A Sea of Shattered Glass

by Kyla Stone

  “Certainly, sir.” He brought the captain's table a second bottle of the eight-thousand-dollar wine.

  He worked his other tables in the way he knew the passengers expected: efficient, kind, and unobtrusive. By the time the captain's table was ready for dessert, his shoulder ached from carrying a dozen heavy china plates full of food balanced on a silver tray.

  He went around the table, committing the dessert orders to memory—chocolate whiskey cake with salted caramel buttercream, decadent mocha cheesecake, and hazelnut mousse drizzled with raspberry sauce and sprinkled with dark chocolate shavings. When he came to the girl, she was still looking at the menu.

  “Amelia will have a small bowl of strawberries with light whipped cream,” Declan Black said.

  Amelia glanced at her father. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and lowered her menu.

  “Surely, we all can indulge a little,” said Bradley Marx, an older, plump man sitting next to her. He patted his expansive belly. “We're celebrating on the most luxurious ship sailing any sea, after all.”

  The CEO shot him an irritated look. It passed so quickly Micah wasn't sure he'd seen anything at all. Then the man’s face broke into a wide, generous grin. “We can see you've taken that to heart, Marx.”

  Everyone chuckled.

  “Of course, my daughter may have whatever her heart desires. I just happen to know her better than she knows herself.”

  The girl hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Her gaze flickered to her mother. “I mean, I do love strawberries. But maybe I can have a large bowl?”

  “I'll have a large bowl, too,” said Marx. “But make mine a double serving of mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

  More laughter broke the tension.

  “Would you like me to play now, Father?” Amelia asked softly.

  “Of course. Everyone was captivated by your performance last night. Even the captain.”

  Captain Liebenberg nodded. “Your father is very proud of you, Amelia. He tells me you’re headed to Juilliard.”

  Amelia flushed. “Well—”

  “Fetch the maître ‘d.” The CEO snapped his fingers at Micah, though he was standing only a foot away. “And the sommelier. We need more wine.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Micah dipped his chin and hurried off, fighting down a flash of resentment.

  Gabriel always ranted about the arrogant and vapid elite, how they were nothing but greedy, toxic parasites feeding upon the life force of the poor and oppressed. Micah never agreed. The rich were people too, capable of kindness and cruelty just like everyone else. Still, twenty-four thousand-dollars’ worth of wine in a single night was extravagant even for the Grand Voyager.

  For everyone Micah knew, the first goal was to survive. Pay the bills. Keep a roof over your head, even if it was leaking, even if you had to share it with three guys who rarely bathed. The second goal was to numb the senses with anything available—living a virtual life in the Xtreme Worlds network or sports, religious fervor, whatever. A lot of his high school friends were addicted to the new synthetic mash-up drug known as Silk. For Micah, his solace was his books.

  “Excuse me?” one of the guests interrupted his thoughts. “I said I wanted the pan-seared rack of lamb with the fresh herb-truffle butter.”

  “My apologies, Mrs. Garcia.”

  A moment later, the four-string quartet went on break. The girl stood on the dais, her back straight, her dress glittering, a bow in one hand and the violin tucked beneath her chin.

  “For your listening pleasure,” the Maître d' announced, clapping his hands, “the daughter of BioGen CEO Declan Black and a future virtuoso violinist in her own right. May I present Miss Amelia Black.”

  Micah couldn't help himself. He paused in the middle of explaining to a table of attractive, exquisitely dressed women in their sixties where the ship sourced their free-range lamb. He swung around, the Cabernet Sauvignon still in his hands, and watched her play.

  Amelia drew the bow across the strings. The first exquisite notes floated into the room, her beauty and finesse mesmerizing him. The music flowed over him, around him, through him.

  The song was sensuous, dark, and soulful. He recognized it but didn't know the composer—maybe Dvorak or Tchaikovsky. His mom always enjoyed classical music in the background when he read to her at the hospital. The music evoked the same soaring sensation as when he read Thomas or Plath or Cummings—emotions swelling up, deep, powerful, and stirring.

  As Amelia played, the tension in her jaw and around her eyes faded. The cold blankness of her face melted away, her expression transforming to intense joy. She closed her eyes, lost in the concentration of her art, her fingers moving with a beautiful fluidity and grace. She loved the music, she loved every moment of it—he could tell.

  As the last haunting note faded, there was a moment of complete stillness.

  “That's my girl!” Declan Black clapped as he rose to his feet, his face shining with delight and pride.

  The room broke into thunderous applause. Amelia opened her eyes, blinking as if she were coming out of a daze. Micah took a deep breath, like he was coming out of it with her.

  She gave a small bow and walked off the dais. She glided between the other tables and took her seat at the captain's table, smiling with a genuine light in her eyes, her face flushed.

  Micah stared after her, as did most of the guests. After a moment, the dining area returned to its usual noise level and the string quartet took their places, the music now only background to the clink and clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation.

  He shook himself out of his reverie and went about the rest of his duties for the evening, serving wine, steaming plates of food, and decadent desserts. But through it all, the deep, sonorous notes still vibrated in his bones.

  Once Micah finished serving second seating, he headed back into the galley to gather the linens and silverware to reset the tables. The galley was hot and loud, full of steam and steel and clanging dishware.

  “Rivera!” An older Indian waiter, Rahul Chadha, waved at him. Rahul gestured at the elevator in the rear of the galley. “We're out of cloth napkins. No one ever brought them up. You want to grab them for us?”

  “No problem.” The more experienced waiters always gave him the extra duties, but he didn’t mind. He was willing to earn his keep. Americans working cruise ships wasn't so rare anymore after the Second Depression. A dozen other Americans served on the crew, with more in staff and entertainment positions. Most people were willing to work to eat.

  He passed the conveyor belt carrying dirty pots and pans to the industrial-sized dishwashers and moved between the long steel prep tables filled with chopped vegetables and salad fixings.

  He took the service elevator below deck. The main provisions area was like a

  cavernous warehouse. Towering rows of pallets stacked with boxes and bags of goods like cleaning supplies, toilet paper, and soap.

  He maneuvered around a driverless forklift lowering a pallet of cardboard boxes and kept walking. Down here, the ship's engines roared dully. It smelled like brine and bleach. The sea lashed against the hull. He always felt claustrophobic, like the two hundred thousand tons of metal above him might crumple and collapse on him at any moment.

  In the laundry area, the air was humid and stifling. To the left, rows and rows of folded towels, sheets, and table linens were stacked inside a yellow metal cage. Over the steady roar of machinery, two service bots fed sheets into the jaws of a machine that automatically pressed and folded the linens.

  A short, stocky Asian man oversaw two other men as they unloaded a pallet packed with fifty-pound bags of detergent. A couple of the blue bags were split open.

  “Can I get a load of linen napkins, please?”

  The man straightened and quickly stepped in front of the pallet. His name tag read Liu Wei Zhang. He wore a yellow bandana tied around his forehead, and sweat beaded his hairline. “Of Course. Wu, help him please.”


  But Micah saw something before the man stepped in front of him, something white, square, and saran-wrapped poking out of the blue powder. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What's that?”

  “Nothing. Here, I'll help you. Come this way, we've got a fresh load of napkins for you.”

  Micah stepped around the man and brushed the powdered detergent aside. Packages of pills. Drugs. He recognized them. His stomach clenched. “You're smuggling Silk.”

  Zhang scowled. “Keep your voice down.”

  It made sense. Drug running was a huge business with any form of international transportation, even rich cruise ships. Considering how little the crew was paid, an extra few grand a trip was plenty of incentive to look the other way.

  But still, it was wrong. Micah had watched enough friends flush what little future they had down the toilet with drugs. And Serenaphin—Silk—was the worst of them. His own father had been hooked on the stuff, until it killed him. Fresh anger swept through Micah. “You know I can't do that.”

  “What are you going to do, then?”

  “I have to tell Schneider.” Franz Schneider was the chief security officer, a German guy in his mid-forties who always smoked cigars in the officer's quarters and the crew bar.

  Zhang snorted. “You think he isn't already in on it?”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “Talk to him yourself. He's paid good, that's all I know. Maybe he'll cut you in.”

  “I don't want to be cut in.” It wouldn't win him any friends, and probably more than a few enemies. He thought about those drugs on the streets, pickling the brains of thirteen-year-old kids, draining the light from their eyes, the life from their muscles. He thought about his father, his life force slowly sucked out of him as he sat slumped on the couch day after day, month after month, his ribs growing more prominent, the hollows in his cheeks deepening until he resembled a living skeleton. Until he was one. “I'll go over his head. I'll go to the captain if I have to.”

  Zhang shook his head, incredulous. He stepped close and poked the brass name tag over Micah's chest. A bolt of apprehension jolted through him. He hadn't thought to be afraid. Until now.

  “Your name.” Zhang's breath smelled sour and slightly garlicky. “Rivera. Your brother is on the security crew, yes?”

  Micah said nothing.

  Zhang read the answer on his face anyway. He smiled. “Do what you gotta do. You report the drugs and your brother goes with us. Thirty-year sentence for this many kilos, I think. Maybe he'll get out in time to meet your grandkids.”

  Micah struggled to find his voice. It felt like a giant hand crushing his windpipe. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your brother. He's—how do you say it? He's in deep, amigo.”

  Micah went rigid. A memory of his brother flashed through his mind. Gabriel teaching him to ride a hover board when he was seven and Gabriel nine—Gabriel gripping his arm, trying to steady him as the board wobbled like a top. Gabriel always behind him, keeping him safe as he released and pushed the board, Gabriel yelling, “Go, go, go!”

  A crack of doubt opened inside Micah. Not Gabriel. It couldn’t be Gabriel.

  Zhang sneered. “What are you gonna do now?”

  Micah wanted to punch him in the face. Instead, he bit the inside of his cheeks hard enough to draw blood. “Just give me the napkins.”

  “Ask him,” Zhang said, his eyes glittering. “He’ll tell you himself.”

  The crack of doubt opened wider.

  6

  Willow

  Willow shielded her eyes with her hand and watched Benjie frolicking in the pool. The sun shone bright in the cloudless sky, though the breeze was still brisk. The ocean stretched in every direction, a huge expanse of deep blue silk.

  It was the third day of the cruise. Tomorrow, the Grand Voyager would dock at a private island in the middle of the Bahamas. Until then, everyone busied themselves with eating, drinking, sunning, and amusing themselves with the pool, the casino, the comedy clubs, the spa, the solarium, and a dozen other activities to while away their time.

  Instead of napping on the sun deck or hanging in the young adult lounge or gorging herself in one of the fancy restaurants, Willow was stuck watching her siblings. Again. All Benjie wanted to do was ride that ridiculous tube slide ten million times.

  Her mom sat down on the lounge chair next to her, dropped her purse, and wiped sweat from her brow. Her mouth was taut, her eyes tired. She'd been working all morning. And she’d even worn her housekeeping uniform. Some vacation.

  “Hey, neneng,” her mom said, using the Tagalog word for ‘little girl’.

  “Hey.”

  Several women glanced at them as they glided by, their noses wrinkling slightly. The cleaning staff was supposed to stay neatly hidden, slaving away in the staterooms all day so these people didn’t have to pick their own clothes off the floor, so they could have their chocolates on their pillows every night and their eighty-dollar bottled waters fully restocked. Willow gritted her teeth, her cheeks burning.

  Her mom, of course, was totally oblivious. She squinted and patted the shirt pocket of her uniform. “Did I put my sunglasses in your beach bag? I can't find them.”

  “They're on your head.”

  “Oops. Silly me.” Her mom was smart, but she was scatterbrained when she was tired.

  “You going to hang out with us now?” Willow tried to keep the resentment out of her voice.

  Her mom rubbed her hands against her slacks. “In a bit, I promise. We've got a minor problem. Some of those new sani-bots are malfunctioning. They're supposed to make our lives easier, but not when they keep tossing thousand-dollar perfume in the trash.” She sighed. “The company was a bit over-eager in their assessments. There aren't enough actual human staff to make up the difference.”

  Willow rolled her eyes. “Can you imagine the outrage if anyone misses their octopus-shaped towels?”

  “Things are just a bit chaotic right now.”

  “Can't your replacement or understudy, or whatever, take care of stuff?”

  “She's new and she's overwhelmed. I need to help straighten things out, then I'm all yours.”

  Willow shoved her hair behind her ears. “You can't be serious.”

  “I need you to watch Benjie and Zia for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Willow was usually respectful, but her frustration bubbled up, and she couldn’t help herself. “That's what I always do! This is supposed to be—”

  “Please, Lo Lo, keep your voice down. Don't let the guests see you upset.”

  “I am a guest!”

  Her mother frowned, lines fanning out around her eyes, her mouth, and between her eyebrows. She wasn't old. She was younger than some of these tucked-up, sucked-in plastic dolls. And she'd even be pretty if she did something with her hair or wore a little makeup once in a while. But her mom always worried too much and worked too hard, harder than any other guest on this cruise, probably. “I need you on my side, honey. My supervisor asked me to help her, and I can't say no. Do you understand?”

  Willow crossed her arms over her chest. It was childish, but she couldn't help herself. For half a second, she'd allowed herself to think this trip might be as amazing as advertised. But even this was too good to be true, just like everything else in her life. “Whatever.”

  “Benjie can go to the Kid Zone on Deck Fourteen, but Zia's too old. I looked at the passenger manifest, and hardly anyone her age is signed up for the tween group. Whatever she decides, she's not old enough to be by herself.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  “And when you get food for Benjie, make sure it’s from the allergen-free menu.”

  “I know.”

  “Please, Willow. Do this for me, okay? You’re ate. They’re your responsibility. Take care of your siblings.”

  “Uh huh,” she muttered. Sometimes it seemed like that was all she did. She was sick and tired of being Ate, of always being the responsi
ble one. “Can I at least call Rihanna?”

  “My phone’s in my purse. I’m going to say hi to Benjie.” Her mom walked over to the pool, drawing even more attention to her maid’s uniform.

  Anger and frustration swirled in her gut. It wasn’t fair. It was beyond not fair. Fourteen days of awesome had quickly turned into the same old crap. She rooted around in her mom’s purse. At least she could talk to Rihanna, her best friend since fifth grade. Rihanna’s goofy grin always made her feel better, and—there it was. A glint of red. Her mom’s staff wristband.

  She sucked in her breath. She could get into any room with this. Any room. Guilt pricked her, but she pushed it down. If she could really snatch something as amazing at that diamond bracelet, it would be a game changer. It might actually make a difference for her, for her whole family.

  She grabbed the wristband and shoved it in her pocket. A thrill tingled through her veins.

  She pulled out her mom’s old phone and stood up. No one here used a phone anymore. Her cheeks blooming with heat, she held it down at her side and strolled along the deck, away from the hundreds of lounge chairs surrounding the pool.

  The wind tugged at her cornflower blue sundress, the one Rihanna lent her. She was wearing Rihanna’s strappy four-inch sandals, too. She felt like a completely different person in a pretty dress and heels. Like she could be different. Someone else. Someone better. At least, once she got her hands on that bracelet.

  When she was far enough from the crowd, she swiped her mom’s passcode into the phone. It was old and didn’t even have a holo-port, nothing like the gorgeous SmartFlex cuffs everyone else wore. But she’d take a 2D Rihanna over no Rihanna any day.

  The unfolded screen lit up, and Rihanna’s face appeared, the mauve walls of her bedroom behind her. Rihanna was usually all bright-eyed and bursting with fierce energy, but today her brown skin looked faded, her eyes were glassy, and her braids were frayed and unkempt. “Please tell me you’re already engaged to a wealthy playboy CEO-wannabe.”