Sound

by Alexandra Duncan

  The harrow jostles me again. I cut right and dive low, sending up another cloud of grit. Variances in interaural time difference indicate location. . . .

  A huge blackwater vent rises before me, jetting its superheated current into the frigid ocean. Wait . . . a jet. Yes.

  I pull away from the floor and power on the board’s lights.

  “What are you doing?” Freja shouts. “You’re making it mad.”

  I cut off my coms. I know what an incredibly terrible idea this is, and I need all my concentration to pull it off without getting myself killed.

  The harrow howls and snakes after me. I glide low, the nose of my board pointed at the blackwater vent. I’ve eaten plenty of eel in my life. I only hope this one cooks like all the others. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the creature closing on me, but then I’m at the base of the vent and it’s time. I jerk up on the controls, taking my board nearly vertical against its side. Blackwater billows above us, hot enough to sear flesh and boil me alive if I get too close. The harrow surges after me.

  I tug the controls left at the last second, skirting the vent’s mouth. The harrow plunges straight through the simmering jet. Its scream reverberates through my bones and fills my ears like water. The board’s dome rattles around me. My lights flicker and the primary power dies, sending me spiraling headfirst into the rough seabed. I brace myself as the board hits, bounces, rolls. I land upside down, tipped against a rocky mound, my board’s lights strobing.

  The world swims, a kaleidoscope of alarms and half-frozen glimpses of the harrow writhing in the flickering lights. Darkness. Teeth. Its great blind eyes rolling. And then the shapes of boards above me, descending on the harrow. They swarm around the monster. It thrashes beneath them, its blood filling the ocean, until at last it shudders and lies still.

  Chapter 22

  The sound of my own panting fills my ears. I reach out and flip the coms back on. “Hello?”

  “There she is.” I hear Rubio’s voice, full of relief. “She made it.”

  “Tell her she’s as lucky as she is stupid,” Freja says.

  The blood in my face might be from hanging upside down, or it might not. “I . . . um . . . lost propulsion,” I say. “What do I do?”

  “Stay there,” Freja says. “We’re coming for you.”

  One of Rangnvaldsson’s crew hitches my board to the back of his own, while Freja does the same for the diver injured when the harrow first rolled. The rest of the divers drive massive hooks into the harrow and attach lines to the back of Herr Tsukino’s submersible. We drag the harrow’s corpse behind us, all the way back to Rangnvaldsson’s headquarters.

  We’re met on the dock with congratulatory applause and medics for the injured.

  “Beautifully done.” Fru Rangnvaldsson clasps Herr Tsukino’s hands. “Congratulations on a clean hunt.”

  “It wasn’t entirely clean.” He glances at the injured diver being hurried away on a stretcher.

  Fru Rangnvaldsson waves a hand. “The cost of doing business.”

  I catch Freja’s eye. Would she be saying that if she had been in the water with us, listening to the woman’s screams?

  “You’re welcome to warm yourselves in the salt baths,” Fru Rangnvaldsson says. “We wouldn’t want our guests catching a chill.”

  The baths are a series of honeycombed rooms, each one with a deep oval basin and walls carved out of pale pink salt. I sink up to my neck in the steaming bath, close my eyes, and try not to see the harrow chasing me through the icy darkness. The warm salt water buoys me and eases the cramps in my muscles. I drop my head below the water and massage my scalp. This is a million times better than the best hot shower I’ve ever taken back in Mumbai, and a million squared compared to the cold rag baths we got by with on the Mendicant. It’s like sitting in my own private stretch of shallow, sun-warmed ocean.

  I finally step out of the bath, rub my hair with a towel, and wrap myself in one of the fluffy blue robes hanging on the inside of the chamber door. I pad down the steamy halls, finally feeling warm for the first time in over a month. And weirdly hungry. Now if I could have a nice bowl of udon and sleep for a week . . .

  A small laugh from somewhere ahead interrupts my napping fantasy.

  A girl’s voice. “Here?”

  I round the corner. “Cass?”

  In the steaming mist, I make out two figures in robes, one with sleek black hair in a ponytail and one with her wet curly hair hanging in hanks around her shoulders. Time slows. Freja and Cassia. They pull apart, but it’s too late. I can’t unsee Cassia’s lips on Freja’s, Freja’s hand threaded into Cassia’s hair.

  Cassia’s face drops. “Mi . . .”

  All the warmth drains from my chest. I am the harrow, speared through its heart. I don’t wait to hear what she has to say. I run.

  I grab my freshly washed clothes from a cubby near the salt baths’ entrance and dress hurriedly in the changing room. My vision blurs as I bend to tie my boots. I’m not going to think about it.

  I stand, my chest heaving against the unbearable pressure. It hurts. Not only my heart, my whole body. I kick the pink salt wall. Vaat. Moving makes the pressure more bearable, so I do it again and again and again. Screw Cassia and that kuttiya. I rub the wet blur from my eyes. I should have known.

  “Miss?” A woman with a soft voice knocks on the door. “Are you well, miss?”

  I stop, suddenly conscious of the small animal sounds escaping me with each kick. “I’m fine,” I call back, but my voice wavers.

  A pause. And then, “Forgive me, miss. I’m coming in.”

  I quickly straighten out my shirt, suddenly aware that my hair is a half-dried mess and my eyes are puffy.

  A young woman in the pale blue yukata of Rangnvaldsson’s servants slips inside and closes the door behind her. I’ve seen her before. She was in the dining room, standing behind Fru Rangnvaldsson as we ate. She takes in my bloodshot eyes and wild hair.

  “I heard about what happened with the harrow,” she says quietly. “Anyone would be shaken, miss.”

  “It’s not that. . . .” I look away and stop.

  “I can fetch a cooling soak for your eyes if you like, miss.”

  “No, that’s okay. And you don’t need to call me miss.” It’s too much like Rubio’s old memsahib.

  She falls silent for a moment. “May I ask you something, miss?”

  I sigh and sit heavily on the dressing room’s padded bench. “Sure.”

  “You came with Herr Tsukino, yes?”

  I nod. “That’s right.”

  She glances over her shoulder and lowers her voice almost to a whisper. “He was asking about slaves.”

  The word hits me like a wall. Slaves. No one else has said it plainly. The pit of my stomach drops, and I swallow. What am I doing wallowing in self-pity when there are other human beings enslaved around me? “Look . . . we’re not really trying to—”

  “I know,” she interrupts softly.

  I look up. “You do?”

  She sits next to me on the bench. “I was brought here on a slaver seven months ago. But they tried to sell me in Ny Kyoto first. Herr Tsukino was one of the few who didn’t even want to listen to my captors’ pitch.” Her voice is no more than a murmur. She smiles to herself. “He even spit on their captain. I like to think he did that for me.”

  “But . . . I thought Rangnvaldsson only kept indentured servants.” I stare at her. She can’t be much older than I am.

  She shrugs. “That’s what my paperwork says. That Rangnvaldsson sponsored the cost of my transport here, and I’m to compensate them with seven years of service. But they’ll only draw up new documents when those years are up. Some of the other servants and laborers have been here twenty, thirty years.”

  I lean over and rest my head on my knees, the pieces of her story clicking together. Rangnvaldsson keeps slaves. The DSRI buys from her. The Ranganathan might have even have grown in the warm-water docks we passed on our way to hunt the harrow. A
ll those pleasant gardens, the galleys and living quarters, my own odd little lab where I gazed out at the stars—they were built on this, the very thing my mother’s people fought and died to end hundreds and hundreds of years ago. This thing that is supposed to be a dark chapter in Earth’s history, not something that has traveled with us out into the stars. I feel sick.

  I sit up. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “Not for me. Not right now, anyway.”

  Despair sucks at me. “What, then?”

  “There was a boy. A young man,” she says. “He had the same marks on his face as that girl has. What do you call them?” She gestures over the bridge of her nose, where Cassia’s freckles are the densest.

  “Freckles.” My head feels light.

  She nods. “Yes, that.”

  “Was he deaf? He couldn’t hear?”

  She frowns. “Maybe.” Her eyes widen as if she’s just solved an equation. “Yes. He never spoke. They said his brain was stunted, but he was always watching everything. Sharp eyes.”

  I stand. “That’s her brother. Did you . . . is he here?”

  She shakes her head. “He’s not here. They took him south with all the rest Fru Rangnvaldsson didn’t want. I can give you the name.”

  Dye mon, gen mon, my mother would say. Beyond the mountain, another mountain.

  “Please,” I say. “Yes.”

  She hands me a scrap of paper.

  Cryatics Wholesale, Zaius Shelf Port. One of the dakait’s other stops.

  I look up from the paper and frown. “Fru Rangnvaldsson said they went to Ny Skaderna after here.”

  The girl shakes her head. “They had already been to Ny Skaderna when they stopped here. That’s where they were going next.” She points to the paper. “You hear bad things about Kazan Spindle. I was lucky to be sold here.”

  A chill runs up my spine, despite the humid air.

  “Thank you.” I tuck the paper inside my shirt. “Are you sure . . . I mean, isn’t there anything we can do to help you?”

  She looks uncertain. “You know people in the DSRI, don’t you?”

  “How . . .”

  She purses her lips. “I saw your face when Fru Rangnvaldsson said it.”

  “I guess I do. I mean, I did.”

  “I hear they don’t allow this sort of thing. What Rangnvaldsson and those slavers do.” She fixes me with a meaningful look.

  “They don’t.” The image of Commander Dhar at the head of the officers’ table comes back to me. Her refusing to lift a finger to save Nethanel. “But I don’t know if they’d do anything about it.”

  “But they might,” she insists. “They’re the closest thing to civilization that makes it out here into the reaches. How could they ignore a thing like this? If you told them . . .”

  I look down at my hands. Even if the DSRI would do anything, I’m on the run from them.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, guilt crawling over me. “I don’t know if I have a way of doing that anymore.”

  She looks crestfallen. “Then come back for us,” she finally says. “After you find that boy, after you free him, come back and do the same for us.”

  “We . . .” I swallow. I don’t want to promise something I can’t deliver. “We might not even make it out alive.”

  “If you do, though,” she says. “Promise.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I promise . . .”

  “Petya,” she offers.

  “Petya,” I repeat. “I promise.”

  Chapter 23

  Herr Tsukino’s crew sings shanties all the way back to Ny Kyoto. They have their payment for the cryatine and an advance from Rangnvaldsson on the proceeds from the rendered harrow. I huddle at the back of the submersible and pretend to sleep so I won’t be asked to join in.

  Cassia catches my arm as we disembark. “Miyole, I . . .” She looks away, and then back at me. “Can we talk?”

  I cast a weary glance at Freja, standing at the top of the submersible’s loading ramp. “Not now, okay?”

  “I just want to—”

  “Not now.” My eyes burn. I blink, trying to hold in the tears. The last thing I need is to break down crying in front of Cassia.

  Freja hurries down the ramp to us. “It’s not her fault.” Her voice is a low growl.

  “Chup kar, soover chod!” I spit. It doesn’t matter that they can’t understand my words. My tone is enough.

  “Come on, Cass.” Freja puts an arm around Cassia’s shoulders and pulls her away, glaring at me.

  More guilt joins the awful loneliness in my chest as I watch them hurry off. Everything Cassia has done since we pulled her from the wreck of her family’s ship has been out of grief. Maybe this is the same. But then why was she laughing when she kissed Freja?

  Rubio bumps my shoulder. “What was that about? Lovebird issues?”

  I scowl at him.

  “Whoa.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “What’s wrong, Sour Face? You killed that harrow almost all on your own. And none of us are dead. You should be celebrating.”

  My shoulders slump. “Cassia and Freja . . .”

  Rubio cocks an eyebrow. “I never pegged you for the jealous girlfriend type.”

  “I walked in on them kissing.”

  “Oh.” He looks deeply uncomfortable. “So, does that mean . . . I mean, are the two of you done, then?”

  “I think so,” I say miserably.

  “I’m really sorry, Miyole.” He puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me an awkward shake that I think might be a hug. “Feelings are the worst.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “They’re the worst.”

  “I’d offer to beat Freja up for you, but I think she might stab me.”

  I let out a short laugh. “She definitely would.”

  He gives me a look that’s either sympathy or pity. Maybe both. “Well, if you want to come punch some more holes in the Mendicant’s siding with me . . .”

  I look away. I’m rubbed too thin to keep this up. “Thanks.”

  “Okay, then.” Rubio stuffs his hands in his pockets. We stand in awkward silence for a moment.

  “If there’s something I’m supposed to be doing, you have to tell me,” he says. “I usually get my friends drunk when they break up, but, I don’t know . . . is that a guy thing?”

  “Probably not.” I don’t have any idea what I’m supposed to do, either. Does anyone have a frame of reference for a breakup in the middle of an extrajudicial rescue mission? I close my eyes. “I think I just want to be alone for a little bit.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Rubio pats my arm and starts to walk away.

  That’s when I remember—Petya. Cryatics Wholesale.

  I open my eyes. “Rubio! Wait.”

  He stops and turns back.

  I shove the piece of paper into his hand. “There is something. Get back to the Mendicant. See if you can plot our route here.”

  I’m alone with a cup of tea when Cassia finds me in the Tsukinos’ galley. I’m starting to get used to it without the usual milk, spice, and sweetness. At least it keeps me warm.

  “Hey.” She gestures to the bench across from me. “Can I sit?”

  I nod.

  She slides in but doesn’t say anything. I sip my tea.

  “Mi,” she says quietly.

  I look up. I still want to kick all the walls, but her face . . . the way she bites the corner of her lip . . .

  “I should never have done it,” she says.

  I soften a fraction. “I’m not going to pretend I’m not mad—”

  “No. I mean, I should never have started anything with you. Or Freja. With anyone.” She looks up at me. “I’m a mess, Mi. I needed something to keep me from thinking about Nethanel every minute. About what they were doing to him.”

  “You were using me,” I say flatly. It’s better when you’re here. It’s distracting.

  “It’s more than that.” She reaches across the table. “I needed you.”

  I pull my hand
s away and wrap them tight around my mug. “But not anymore?”

  She looks away. “I can’t keep manipulating people like this. It’s not fair.”

  “You didn’t manipulate me.” I shake my head, frustrated. “I wanted to make sure Milah got her father back even before I . . .”

  . . . fell in love with you, I don’t finish.

  She stares down at the table. “You should leave. You should go find your research ship. Tell them I kidnapped you or blackmailed you or something. Same as Rubio.”

  I think about it. Go back to my comfortable life aboard the Ranganathan, where the worst thing that can happen is that I don’t get my own lab. Make notes on pollinator mutations and follow a regimen of carefully calibrated exercise and nutrition. Keep my life going along the trajectory I set when I was still in pigtails. How can I do that now, when I know other people are being bought and sold out here in the Deep? When I’ve seen the brutality it brings out? When I know how the DSRI fits in to it all? How can I turn my back on Nethanel and Petya and everyone like them?

  I shake my head. “I’m not leaving.”

  Cassia looks at me like I’m stark raving mad.

  “I’m not joking, Cass.” I see my manman looking up at me through the storm. My manman putting down the man who hurt her, the man with my eyes. I know what she would do in my place. I stand. “Come on.”

  She looks up in surprise. “Where are we going?”

  “To Kazan Spindle,” I say. “To find your brother.”

  The Mendicant rises back to the surface. Rubio flies, with me in the copilot’s seat, while Cassia stays in the common room. We’ve left Tibbet with Freja and her grandfather. There’s no place for him where we’re going.

  The moon’s surface is pristine, broken only by the clusters of spindle towers that mark the location of each settlement beneath the ice. Most of the air traffic peters out south of Ny Kyoto, and then drops and drops as we near the south pole, until we are alone in the air.

  “You don’t have to come with us, you know,” I say to Rubio. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

  “I know.” He shifts in the pilot’s seat and frowns out the front viewport.

  “You could still go back. Stay with the Tsukinos and signal the Ranganathan.”