A Time to Speak

by Nadine Brandes

  “Solomon, we’re being chased! Shouldn’t we both get on the ship? They’ll follow me to the people.”

  We approach the ocean, where seven empty motorboats rest on the shore. “The Enforcers will follow me, not you. And I can’t risk you being on the ship in case the projected Wall goes up again.”

  We skid to a stop. He lifts the latch and jumps out. A clump of penguins waddle toward him. I slide into his seat as he gives me a quick primer on how to work the machine.

  “This thumb lever is the gas. This one on the left is the brake.”

  He doesn’t comment on my missing hand. He trusts I’ll figure something out. It’s like he believes I can be strong.

  He’s about to run to the boats, but I grab his hand. “Wait, you should know, I . . . I love you.” At least, I want to call it love.

  He stares at me for a stunned moment, long enough for me to rethink my confession. Then a smile commandeers his expression. He brushes his thumb down my cheek, swallows, and whispers, “I loved you first, Miss Blackwater.”

  He closes the hatch. I press down the thumb lever and shoot toward the Wall. My last view is Solomon pushing all the motorboats out into the water, wrapping their tie-down ropes in one hand, leaping into one, and heading out to sea.

  My heart is full.

  It takes me less than a minute before I’m at the edge of the stone Wall, where the ocean meets land and the projected Wall should meet the stone. But it’s gone. All that’s left are the bobbing towers that connected one screen to the other—projection towers, I think the Lead Enforcer called them.

  Wasn’t that what they were going to have us build? Why?

  A small ledge of ice runs along the stone section of Wall, poised over the ocean, to the other side. Will this snow machine fit? Just in case, I lift the hatch so I can get out if it falls into the water.

  I inch toward the ledge, hugging the Wall. Don’t think of the projection. It’s gone. I’m not going to get roasted like Dusten did. I’m safe. We shut it down.

  I’m lined up for the ledge, but it’s thinner than it looked before. I adjust my grip on the handle, then gun it. Faster. Faster. The whine of the machine matches the loudness of the wind around my zooming capsule. I reach the ledge and shoot across it. The snow machine tilts toward the ocean, but I lean left.

  “Come on!”

  Faster. Faster. The stone Wall hurtles past on my left, ocean on my right. I’m so close that the left ski scrapes against the Wall.

  Then I see Frenchie and Madame ahead, walking on the small ledge to this side. Frenchie’s stomping away from Madame, and Madame follows, hollering after her.

  I’m going to run them over if they stay there. “Move!”

  But they’re deer in my headlights. Not having a hand to press the brake, I jerk right and launch off a snowberm, over open ocean, inches from where they stand.

  They both scream. I twist in my seat, while flying through the air only to see the ice shelf crumbling, and the two of them topple into the sea.

  Then I land. My chin knocks against some part of the machine.

  Water consumes me.

  28

  I’ve never been submerged in a mixture of fire, ice, and death . . . until now. It’s akin to having your skin scraped off with one of Father’s wood chisels, though I haven’t experienced that either.

  The snow machine bobs once and then sinks. I flail through the water and just catch Madame’s cry. “Help me!”

  She’s not that far from me and she’s pulling on Frenchie’s arm. Frenchie’s unconscious, blood pouring from her mouth. It looks like she bit through her lip.

  “An ice chunk landed on her head.”

  I swim over as best I can in my soaked skirt and boots. “G-Get h-her t-to shore.” Each hair on my body freezes as I kick. I’ve never been so cold. The salt water makes everything worse—in my eyes, in my mouth, in my wounds.

  We swim parallel to the Wall, dragging Frenchie between us.

  One good thing has come from this: the snow ledge is broken and impassable. The Enforcers can’t come to our side now. But there’s no time to laugh in victory. We’re about to get hypothermia.

  “Wait!” Madame veers toward the open water. “A dinghy!”

  Solomon has loosed one of the motorboats a few yards from us. He lets the others loose closer to shore before veering back toward the cargo ship. Someone still would have had to swim for the motorboats. That makes me feel a little better about the submersion. “Y-You go for the d-dinghy and I-I’ll bring Angelique.”

  Madame doesn’t protest, but splashes toward the boat.

  We’re freezing fast. The back of my neck aches. I can’t do this.

  I pull Frenchie after her, but given my skinniness, my missing hand, and the weight of my clothing, I’m of little use. I’ve never been a strong swimmer.

  Madame reaches the dinghy and hauls herself onto the edge. Her portly form flails, finally getting a leg over the edge. Frenchie comes to as we reach the boat. “We deedn’t die?”

  “N-No, b-but the snow b-b-bike did.”

  She reaches her hand up for Madame, but does nothing more than that. No squirming, no effort. I try to boost her up, but my limbs grow stiff. She steps in the crook of my elbow for leverage and I’m shoved underwater. I choke on salt water and scream against the cold, but it comes out in a stream of bubbles. I claw for the surface. What if Frenchie doesn’t let me up soon enough? But then she’s in the dinghy and I’m above water again, panting.

  My turn.

  Madame grabs my hand, Frenchie gets my stump, her hand bloody from touching her lip. I abandon all dignity. I convulse like a fish, wiggling over the edge and flopping into the bottom. My body doesn’t obey. I’m a rubber human, freezing over. The back of my head hits a set of wooden oars strapped inside.

  I don’t ask why Madame and Frenchie were standing like two statues on the small ledge. I don’t ask where they thought they’d go. I don’t care. “W-We need t-to g-get warm.”

  On the shore stands a mass of people. Mother’s at the front, shouting commands I can’t hear. She believed in us. She got everyone ready.

  “Let’s get those other loose boats to shore.”

  Madame pulls the motor cord and it roars to life. Frenchie wipes the sleeve of my borrowed coat across her bloodied face. Thanks a lot. “Ah. Ow.” She shoves Madame aside. “I drive.”

  I twist in my seat to look for the cargo ship. As if my gaze is the magic touch, the ship releases a mighty belch and starts moving toward us. A few Enforcers line the shore, stranded and staring. Then they turn and sprint back toward the tower.

  “He did it! Solomon took over the ship!”

  The words have barely left my mouth when a lightning zap singes my skin. The projected Wall flickers back into view. All but the stern of the ship was already through. The rest follows within seconds.

  A cold wave, one that has nothing to do with the water, washes over me. “Solomon.”

  Madame scoots toward the bench seat beside me and Frenchie grabs the handle, zooming toward the cargo ship.

  “Where are you g-going?” I gasp. The coating of water on my body numbs my lips.

  “Eef your—” she stops and holds the sleeve of my coat to her bleeding lip, then shakes her head.

  Madame answers instead. “If your Enforcer just burnt up, we have to steer the ship.”

  Burnt up. My Enforcer. My Solomon.

  No . . .

  I don’t know where the control room is, but surely he was already through. I force a deep breath. Solomon is in your hands, God. Please . . . spare his life. “W-w-we have to g-g-get the b-b-boats to the people.”

  “They already have them.”

  I glance back. Some Radicals dove into the water to collect the motorboats. Frenchie rounds the cargo ship, barely avoiding a collision. We slam
against the opposing waves and I’m sure we’ll tip.

  “Should we g-get on board?” Madame looks from the ship to me.

  Frenchie rolls her eyes, but can’t manage a sarcastic retort through the gash in her lip. She steers us to the walkway hanging off the side, keeping pace with the ship. It’s gaining speed, coasting toward our Radicals.

  I try not to imagine Solomon dead, blackened, at the wheel of the ship.

  “Angelique, steady the d-dinghy.”

  She takes her hand away from her mouth and forces words through a grimace. “I ’ave been in ze control room of a cargo ship. I know some things. I can ’elp.”

  “Well, you know more than Solomon probably does.” We bump against the walkway. The motorboat bobs inconsistently. One foot on, one foot off, and I’m thrust into acrobatic splits that might just tear me in half.

  Commit. Commit to the steps. I push off the deflating bobbing edge of the dinghy and roll to the side, clanging against the ship’s hull and holding tight to the railing.

  My muscles tremble. They’re hypothermic weights, ready to drag me back into the sea. I force them to climb. Halfway up, the walkway lurches. Madame is on below me. Poor Frenchie, she has the hardest job since she’ll be abandoning the dinghy. But she was the only one who knew how to drive the thing.

  We sneak on deck, eyes and ears open. Relying on my ears won’t do any good, not with the rumble of the engine drowning out the whispers and scuffles.

  Here I go, God. Please let Solomon be alive. A shudder passes through me. God allowed Jude to die—well, Jude also let himself die. Still, chills accompany my prayers for Solomon’s safety. I can’t control it. Only an hour ago I realized I loved Solomon—at least, I’m on my way to love. I want to be with him, to know him, to discover him. I want him to know me.

  But we need to be alive for that.

  The deck is rough, black-patterned glass beneath my feet. My knees buckle when I stand and I fall against the low railing. What’s wrong with me? Oh yeah, I climbed over a thousand foot wall, almost choked to death, and then swam in the coldest water on Earth after crashing a snow bike into the sea.

  That’s all.

  A hysterical laugh bubbles up.

  “Shhh.” Madame waves her hand up and down at me.

  Frenchie cups her hand at us, telling us to follow. “Ze bridge eez this way.” We creep past shipping containers and check around corners, forcing our fading limbs to cooperate.

  At one row, a shout and clang startles me. I throw out my arms to keep Madame and Frenchie from advancing, then peek around the corner. Nothing. More pounding. The shouts are muffled. A few other voices join it.

  It may be foolish, but I follow the sound. Past two stacks and then up another aisle of containers, I find my answer. People are inside, clamoring to get out. Did the Enforcers forget to release a container?

  “Let us out!” a man shouts from inside.

  I take a deep breath to respond, but Madame clamps a hand over my lips from behind. “Don’t.”

  I squirm until my mouth rips free. “Let me go.”

  “Is someone there?” We all freeze. That was Monster Voice. “Hello?”

  Enforcers are inside.

  “Let’s go,” I murmur, and we leave them behind for now. The rubberband squishing my heart loosens. We’re safe on board. We’re on our way to saving everyone. Everyone.

  “How did your Enforcer get them all in there?”

  I shrug and we walk through a heavy white door with a circle window. Inside are solid grey stairs leading upward in a repetitive square shape. Frenchie clomps up them like she owns the place, not even glancing at the blue panel on the wall listing every important room from A Deck to G Deck.

  The bridge is at the very top. The thick door is propped open, tight against the stairwell wall, and inside stands Solomon. His feet are planted shoulder-width apart on the green painted floor, his back to us, and he wears more guns than articles of clothing. The clothing he does wear is an Antarctica Enforcer outfit, complete with mask. Rifles hang over his shoulders and back, pistols pop out of every pocket and space in his belt. He holds a rifle in each hand, leveled at two people—a man and a blond woman—who stand, trembling, at a panel of controls.

  The last thing I want to do is startle a man covered in guns, so I back up a bit and slam my footsteps. “It’s me, Solomon.”

  He barely moves. “I know, I saw you crossing the deck.”

  We step in. I’m dizzy, but try to focus. The bridge is larger than it looked from the stairwell. It’s a long rectangle stretching to my right, split down the middle by a board of computers and electronics—most of which are black and not working. The walls are angled glass on all sides, revealing the outside deck, shipping containers, and sea ahead.

  “What can I do?” Frenchie steps forward.

  “Figure out how to steer this thing.”

  “Wait, these two aren’t steering it?” I gesture to the man and woman. We could crash into ice or land and then be trapped on Antarctica again.

  Solomon shakes his head. “The captain’s not on board. These two don’t know much.”

  I stare at the blond woman. My sluggish brain urges me to remember something. What is it? “She’s a navigation officer!”

  The woman’s eyes snap to me, her startle giving her away. “You are?” Solomon growls.

  “The Lead Enforcer and Reece were talking about her.” I don’t really know what a navigation officer is, but it sounds like the type of title we need right now. My body trembles, outside of my control.

  “Well, zat’s great.” Frenchie sits at a screen and fiddles with the buttons. “Make ’er ’elp.”

  The woman needs no urging. She plops into a seat beside Frenchie and gets to work. She and Reece would have made a good pair—they’re both nervous wrecks when threatened.

  Solomon tightens his hands on the rifles. “I was afraid this’d be a drone boat.”

  “What’s a drone boat?” Madame asks.

  “It means no one on the ship actually controls it. There’s a virtual bridge somewhere in the USE that would navigate the vessel for us. But they chose to use an old-fashioned cargo ship for the delivery of Radicals. I’m betting the other Radicals won’t be so lucky.”

  A strong shiver seizes me and I fall to one knee. I take a deep breath to relax and force myself back up. I’m so cold. So cold. Pieces of my hair clink together. Frozen. I can’t feel my fingers.

  “I’ma help pipll aboard.” I shake my head against the slurs in my speech. “I’m gonna help p-people . . . aboard.”

  Madame and I head back down the stairwell. My knees buckle on the last steps and I land on all fours. Madame helps me up, but she’s just as weak as I am. I can’t shut down yet. Not until everyone is safe!

  Some part of my brain flashes a warning sign: Get warm! Get warm!

  But people need help. I can do this.

  The ship is parallel to the shore. Four motorboats filled with Radicals zoom toward us. The people pour onto the boarding walkway, testing its strength.

  Harman and McTavish are in the first boat. They hand up Dusten’s body. It’s wrapped in the communal blanket. Next, they pass up Cap and Kaphtor, who both hobble up the walkway. For once, Cap doesn’t complain about being near an Enforcer.

  Just as the four motorboats return to shore to fill up again, I see them. Enforcers. At least twenty of them—on our side of the Wall—all armed and running toward the shore. Toward my people.

  “Look out!” I try to holler, pointing over their heads, but all that comes out is a slurred grunt. I try again. Some hear my indecipherable shout and look over their shoulders.

  Then the screaming starts.

  That’s all the incentive the Radicals on shore need. They swarm the motorboats, piling in too many people, tipping one, filling another with water.

&n
bsp; Several Radicals jump into the sea and paddle toward us, but we’re so far from shore. I’ve been in that water. I know what they’re feeling. Soon they’ll be too stiff to paddle. Soon they’ll all have hypothermia.

  Soon they’ll all be dead.

  They can’t make it. Not in this cold.

  Cold.

  Co . . . l . . . d.

  The scene blurs and wavers like a photo underwater. I shake my head. My vision clears. What can I do? What can I do?

  I should jump in and help them. After all, I’m already wet . . .

  Yeah, that sounds good. As I lean over the ship’s edge and the water swarms with desperate Radicals, the Enforcers reach the shore and open fire.

  29

  The surge of bullets causes chaos.

  I scream for Solomon as the cargo ship coasts past the writhing, bloodied bodies of Radicals now drowning in the frozen ocean. The Enforcers keep firing and, at some point, the furious panic inside of me bursts out in tears.

  I’m helpless. I scream and scream and scream, not having enough muscle control to jump over the railing and help. More shooting slams against my eardrums. Solomon fires from the back deck.

  I’m sickened by the relief that comes when Enforcers slump to the ground.

  At some point, a thin black woman tackles one of the firing Enforcers. He knocks her in the head with the rifle, then aims at her, but someone else shoots him first.

  Get ’em, Solomon.

  The sound of the cargo ship engines changes. It grinds and something in the movement of the ship throws off my balance. We stop, resting in the mayhem, the death, the murderers and murdered.

  The formerly clear Antarctic sea is now an inverted underwater sunset, decorated with clouds of blood and limp skydivers. I drop to my knees. Who’s dead? Is Mother there, floating face-down, her last breath one of salt water?

  I can’t focus—a debilitating brew of dropped body temperature and sorrow seeps through me. Everything happens as if I’m in a daze. I hear a splash and slide my blurry gaze back over the edge, only to see Solomon swimming toward one of the motorboats covered in dead bodies. He climbs in and steers the boat to the ship, handing up the bodies. Then he heads back to shore.