There was a battle going on around the statue. Blue Meanies, without a doubt. Their blue Mylar suits gleamed and flashed in the sunlight. Their hind legs glowed red where the rocket exhaust blazed.
They were engaged in a strange, balletic dogfight with smaller creatures that clung to the statue. They had multiple tentacle legs and Wylson could just make out a suggestion of liquid pink eyes. They looked like octopuses. No, squids, that was it.
The Meanies appeared to be trying to burn the squids off like jungle trekkers burning off leeches, using their maneuvering rockets to fry the creatures.
The Squid fought back with sudden jets that seemed to liquefy the rock of the statue and send it shooting out, like liquid fists.
Wylson was about to snap out orders when she remembered Jobs. He was theoretically directing the working of the ship. And he was still staring aft.
What are you doing? she demanded, annoyed.
I think thats coming this way.
Wylson squinted. A dark cloud. Then, a stab of lightning within the cloud.
What should . . . Wylson started to say, then stopped herself. No questions, orders. She had to give orders. Prepare for it.
Jobss eyebrow shot up. I have a crew of about six effective people, Jobs said. And by the way, Im not John Paul Jones here.
The cloud was clearly racing toward them now, and at incredible speed. A cold breeze, like a forewarning, dropped the temperature by twenty degrees in a heartbeat. Lower all the sails, Wylson ordered decisively.
No, I dont think so, Jobs said. Sails are our engines. We need some movement to be able to steer.
And you know this?
I dont know anything! Jobs cried.
Youre guessing.
The boy took a deep breath and yelled up to the sky. Mo! Furl all the sails on the foremast. Leave that one up on the mainmast. But try and strengthen it somehow. Do it fast! Yago! You make sure you have a grip on the wheel.
Youd better be right, Wylson warned. She returned her attention to the strange battle ahead, secretly relieved to have Jobs to blame for any mishaps with navigation.
The battle seemed more important, anyway. She strode forward. A sudden shivering of the hull almost made her lose her footing.
Opinions? Observations? she demanded.
Shy Hwang shrugged. Its the Meanies, for sure. I dont know what those other things are. They look like . . .
Squids, Wylson supplied. Well, its not our battle. Wed better steer away. Jobs! she yelled back to him.
No answer. Irritated, she turned and froze.
The cloud was a black wall crackling with electricity. The sun still shone, illuminating Jobs, the white sails above, the gleaming wooden deck.
And then, in a heartbeat, the storm hit.
The wind picked Wylson up and drove her forward. She grabbed a railing and held on. The entire ship heeled wildly over, over, over, as if it would capsize. There was a terrible rending sound and screams and a wall of water crashed down over Wylson.
She felt her fingers slipping. Felt her body become weightless, lifted up, carried head over heels, swept away, fingers grabbing onto nothing, no air, sucking water into her lungs, and then, all at once, she knew she was no longer on the ship.
Jobs was on his face, clutching desperately to a wooden grate. The deck was as pitched as a roof. Water rolled across him, loosening his hold, filling his mouth. He ducked his head down and the water beat down on his neck and the back of his head.
The ship was going to capsize. It was going over. It was going to roll right over.
The whole thing was a logic problem, thats all it was, basic geometry, right? If the ship rose, if it came back up, if it didnt capsize, then it was geometry. Otherwise it was the end.
He saw it clearly, saw the way to respond, if only he lived that long. If MoSteel was somehow still alive. If Yago was still at the wheel.
If the ship rolled back up. If it didnt capsize.
MoSteel, with Anamull and Roger Dodger right behind, had raced from the mainmast to the foremast. Easy enough in theory. There was a thick rope leading from the mainmasts top platform, two-thirds of the way up, down at an angle to the foremasts platform what Shy Hwang called a top.
The movement involved pain. The rope was rough and ripped flesh from already raw hands. MoSteel left his own blood on the rope but he and the rest could all see the peril approaching.
Edward and 2Face had gone in the other direction, climbing up the mainmast to reach the topsail. Jobs had said to strengthen that sail. How they were to do that MoSteel didnt know. But he did know they needed less sail when the storm hit, that was fairly obvious.
Two sails were drawing on the foremast. MoSteel raced out along the yard, the horizontal beam that supported the sail itself, ready to begin grabbing up handfuls of canvas and furl the sail, when time ran out.
The storm hit and MoSteel held on by wrapping his body over and around the yard.
The ship heeled over and all of a sudden it wasnt the deck below him but the sea. The deck of the ship was pitched sharply and covered in green foam.
No way shes coming up, no way, MoSteel muttered, readying himself to be plunged into the water.
In a flash of lightning he saw a face in the sea below him. Wylson! She was choking, staring up to heaven, then she was under, gone.
The ship began to rise, slowly, painfully slowly, she righted.
MoSteel saw Jobs. Saw Violet. Both holding on. He tried to look for the other mast monkeys, but the sails had been ripped from their bindings and now hundreds of square yards of wet canvas were whipping everywhere.
Lightning struck the mizzenmast with a terrifyingly loud crack. And in the flash MoSteel saw Tamara, moving with superhuman speed, running across the still-angled deck. She ran straight for Billy Weir, grabbed him up bodily, and threw him over the railing into the sea.
Without thinking, MoSteel gathered his legs up under him and leaped as far as he could. He fell through driving rain and hit the water.
CHAPTER TWENTY IF WERE GOING INTO A BATTLE, I WANT TO BE ABLE TO SHOOT BACK.
The Constitution rose.
The sails were gone, all but a scrap hanging from the top of the mainmast.
Jobs could barely breathe for the rain that came down like a waterfall.
He staggered back to the wheel. Yago was there, but down on hands and knees, winded. Jobs grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him up.
The two of them grabbed the wheel. The wheel spun, throwing Jobs aside. Up and at it again, they grabbed the fast-spinning spokes and Jobs felt as if his arms would be yanked out of his shoulders.
T.R., sliding past on a sheet of foam. The psychiatrist hit something solid and stuck.
T.R.! Help us! Jobs yelled, screaming to be heard over the howl of the wind.
The three of them managed to hold the wheel. Run with the wind! Jobs shouted. Steer straight.
Well run right into the battle! Yago screamed back, his face inches from Jobs.
No choice!
The winds violence declined by a few degrees, but the wheel continued to fight them, shoving the three of them one way or the other.
Jobs spared a moment to look up at the masts. He spotted Edward holding on for dear life. He didnt see MoSteel, but the flapping sails and whipping ropes obscured everything.
Ahead, the battle of the Meanies and the Squids raged, only intensified by the squall that now passed around them, smashing careless Meanies together.
Ten minutes, well be there, Jobs said.
We have to turn around, Yago said.
No sails, Yago. We dont have an engine, all we have are sails, and all thats moving us now is the current and the pressure of the wind on the masts and rigging. If were lucky we can just scrape past the statue.
Violet came running up. Her blond hair streamed out behind her, pulling her features back like a bad facelift. My moms overboard! I saw her get swept over. We have to do something.
Jobs shook his head. Miss Blake, we
cant do anything.
But shell drown!
Jobs shook his head again, emphatically, not wanting to think about Wylson or where MoSteel might be, or whether Edward would be able to get down from his precarious perch on the mast.
2Face dropped to the deck from above, rolled, and jumped up. Jobs! Mo jumped! He jumped into the water. I think he was going after Billy.
Billy? Jobs looked around frantically. Wylson, Billy, and Mo, all of them overboard? He felt like he was back in the water, drowning. Too much all at once.
Tamara did it. She threw him over.
Yago cursed. If Wylsons gone, Im in charge, he said.
Were heading right into that battle, Shy yelled.
The rain slackened and the wind fell from a furious howl to a low moan. The squall was past as quickly as it hit, but the wind still blew, rain still fell, and Shy was still right: The battle was unavoidable now.
We need to turn around, Yago said decisively. Jobs, turn us around.
You and Wylson! Jobs snapped back. You dont get it: Were a sailing ship without a crew. We go where the wind blows.
Yago looked lost for a moment and Jobs would have liked to savor it, but his head was still too full of competing scenarios for rescuing MoSteel or alternately accepting that completely unacceptable death.
If were going through that battle, lets go through as fast as we can, 2Face said.
Thats right. Jobs grabbed at the idea. Okay, we need more sail. Once were past, if the weather calms down we can launch a boat and go back for the people who went overboard.
Anyone who went in the water is dead, Yago said harshly.
Jobs flinched but did not respond. 2Face, can you get any of the sails to draw?
She nodded. I still have Anamull, Edward, and Roger Dodger up there. Tate? Dad? I could use both of you, too.
Shy nodded reluctantly.
Okay, do what you can, Jobs said, grateful for her decisiveness. But let me have Anamull. Send him down, I need someone strong.
2Face leaped back into the rigging and disappeared behind flapping canvas.
Olga! Jobs yelled. T.R., Burroway, you, too. Yago, you stay on the wheel, hold her steady to pass just to starboard of that statue.
What are you up to, Jobs?
If were going into a battle, I want to be able to shoot back.
He turned to the nearest cannon. It was black-painted, maybe ten feet long. A huge iron cylinder mounted on a crude-looking four-wheeled cart. It was held snug against the side of the ship by ropes and pulleys. The wheels were imprisoned by chocks.
Well never be able to handle more than one at a time, Jobs said. Okay, were going to figure out how to shoot this thing. First things first. Olga? Youve had a chance to look around this ship. There should be a special room with nothing in it but gunpowder.
Yes, its like a little bank vault almost. Two doors and wet flannel hanging to keep out any spark. There were a bunch of small barrels and some canvas bags, like little rolled-up sleeping bags.
Cartridges. Thats what we want. Take Burroway. Bring us back all the cartridges you can carry. Also, one each of any kind of tool you see around there. Keep the powder dry, and hurry!
Therere cannonballs in that rack, Anamull pointed out.
Yeah. Okay, look, I saw this Civil War reenactment thing once on a field trip, Jobs said. I was, like, seven or whatever, but I think I know how its done.
Oh, great, Yago carped from back at the wheel. Then it should be no problem.
Suddenly a Blue Meanie buzzed past. It looked like a scared cat all done up in blue Mylar. Twin tentacles waved from the sides of its face. Its eyes were blank sensors. Its rockets roared, though what they burned was a mystery. Jobs knew that the Meanies carried weapons in those blue suits tiny explosive missiles and withering fléchette guns.
The alien seemed to be surveying the ship, no doubt wondering what it was doing there. Jobs had traveled for a while in the company of a Blue Meanie named Four Sacred Streams. He knew something of their abilities and weaknesses. He knew something, but only a little, of their goals. He was not under the illusion that the Meanies considered the human interlopers as friends. But perhaps they were not enemies, either.
Maybe, in fact, a well-aimed cannonball might convince the Meanies that the humans could be useful allies. And the humans could use allies.
He patted the cannon. If they hit a Squid . . .
The enemy of my enemy is my friend, wasnt that the saying? If Jobs could fire on the Squids, he might ensure the friendship of the Meanies, and if that happened, maybe they could help find MoSteel and the others.
He felt a slight acceleration as 2Face and her crew managed to tighten one of the loose sails.
Olga and Burroway appeared on deck, staggering under the weight of bamboo buckets hung from their necks with rope. Each carried three buckets. In each bucket was one cartridge.
All right, Jobs said. We may not be able to steer this thing, but we might be able to fight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE WELL, MO, YOU PUSHED IT TOO FAR THIS TIME.
Billy Weir was surprised by the attack. It had occurred in a flash. Tamara, drawing on the power of the baby, had simply snatched him up and thrown him bodily overboard.
The crashing sea had done the rest. A wave had smashed him like a fist, driving him down in a swirl of foam.
He sank, arms and legs extended, faceup, amazed and confused and uncertain.
Why did the baby hate him? What was the baby? Why did it want him dead?
And always: Was any of this real?
Hadnt he experienced memories like this while burglarizing other minds in hibernation? Wasnt this like something that Anamull remembered from childhood? Or was it more like the suppressed memories T.R. hid way down deep inside?
The water smothered him and for a moment he was inside Yagos claustrophobia. Of course, with Yago it hadnt been water, it had been the hole in the backyard and the collapsing walls of mud.
This was water. Unlike any other memory or imagined memory. Yes, it was different. And there had been the attack, that was true, wasnt it?
He saw Wylson in the water, too. He had been inside her mind, of course, or thought he had. Surely he remembered things about her that only she should know.
He saw her drowning now. She was barely moving. Maybe not moving at all, maybe it was just the water pushing her limbs.
Of course, Billy realized, Im not moving, either, and Im not dead. Not yet.
Should I be?
He hit a bump. The seabed? So soon?
He twisted around and his hands smoothed gray steel.
This was interesting. So much was new and interesting. Better to live.
He thought for a moment, and a bubble of air began to grow around him, a sphere in which he stood up, feet planted firmly on an artificial ocean floor.
MoSteel hit the water and plunged deep. Almost too deep. The water couldnt be much more than twenty feet deep.
The ocean had a steel floor. He saw the keel of the Constitution : It could almost scrape the seabed.
MoSteel came up to vertical, mentally checked to see if he had enough air in his lungs, and searched in a careful circle, all around.
He spotted Billy Weir some distance away. He looked as if he was standing quite calmly on the ocean floor.
Wylson was floating a hundred yards off, suspended, neither sinking nor surfacing.
MoSteel began to swim toward her but he knew his air would run out before he could reach her. He began to rise, calculating his angle so as to continue toward Wylson even as he rose.
He broke the surface and sucked air and rain. A quick glance at the ship still heading for an apparent collision with the statue, a quick prayer for Jobss safety, a second breath, and down he went again.
Wylson was nowhere in sight.
MoSteel swam straight down ten feet and looked again. No Wylson. Not where she had been, anyway.
He cursed himself for needing to breathe and swam deeper, turning as he
went, searching in every direction. No Wylson. No Billy.
He touched down on the steel floor, almost weightless. Where was Wylson? Where was Billy?
The light shifted, a sunbeam broke through the clouds, and there she was, dead or very near it, now settling facedown toward the bottom. She was still thirty feet away.
He couldnt possibly reach her in time. Could he? And still get to the surface before he passed out or gagged on a lungful of water?
Im not losing her again, he vowed and started toward her.
The distance was an optical illusion. She was farther away than hed thought, and now his lungs burned and his ears buzzed and his eyesight filmed over red.
He could feel the strength draining away. His stroke became less and less efficient. His arms . . . legs . . . woozy, definitely woozy.
Well, Mo, he thought, you pushed it too far this time.
Surface. Only way out. Up. Only . . . only . . . why was he bumping into the ground? Oh, man. Turned around. Kick and miss. Rising slow.
Dont breathe, man.
Dont breathe.
He breathed. Sucked in hard. Sucked in air.
Again. Another breath.
There was an air bubble around his head, like a divers helmet. His face and hair were wet, but there was air. Impossible. He breathed again and wondered if he was hallucinating. Was he already dead? Was that it?
No time for that kind of nonsense. He had to reach Wylson.
She was drifting along the ocean floor, facedown. Billy was moving toward her, moonwalking, taking big, giant, weightless steps.
The floor opened, like an eye winking open. Wylson was sucked down in a flash. It was as if the ocean floor had simply grown a mouth and snapped her up.
MoSteel shouted, No! But now it was Billys turn. The boy was being drawn down the same hole, sucked toward it. He didnt seem to be resisting. And it occurred to MoSteel that he couldnt resist, either, or shouldnt. Wylson might still be alive, Billy surely was, and MoSteel couldnt abandon them.
He kicked off and bounded toward the hole.
A swift current grabbed him and down he plunged, down into darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO YOU MEAN, LIKE CAVALRY COMING TO THE RESCUE?
Applegate, K A - Remnants 04 - Nowhere Land Page 8
