by Ian Bull
The machine’s been off long enough. Time to do this. Fast.
I yank open the door. Douglas is crouched at the bottom, hugging his knees, his eyes closed, like he’s relaxing at the end of one of his yoga sessions. He’s like a peaceful white marble carving, except for the blender blade still embedded deep inside his left eye.
His frozen phone is still in his pocket. If there’s justice in the world, it’ll work again.
I whisper to Douglas. “I will always love you. There will be no other. And I promise to put this to good use.”
I race up the stairs to the bridge. Douglas took me up here only a few times, and always with the captain. The wide windows give a perfect view of the whole front end of the ship, rising and falling against the waves. It’s either on automatic pilot or someone is driving this thing remotely. We’re moving fast with no land in sight.
Devon and I need to get off this ship, and I don’t have a plan.
A dozen screens are embedded into a long panel under the windows. Each is a console that communicates something—location, wind speed, wave size, fuel levels. Reckoning is tiny on one of them, a dot in the vast Mediterranean Sea. Reckoning is huge on another, with the engines lit up orange, the cooling system lit up blue, the electrical system red. What do I push? I’m on a goddamned spaceship.
Typing appears across a screen. The engine noise changes as the ship slows. The remote captain and first mate are probably looking at the same images on their screens, somewhere else in the fucking world, steering this yacht like it’s a drone.
I don’t have a plan.
Douglas would know what to do. Except he’s dead and frozen in his cryochamber, killed by the machine that was supposed to help him live forever.
No, I killed him.
He knew better. He made me react. I wish he were here now, so I could tell him—
Get a grip, Tina. Think.
The screens hold the answer. The one in the middle shows our heading. We’re not heading to Malta, like Douglas promised. We’d be going south now, but the yacht is pointed straight at Sardinia.
Douglas was always planning on sinking this ship once we were done.
How would he do it? Think.
He’d do it elegantly. He wouldn’t lift a finger. It would just seem to happen. Another yacht would appear on the horizon. Reckoning would stop. The new yacht would send over their tender. We’d board the tender with just a laptop and an overnight bag, with enough extra space for Devon and his wheelchair. The new yacht would already have everything we’d ever need, including new clothes. Our new suites would look exactly like the ones on Reckoning, right down to the posters on Devon’s wall. We’d sail away on the new yacht and watch Reckoning blow a hole in its hull, nothing dramatic, and it would sink beneath the waves.
He already did all the work. All he would have to do now is send a signal, probably with his smartphone or tablet. Maybe he already has. Or maybe they’re waiting for the final signal. Maybe they don’t need a signal, maybe they’re tracking Reckoning via radar, and know to meet us when we get to a certain longitude and latitude.
I need a plan.
The walkie talkie crackles, making me jump. Who’s on board?
“Mom, I’m scared,” Devon says through the walkie. He uses a typical boy’s voice, one I haven’t heard before.
I grab the walkie and hit the button. “I’m here, my love. We’re fine. We’re safe. I’m just trying to figure something out. We’re leaving the ship soon.”
There’s a pause, then I hear one click for yes.
I click again. “I love you,” I say, and he clicks back once. He loves me, too.
My heart aches. He’s been alone for hours. He went searching for me, got on the elevator, found a way to push the button with his one good hand, found a walkie in the galley, got it onto his laptop table somehow, and found a way to push the button while still using his mouthpiece. It must have taken every ounce of energy and effort his twisted body could manage.
I must hail that new ship. The ship’s computer and keyboard are right in front of me. The Wi-Fi and router are turned off just as Douglas demanded. Could it be this easy? I turn them both on and see the reception jump from zero to four bars.
The computer screen dings with six instant messages from Navionics, from Boat Beacon, from Seapilot…what are those? They all say the same thing.
We will be waiting at the transfer point. Copy?
My heart jumps. We’re going to make it. My fingers fly across the keys.
Sorry for the delay. We’re programmed to slow when we reach you, correct?
My heart skips a beat when the answer comes.
Yes. Our tender will come to you. Please be waiting on the lower aft deck. Our bosun will invite you down onto the swim platform and onto our tender once we tie alongside. There will be a swell. Help from your bosun will be appreciated.
I have no bosun. He got off at Amalfi. Douglas is dead. Time to lie.
Our bosun fell ill and left the ship in Amalfi.
There is a long pause, then their answer. Understood. Please give us your confirmation code per your instructions.
Douglas thought of everything. My brain searches for an answer.
Understood. I will send the code prior to the transfer point. Look for us on the aft deck.
There is another long pause. Understood.
How much time did that buy me? And what the fuck is the code?
A low whipping noise starts. Helicopter blades? A side console shows all the ship’s cameras. An Army helicopter is approaching. It’s about a quarter mile away.
A belt tightens around my chest, squeezing my ribs with every beat of my heart.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The walkie crackles. “Mom, did you hear that?”
My thumb presses the call button. “Devon, meet me on the aft deck.”
He clicks once for yes.
I need a gun. I rip through the wood cabinets against the back wall. No gun. I open more cabinets. No gun. Fuck.
The cameras show that the helicopter is right overhead. The ceiling whines and then clunks like it’s about to collapse. I scream and cover my head—but it’s the runners of the helicopter landing on the helipad roof above me.
Think.
There’s one last cabinet by the captain’s chair. I flip it open. My left eye is too swollen to see. My right eye spots a flare kit. Inside is a flare gun with two flares. I load one, keep the other in my hand, and head down the bridge stairs to the middeck.
I pause under the lip of the sunroof. Prepare. Inhale. Remember hunting for deer in Wisconsin. Step out, spin, aim, hold your breath and squeeze the trigger on the exhale.
I step out and turn—and a force rips into my left shoulder, flinging the flare gun out of my hand and down the stairwell to the aft deck. I’m bleeding.
Webb is on the sunroof. He aims his gun at me while the helicopter blades slow to a stop on the helipad above him.
Webb flips over and lands on the deck in front of me like a circus acrobat. “Lie down, Tina. Now.”
No way.
In two seconds, I’m down the stairs and on the bottom aft deck. Where’s that flare gun? The yacht lurches. Shit, that’s right. It’s programmed to slow at the transfer point.
I run to the railing. Another yacht is a quarter mile away, a beautiful blue and gold behemoth twice the size of Reckoning. It’s sleek and gorgeous and fast, and it’s coming to rescue us! I wave with my good hand, jumping so they can see me.
The ship turns.
“Come back!”
“Mom.”
Devon is on the aft deck, waiting for me just like I told him. He seems calm. Not playful, not resentful, not pouty, none of the faces that make my heart fill with love.
He looks disappointed. In me.
“Lie down, Tina.” Webb comes down the staircase, his pistol aimed at my head. Behind him, six steps up, is a woman in a hospital robe with gashes on her hands and feet and a banda
ged face and head. She looks like a zombie, but with one piercing, blue eye.
“Julia.”
She smiles when she hears me say her name, then limps down the staircase. Webb doesn’t turn; he’s too good to be distracted by anything.
She stops on the last step behind him. “I beat you, Tina. Twice.”
“Lie down! Now!”
Devon opens his eyes wide and gestures for me to stop.
“I can’t lose you.”
His eyes tell me that I already have.
My head bows. The flare gun is two feet away. “Devon, look the other way.”
I turn back to Julia and stand tall. I’m not lying down for anybody. Our eyes lock. She did beat me. Twice. Better than any man could do. “Devon is my only child.”
Carl moves closer. His gun is four feet away from my face. There must be another way. Devon can’t see his mother making a mess.
“Lie down now.”
My fingers move toward my jeans. “I’m taking a phone out of my pocket.” I lift it out with two fingers. “It was frozen. The passcode is my birthday.”
“Drop it.”
My eyes lock on Julia’s. “Take good care of him.”
I pick up the flare gun and run at Carl Webb. His gun explodes as the force sends me flying backward. My spine hits the railing and flips me over the side. My eyes glimpse Devon in his chair for a microsecond before I fall. He’s facing away. Good boy.
A sea swell flies up to grab me. It’s cold. My lungs gasp for air but water floods in. The moving yacht sucks me under. A propeller blade slices into my head.
That does the trick.
Epilogue
STEVEN QUINTANA
September 18, 4:00 p.m. (EST)
Lake Shebandowan, Ontario
Six months later
Devon adjusts his mask and looks at me through the brackish water. We exhale our bubbles through our regulators and trade the “OK” sign. After checking our gauges, I shoot him a questioning look and a “thumbs-up,” asking him if he wants to ascend. He signs a reluctant “thumbs-up” back.
This kid would live underwater if he could, but it’s cold and I’ve seen enough pike drifting past us in this dark, Canadian lake.
He smiles with his eyes through his mask. I have to give the kid a break. He’s done damn well this summer, considering his life got blown apart.
We ascend slowly, letting the bubbles float ahead of us. Only rise as fast as your slowest bubble. We’re only twenty-five feet deep. Any deeper and we’d lose too much light.
When we break the surface, I tug our masks down around our necks and inflate our buoyancy vests. “That was fun.”
He moans back with enough of a “y” sound that I know he means “yes.”
“It’s like flying. You’ll get that in outer space when we get you there.”
He starts chattering, expecting me to keep up. We catch most of what he’s saying. Half the trick is just concentrating as we listen, which we do a lot since he refuses to use any digital voices unless it’s absolutely necessary. The other half is just knowing how he thinks.
He already knows how I think. He was the one who saw my clues in Baja and interpreted them. It was like I was sending them directly to him.
He talks some more.
“Yes, I’ll look at the Hodge conjecture paper one more time. It’s not like I can add much more, aside from spotting typos.” I grab his vest by the collar and tow him towards the shore. He stares up at the sun and laughs.
“Kick, dude. Your legs work a little. I’m not your servant.”
He laughs some more and kicks his legs closer to the surface. All this exercise is helping him get stronger, and he seems to be enjoying life for the first time since we met.
“We’ll do it in the ocean next. Finish your certification.”
He grunts in agreement. He then stops kicking. He’s stares at the white clouds, drifting across the blue sky.
“What about a paper on chaos theory next? Predicting patterns for cloud formations could help with weather prediction.”
He doesn’t answer. He does this a lot. He freezes in the middle of a conversation and locks his gaze on something. Julia and I don’t know what’s going on. He could be having a seizure, be lost in thought, be sad, or remembering his pain. It’s hard to break through to him.
Julia is convinced she can do it. This is her new quest. After I survived Six Passengers, Five Parachutes, she insisted on making a movie, getting married, and having a family—1-2-3, as if she could transform tragedy into a successful life through sheer will power.
Since The Danger Game, she’s changed her vision. Now, she wants Devon and me to be that family. Is Devon all for it? He says he is, but I can’t tell.
He breaks his gaze and mutters something too low to understand.
“I’ll drag us in.”
Julia waits for us on shore. We’re at her family’s summer cottage on Lake Shebandowan in Northern Ontario. It’s been a long six months, but life feels good.
“How are my powerful magicians? Did you have fun?”
“We did! And we hail the queen upon our return!”
When the water is six inches deep, I plop us down on our butts and get our tanks off. Then, we roll onto our bellies and crawl out of the water onto a strip of sandy beach.
My challenges return. Gravity is my enemy. My right leg hurts like hell when I put pressure on it. My left hand still burns with phantom pain from where my pinky finger once was. It will take months of rehab to get through both challenges. But I don’t dare complain. Devon doesn’t, and his entire body betrays him, every day.
Julia and I pull him onto the white sand and help him get his fins off. He sighs. He hates gravity too.
“I want you to spend thirty minutes in your hyperbaric chamber,” Julia says.
“Are you talking to Devon? I already did mine this morning.”
“Devon. And it’s working. He’s breathing completely on his own now, and his muscles are gaining strength.”
Devon purses his lips and does something he couldn’t do four months ago. He whistles. His robot wheelchair bumps down the rocky grade, each wheel adjusting for the terrain. It stops in front of us and Julia and I lift him into his seat.
He gets his lips over the mouthpiece and uses the new voice he designed, a mix of six people talking at once, representing the six sides of his personality. “Steven. Let’s do that again tomorrow.”
“Sure. The water will stay warm enough for another few days.”
He turns his chair and heads back up the slope to the cottage.
“Does he need any help?” I ask.
“He’s fine. He’s eighteen now. An adult. You know that he worked with JPL to write the software for his AI wheelchair.”
“He told me. And Professor Carlton arrives tomorrow to go over their joint paper on the Hodge conjecture.”
“Who knows? He may still win the Millennium Prize.”
Her face, scalp, and hands are healed. Her hair is taking a while to grow back, so she keeps it in a buzz cut for now. If need be, she’ll get hair transplants. Everything else is fine. She’s lucky, but I miss her hair.
My bad thoughts return. She was burned because of me. I made a mistake on the numbers. My hand was infected, which made my brain cloudy. I also made her shoot that gun, and she may have killed three men. If she resents me for it, she doesn’t say.
“Yo!” Carl yells, waving from the lawn with Trishelle next to him. “Glenn is here too! Are you ready to start this party?”
“After I shower! Ten minutes!”
My skin got “duck itch” at the start of the summer because I didn’t shower enough after swimming in the lake. I learned my lesson, so I scrub my skin hard.
My left hand sends a fiery thunderbolt zooming up my arm.
Shake it off. Always move forward. Julia is right. We create our own futures.
We all meet on the screened-in porch. The afternoon sun shines through the tall trees, se
nding dappled light across the walnut dining table. Julia, Carl, Trishelle, Glenn, and my brother, Anthony, are there already, along with a cold Molson waiting in front of my chair. We clink bottles and sip.
I look around. “Where’s Devon?”
Julia sighs. “He says we’re boring. He wants to watch tonight’s JPL launch online from Vandenburg.”
Julia serves us a delicious meal of lemon chicken and rice, which Anthony declares is as good as our mother’s.
“That’s sacrilege, bro. Don’t ever tell Mom you said that.”
“Are you kidding? I don’t want to die.”
It ends with black coffee and rhubarb pie. A sour vegetable stalk turned sweet with tons of sugar, a family recipe of Julia’s. An acquired taste, but one that I now enjoy.
After dinner, I help Julia clear the table. We set our dishes down by the sink in the kitchen. I hold her close. “Six months ago, on that rock in Baja in the middle of the night, you dared me to dream of this dinner. That gave me hope and got us home. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And now I have a new dare.”
“Say it.”
“A quiet life with love, marriage, a home, and a family.”
I kiss her long and hard. “So do I. More than anything.”
We stare at each other. Is a quiet life even possible for us? Or, are we addicted to our respective high-wire acts too much? She thrives on the chaos of Hollywood, while I’m at my best, when people around me are in danger.
She touches my face. “We’ll find a way.”
“I’ll start by taking photos again. I miss it.”
We head to the screened-in porch to join the others, who are sipping the last of their coffee and wine. The lake is dark on the other side of the screen. Crickets hum, it seems, in rhythm with the squadron of fireflies hovering over the water.
Julia breaks the serenity. “So, should we get down to business? Carl? Any news?”
“I spoke to McCusker. Swig is the only suspect for the murders of Marsh and Mendoza. A revenge killing after Six Passengers, Five Parachutes. They’re still not linking her to Baja.”
Devon comes down the ramp from the house. “What are you all talking about?” he asks clearly, with his real voice.
