There is no response from the Belle. No hint of human presence. She could be a ghost ship.
“Can you force her in toward shore?” Fiere asks.
We’re not that far offshore—maybe a couple hundred yards or so.
He purses his lip and then shrugs. “We can try.” He spins the steering wheel hard, making the railing nearest me dip terrifyingly close to the water, and circles around the Belle. Then, he toggles the beamer’s switch and the barrel pivots half-way toward the river boat and then sticks. He pushes another button, but nothing happens.
“Damn technology,” he growls. “Happens every time on this tub. Give me a good old-fashioned howitzer any day. You’ll have to operate the beamer manually.” He spares us a glance.
“Everly,” Fiere says. “You operate the beamer.”
Leaving the relative security of my seat, I sway forward, passing the small cockpit, and climb the two steps that take me onto the forward deck. I’m relieved to reach the beamer because it gives me something to hang onto. I’ve never fired one this big, and I spend thirty seconds studying the targeting and firing mechanisms. When I think I’ve gotten the hang of it, I grab hold of the handles at the weapon’s base and slew it until it aims slightly above the Belle’s bow. I glance over my shoulder and Fiere nods.
Squeezing the firing pad with my whole right hand, I send a blast sizzling across the river boat’s bow. The energy burst heats the old weapon’s metal components, and I let go of the handles when they singe my palms. I need gloves. Hesitating only a brief moment, I unbuckle the life vest, shrug out of my tunic, slip the life vest back over my head and thin undershirt, and try to buckle it one-handed while wrapping my tunic around the other hand.
“There’s Idris.” Fiere sounds triumphant.
I look toward the Belle and see Idris silhouetted against the setting sun. There’s someone beside him. I recognize the other figure just as Wyck groans, “Chrysto.”
It makes awful sense. Chrysto, the explosives expert, must have helped Idris and Jereth make the viro-bombs. I steal a look at Wyck and pity swells in me at the sight of his ravaged face.
“Bastard,” he grits out, and his expression turns stony. “I thought he was dead. I heard he was dead.” The anger and betrayal in his voice twist my gut.
I’m not sure, but it seems as if the Belle picks up speed.
“Fire again, Ev,” Fiere orders, either unaware of the effect Chrysto’s presence has on Wyck, or choosing to ignore it. “Graze them.”
“It’s not that precise,” I warn, rotating the beamer again, and trying to compensate for the effect of the waves and the fact that both the target and we are moving. I start to fire. As I do, a bigger swell than usual smacks into us. The blast crackles in a white hot beam that seems to dance across the waves. It strikes the Belle and a smoking hole opens on her hull, half above and half below the water line. Almost immediately, she slows almost to a stop and lists a few degrees to port.
“You call that a graze?” Wyck asks.
I make a rude gesture.
“It’ll do,” Fiere says. “Surrendering is their best option now.”
“Another ship, forty degrees to port,” Captain Vancil calls out.
Surprised, I turn and stare over the gray water. At first I don’t see anything, but then, cresting a wave, I spot a vessel that looks like a cross between a raft and a pontoon boat. There appear to be eight or ten people-sized shapes, splashes of bright color. It slides down the wave and disappears again. I wrinkle my brow, but then the captain says curtly, “Immigrants.” He gets on the radio and begins to vector his patrol boat toward the hapless immigrants. I almost feel sorry for them. This close to freedom or new opportunities and, wham, taken up by the BSS.
“Get us closer to the Belle, Captain,” Fiere orders, standing and making a visor of her hand to peer at the river boat. With her legs braced wide, she easily rides the boat’s motion. “Ev—get back here and grab a ladder. Wyck, you cover us.” She tosses him the beamer she’s been carrying by its strap since putting on the life vest. We’re too close now to use the deck-mounted beamer.
“But I want—”
“You’re a better shot.” I sense she’s deliberately excluding Wyck from the boarding party because she’s not sure what will happen if he comes face to face with his former lover. Wyck is clearly unhappy with her decision, but she’s right about him being a better shot, and he nods.
“Chattanooga Belle, prepare for boarding,” the captain broadcasts.
That might be required BSS procedure, but it strikes me as poor tactics to give your target a heads up about your plans.
We’re in the larger boat’s shadow now and it’s an easy task to reach up with the rigid ladder and hook it over a deck rail. Really, the lower deck of the Belle rides so low in the water that we could practically have jumped to it. Still, we use the ladders to draw our boat tightly in against the Belle’s hull and make a steady platform to climb from. The lack of response from anyone on the Belle makes me think that Idris and Chrysto may be the only ones aboard. With Captain Vancil steadying the Bahama Mama alongside the Belle, and Wyck crouched with the beamer, ready to fire if Idris, Chrysto or anyone else appears, Fiere and I pull ourselves up a couple of rungs and swing ourselves over the Belle’s deck rail. We land in a crouch, me facing the bow with my beamer ready, and her facing the stern. No one in sight.
“Let’s clear this deck first,” Fiere says in a barely audible voice. Sound travels on the water. “I’ll go round the stern. You start toward the bow.”
I nod, and she takes off, running in a crouch. Before I can head toward the bow, the boarding ladder clatters against the rail. I spin, weapon leveled, in time to see Wyck slide over the rail. Simultaneously, the Bahama Mama swings wide and surges away with two wings of wake arcing behind her. What the hell—?
Wyck says quietly in my ear, “Vancil had to intercept the immigrant vessel. Something went wrong with his patrol boat’s engine so they can’t do it. He says he’s sorry, but that border security is his primary mission. He’ll be back to pick us up as soon as he’s dealt with the immigrants. We’re on our own.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The words “on our own” make fear clutch at my gut. “But the Belle is sinking!”
Wyck shrugs. “He says it won’t go down for another two hours or so.”
Fuming and anxious, I turn at the sound of footsteps. Fiere trots up from our right, apparently having completed her recce around this deck. She has shed her life vest for manuverability, I assume.
“No one on this level,” she whispers. “I saw Vancil take off. What’s the status?”
Wyck explains, and she gives a curt nod. “Shouldn’t matter. We’ll have to secure the prisoners until Vancil returns.”
She talks as if our capturing Idris and Chrysto is a foregone conclusion. I’m not nearly so sanguine. Idris is wily.
“We’re going to clear this tub from the top deck down. You two go up the main stairway to the upper deck. I’m going to flank them and climb up from the side.” She points to the railings above us. “Give me a five minute start.” On the words, she unhooks one of the boarding ladders, and takes it with her as she runs lightly down the slippery deck and around the bow.
Wyck and I head toward the main staircase in the heart of the river boat that leads to the upper decks. We swivel our heads constantly to ensure that Idris and Chrysto can’t sneak up on us. I don’t think they’re on this deck, but an abundance of caution feels like the right choice. At the foot of the stairs we halt. The staircase has wide but narrow treads; most are scuffed wood, but some bear traces of the rubber treads that once made them safer for partiers. Iron railings painted white to match the ones outside scroll along either side. I count sixteen stairs to the next deck. Listening intently, I try to focus on sounds from above us. It’s hard to isolate them, however, from the waves slapping against the hull, and the ship’s usual creakings and pingings. I don’t hear footsteps or voices. They m
ust know we’re on board. Chances are they’ve laid an ambush somewhere. Nerves flutter in my stomach. I wonder how Fiere is doing.
“Five minutes. Let’s go,” Wyck whispers.
I start up the left side of the staircase and Wyck goes up the right, our backs against the rails, and weapons ready. We place each foot carefully, aiming for silence. We make it up the first flight of stairs without incident and take thirty seconds to make sure the landing is clear before we start up the second flight that will lead us to the top deck. Wyck stops to sweep the area below us with his gaze, and I’m two steps above him when he resumes climbing. He sets his foot on the next tread and a dull click breaks the silence. Our eyes meet. Booby trap. Explosives. Chrysto.
I lunge for the top as a grumble rises up, seemingly from the heart of the staircase. With a loud cra-ack, the stairs splinter. I jump with all the power in my legs before the tread falls away beneath me. I land with my arms and half my torso sprawled across the next deck, my legs dangling in air. I’m winded. For a moment I can’t hear anything except my heartbeat drumming in my ears. Then, Wyck’s voice penetrates.
“Ev!” It’s pitched higher than usual.
I quickly swing a leg up and lever myself onto the flat deck. Turning, I peer into the cauldron of dark and dust where the stairs used to be. The center of the staircase has fallen to the deck below, a jumble of jagged boards. Stub ends of some treads protrude from the walls. Wyck hangs onto the iron railing with both hands, his feet kicking wildly for purchase on one of the tread ends. Even as I move to my left to get closer to him, the rail’s supports moan and pull out of the wall half an inch.
“Ev.” Wyck says again. His dust-coated face looks up at me.
“Hold on.” My brain sorts the options rapidly. He could try to climb the railing hand over hand, but it will likely pull away from the wall before he can get to safety. He can drop. It’s all of twenty feet or more and splintered boards and nails will kill him if the fall doesn’t. Not an option. If only I had a rope—. Wait. There’s a fire hose on every deck, coiled on the wall.
“Hold on,” I tell Wyck again, as if he’s going to do anything else, and rush around the corner. The hose is still here. Grabbing the nozzle, I tug. It unspools easily. I run back inside, dragging it. A support pole rises to the stairway’s left and I run the hose around it so it can take some of Wyck’s weight when I’m pulling him up. “I’m going to make a loop,” I say, doing so. The knot is bulky and awkward, but looks like it will hold. “Can you catch this?”
Determination glints in Wyck’s eyes. “I have to.” More of the railing rips away with a shriek of wounded metal and almost jars him loose. He re-grips the rail, looking pale. “Soon would be good, Ev.”
In answer, I get as close to the edge as I can and try to drop the loop over Wyck’s head. I miss. He grabs at it with one hand but can’t hold it. Yanking it back up, I gauge the distance and toss it again. The nozzle smacks Wyck’s forehead and he yelps, but the hose loop settles over his shoulders.
“Under your arms,” I say, “and hold on in case that knot doesn’t hold.”
Wyck lets go of the railing one hand at a time to lodge the hose under his armpits. His left hand clamps around the hose and his right still holds the iron railing. I back up, gripping the hose, until I’m past where it hugs the support pole. I begin to pull, leaning back against the hose and straining with all my might. He rises a disappointing six inches. He’s too heavy. I’m not strong enough. I take half a step back, muscles in my back and legs straining, and hoist him another couple of inches. Sweat beads my forehead and drips into my eyes. I take another step back. And another.
“Can almost . . . grab . . .” Wyck gasps.
My thighs tremble. I can’t do it. My raw palms leave bloody streaks on the hose. I step back again. A scrabbling sound makes me look over my shoulder. My breath catches on a sob when I see Wyck’s fingers grasping the decking. I push back on the hose with renewed energy and his other hand appears. Seconds later he levers himself up and pauses on hands and knees to catch his breath. I rush to him and help unknot the fire hose, dropping to my knees because my legs won’t support me.
“Thanks,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. “I thought I was a goner.”
“Me, too.” I help him up. “You should lose some weight.”
“Noted.” He grins. “Ready?”
“They must know we’re here.” Why haven’t Idris and Chrysto taken advantage of our preoccupation to attack? Has Fiere managed to subdue them already?
“You think the explosion gave us away?”
I shoot him an exasperated look and grope for the pistol at my waist. We both lost our beamers in the explosion. The stairs to the pilot’s cabin are metal, narrow, and almost straight up, intended only for crew and not for passengers. Wyck and I will be sitting ducks once we start up them.
“You stay here and cover me, and I’ll climb,” Wyck says.
I nod.
Before he can step on the first tread, Idris’s voice sounds from above us. “You might as well both come up. Join the party.”
In a flash, Wyck and I have our weapons pointing toward the rectangular opening. A shadow crosses it, and then Fiere stands at the top, gagged, arms bound, Chrysto’s arm around her waist and a knife at her throat. I only know it’s Chrysto and not Idris because I catch a glimpse of blond hair. Fiere’s expression is murderous. Her lips are split and blood trickles from the corner of her mouth. She shakes her head, telling us not to come up, and a thin line of blood appears on her throat. She stills, looking infuriated rather than scared.
“Now,” Idris orders, still out of sight, “or he slits her throat. Oh, and drop your weapons first.”
I slide a glance at Wyck and he gives an almost imperceptible nod. We drop the guns we’re holding, but I’ve still got my knife and I guess Wyck has another weapon secreted somewhere. I slide the knife out of the thigh scabbard and slip it into my waistband at the small of my back. Then, I unbuckle the scabbard and let it drop. Chrysto pulls Fiere away from the opening and Wyck starts to climb. I follow him, my leg muscles shuddering from the effort of raising Wyck. I half expect them to shoot us as we climb, but they don’t. We emerge onto the open deck and the wind buffets us. It’s cool on my bare arms. I brace myself and turn to see Idris on the far side of the opening, near the starboard railing. Chrysto holds Fiere about five feet away from him. Bruises bulge on Idris’s forehead and jaw, and blood drips from a cut on the arm Chrysto uses to hold Fiere tightly against him. Fiere gave as good as she got before the two of them overpowered her. Their wounds give me a morsel of satisfaction.
Idris motions with the beamer he’s pointing at us. “Hands over your heads. Over here.”
As we walk around the stairwell opening, I look beyond the river boat. I can see the immigrant boat more clearly now, along with the Bahama Mama which has drawn even with it. Apparently, the patrol boat has fixed its engine, because it’s there, too, looming over the smaller vessels. Even as I watch, the patrol boat strafes the immigrant boat with beamer pulses. Screams carry across the water. A flash of green explodes upwards. The passengers dive into the water and I watch one man, or maybe a woman, in a bright red shirt, clawing through the water, making for land. In a moment, the waves hide him, or maybe he dives deep to avoid capture. A life ring sails out from the Bahama Mama and Captain Vancil pulls it in with what looks like two figures clinging to it.
“We need your boat.”
Idris’s words reclaim my attention. He is thinner than when I last saw him in prison, and sun-bronzed from his time on the water. His black hair has grown out some, and the wind riffles it. A week’s worth of beard darkens his jaw line. The white tunic he wears is tattered, displaying slashes of hard torso and abdomen. He’s been living rough.
“The Belle is sinking.” He actually sounds grieved.
“Idris—” I start.
“You wrecked my plan, Everly.”
I expected him to be growling with fury, bent on
revenge, but he sounds tired.
“Alexander would have hated it,” I say, more gently than I intended. I sense Wyck inching away from me, putting distance between us so Idris can only cover one of us at a time. I help by taking a step toward my brother.
“It was necessary. The geneborns had to die.” He spouts the stale lines, but with none of his old fire. “At least I got some of the filthy bastards. I’d have gotten them all if it hadn’t been for you.” His hand tenses on the beamer.
“I didn’t do that much. The scientists, the government, even the Defiance—everyone did their part. No one could stomach the idea of genocide.” I slide another six inches forward. “They’d have saved just as many geneborns without me.”
“Just shoot them,” Chrysto says. He shrugs and addresses Wyck. “Sorry. Nothing personal.”
Wyck’s gaze hasn’t left Chrysto’s face since we got up here, I don’t think, and his expression hardens at his former lover’s words.
Idris shakes his head. “No. We need them as hostages. We need them to get their boat back here. Stop.” He raises the beamer a notch and aims it at my chest. I halt. “Saben—did he make it?”
I sense that Idris has boiled down the conflict to a battle with me. I don’t know why. Maybe it has something to do with our being siblings, or his not entirely brotherly feelings for me. He needs to feel he’s beaten me in some way. “No,” I say instinctively. “He died. Horribly.”
A small smile curls Idris’s lips, and his grip on the beamer slips a hair. “Good. I always hated the self-righteous prig.”
I don’t react to his description of Saben. The boat lists suddenly, taking on water, and we all stagger. Idris’s arms jerk up, and the beamer points skyward for a moment. Three inches of space open between Fiere and Chrysto and that’s all she needs. She stomps on his instep while slamming her head into his nose. Wrenching away, she makes a club of her bound hands and whams them against his temple. He snarls and stabs wildly. The blade catches her in the shoulder and she cries out.
Regeneration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 3) Page 24
