Rising Tide

by Rajan Khanna

  Sounds good to me, I think. I already have my revolver. I realize that makes me a hypocrite, but fuck it—Whistler and Chase aren’t exactly my friends.

  “Take us out the back way,” I say to Sarah.

  The thing about the base is that it’s actually pretty large. Fenced in, yes, but the living quarters, according to Sarah, aren’t that close to the water and the officers use a series of cars to get around inside the grounds. It’s into one of these that Sarah ushers us.

  “I’ll keep the lights off,” she says. “I should be able to navigate well enough in the dark. I’ve been doing it most of my life.”

  “Are there other cars out here?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “But I’m hoping we’ll be able to avoid them.”

  The car is an open-topped vehicle, with four seats and a simple windshield. The hope is that right now we look like four uniformed, completely-belonging-in-this-base individuals. And with the lights off, hopefully we won’t call attention to ourselves.

  “What about the pumps?” Whistler hisses.

  “I put them in a raft, dropped them into the sound,” Sarah says.

  “The what?” Whistler asks.

  “The water,” Sarah says. “The current should take them north. I put a tracker in with them. We should be able to find them once we get into the water.”

  “Or the air,” I say. I’m starting to get desperate to be back in the air. I’m sick of water. Being on it. Having it forced into my body. All of it.

  The car hits a bump and we all go lurching.

  “Watch where you’re going,” Whistler grunts.

  “I can’t see very well!” Sarah says. “I’m doing the best that I can.”

  “Leave her alone,” I say to Whistler. I realize that I’ve started thinking that Sarah is on my side, and Whistler and Chase aren’t, but that isn’t exactly true. I don’t know that I can trust Sarah or that I can’t trust Whistler and Chase.

  I just want to get back to the Phoenix.

  We’ve been driving for a little while when we see the flash of lights nearby.

  “Shit,” Sarah says.

  I watch as the lights swivel toward us and another car, one very like ours, starts moving toward us.

  “They’re coming after us,” I say.

  “I know!” Sarah says.

  She guns the engine and we shoot ahead, which throws me back against my seat. But when I regain my position I see the other car matching speed with us. I think I see two people inside the vehicle.

  “Try to keep her steady,” I say. I draw the revolver and fire behind us, trying to hit one of the two dark figures I think I see inside the car. There has to be someone driving it, I think. At the very least.

  “No!” Whistler screams into my ear. “Shoot for the lights!”

  So I do. Or at least I try to. Sarah is swerving the vehicle around, and I can’t seem to get a steady bead on anything. The first shot seems to go off into darkness. The second follows it.

  The third shot hits the vehicle, but I don’t see it do anything. And now I’m down to a handful of shots left.

  I’m just lining up a fourth shot when we hit something.

  Hard.

  For a moment, I feel the impact, and then we’re spinning through the air and I’m tossed from the car onto the hard ground.

  The trauma of the last few days has weakened me and it’s all I can do to maintain consciousness as I roll against the ground, trying to suck in air, feeling the abrasions on my skin as I slam into the ground.

  Amazingly, my revolver is nearby, just out of my reach, or at least I assume so judging by the three identical images that are spinning through my vision.

  As those three images resolve into one, I see a soldier, a man in a Navy uniform, moving toward us, a rifle in his hand. He fires and I see the muzzle flash, hear the retort of the gun even through my ringing ears.

  I don’t have time to think much, no time to analyze or plan. I scramble for the revolver, scoop it up into my grip, and sight on the soldier. His shots are tearing up the ground around us, and I squeeze the trigger. Once, then twice.

  I don’t know what hits and what doesn’t, but I see him jerk back and fall to the ground. Then, energized by my little victory, I scramble to my feet and move forward to the other soldier, revolver out.

  I move toward the vehicle, but . . . there’s no one else there. Just the one.

  Sarah comes running up beside me, grabs onto my arm and pulls it down. “I told you not to hurt anyone!” Her voice is on the edge of hysterics.

  I turn to look at her, suddenly cold. “He was going to kill one of us. You. Me. Whistler or Chase. I had no choice.”

  She runs to the body, bending down over it, but I grab her and pull her off and toward the other car. Ours is tipped on its side, and I don’t know if it works or not. “Get in,” I say, pushing her toward it.

  She turns to me, defiant, with tear-filled eyes.

  “Get in,” I repeat. “There are going to be others coming soon. With more guns. And they will be shooting to kill.”

  “I didn’t want it to happen like this,” she says, in almost a sob.

  “It is happening like this,” I say. “And we have to get out of here.”

  Sarah stands there for a moment, her shoulders heaving.

  “If you don’t leave with us—now—they will get you. The best I think you can hope for is a life in a cell.”

  She looks up at me and suddenly seems to come to. She knows better than anyone else what kind of punishment she might face. And I can see it dawning on her.

  “Get into the car. We need to get to the water.”

  She nods, dumbly, and gets into the car. Whistler gives me a quick nod and gets in as well, followed by Chase.

  I run back to the fallen soldier, pick up his rifle. He’s moaning and writhing on the ground. I have no idea if he’ll make it. I guess it depends on whether other people find him or not. I consider putting a bullet in him—it might be the merciful thing to do—but the truth is, more than the promise I made to Sarah, I don’t want to waste the ammo. So I crawl into the car and tell Sarah to go.

  We ride off into the night.

  We reach the water without incident. With a little coaxing, Sarah gets the raft and together we lower it into the water. She seems in shock, and while a small part of me sympathizes, I find the larger part of me has no patience for it. She made her decision—decided to turn on her crazy cult family, and this is what happened. After their torture, and trying to kill me, and all of us, I just have no patience left.

  So we all jump into the raft and pull out into the sound. “Will they come after us?” I ask Sarah. She’s huddled up in one corner of the raft, knees up near her head, her hands over her face. She doesn’t answer me at first.

  “Sarah,” I say, firmly.

  She looks up at me. “It all went wrong,” she says.

  “Will they come after us?” I ask again.

  She shakes her head. “No. Not right away. It will take them a little while to figure out what happened and where we went. Like I said . . . we’re spread thin. By the time they can organize, we should be picked up.”

  “Which brings me to my next question,” I say, looking to Whistler and Chase. “How are we going to get the Raven to come to us?”

  Nobody answers, but Sarah reaches into a pocket of her uniform and pulls out a flare gun.

  Whistler takes it. It’s a good idea. Normally I would be worried about someone else seeing it, but if Sarah is right, we’re ahead of them. If we can get close enough to the Raven to signal to them, we should be okay.

  All I can think of, though, is Miranda. As I sit in the back of the boat, salty spray peppering my face, I just see her in my mind. It’s because of me that her life is in danger, because of my actions that she’s at Mal’s mercy. I have to save her, I think. Have to get her out of there, bring her back to Tamoanchan. Fix things.

  As Whistler fires the flare into the sky, I think that the
re’s more than just one sinking ship to save.

  CHAPTER NINE

  As the Raven approaches the Phoenix, I notice the other airships flying in formation above it. I count five in total, a mix of designs from cargo ships to small passenger dirigibles. But what draws my eye is a long, flat airship, its envelope a matte grey-blue that almost seems to blend into the sky. I’ve never seen a ship like it before.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  Chang looks up at me, then where I’m pointing.

  He smiles. “That’s Malik’s ship. The Argus.”

  Figures, I think. Mal would have a unique ship like that. I wonder where he got it. He’s been very busy since I saw him last.

  Whistler verifies our identity over the radio and then lowers us to the Phoenix. Looking down on it from the Raven, I almost think I can see it riding low in the water. We descend and the ladder is lowered and I push my way to it. Whistler gives me a look, but I give Whistler a look right back that says don’t fucking get in my way.

  The ladder barely hits the deck before I’m down it. Mal is there with several of his people. Armed. I spare a look for Mal. “I got your pumps,” I say. “Whistler will tell you all about it.”

  Then I push through them, heading for the stairwell. I hear Mal behind me saying, “Let him go.”

  I tear down into the bowels of the ship, calling after Miranda. I vaguely remember my trip from the lower levels up to the deck, so I try to retrace it, heading down, running up and down corridors, calling her name all the time.

  I run from one stairwell to another, descending deeper into the ship. There are lights down here, but they’re dim, emergency lighting of some sort.

  I go down, ever down, until I hit water. Until I find where the ocean is encroaching. “Miranda!” I yell. “Miranda!”

  I splash through the water, hoping to hear her answering voice. But I can’t hear it. I pause, realizing that my legs are kicking up water, that the sound might be blocking her. Nothing but the creaking of the ship.

  Somewhere I don’t want to look, a voice that I don’t want to hear starts whispering to me. What if she—?

  No.

  “Miranda!”

  I keep on like that, calling, searching, quietly despairing, until a voice stills me.

  “Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin.”

  I turn and see Mal, perched on the edge of the stairs, looking at me.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  He smiles. A wide, self-satisfied smile. The dim lighting makes him look demonic. “She is safe.” The smile grows even wider, something I didn’t think possible. “She’s aboard my airship.”

  “What?”

  “Come now, Benjamin. Do you really think that little of me? That I would toss away the life of an innocent?”

  “But you said—”

  “I said exactly what I needed to do to cause you pain. To make you work for me. To get you to dance. You care for Miranda, that much is obvious. Why wouldn’t I use that?”

  “You bastard.”

  “Clearly, Benjamin, you still have a lot to learn. So much. You use whatever tools are at your disposal . . . without compromising your own integrity. Your morals. I know, I know. You think me a beast. A villain.” He shrugs. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps I have been. But I’m not the only one.”

  I feel my shoulders slump. He’s defeated me. “I got you your pumps,” I say.

  He nods, crosses his arms in front of his chest. “So I was told. As well as another guest.”

  “That was the cost of getting the pumps out.”

  Mal nods. “So Whistler said.” He waves a hand through the air. “It’s a small matter,” he says. “Assuming your pumps work.”

  “They should,” I say.

  “We’ll see.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “My people will replace the pumps. Perhaps our newcomer will help us. If they work as promised, things will return to normal. We will continue to Hawaii as planned.”

  “And Miranda and me?” I ask.

  “I will fulfill my part of the promise,” he says. “You will come with us to Hawaii.”

  “And then?”

  He shrugs. “I haven’t yet decided.”

  “And if the pumps don’t work?” I ask, dreading the answer.

  He smiles wickedly. “If not, Benjamin, I will enjoy seeing you suffer. Now.” He examines his gloves. “Have you ever heard of keelhauling?”

  “No.”

  “It’s an old nautical punishment. I found it in a book. The . . . criminal is tied to a rope and pulled across the ship’s keel. The bottommost part. I think that will be a fitting end.”

  “And what happens to Sarah?”

  “That I don’t know. Maybe she’ll stay with us. Maybe she’ll go. It all depends.”

  I meet his eyes. “The pumps will work.”

  He holds his hands out, palms up. “Then we all will prosper.”

  “I want to see Miranda.”

  He smiles again. “I want to have a working, non-sinking ship.”

  Then he turns and climbs the steps, slamming the heavy metal door behind him.

  Mal locks me in with the people working on the pumps. My fate was tied up with the pumps, he said. Might as well be there in the thick of it. Two of Mal’s men, accompanied by Sarah, are now splashing through the flooded Phoenix.

  “How is it going?” I ask Sarah.

  She frowns up at me in the dim light. We’re not allowed to use open flame down here—too much engine oil and other substances—but Mal’s people have a solar-charged light that they’re using as they replace the pumps.

  “Ben, let me work,” she says before turning back to the task at hand. She’s been chilly to me since we left the base. She thinks I broke the rules by shooting that soldier. I would feel guilty except I know that it was either him or one of us. Besides, he might have lived. If he got attention in time.

  The truth is, I don’t care either way.

  Sarah and the two men are working to release one of the broken pumps, crowded in around it. I get the feeling that the water is interfering with their efforts.

  My problem is that there’s not much for me to do. I can’t fix the pumps. I can’t really help them with fixing the pumps. All I can do is think about the rising water. And Miranda. Wherever the fuck she is.

  “Hold this,” Sarah says, splashing over to me. She passes me a large wrench. She wipes a hand across her head, smearing it with greasy water. “What’s between you and this Mal?”

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says, holding up her hands. “Don’t tell me, then. I need to concentrate.”

  Sarah returns to the pumps, and I watch her and Mal’s men work. The sad part about all of this is that a part of me appreciates what it is that Mal is doing. Leading his people away. Trying to give them a home, some security. I’ve never been much of a joiner, I only started working with the boffins in the last year, but in another place, another time, I might do something similar in his place. But to give up the air . . .

  What’s really bothering me is that even if they get these pumps working, it’s back to my cell for me. Miranda will be safe, which is good, but I’ll be a prisoner until we reach Hawaii. I took my shot already, and Mal easily disarmed me. It’s unlikely that I’ll get another chance.

  So where does that leave me? Is this what I have to look forward to? Another week or so belowdecks before the end?

  God, I miss the sky. I miss the Cherub. I miss Miranda.

  We need to get back to Tamoanchan, to make sure everyone is okay. And if they are? I’ve been thinking about it, in bits and pieces. Returning to the Frothy Brew for a beer. Visiting Rabbi Cohen. Seeing Sergei. I even had this vague, unformed idea of maybe getting my way back onto a ship. Running forage for the island. Making myself useful.

  And staying near Miranda. Things always go wrong when I leave Miranda.

  I shiver as the freezing water soaks into my bones. It’s hard to
tell how quickly the water is rising because it always seems to be around my thighs. “Any luck?” I call out.

  “In the last few minutes?” Sarah says.

  Fuck.

  I try to think about what Miranda would do in this situation. She rarely ever freaks out. She has a methodical mind. I used to think it frustrated me, but here in the dark I realize that I admire it. I admire her. Her mind is a thing of beauty. Maybe I should try to emulate it more.

  So . . . what’s next? This isn’t the end. If the pumps are restored, I won’t get keelhauled. Which would be very good. Then Mal puts me back into my cell, but only until we reach Hawaii. Then he’s going to have to get me off the ship. Whatever punishment he sees fit to deliver will work best in front of an audience. That’s how Mal works. There will be opportunities. I just need to see Miranda. Then together we can try to make an escape. But back to Tamoanchan, Ben?

  My natural cynicism jumps all over this, but I try to channel Miranda’s optimism. Why not? Maybe I can steal an airship. Take us back up into the sky and away from Mal and his people. I got my ship back from the middle of an armed helium plant, didn’t I? And that was without Miranda.

  Of course all of this depends on me not being keelhauled. So I really hope that Sarah knows what she’s doing.

  “Any progress?” I call out.

  She doesn’t answer this time. Just throws back her arm, flips up her hand and extends her middle finger. It’s an old gesture but one that hasn’t lost its meaning. Cute.

  How else to get back to Tamoanchan? I’m no sailor, but maybe we could steal a raft or boat. Surely we’d have to wash ashore at some point. Maybe we could get passage aboard a passing ship. Have them put me down somewhere like where I met up with Diego. Somewhere on a route where he might find me. But that’s a long shot, especially since Diego is a beaten and bloody mess at the moment.

  No easy answers.

  What I’m good at is flying. Surviving. Killing Ferals. Being a bastard. You know, the usual.

  I wonder if maybe I could track down Claudia. My oldest friend, former lover, comrade-in-arms, and the most dangerous woman I’ve ever met. Last I saw her, she was still on Gastown. I hope she didn’t get herself caught in all the chaos that was happening. If I could get in touch with Claudia, then she could take us to Tamoanchan. But . . . I don’t know how I would do that. And for some reason the thought of having Claudia and Miranda on the same ship makes me uncomfortable.