The sea rarely gave up her dead, but sometimes, I had enough magic to make a difference. My magic would cost me. It always did. A headache already developed deep in my skull, the first warning sign I toed a dangerous line.
Some prices were worth paying, and as long as I didn’t die from it, I’d probably recover—and if I did burn out my talent, I’d still be a valuable asset to search and rescue.
My talent frying might be a mercy and protect me in the long run. A burned-out elite still classified as an elite, but a flared borderline didn’t rise in ranks. If my talent died, I wouldn’t be re-ranked, I wouldn’t be evaluated, and the whole thing would be classified as a desperation-induced flare.
I’d be safe from the cutthroat world of politics and royals.
I didn’t need any extra worries burdening my shoulders. I had enough just making sure I could do everything I needed to do without someone getting killed in the first place.
I finished opening the gaping hole in the hull, using most of the ice to direct it towards the other tanker before I climbed onto the deck.
Having a good view of the main bridge and upper deck would make my work easier. I grunted at the weight of the oxygen tank strapped to my back. I took a few minutes to catch my breath and steady my nerves when I reached the top. As far as plans went, busting out glass on the bridge and retrieving the bodies would be the easier part of my work. While I’d removed most of the ice from the hull, I hadn’t stripped all of it away, so I had some faith the ship would stay on the rocks long enough for me to get the bodies out.
I picked my way across the deck and up to the main bridge, careful to dodge the bodies, and located a fire extinguisher, which I used to break out one of the windows. I gave the window credit; it took over a dozen blows for it to crack, and I sweated by the time I punched out a hole large enough for the men.
I peeked through the busted glass, pleased to see the ship had tilted enough the corpses would hit the water when I shoved them out.
Simple plans often worked the best, and while I found the idea of chucking their bodies out the window gruesome, it would get the job done without using even more magic. All I needed to do was make sure the bodies could be found again.
A little ice would make certain they could be retrieved with minimal risk to rescuers.
By the time I reached the bridge, the sun had fully set, and the sea glowed from my magic and the huge spotlights from the rescue tanker. Smaller ships joined the fray, and even from a distance, I recognized tug boats and short-range cargo boats, both of which could be loaded with sealed barrels of crude to get it out of the water.
No one would be happy about those ships carrying crude, and every search and rescue team in deployment range would be on edge until the cargo was safely to shore or transferred to a ship designed to handle the volatile cargo.
Desperate times and desperate measures brought out the best and worst in people, myself included.
I wanted to find out who’d shot the officers and use my magic in a way unbefitting of a decent human being.
I began with the captain, grimacing at the bloated state of his corpse. I was able to move him, his body no longer gripped by rigor mortis, which supported my initial theory he’d been dead for quite a while. I dragged his body to the window, hauled him up, covered him in a thick layer of ice to help ensure he floated, and made him glow bright enough I’d be able to locate him once he hit the water so I could secure his body.
I shoved him through and winced at the loud splash below. The waves snagged his body, washing him towards shore. My ice did its job, keeping him afloat. “Captain DeSoules, I’ve illuminated the captain’s body; the waves are pushing him towards your position.”
“Roger.”
I repeated the process with the other two bodies, cocooning them in ice before shoving them out the window and into the ocean. While the sea didn’t often give up her dead, she took mercy on the murdered men, the waves carrying them towards the New York oil tanker without any guidance from me.
My task completed, I headed down to the deck and began the next phase of my plan, which involved forcing the crude out of the ship.
No matter how I went about it, I had my work cut out for me. Waiting would only make matters worse, so I ignored my misgivings and siphoned water from the ocean so I could create a layer of ice over the oil and begin the tedious process of forcing it from the interior of the tanker.
I couldn’t hold the ship in place, force oil out of the tanker, and contain the crude. Something had to give, and of all my choices, letting the ship sink would serve best.
One way or another, the oil would eventually float, and it was easier to contain it than it was trying to keep enough ice intact to hold the tanker in place.
My head throbbed, and while releasing some of my magic helped, it would be a matter of time before the pain intensified to blinding agony. When I reached that stage, someone would be pulling me out of the water, and it’d be a coin toss if I’d make it to the hospital alive.
The other waveweavers ran the same risks I did, too, which only dumped even more stress on my shoulders. I doubted they had any extra experience containing an entire tanker of spilled crude. While I bet the Texan Royals could do the job with an arm tied behind their backs and half asleep, I doubted I’d ever measure up to them.
They used their magic, embraced it, and nurtured it. I buried mine.
We had only one thing in common: we all paid a price for our magic. When everything came crashing down, my headache would make way for hypothermia. As the magic leeched the warmth from my body, my organs would shut down, and death would eventually come.
Waveweavers had an unfortunate tendency to freeze to death.
I’d never pushed my luck once the headache hit, but I had never needed to contain something as massive as an oil spill before.
I’d done my fair share of time in European hospitals; even using magic, the search and rescue circuit was dangerous on a good day. My last stint, I’d broken both of my legs thanks to a bad storm and a severed line. I’d gotten lucky. I’d been ready to dive, so I hadn’t drowned before someone managed to fish me out of the ocean and cart me to the hospital along with the idiots who thought it’d be fun to ride storm-driven waves in a small boat.
My boss would take one look at me and tear strips out of me for pushing my luck. He fell in the middle of the pack for talents, but he had strong enough talent to identify life-threatening injuries, including talent exertion.
It made him invaluable during a rescue, ensuring the right people reached the ER first.
In my current state, he’d spend five minutes screaming at me before dragging me to the ER himself, likely by my ear.
I checked the status of the crude still in the interior of the tanker, and a red, blinking light drew my attention to something deep in the bowels of the ship.
Above the gaping hole in the hull, someone had bolted a black box with a tangle of wires attached to it. My ice formed a thin layer over it. I eyed the distance between the hole and the device to be roughly ten feet, although the interior of the ship had sustained damage similar to the upper areas. I peeled my ice away from it for a better look, summoning a dim light around it.
Movies often depicted bombs to look somewhat like the blocky device attached to the hull, and I had plenty of mangled metal to support the theory that I stared at a rather large explosive. I scratched my head, wondering why it hadn’t detonated.
I considered asking Captain DeSoules if such a device was installed in an oil tanker, but I opted against it. It hadn’t detonated yet, I’d uncovered it without accidentally triggering it, and I was almost done emptying the tanker of crude.
Someone other than me, after I was safely away from the tanker, could deal with the potential explosive device. I clenched my teeth, concentrated on my work, and shunted the remainder of the oil towards the ocean. Seawater poured in to fill the space, and the entire ship shuddered.
Deciding that was my
cue to go, I staggered to my feet, slid down the deck until I only had a few feet to fall before hitting the water, and jumped.
I twisted and swam for the safety of the rescue rigs and the smaller ships bobbing in the waves, hard at work to preserve the ocean and France’s coast from the spill. I stopped halfway there, turning to observe the tanker rocking on its perilous perch. “Captain DeSoules, the tanker should sink soon. Seawater is flooding the hull now, and the majority of the oil is outside of the ship.”
“Excellent. You’re done. The other waveweavers can handle the crude from—”
A concussive bang and roiling ball of flame consumed the tanker, illuminating the evening sky before the darkness of night settled over the sea.
Chapter Three
By some miracle, I dodged death.
Flaming debris rained down, but none of it hit me. Like any smart person caught in a rain of fire, metal, and oil, I dove for the general safety of the depths. The explosion helped in one unexpected way; the deafening bang and blinding blast did a good job of breaking my concentration and ensuring I couldn’t keep using my magic even if I wanted to.
I didn’t. Despite a high risk of being shipped back to the Royal States to get a new passport, I liked living.
I blinked to restore my vision, and bright balls of phantom light danced in front of my eyes along with the imprint of the tanker detonating.
“Alders?” Captain DeSoules asked.
“Here. I was outside of the blast radius.”
“Good. Avoid the area near the tanker; some of the crude has ignited. My waveweavers are making certain it doesn’t spread to our containment sector. Do you need help?”
“I should be able to reach one of the ships, but I’ll need a hand up.”
“Any injuries?”
“Talent exertion,” I replied. “I have a headache you wouldn’t believe, and that blast didn’t help. I was looking at the tanker when it blew.”
“Any blindness?”
“Spots,” I admitted. “I should be all right.”
As long as I didn’t drown or exert my talent to the point of no return, magic could do a lot, even restore damaged sight.
“Surface. I’m sending someone to pick you up. You’ve done your part. I’m handing the com over to my first mate. Keep talking to him.”
The first mate, Douggie, had a New York accent so thick I could barely understand him, and before he’d become a first mate of an oil tanker, he must have done first responder work somewhere. I recognized his questions as the kind I asked when trying to keep someone talking. Once he got me through a breakdown of potential health concerns, with talent exertion taking the top spot, he went through my name and address, which created plenty of confusion as I couldn’t pronounce the street I lived on to save my life.
I really needed to work on my French.
“What’s an American doing over here, anyway?” he asked. “That address is in France.”
“Europe always needs search and rescue divers with waveweaving talents, and the Royal States has limited spots for them. Pay’s good here, the food’s great, and the work’s a challenge.”
“I’d say, looking at this mess. Good work with that tanker. I’ve never seen someone use ice like that before.”
Few could use ice, period. Base elements came to call with ease, but things got tricky outside of the obvious earth, fire, water, and air. If he didn’t know about ice’s rarity, I wouldn’t educate him about it. “I usually stick to water.”
“And illumination. Low ranked?”
“Low enough—too low of be any interest to the Royal States,” I replied. “You know how hybrid talents get.”
“Versatile but nothing to write home about, so in your case, perfect for your job and little else.”
I changed my mind about my general dislike of New Yorkers. Douggie made it so easy to play to expectations. “Exactly. With my luck, I’ll burn the whole lot out with this damned stunt.”
“Well, we’ll try to avoid that. We’ve got a few powerhouses with healing talents on the way, and we’ll send them wherever they’re needed. France is footing the bill. They’re grateful this mess was contained. They’re not so happy that tanker went up like that, but it could’ve been a lot worse. It could’ve taken that whole batch of crude up with it when it went. That smoke’s toxic. It’s going to be bad enough making sure this doesn’t blow over anyone nearby, but it beats having a whole load go up.”
Swimming without flippers and carting around the oxygen tank while coping with a skull-splitting headache wasn’t my idea of a good time. If I could have ditched my helmet and been able to communicate with the ship, I would’ve dumped the entire load and bought new gear myself. “I’d say. Give me a sec. I’m figuring out my position.”
I spotted the NYS Triumphant and debated my options. Realistically, I’d have to get closer to the ship—or relay directions on where I was at in the water. I probably could have gotten away with a little light to help guide them to me, but someone would hand my ass to me over it after admitting I suffered from talent exertion.
Counting my blessings that my vision didn’t seem too impaired from the blast, I swam for the ship. “I’m headed for your tanker. It’s close enough I can make that swim, but I’m not looking forward to getting up on deck with this gear.”
“You’ll be able to take it off before you make the climb, so don’t worry about that. If you can’t make the climb, we’ll haul you up. There’s plenty of smaller boats that can take your gear so you won’t have to dump it in the drink.”
As I knew how much my gear cost, I’d appreciate that sometime after my head stopped its relentless pounding. I made the swim to the tanker where I was met, as promised, by one of the smaller boats participating in the containment effort. Without the weight of the oxygen tank and the rest of my gear weighing me down, it was much easier to stay afloat.
It didn’t help me on the staying conscious front, which became questionable from the moment I tried to scale a rope ladder up to the oil tanker’s main tank. Somehow, I reached the top with some help from the crew and made it to the ship’s officers’ quarters, where the ship’s doctor coaxed me into drinking warm broth because he worried coffee, particularly the caffeine, would worsen my condition.
Then, because he was an imperious New Yorker who got what he wanted when he wanted it, he demanded a helicopter and issued some colorful threats on what would happen if I wasn’t on it.
“How does someone rip a spleen out of a nose?” I asked, aware I slurred, one of the more overt signs I was a walking disaster area. My teeth chattered from hypothermia, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I had a side dish of concussion from my adventures on board the tanker. The silvery thermal blanket helped, but I’d seen talent exertion enough to recognize it only slowed the symptoms. It also didn’t help that my right arm was outside of its warmth, as I hadn’t dodged the debris as well as I’d thought. I wasn’t sure what the ship’s doctor would do about the gash if anything; he’d seemed more interested about extracting spleens from noses.
Between creative threats, I’d been informed a doctor at a nearby hospital, using a mixture of magic and medicine, would start with raising my core temperature. Then the magic would come into play, stemming the tide of talent exertion and giving my body a chance to recover.
“Very carefully. You’d need to remove a lot of other organs that are in the way. It’d be very messy.” The doctor pointed at my arm, which bled far less than I thought it should. “I’ve got the locals on board, and I can do the stitch work before the helicopter arrives. It doesn’t take long. Your choice. You won’t bleed out before you reach the hospital, but I’d rather take care of that myself.”
“Do what makes you happy. You’re the doc. I’m just the idiot who jumps out of helicopters to rescue folks. We’re used to being sent to the body shop. Part of the job.” I grimaced. “I usually dodge the worst of it.”
“You probably haven’t gone up against an oil spill, eithe
r.”
“True, that.”
“I’ll work as fast as I can, but this is going to hurt.”
I offered my arm, which should have throbbed but didn’t, yet another concerning sign I’d bitten off more than I could chew. “If you talk to my boss, please tell him I wasn’t an asshat on purpose.”
“I’ll just tell him you saved the French coast from a very nasty environmental disaster. I think you’ll be fine. There’s a damned talented medical mage on the way, and if she can’t patch you up, nobody can.”
One of the ship doctor’s needles contained more than a local anesthetic. I’d been sedated enough times during medical procedures to recognize the sensation, and when I began the slow crawl to coherency, I appreciated dodging the pain. A pair of ibuprofen later, and I’d be as good as new.
Granted, with my luck, the lethargy wasn’t from a sedative but from the serious painkillers only hospitals could prescribe, and I’d regret everything when they wore off. Considering the gash across my arm, either was equally probable. I cracked open an eye to confirm I was in a hospital. The sterile white walls, presence of various monitors, and an IV stand offered sufficient proof for my needs. No one was in the room with me, not even another patient, which I appreciated. It gave me a few quiet minutes before someone would make a mess of my day.
Doctors giving me a rundown of my health and the various ways I’d impaired or threatened it tended to drive me more than a little crazy. While I usually learned from my mistakes, search and rescue folks were all alike in one regard.
We put our lives on the line for others, and we paid our dues with alarming frequency.
The door opened, and a woman in a doctor’s coat strode in. Her dark brown eyes slid over me, and she made a notation on her clipboard. Her blonde hair, piled on top of her head in a messy bun, needed someone with a brush and time to show it a lot of love, as I doubted its owner cared for it at all. According to her expression, someone was about to die, and I hoped that someone wasn’t me.
Bonds Page 3
