Raging Sea

by Michael Buckley

  “I’m glad you gave yours to Samuel,” I say, but I leave out that I can’t bear thinking about her on that beach, fighting things that will try to eat her.

  “I know, but I don’t get to have fun like everyone else. I asked Donovan for my own glove this morning. He said he would get me one tomorrow.”

  I hope it was an empty promise.

  Fathom holds up his end of the deal and doesn’t talk to me about anything other than fighting. He focuses on our training and pushes hard. He wants me to swing faster, kick with more intensity. Fighting underwater is so impossibly difficult, and he has no patience with my excuses. He slams into me, pushes me around, and knocks me over with his speed and strength. He shouts at me and criticizes every move I make. He shoots derisive looks my way, which just spark a fight when we get out of the pool.

  “You can’t come here and bark at me!” I shout.

  Fathom springs out of the water, landing on the lawn in an effortless leap.

  “You’re not working hard enough. The Rusalka are fast and merciless, and you are like a sea turtle fighting the current.”

  “You and Arcade are clearly meant for each other!” I cry. “She was always telling me I was a loser too. I don’t care if the two of you think I can do better. This is all you get!”

  “Arcade would never be this lazy,” he says.

  I smack him so hard, it echoes off the rafters. Then I turn and stomp toward the door, mad at myself for needing to cry, but he’s in front of me so fast, I feel the wind blow against my wet swimsuit.

  “I’m trying to keep you alive,” he says. “I can’t lose you.”

  “You don’t have me,” I say bitterly, my eyes blinded by tears. “I always worried you would pick Arcade. In fact, I was prepared for it. Now I wish you had.”

  He looks stricken. Can’t he see what he’s done? This is us now: we’re done, and it’s underlined in red. It’s what we’re going to be from now on, and it’s his fault.

  “I don’t want to be part of some stupid clichéd love triangle, anyway.”

  “What is a love triangle?” he asks.

  “It’s when one person treats two others like losers, and the losers love it,” I say.

  A soldier enters the room.

  “Mr. Spangler would like to see you,” he says to me.

  “Lyric Walker, you must talk to me,” he begs, but I turn and stalk out of the room.

  Doyle is waiting outside Spangler’s office when I arrive.

  “He wants to see us both,” he explains, but says he has no idea why. He knocks on the door, and after a moment it opens and we enter.

  Spangler is sitting at a fancy glass desk littered with electronic gadgets. He smiles and gestures for us to enter.

  “Doyle, Lyric, I believe you both know Samuel.”

  Samuel Lir is sitting in his wheelchair off to the side, so I didn’t spot him at first. When we turn to face him, he does something I never thought I’d see him do again. He stands. It’s awkward and difficult, but he gets up and stays put. I cry out in both surprise and joy.

  “Hello, Ly-ric,” he says, knocking me out again. It’s a miracle.

  “How is this possible, Sammy?” I say.

  He points to the glove. “I’m coming back, Lyric,” he says. He turns to Spangler. “I’m tired.”

  “Of course you are,” Spangler replies. He presses some buttons on his tablet, then helps Samuel back into his wheelchair. “You’ve had an exhausting day, and it’s important to get some rest. We don’t want anything slowing down your progress.”

  The door opens, and Rochelle and Terrance enter. Rochelle looks thin and tired, like they just took her out of her cell. Maybe they did.

  “How?” I ask.

  Terrance smiles at me with tears streaming from his eyes.

  “I’m not going to question a miracle,” he says. He and Rochelle wheel their son out of the room. On the way out, Sammy waves at me, then rubs his head, a joke about my hair.

  “The Oracle is an amazing device,” Spangler says once they’re gone. “I have a theory about it. Would you like to hear it? I don’t think it really moves the water. What I think it does is rewires your brain to force a leap forward in individual evolution. For Alpha, it adapted the Rusalka’s mind so it could control its environment more efficiently. The insurmountable complications of living underwater forced their society to be a nomadic hunter-gatherer tribe. Being able to control what was once uncontrollable gave them a chance at a permanent home. For Samuel, it’s taking on a different purpose: to allow him to walk and talk again. I’ve got the team working on it right now. If we can figure out how to adapt that technology for humans, the applications have limitless potential. A soldier could evolve into something bigger and stronger than the enemy. It could get an injured cop back on the streets. People could develop abilities we’ve never even imagined. It’s mind-boggling. So, how about an update on the children?”

  Doyle clears his throat.

  “Lyric has been working with Fathom in the pool. Naturally, he’s teaching her fighting techniques that I cannot. She’s progressing as well as can be expected, but she could improve if you didn’t turn off her connection to the water.”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure we’re going to be able to arrange that at this time.”

  “The children continue to excel at their mixed martial-arts training, though based on sheer size and strength, few of them will pose any real threat to a Rusalka. They simply aren’t strong enough. They’ll have to rely on their Oracles when we deploy, another reason to turn on the connection permanently. The children could use the practice.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Spangler says absently. “Lyric, how goes it with your students?”

  “Geno, Riley, and Georgia are the best,” I say.

  “And the others?”

  “Twelve are very good. Of them, Finn, Ryan, and Harrison are on the verge of a breakthrough. That leaves sixteen who, as of right now, can barely make a ripple and will be killed the second they step on the beach. You might as well send a bunch of rabbits to fight in their place. Chloe doesn’t have a glove, so sending her at all is a death sentence.”

  “Yes, Chloe needs a glove. The contract is for thirty-three soldiers, and I’ve got thirty-two gloves. I was going to take Samuel’s from him before I saw his CAT scans. I am so glad I waited.”

  Doyle leans forward in his seat, his face choleric.

  “You were going to amputate his hand?”

  “Obviously I can’t do that now. He’s a walking medical miracle. My shareholders would have my head if I ever did something like that. That’s not good business.”

  “It’s always business with you,” I hiss.

  “She doesn’t get it, does she, Doyle? Lyric, everything is about business, which leads me back to my problem. When it’s a government contract, you really can’t be short. I reached out to the client to explain, hoping there might be some wiggle room due to the unique situation and complexities of what we’re doing, but negotiations fell apart. I have to give them what I promised.”

  Instinctively, I tuck my hand back behind me.

  “Oh, not you, Lyric. You’re number thirty-three and the best of the best. No, I’ve had to get creative.”

  There’s a knock at the door, and when it opens, there’s another wheelchair. This one has Arcade in it. Her head is tilted to the right and her eyes are rolling in her head. She’s drugged and doesn’t seem to know where she is, but she has a moment when she focuses on me. Her hands go up to strike, and that’s when I realize one of them is missing and her arm is now wrapped in white gauze.

  “Oh, no,” I whisper, too horrified to scream.

  “I will kill you slowly,” she slurs as she swings wildly in the air.

  “What have you done?” Doyle gasps.

  “I need the two of you to understand the dire nature of what is happening, because things have gone from bad to worse. Rusalka have attacked lower Manhattan. They control everything south of Twenty-Third Street.
It’s pushed our timetable up. Chloe has her glove, and this time I made sure it went on her hand. I even locked it in place myself. She’s ready to be trained. I know you’re very close with her, Lyric, so I’m hoping you’ll do your best to help her learn to use it. Delivery is in three days.”

  “Three days! They won’t be ready!” Doyle cries, getting up from his chair so fast, it topples over. I’m too hypnotized by Arcade’s stump to notice.

  “The client paid for the product, and now it’s time to ship it.”

  “The product,” I say.

  “You’re sending those kids to their graves!” Doyle rages.

  “I’m trying to save the world!” Spangler shouts. “That’s our job, David. The Rusalka, the Alpha—whatever else is out there—they’re coming for us. The kids are our only chance. You can cry in your bunk because they have to do the heavy lifting, but those are the cards we’ve been dealt. They’re going, and when you’re an old man sleeping in your bed and not worrying about mutated fish people coming to kill and maim your family, you’ll see the price wasn’t that high. Thirty-three children for the lives of millions, that’s hardly a price at all!”

  Spangler turns to me.

  “Three days. Those kids can learn a lot from you in that amount of time. I suggest you get to work.”

  I wheel Arcade back to my room because the thought of leaving her with Amy is too frightening to imagine. I’m hoping my mother will know what to do, or my father, who was trained in first aid when he became a cop. Bex will be good for her too. Their friendship, if you can call it that, is complicated, but I do think they respect each other.

  When I get her into the room, my mother lifts Arcade out of the chair and lays her on one of the beds. Bex rushes to get some cool washcloths, and my father checks her pulse.

  “It’s slow but not dangerous,” he explains. “The sedatives they gave her are most likely the cause.”

  “He should know,” Bex says, not having to explain who “he” is to me.

  I nod, and suddenly my anger at Fathom is gone. Yes, he should see her. I go to the door and beg the guard to bring Fathom to my room. The guard is lazy but eventually relents and heads off as soon as a replacement comes to take his post. I wait outside until Fathom appears. His face has a tentative smile, and his eyes are hopeful. He thinks I’ve changed my mind about him.

  “Arcade is hurt,” I say.

  “Arcade is a warrior,” he says.

  “Seriously,” I say.

  I lead him into the room and he hovers over her bed, lifting her wounded arm and studying the dressings where her hand once was. I brace myself for some nonsense about trophies won in war, that a wound is evidence of a fight, and that she will cherish this loss, but if he is thinking it, he keeps it to himself.

  “Like all Triton, Arcade carved the cutting edges of her Kala with stones, from the time she was a small child until she had her first kill. Every edge is unique, the closest thing our people can produce to art. This wound has ruined her work. It is a terrible tragedy for her. Her designs were widely admired. When we were still living in the hunting grounds, she often told me she considered being a teacher, instructing young Triton in the forms their Kala can take. I encouraged her passion. I believe she would have been very good at it.”

  He stands over Arcade for a long moment before turning to me.

  “Will you take care of her?” he asks.

  “Shouldn’t she be with you?”

  He shakes his head. “Please do me a kindness and do not tell her I was here. She will be offended if she learns I was concerned. It will imply that I think she is weak.”

  “That’s insane,” my father says.

  My mother shakes her head. “It’s true. Triton do not nurse the wounded. It is insulting to the victim’s strength and tenacity. If she wants him, she will ask, though I suspect she will not, out of pride.”

  “So that’s it?” I cry. “You’re going to go? And if she survives, then you two will go back to the normal routine, like nothing happened?”

  “What would you have me do for her?” Fathom snaps.

  “I don’t know! Sit with her! Read to her. Sing her a song. She’s your selfsame, isn’t she?” I know it comes out spiteful. My bitterness is ever ready when he’s near, but the actual words I’m saying are completely rational. Yes, I know that I’m a walking contradiction. A week ago I wanted to steal him away from her. I’ve envied her. Now she’s seriously hurt and he should be with her. It’s the kind, human, sane thing to do. Staying would prove to me that he’s not soulless, but he can’t bring himself to do it, for her or me. I’m starting to see that he isn’t worthy of either of us.

  Fathom goes to the door.

  “Is this how you would have treated me if I was hurt?”

  He stops, but he does not face me.

  “I would have learned a new way with you,” he says.

  “You know, I used to think she was lucky!” I shout. “But now I’m thinking she’s cursed!”

  He turns. For a moment he looks as if I have stabbed him, but it vanishes just as quickly, and once again he is made of stone.

  Then he leaves.

  Bex and I move our beds so that we are on either side of Arcade. Mine is on the left, hers is on the right. We all lie in the dark, listening to the Triton girl’s halted breathing, fearful of sleeping, in case she needs something. My parents whisper to each other in the adjacent room. My mother gets up and pours a glass of water, then paces the floor. I know she’s watching over us, kneading the meat of her palm with her thumb as she does when she’s nervous. Bex tosses and turns in her sheets.

  It’s torturous. The last thing I need is silence, because my mind fills the quiet with troubles. In three days, the children will be dropped onto a beach crawling with Rusalka, and they will die. Most likely, so will I. It was a miracle I survived that day on the beach, with the Rusalka leaping out of the waves with their hungry teeth, the prime and his insane wife trying to kill me, and the black tidal wave that nearly tore the world in two. Tens of thousands of people didn’t share that miracle with me: Mr. Ervin, Gabriel, Luna, Thrill, Ghost, Surf, Mrs. Ramirez, Tammy, even Bex’s stepfather, Russell—probably all dead, smashed to bits by the towering water, their bodies dragged out to sea. I don’t suppose I’ll get lucky again. I was so sure I would find a chink in the Tempest armor and get us all out of here, but the opportunity to find the EMP and escape never revealed itself.

  What will it feel like to die? I wonder if it hurts. I wonder what happens next, or even if there is a next. The priests at church talked about heaven. They said all my friends and family who had already died would be waiting there for me. Everyone I ever knew—well, not Russell, but Shadow and the others. It would be nice to see them again. Then there’s the Alpha belief—the return to the Great Abyss, the beginning and the end, the big nothing. It’s hard to wrap my head around nothing. The concept of not existing, that all of this life and its troubles were pointless. It’s depressing. I suppose it’s why the Alpha live so fiercely. If this life is all there is, why not barrel through it?

  I think of Chloe, with her sweet, hopeful eyes. I have grown to adore all the children, despite my best efforts, but she’s special to me. She squirreled into my heart, with her stuffed bunny rabbit and her freckled nose. A whole life that should have been hers will probably be smashed into nothing.

  And then there’s Riley. I want him to live.

  “Where are you going?” Bex whispers to me as I crawl out of bed.

  “I’m going down to the park to train. I’ve got to save these kids,” I tell her.

  I find the guard outside my door. He looks surprised to see me this late.

  “I need the team in the park,” I explain.

  “It’s two in the morning,” he argues.

  “We’re out of time. They can sleep if they live.”

  I work the kids the way Fathom works me, strictly and impatiently. They are not prepared for my change in attitude. A few cry. Tess act
ually curses me out, and the others stand by, bewildered, but it starts to get results. Finn makes a sudden and shocking improvement. He might even be better than me. Pierre and Harrison make great leaps too. Still, William, Dallas, Priscilla, the three sisters Tess, Emma, and Jane, and a few others are having troubles. Chloe, who I am particularly tough on, manages to do something remarkable, creating a butterfly from the pool water. It rises over the surface and flutters around the room, only to splash down like rain all around us.

  “A butterfly?” Doyle says, unimpressed. “It sounds like you’ve got two problems, Lyric. You’ve got kids who aren’t inspired and kids who are inspired by the wrong things.”

  I wave my arm around at his park, with its perfect trees and grass and the seesaw and tire swings.

  “This place isn’t helping them. You’ve built a fantasy world to keep them happy, and it’s messing with their heads.”

  Spangler watches our argument.

  “Please explain,” he says, snatching his tablet and typing away furiously.

  “This place is too safe and happy. It’s phony, and to use these weapons, the kids need to feel something powerful and real and not . . . not sanitized. Georgia is one of the best we’ve got because her father’s death gave her something to feel. It was raw and tragic, and she’s channeled it into her ability. Listen, they’re all going to come along, but we need more time to find the things that burn inside them.”

  “They need to feel something,” Spangler says, letting me know he understands.

  As he and Doyle leave, I see Fathom enter for our training session. I had completely forgotten about it, so focused was I on getting the kids ready. I honestly don’t think I have it in me to be around him, even if he is trying to prepare me for war.

  He walks over to the pool and undresses, and he’s ready to leap in when I stop him.

  “Not today,” I say.