A Sea of Shattered Glass

by Kyla Stone

  He reared back as if she’d slapped him, his face contorting. “I don’t understand? Are you serious? Oh, that’s right. How could I forget? You think you’re special, the only broken one.” He whirled away from her and stalked back down the beach.

  “I didn’t mean it! Silas!” The wind took her words and flung them over the water.

  But he didn’t turn around.

  She stood there, alone. Beads of sweat formed at her hairline, heat beating down on her head and shoulders. Dizziness washed over her.

  Her SmartFlex pinged. “Your biostats have exceeded healthy parameters. Please cool the exterior temperature by a minimum of ten degrees. Would you like suggestions—”

  “Disengage,” she whispered.

  “Shall I send an alert to Elise Black?”

  “Disengage!”

  The SmartFlex beeped and fell silent.

  The sun hung suspended in the sky like a burning heart. Something shriveled inside her. Silas had saved her, like always, and all she managed to do was push him further away. She couldn’t do this by herself. She couldn’t.

  She closed her eyes. The bright light burned through her closed lids, through her eyeballs and struck the center of her brain, like a harsh, blazing sun inside her own skull.

  12

  Micah

  After Micah finished his shift, he made his way to the lido deck. The passengers still had plenty of energy after their shore excursion to Ocho Rios. He ignored the cruise director emceeing the late-night dance party, the kids still splashing and yelling in the pool and spa, the strategically spaced couples pressed against each other all along the railing.

  The crew had their own deck, but the view was nothing like this: the ocean on either side stretching as far as the eye could see, the horizon bleeding into the darkness.

  He went to the glass railing and looked out at the vast and endless sea. The wind whipped his hair into his face, stinging his eyes. He was surrounded by so much beauty, but inside, he felt ripped in half.

  He’d tried to talk to Gabriel again earlier in the afternoon. For the last two days, he’d wracked his brain, desperate for a solution. Maybe there was still some way to fix this. They could figure it out together. Micah found him down in the officer mess, with a plate of soggy green beans and mac and cheese.

  Gabriel grinned, stabbed a green bean on his fork, and waved it at him. “Remember how Mom always made us eat a serving of vegetables at every meal, even breakfast?”

  Micah’s shoulders tensed. How could Gabriel act like everything was fine when Micah was so sick to his stomach, he’d hardly eaten more than a few spoonfuls of rice in two days? “I need to talk to you.”

  Gabriel’s face darkened. “Again?”

  But he stood and followed Micah into the narrow corridor. The walls were beige, tacked with peeling posters of notices and safety policies. The bare floors and exposed piping were a sharp contrast against the decadence upstairs. But no one cared about the state of the crew quarters.

  Micah straightened his glasses. “I have an idea. We can throw the drugs overboard. You can erase the security footage and no one will know it was you.”

  Gabriel leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “The drug cartel knows who’s involved on the ship. And what they don’t know, they’ll find out. And then they’ll dismember us one by one.”

  “Or we can go to the captain, together. If you report it, then you can get immunity.”

  Gabriel sighed. “I’m not turning on the rest of the guys. I’m not a snitch. Are you?”

  Micah bit the inside of his cheeks. “That’s not fair. It’s not snitching to report a crime.”

  Two crew members walked by. Micah edged out of the way to let them pass.

  “You’re a good person, Micah. That’s what I love about you. But I need you to trust that I’m a good person, too.”

  Micah knew his brother was a good person. He knew it in his deepest heart. Yeah, Gabriel could be a hothead. He had anger in him, just like their father. He joined that New Patriots group, always railing against the corrupt government. He got in fights at school. And he’d put that boy from the park in a hospital all those years ago. Micah still winced at the memory of what Gabriel did because of him, for him. An act of violence Micah couldn’t condone. But still, Gabriel’s actions were always to protect something or someone else.

  But this was different. None of it made any sense. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  Gabriel’s expression softened. “I’d tell you if I could. It’s for a good cause, that’s all I can say.”

  “That doesn’t make what you’re doing any less wrong. Don’t you see that?”

  “It’s easy for you. Some people can afford to only see things in black and white. But the rest of us can’t do that.”

  “Right and wrong is black and white.” His mom taught him to do the right thing, even when it hurt. Be good, she always told Micah, squeezing his hand. Be brave. Those were the last words she’d spoken to him in the hospital. God has such plans for you, my son. Be good. Be brave.

  Gabriel’s mouth hardened. “You sound like Mom when you talk like that.”

  “Gabriel—”

  “Do you have my back or don’t you?”

  Micah hesitated.

  Gabriel’s gaze pinned him. “It's just you and me. Just us.”

  “Always,” Micah forced out, his throat gritty.

  “See? I knew you’d come through. You always do.”

  And then he’d walked away again, leaving Micah alone with his anguish.

  Now Micah stared out at the ocean, their parting words echoing in his mind. A pale strip of moonlight reflected on the water. In the distance, the lights from a sister cruise ship glittered like a star fallen from the sky.

  Doubt gnawed at him. How could he stand by and do nothing while toxic, life-destroying drugs made their way across the ocean and polluted his country, his city, his community, his streets? Silk did things to you. It sucked out your life force and left you a husk, until the only thing you cared about was more Silk.

  On its own, Silk never killed anyone. It was too carefully calibrated. It smoothed out every emotion, eventually sapping the brain of desire for anything—including food. That was how it killed his dad.

  His dad, who’d worked hard to provide for his family. Who came home after a long day and cooked supper so their mom could have a break. Who loved woodworking and carved wooden trains and whittled tiny people for Micah and Gabriel when they were little. He’d had a fiery temper, but he never laid a hand on his wife and kids.

  His dad couldn’t bear to watch his wife waste away from cancer, weaker and sicker day after day. His helpless rage twisted inward, burning him up from the inside until he finally turned to Silk to make it all go away. Silk made everything peaceful and calm and easy, so easy you didn’t want to do anything hard anymore, like working or taking care of your kids. Silk was evil.

  And yet.

  How could he turn in his own brother? His blood, his only remaining family? Their Aunt Francesca, a cold and bitter woman, didn't count. She stopped counting the moment she kicked Gabriel out of her cramped one-bedroom apartment on his eighteenth birthday, the day the welfare checks stopped coming. Micah had followed two years later.

  Gabriel was the one who found a place for him on the couch of a friend, and a job— hauling soil in dump trucks from the parks and meadows to the neighborhoods of the wealthy, augmenting their dying, drought-stricken grass. Gabriel who pulled the strings to get him this gig on the ship in the first place, bypassing the hundreds, if not thousands, of well-qualified applicants ahead of him.

  Gabriel was his home, his compass, his fixed North Star. If he betrayed Gabriel and turned him in, his brother and the rest would receive mandatory thirty-year prison terms for moving that level of product. He wasn't stupid. There would be consequences. A dozen men thrown in prison, the income their families depended on drying up to dust.

  Mic
ah stared at the water until his vision blurred. He bit the inside of his cheeks, tasting blood. A seed of loathing sprouted in his chest.

  He knew what he would do. As soon as he'd spoken the word, “Always”, he'd known.

  Nothing. He would do nothing.

  And already, he hated himself.

  13

  Amelia

  Amelia

  Amelia stood next to her mother at the front of a crowd of about one hundred and fifty people, all invited members of her father’s Health Summit and their families. She smoothed her cream chiffon gown. It shimmered with a subtle glow, the microwire filaments barely visible.

  The Grand Ballroom was located above the bridge, over thirteen stories above the waterline. It was exquisitely decorated in old-world charm and historic elegance. Crystal chandeliers reflected light off the gleaming wood floors. White-jacketed waiters flitted through the exclusive crowd with trays of hors d'oeuvres and bubbling champagne.

  But what Amelia loved most were the floor-to-ceiling windows along all four walls. The ballroom rotated slowly, offering spectacular 360-degree views. On every side, the water shimmered endlessly blue, the immense ocean like the sky turned upside down.

  “We’re now officially halfway through the cruise,” her father said to the crowd. “I hope you’ve been enjoying our sixth annual Health Summit. We’re thrilled to announce our newest partner in quality healthcare, Tyler Horne, founder of VitaliChip Industries.”

  Declan waited for the enthusiastic clapping to die down. “The Prime 1.0 Optimum Health chip is the next wave of innovation. Embedded, biocompatible health trackers monitoring everything from EKGs and white blood cell counts to hormone and vitamin imbalances and blood glucose levels. Instant, powerful data enabling you to make the best decisions about your own health. Best of all, they're powered by biocells utilizing the body's own energy, so they never need charging.”

  Her mother gazed at her father in blissful adoration, her hands clasped together in front of her chest. But Amelia couldn’t look away from the windows as the sun began to set, ribboning the sky in shades of pink, violet, and orange. It was so beautiful, so peaceful.

  “The applications are truly endless,” Declan continued. “And they don't stop at health care. Imagine paperless, cardless financial transactions, all conducted by the swipe of a thumb. Imagine waving your hand to unlock your front doors, automatically log in to your financial accounts, even start your car. The VitaliChip is a universal identity token, bridging the divide between your physical and digital self. Soon, you won’t even need your SmartFlex anymore. Imagine—” Declan stopped himself, flashing a grin. His eyes gleamed with possibilities and dollar signs. “I know what some of you are thinking, and yes, we can do that. Let's talk.”

  “To BioGen and the future!” Tyler Horne said.

  “To VitaliChip!” Declan raised his glass, scarlet liquid swirling in the cut glass.

  Everyone applauded.

  The champagne flowed along with laughter, conversation, and dancing. A pianist played soft classical music on the grand piano. Outside the windows, the sky was on fire, the water burnished a beautiful copper red. The sun sank toward the horizon, infusing the revolving room with a soft golden light.

  But even in the midst of so much loveliness, there was an undercurrent of tension in the room. She felt it like a low electric buzz. Some in the crowd spoke in hushed whispers, their expressions taut. Others glanced between Declan and their SmartFlexes. The rumors of the failure of the universal vaccine swirled below the surface. And Senator López was conspicuously absent.

  Anxiety knotted in her gut. She felt brittle, hollowed out. Like it was all her fault, somehow. She watched the sunset until the last sliver of orange disappeared. She tore her gaze from the windows and forced herself to return to her duties.

  She drifted around the room, extolling the virtues of her father's leadership and singing the praises of the CEOs, financial bigwigs, corporate sponsors, and senators, giggling enthusiastically at jokes, pausing to bestow compliments and accept them with fluttering lashes and flushed cheeks. She was her father’s daughter. It was exhausting.

  After an hour, she paused to refill her drink, scanning the room for Silas. Jericho stood next to a few other security officers, his usual frown etched on his face. A few yards away, Gabriel Rivera chatted with a waiter. His thick, curly hair brushed the collar of his uniform. It was the kind of hair you wanted to run your fingers through. She looked away, heat creeping up her cheeks.

  She sensed someone watching her. The back of her neck prickled. She swung around, scrutinizing the dancing couples, the clusters of people talking and laughing, the circulating wait staff.

  A tall, muscular officer leaned against the wall. She’d seen him before, watching her from the back of the Jazz Lounge when she played the violin. He had a smug, oily face and dark, almost reptilian eyes. His gaze slithered up and down her body.

  She was used to a certain amount of looking. But this was different. It felt like he was invading her, opening her up, turning her inside out.

  He caught her eye and smiled, slow and lecherous, his mouth bristling with teeth.

  Her stomach lurched.

  She turned quickly, stumbled, and ran smack into her brother.

  Silas cocked an eyebrow. “You drunk, big sister?” The dress shirt beneath his dinner jacket was wrinkled, the bruising around his eye still a lurid yellowish green.

  “No, of course not. I—” She stopped. What could she even say? That a guy had looked at her wrong? That she'd felt something? Though she had. Like a cold blade sliding between her ribs. She was used to being scrutinized. Even leered at. But this guy didn't want her, he wanted to hurt her.

  Silas took a lazy swallow of wine. “Sure you aren't.”

  “Silas—”

  He moved past her. “See you around.”

  “What about the rest of the party?”

  “Been there, done that. Got my souvenir.” He lifted a bottle of wine by the neck. “Have loads of fun for me.”

  “Where you going?”

  He gave a sullen shrug. “Anywhere but here.”

  She almost said something. But Silas always knew. He only needed to look at her to know what she was feeling and thinking, what she needed. But he hadn't looked at her. He hadn't cared enough to look at her. He hadn’t even spoken to her since yesterday at the beach, when she’d messed up again.

  What's wrong with us? But she couldn't bring herself to say the words. Because deep down, she already knew. But she didn’t know what to do or how to fix it.

  “Silas—”

  But he was already gone, slipping silently through the crowd.

  She forced herself to glance back. The man was still staring at her with those glossy, almost lidless black eyes.

  A sick, sinking sensation gripped her.

  “Dance with me!” Celeste flounced up, flourishing her flute of champagne as she linked her arm through Amelia's. “I asked your brother, but he's playing hard to get or something.”

  “Or something,” Amelia echoed. She let Celeste pull her to the center of the floor, though every hair on the back of her neck was still standing on end.

  “This scene is so lame.” Celeste sighed dramatically. “At least we've got an invite to the crew lounge later tonight. Have you seen how hot some of the officers are?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Celeste's gaze drifted past Amelia, searching for something or someone more intriguing. “Ugh! Kendyll is plastered already.” Her voice was full of righteous indignation. “But who wouldn't be, with a mother like that? The woman's two sheets to the wind and flirting shamelessly with anything with a—”

  “Actually, Ms. Tamblyn is trying to wriggle out of the conversation.” The woman's feet were pointed away from Senator Pineda, a wrinkled old guy with hair like stuffing out of a chair. He kept leaning in and grasping her shoulder. Her hand fluttered around her neck, covering the hollow of her throat, the exact same gesture Amelia’
s mother used when she was nervous or uncomfortable.

  “What? Of course she isn't—”

  Ms. Tamblyn mouthed something, probably an apology, and scurried out from underneath Senator Pineda's cloying touch.

  Celeste grimaced. “Ugh. How do you even do that? You are too weird sometimes, you know that? I mean, socially, you're a bit too—”

  “Do you see that guy over there?” Amelia interrupted. “That slimy officer?”

  “The one with the square head, looks like an MMA fighter?”

  “Yeah. Him. Is he looking over here? He's been creeping me out all night.”

  “Eww. He’s disgusting.” Celeste pursed her lips, her eyes widening. “Do you want me to say something to one of the other officers? Or we could tell your dad? Or Silas?”

  Celeste could be shallow and petty, but she was a good friend when she wanted to be.

  Amelia shook her head. “It’s not like he actually said or did anything. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t me.”

  “It’s definitely not you. He’s a total creeper. If he tries anything, your dad will fire his ass. Or, you know, dump him over the railing or something.”

  “Thanks, Celeste.” Amelia scanned the ballroom for the man again but didn't see him. He must have slipped out. The thought of his malevolent gaze made her skin crawl. She shivered.

  Across the room, her mother leaned against a linen-covered table featuring the pastry chef's specialty: two sugar-spun swans facing each other, their edible necks intertwined. She chatted up Allistair Whitaker, the international banking guru, laughing at one of his terrible jokes. She locked eyes with Amelia, raising her eyebrows in a silent question. Are you okay? Amelia nodded.

  Celeste's gaze drifted past her shoulder, her eyes widening. She clutched Amelia's arm. “Guess who's coming over right now!”