
One of the three new women in my berthing was Canadian. Rielle was blonde, gregarious, and a galley cook, though she’d been a quartermaster on the Sérendipité.
The third group was the quietest, and to me the most interesting: the fairies. Neither American nor Canadian, my pale, withdrawn shipmates comprised perhaps one hundred people in all, and it didn’t escape my notice that there were no officers among their number. The fairies were healthier-looking than the pirates, and evenly distributed between male and female. Their naming conventions were odd, to say the least. The fairies in my berthing had introduced themselves as “Frost of Night” and “Mother’s Sigh.”
“You’re kidding,” Torres had said. “We can’t call you that.”
“You’re the one with the weird name,” Mother’s Sigh had insisted. “A name for your family and yourself? What are you, a queen? And why do you have a girl’s name when you look like a boy?”
I’d stepped in and tried to get them to make nice, but all that I’d really accomplished was making sure they glared at each other instead of trading insults. As a result, by dinner time of the second day, I was good and ready to steal a lifeboat and go after the kidnapped people myself. Since I couldn’t do that, I opted to enjoy some food.
I served myself a small plate from the kosher section and sat in the corner. However, the tension of the ship settled on my shoulders, and I pushed the plate away and rested my head on my arms, focusing on the way my water rippled in my glass from the constant thrum of the engines below. Almost at once, self-pity kicked in.
Don’t wallow. Don’t wallow. Don’t you dare wallow, Goldstein.
Okay, no wallowing allowed. But I could still worry.
Sea of Lost Souls Page 12
