Rising Storm: The Last Sanctuary: Book One

by Kyla Stone

  “Are you all right?” Her mother peered into her eyes. “Are you dizzy? Tingling or numbness anywhere? Do you want a pill? I have some in my purse.”

  Amelia rubbed her charm bracelet, pressing the platinum violin between her fingers. Her father had bought her the diamond bracelet for her thirteenth birthday. Maybe this once, she could be sick. “Well, I—”

  “You're taking your medication as directed?” Declan interrupted.

  Amelia nodded. She hadn’t had a seizure in over a year, but her mother still worried constantly.

  “She's fine.”

  “She could have caught the flu,” her mother said. “A fever makes things worse—”

  “Does she look like she has the flu?”

  “But the waves,” her mother said. “Seasickness could bring another episode and—”

  Declan raised a hand dismissively. “Last year was an anomaly. Her dosage was corrected. Do you doubt my abilities? Do you think a mistake was made?”

  Her mother blinked, her hand fluttering to the hollow of her throat. “Of course not. I—”

  “Then the matter is closed.” Declan’s SmartFlex blinked. He swiped the platinum band and the digital overlay appeared. He read the message, his frown deepening. “Turn on the charm with Senator López tonight, Amelia. Get him in a favorable mood. I will announce his support at the Prosperity Summit seven days from now. With him behind us, we’ll have the votes we need.”

  Declan Black was the richest, most influential businessman in the country. He’d gained fame for his cancer treatment that staved off cancerous cell growth indefinitely, and his new universal flu vaccine promised to eradicate the latest bat flu strain ravaging the country. Last week on National Health Day, BioGen had successfully inoculated over forty million citizens free of cost in a well-publicized display of goodwill.

  But it wasn’t enough. Declan Black always sought more power.

  As chairman of the Unity Coalition, he’d spearheaded the Safe and Secure Act, which would require all citizens’ health and security be tracked with RFID microchips embedded beneath the skin of the right wrist—microchips BioGen would manufacture and distribute, of course. The Act had been debated for months, though it was passed by the House. López was one of the last remaining holdouts in the senate, although the public was still divided. The final vote was scheduled for the end of September—three weeks from now. Her father was consumed with it.

  Trying to keep track of her father’s political machinations gave her a headache. “I really don't feel well,” she said. “May I stay—?”

  Declan stared at her with hard, unflinching eyes. His gaze always unsteadied her. Like he was looking straight through her, could see every pulsing organ, her vulnerable, trembling heart. She hated it.

  “Don't tell me you're going to feign illness on me. Your mother treats you like you're made of glass. Is that true?”

  Amelia went still. Her mouth was dry, her heart thudding in her ears. It was like this whenever she did something wrong. Whenever he made her feel small and stupid.

  He took a step closer, towering over her. “Are you or are you not a responsible, contributing member of this family?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “I am, but—”

  “Declan—” Her mother started. But he raised a hand and silenced her.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Black, I detect an increase in stress indicators,” the room AI said in a smooth feminine tone. “How may I make you more comfortable? May I suggest—”

  “Activate privacy mode,” Declan growled. The room fell silent. The system wouldn’t monitor their biostats—body temperature, perspiration level, or heart rate—or interact with the room’s occupants in privacy mode.

  Declan turned back to Amelia. “I've paid for the most extravagant cruise in the world, with a staff of hundreds to cater to your every whim and desire, have I not?”

  She opened her mouth, but the words curdled in her throat.

  “Speak, girl,” Declan demanded. “I asked you a simple question.”

  But there were no simple questions with her father. Not ever. And he was upset. His eyes were hard, the skin around his mouth taut. His shoulders were thrust back, his legs splayed. She shouldn't have questioned him when he was already on edge. She should know better. She did know better. “I'm grateful—”

  “You're grateful.”

  She froze. Anxiety knotted in her belly. She had no idea what she was supposed to say now. Anything she did or said would be the wrong thing.

  The silence stretched unbearably.

  Silas rose from the settee. “I've been meaning to tell you. I quit the team.”

  Declan rounded on him. “Excuse me?”

  Amelia sagged against the vanity, relief and guilt warring within her.

  “I quit,” Silas said defiantly. He had their father's lean, wolfish face and smoke-gray eyes. He rubbed at a yellowish bruise beneath his right eye, a battle scar from another fight.

  “I must have misheard you.”

  Silas lifted one shoulder in an insolent shrug. “You heard me just fine.”

  “You are no longer playing Division I hover-hockey, is that what you're telling me?” Declan's voice went cold. “The sport for which a dozen universities have recruited you?”

  Silas stood tall, fists curled at his sides. He was all tight, bristling energy. Like he was waiting for it. Like he wanted it. Like their father’s harsh words didn’t even bother him. “Who says I’m going to college?”

  Declan took a step toward him, his face darkening in rage. “No son of mine—”

  Someone knocked on the door of the suite.

  “We're ready for you, Mr. Black,” said Ed Jericho, her father's head of security. The tall, muscular Nigerian hesitated in the doorway. “Everyone good to go, sir?”

  “Almost, Jericho,” her mother said brightly, instantly composed. Her gaze flicked to the violin case he carried. “Thank you. Amelia is looking forward to playing tonight.”

  The tension in Declan's face melted away, the mask he wore for everyone else slipping into place. He transformed from cold anger to gregarious charisma in the blink of an eye. He grinned broadly as he strode up to his chief of security. “Jericho! How are your sea legs?”

  Jericho had been with Declan's security team for the last six years. His clean-shaven, angular face matched his broad shoulders and confident swagger. He was cordial but aloof, always professional and all business, exactly the way Declan wanted him.

  Fine, sir.” Jericho frowned.

  “Why the long face?”

  “I’d feel better with my weapon, sir.” He'd been in a foul mood since they boarded, when ship security had forced him to stow his guardian drone and refused to let him wear his gun clipped to his belt. They’d made him store it in the safe in the office of the chief security officer instead.

  “No one is authorized to carry a weapon on a foreign-flagged vessel outside of U.S. jurisdiction.” Declan clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax. You're going to frighten the guests.”

  Jericho's frown only deepened. “Even with the private security agents, this ship is understaffed. If something were too—”

  “That's why you're here. Besides, these are our people. Now relax. And that's an order.” Declan adjusted his gold cuff links and turned to Silas, the faintest flash of disdain in his eyes. “Don't bother coming to dinner.”

  Jericho followed Declan and Elise into the corridor.

  Amelia checked herself in the mirror. Face. Hair. Nails. Posture. Dress. Check. She took a deep, steadying breath and pasted a smile on her face. And there she was. The girl her father wanted.

  She grabbed her clutch off the vanity and glanced at her brother. “Silas—”

  Silas stared back at her, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Go on. You wouldn’t want to disappoint dear old Dad.”

  She wanted to thank him for what he did, drawing her father’s wrath away from her. But his face was closed, his mouth twisted in contempt. She knew h
is moods. This wasn’t the time.

  She left Silas behind, just like she was supposed to. She played the part of the good daughter perfectly.

  5

  Micah

  If nineteen-year-old Micah Ramos Rivera had known how this day would end, he would have done things very differently. He’d always thought of himself as a good person. He worked hard, tried to do the right thing, and he loved his brother. He’d always believed that things would turn out all right if he did right by people. He was wrong.

  Micah balanced the enormous tray on his shoulder and rushed from the hot, clanging galley through the swinging double doors into the Oasis dining room. He evaded another waiter coming toward him with a full platter and made his way to the captain's table on the center dais.

  “Your cream of sweet potato soup, Miss Black.” He set each steaming plate in front of the correct guest and whisked off the silver covers. White linen draped the circular table, which was adorned with a fresh orchid centerpiece.

  “Thank you.” Amelia Black glanced up with a half-smile.

  He ducked his head and adjusted his glasses, embarrassment flushing through him. She was intriguing, with her luminous porcelain skin, her brows and lashes like rabbit fur. Her face was lovely but reserved, her eyes distant.

  “You're welcome.” Waiters in tuxedos, white gloves, and brass name tags bustled around him. Dozens of crystal chandeliers hung from the three-story ceiling, dazzling like diamonds. On either side of the dining room, the floor-to-ceiling windows offered spectacular views. But it was Amelia Black he found his gaze drawn to.

  He forced himself to move to the next guest, removing the cover to reveal honey-glazed salmon with citrus avocado salsa, the avocado a delicacy even on the Grand Voyager. Micah averted his eyes, his stomach rumbling. He hadn't tasted an avocado in over four years.

  Captain Johannes Liebenberg touched his spoon to his wine glass. He was a fair-minded South African in his mid-fifties who took the task of entertaining guests of honor seriously. “We are proud of the great tradition of excellence this wonderful vessel so magnificently represents. We are honored to host the Prosperity Summit for the sixth year running.”

  “I'll add to that toast.” The girl's father, Declan Black, raised his goblet. “The universal flu vaccine is only the beginning, my friends. We celebrate the success of the National Health Day initiative. Though she couldn’t be here, Vice President Sloane and I dedicated months to this endeavor. Today, we eradicate the flu, even as we turn our focus toward ending domestic terrorism with the Safe and Secure Act. We will not rest until every citizen is safe. This is our moral imperative.”

  “Here, here,” the others said, lifting their glasses.

  “Fetch the maître ‘d.” Black snapped his fingers at Micah, though he was standing only a foot away. “And the sommelier. We need more Château Le Pin.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Micah dipped his chin and hurried off, fighting down a flash of resentment. Ninety-thousand-dollars’ worth of wine in a single night was extravagant even for the Grand Voyager. How many families could that money feed for weeks, months?

  A moment later, the four-string quartet went on break. Amelia Black 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 Declan Black and a future virtuoso violinist in her own right.”

  Micah paused to listen. Amelia drew the bow across the strings. The first exquisite notes floated through the air, flowing 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, deep, powerful, and stirring.

  The tension in Amelia’s jaw and around her eyes faded as she played. She closed her eyes, lost in the concentration of her art, her fingers moving with a beautiful fluidity and grace. As the last haunting note faded, there was a moment of complete stillness.

  “That's my girl!” Declan Black clapped as he leapt to his feet, his face shining with delighted 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. After a moment, the dining area returned to its usual noise level. 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, serving steaming plates of food and decadent desserts he wasn’t permitted to eat. But through it all, the deep, sonorous notes still vibrated in his bones.

  Later that evening, after 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 waved at him and gestured at the elevator in the rear of the galley. “We're out of cloth napkins. You want to grab them for us?”

  “No problem.” The more experienced waiters always gave him extra duties, but he didn’t mind. He worked hard to earn his keep. The cabin he shared below deck with three other guys was cramped, the hours long, the work seven-days-a-week. He was lucky the rich still appreciated a human touch over the bots taking over the service industry.

  Micah passed the conveyor belt carrying dirty pots and pans to the industrial-sized dishwashers and took the service elevator below deck. Down here, the ship's engines roared dully. It stank of 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. A short, stocky Asian man oversaw two other men as they unloaded a pallet packed with fifty-pound bags of detergent. A few of the bags were split open.

  “Can I get a load of linen napkins, please?” Micah asked over the steady roar of machinery.

  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.”

  But Micah glimpsed something. Something white, square, and saran-wrapped poked out of the blue powder. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What's that?”

  “Nothing. Here, I'll help you.” Zhang gestured to the left, where folded towels, sheets, and table linens were stacked inside a yellow metal cage. “Come this way.”

  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 luxury 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. Serenaphin—Silk—was the worst of the synthetic drugs. His own father had been hooked on the stuff. Until it killed him. Fresh anger swept through him. “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 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.” He thought about his father, his life force slowly sucked out of h
im 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. Apprehension jolted through him. He hadn't thought to be afraid.

  “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. 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 went rigid. He watched two service bots feed sheets into the jaws of a machine that automatically pressed and folded the linens. It felt like a giant hand was crushing his windpipe. He struggled to find his voice. “What are you talking about?”

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

  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.

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

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

  Micah wanted to punch the man 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

  Amelia

  Amelia pasted a smile on her face and turned to Senator López. “I read that article in the Times you wrote last month on the critical water shortages in the western states. It was excellent.”