by Kyla Stone
Senator López frowned. “I hardly think—”
Declan cut him off. “The people respect strength. They always have. They always will.”
Horne leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Unity through might is the key to our country's restoration. Don’t you agree, Senator?”
Amelia rubbed her charm bracelet uneasily. This wasn’t going well. How could her father expect someone like Senator López to change his beliefs? It was an impossible task. Yet somehow, it would still be her fault. Her father expected things of her no one could accomplish, just so he had someone to blame when things fell apart.
Declan’s lip curled in barely restrained derision. “Everything worthwhile requires sacrifice. These measures will usher in a new era of security, prosperity, and freedom.”
“I’m afraid you and I have different definitions of freedom,” the senator said stiffly.
“Would you like some more champagne, Senator?” Amelia asked, trying to hide her dismay. Every word he spoke only angered her father further.
Meredith Jackson-Cooper sipped her wine, leaving a lipstick stain on her glass. “What is freedom in the midst of chaos?”
“Here’s the cold, unvarnished truth,” Declan said, his face darkening. “The people don’t care about freedom. They only care about one thing. Safety. The government has failed to provide this precious commodity. So the Coalition will do so instead.”
“Just what are you suggesting?” López asked, his voice rising.
“Only this.” Her father clutched the stem of his wine glass so tightly she feared it might break. He was incredibly stressed. He never spoke like this—not in public, at least. “The Coalition will ensure our country’s future. Either with the Senate’s help, or without it.”
A strained silence settled over the table. Anxiety twisted her stomach. This would be her fault, somehow. She cleared her throat, resting her hand on the senator’s forearm. “Senator, you clearly care about your constituents. I'm sure they're grateful for your leadership.”
“Let's all drink to that,” her mother said brightly, raising her nearly empty glass. “We're all working to benefit the people. This was the purpose of National Health Day, after all. Now, let’s indulge in a bit more Château Le Pin, shall we?”
Just then, the waiter returned, pausing at the captain's side. Amelia only half-listened as the other guests ordered braised veal chops, fresh lobster served on a bed of steamed asparagus, and seafood salad.
“I'll have the chilled Malossol caviar.” Declan inclined his head toward Amelia. “She'll have the poached blue lobster tail, hold the caramelized butter.”
She didn’t even like lobster. The dull roaring in her ears intensified. She was hot all over, her skin prickling. She needed air.
She rose quickly from her seat. Across the dining room, the handsome security officer caught her eye again. He cocked his brows—in concern? Mockery? Something else?
“Amelia,” her mother said under her breath, her brow furrowing as she gave her a warning glance. “Be careful.”
She heard everything her mother didn’t say. Be careful not to displease your father. Be careful not to shame your family. Be careful of your illness, your defect. Be careful of that boy, he’s not like us.
“I am,” she said.
She was always careful, every minute of every day.
3
Gabriel
From the outside, twenty-one-year-old Gabriel Ramos Rivera was a tall and handsome Puerto Rican with a charming smile. His white security uniform accentuated his broad, muscled shoulders.
He made sure that the elites saw what he wanted them to see: a charismatic ship’s officer eager to serve their every beck and call. Nothing more, nothing less.
They couldn’t see what lay within him—the burning, barely contained anger, the explosive hatred just waiting to be unleashed.
Gabriel gritted his teeth. Soon. Soon, the truth would be revealed to the whole world. Soon, this glass monstrosity would topple, this decadent symbol of greed and corruption brought to its knees. After months of preparation and planning, everything was almost ready.
Outside on Deck Five’s jogging track, the sky was clear, the blue sea rippling like silk. This high, on a ship like this, on a bright, pure day like today, Gabriel could almost believe the world was beautiful and whole. Could almost believe the ugliness back home was just a bad dream, a nightmare he would wake from.
Almost.
“Gabriel!” His younger brother, Micah, leaned against the glass railing, waiting for him. “Where’ve you been? I've been messaging you.”
“Too busy with Teresa Velasquez in the Oceanarium.” A girl was always an easy excuse, and one Micah never hesitated to believe.
Micah adjusted his glasses. “Is there some magical aphrodisiac in that place that I don’t know about?”
Gabriel grinned. “That’s a trade secret.”
“Leave it to you to find the best spot to seduce a girl.”
In truth, the Oceanarium was perfect—but not for the reason Micah thought. Gabriel had stored the smuggled weapons—gleaming automatic rifles and illegal pulse guns—in nondescript cardboard boxes inside the darkened, half-finished theater. The Oceanarium was still under construction, but the artist hired to paint the bioluminescent mural had fallen ill. “I can’t help it if the ladies can’t get enough.”
Micah rolled his eyes. He and Gabriel shared the same dark curly hair, full lips, and bronze skin, but where Gabriel was sharp and hard-edged, Micah was soft and boyish.
Gabriel tilted his chin at the tattered paperback in Micah’s hand as they started walking. He was the only person Gabriel knew who still read books you could hold in your hands. “What’re you reading this time?”
“Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.”
“You ever read anything fun and lighthearted?”
Micah shrugged. “Hey, it could be worse. I also have Moby Dick.”
Gabriel laughed. “Okay, you win.”
A metalhead brushed past Gabriel. “Excuse me,” it said as it swept the jogging track. The service bot was eerily realistic, with poreless skin made of silicone, synthetic hair, and metallic ferrofluids that allowed its smooth, human-like movements.
Pretty soon, these metalheads would take over every ship position. They’d already stolen half the jobs in the states. Another metalhead bussed a newly vacated table in the outdoor seating section of the Italian bistro, stacking plates still half-full of real caramelized quail and honey-glazed salmon with avocado salsa.
Gabriel’s stomach twisted in revulsion. So much wasted food, each plate worth three hundred dollars or more. Avocado was a delicacy even on the Grand Voyager. He hadn't tasted one in over six years. These rich scumbags simply trashed anything they didn’t like. The food on that table alone could feed a family for a week.
A thrum of hatred beat in tandem with his pulse. He gritted his teeth and pushed the dark thoughts out of his mind. He only had to be patient a little longer. Soon.
“You hear that?” Micah tilted his head as they rounded a corner of the track.
The sound of a violin rose above the roar of the wind. A girl in a filmy dress stood at the railing, facing the sea, a violin tucked beneath her chin. The music was hauntingly beautiful, the sonorous notes soaring into the air, only to be caught and whipped away by the wind.
She paused and turned toward them as they approached. Gabriel recognized her with a jolt. Amelia Black, the Coalition chairman’s daughter. She was beautiful, with delicate features, milky-white skin, and long white-blonde hair swaying to her waist. Her every movement was filled with elegance and grace.
He fought down a surge of resentment. She was a mission. One his mentor, Simeon Pagnini, had assigned him two days ago, after Gabriel had secured the weapons and provided the room numbers and entrance codes for all private security on board the ship.
“Let’s put those handsome features to good use,” Simeon had said as they strolled past
the plasma art gallery and the designer boutiques on Deck Eight. “You might extract some valuable information from the daughter.”
Gabriel had grimaced. “You can’t be serious.”
In his late forties, Simeon gave off the air of a favorite uncle, with his soft cheeks, receding chin, and amiable expression. It was easy to miss the dark gleam in his eyes, the sharp, thin-lipped smile. “It may be beneficial.”
Gabriel was used to groveling to the strutting elite, pandering to their every whim and desire, a forced smile always on his face. It was his job as a ship security officer. But the daughter of Declan Black?
Black was the founder of BioGen Technologies and the chairman of the corrupt and powerful Unity Coalition. Some said the Coalition wielded more power than the president.
After the Second Great Depression crippled the economy a decade ago, it was the Coalition who bailed out the country, ensuring their position of influence on the national and global stage. And now their ID-chip implant would track every citizen, especially those who disagreed with the increasingly brutal restrictions placed on those citizens’ freedoms.
And Declan Black was the worst of all, epitomizing ravenous corporate greed and government malfeasance. He and his Coalition would destroy the country if they weren’t stopped.
A hot spark of rage ignited inside him. Declan Black was the reason both of Gabriel’s parents were dead. For that and a hundred other reasons, Gabriel would utterly destroy him. “What possible purpose could it serve?”
“We don’t always see the entire board before we begin to play,” Simeon said. “The more pieces we have, the stronger our position. When our friends arrive, we want to be ready.”
He gritted his teeth. “I don’t need to babysit some filthy rich princess.” Their mission was to take the ship hostage, demand billions in ransom to support the coming war, and assassinate the Coalition leadership—Declan Black first and foremost.
They would not be tagged and tracked like dogs. They would not watch their families sicken and starve while the elites lived in obscene decadence. It was a first shot across the bow, a statement the world would hear loud and clear: the second American Revolution had begun. “I’m here for the mission. To do something.”
“I need you to trust me for just a while longer.” Simeon’s voice was firm. He expected obedience. “Do you trust me?”
Simeon had never let Gabriel down, never lied to him or disappointed him. Simeon was the one who gave him a purpose, who brought him into the cause. Gabriel trusted Simeon with his life. “Of course.”
Simeon had paused, turning to face Gabriel. He placed his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Do not let yourself become distracted,” he had warned. “A pretty façade is their weapon, their disguise. Remember who these people are, what they've done. Remember your reason.”
Gabriel never forgot, not for one minute of one single day. His hatred was always with him, his anger a live wire, sparking and dangerous.
He looked at the girl, her delicate fingers grazing the strings of the violin as she met his gaze. Another jolt shivered through him. He ignored it. If Simeon wanted this of him, he would put everything into it, whether he saw the purpose or not.
Gabriel flashed a slow, languid grin, the one the girls all seemed to adore. He'd never had a hard time getting girls. But he didn't care about any of that. He couldn't afford to. “Nice instrument.”
“Thank you.” Amelia trailed her fingers along the violin’s delicate stem. Her expression was coolly reserved, her eyes the color of blue ice. “It’s an 18th-century Guarneri.”
Gabriel had no clue what that meant, but he nodded along anyway. “The song was pretty good, too.”
Her face brightened. “You enjoy Barber’s Adagio for Strings?”
He shrugged. “Never heard of the guy. Do I have to be a classical music snob to enjoy great sound?”
“No, of course not. I’m glad you liked it,” she said politely.
“I’m partial to good ol’ rock ‘n roll myself. Some Queen, Guns ‘N Roses, Aerosmith.”
“Sorry, never heard of them.”
“What? They’re classics!” He raked his hand through his hair. His father had loved those old bands, back before it all went to hell.
She shook her head as she tucked her violin back in its case. Her posture stiffened again, her expression reserved and carefully blank. He was losing her.
“You shouldn’t have to play up here in the cold wind. Meet me in the Jazz Lounge on Deck Four in an hour. I’ll get with the concierge and set up a daily schedule for you to practice.”
She blushed, the hint of a real smile creasing her lips. “How thoughtful of you, but I enjoy playing out here.”
He shrugged and flashed another cheek-dimpling grin. “Suit yourself. My name is Gabriel Ramos Rivera, by the way.”
“You’re part of my father’s security team,” she said, as if that dismissed him. She dipped her chin and slid elegantly past them.
Gabriel ran his hand over his scruffy goatee, fighting back a surge of resentment. He watched her duck into one of the side doors. He would just have to work harder to win her over. “Be careful of beautiful things, brother. They're not what they seem.”
“That one didn’t seem so helpless to resist you.”
Gabriel’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “Just give me a few days. You’ll see.”
Micah laughed without a hint of resentment or jealousy. He was loyal to the core.
An Indian couple strolled past, their boisterous twin girls scampering ahead of them.
“Gabriel,” Micah said hesitantly, his tone growing serious. “This afternoon, I thought I saw—Is Simeon Pagnini a passenger?”
Gabriel's shoulders tensed. He quickened his pace. “I told you he had connections in high places.” His brother had never liked Simeon. But it was Simeon who had stepped in when their dad died six years ago, ensuring their cold, indifferent aunt actually took care of Gabriel and Micah.
It was Simeon who paid for years of specialized tutoring and training, who taught him how to hack government servers, how to handle a gun, how to wage a war.
It would have been better if Micah hadn't noticed him at all. Nine months ago, when Simeon had helped push through Micah's application, Gabriel hadn't known the mission, hadn’t known what was about to happen. He never would have allowed his brother on the ship.
But it was too late now. Their plans were in motion, only days from playing out. Only days from changing everything.
“But it seems odd that—”
Gabriel whirled on him. “What’s there to talk about? He's on the ship. So what?”
Micah stared at him, hurt and confusion in his eyes. He didn’t understand what Gabriel needed to do. He’d always been more concerned with being good than doing what was necessary to right the wrongs of the world. It was better to keep him in the dark—for now.
Gabriel rubbed his goatee and sighed. It was his job to keep his brother safe. He’d protected Micah since they were little kids. He pushed away his irritation. His brother was everything. “I'm sorry. I'm just stressed right now.”
“No problem,” Micah said.
Gabriel knew it was true. Micah would forgive him anything.
He made his voice light and teasing. “You always worry too much.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Just us?” Just us. Always. The phrase they'd used as kids, when they took turns keeping watch at their mom's hospital bed, making sure she was still breathing. And still later, when their grief-stricken, drug-addicted father wouldn't drag himself off the couch.
And still later, when it literally was just them. They had each other's backs.
Micah smiled. “Always.”
4
Willow
Seventeen-year-old Willow Bahaghari still couldn’t get used to the opulence that greeted her everywhere she looked, even after six days of the Grand Voyager’s sumptuous luxury and ridiculous extravagance.
“Lo Lo!”
Her eight-year-old brother, Benjie, tugged on her hand. His black hair stuck up all over his head. “Can we go swimming, now?”
Her thirteen-year-old sister, Zia, fluttered her eyelashes and gave her best pleading, puppy-dog look. “Pretty please?”
“Oh, all right. It’s not like I have a million better things to do,” she grumbled.
Willow let her siblings drag her through the cavernous atrium and Royal Promenade. She caught sight of her harried reflection in the glass walls. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She looked as exhausted as her mom. Relax. She was supposed to be having fun. Not just fun: the time of her life.
Willow’s family was only on this swanky ship because her mother basically won the lottery. Once a year, all the Grand Voyager employee-of-the-month candidates got their names thrown into a hat. The one that came up this year was Marisol Bahaghari.
Willow’s mom worked her butt off for Voyager Enterprises as Associate Director of Housekeeping, overseeing all the sani-bots. For the last five years, Willow and her siblings lived with their lola, their Filipina grandmother, in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in Newark, seeing their mom only a few months out of the year.
As soon as they’d arrived, her mom had pulled out her red staff wristband and checked in with Housekeeping. Instead of relaxing with her kids, her mom was off working. Apparently, the sani-bots had been hacked. Some anarchist’s idea of a joke. “Imagine the outrage if a rich elite doesn’t get her eighty-dollar bottled water restocked or her perfectly folded octopus-shaped towel draped across her bed,” Willow had snapped.
Her mom had grabbed her hands, her skin creased, her eyes weary. “Benjie can go to the Kid Zone on Deck Fourteen to give you a break, but Zia's too old. But she’s not old enough to be by herself, do you understand?”
