AN HOUR LATER Sam found herself in an underground bunker. The walls of the tiny room were lined with shelves and cabinets, mostly empty. A table—no chairs—dominated the center of the space. Spread out across that surface were the contents of a white first-aid kit Prumble had pulled from a shelf. The duffel bag that contained his environment suit lay on a high shelf near the back.
Skadz leaned against the far wall, sitting on the floor cross-legged and eyes closed, though she knew he was awake.
Prumble paced, his face scrunched up in concentration. The bottom half of his shirt was soaked with blood, but he seemed in no pain at all. When they entered the room he’d simply sprayed it with some bonding anesthetic and slapped a bandage over it. Then he’d started to pace.
He stank, they all stank, of sewage and sweat. Finally, after a long silence, the big man spoke. “I’ll be back,” he said, and left the way they’d entered. It was the only way in or out, save for a hatch on the roof.
She watched Skadz for a long time, hoping his eyes would open with some kind of bright, lightning-bolt revelation. A plan, a way forward, something she could follow without having to think for herself because that would require using her brain, and that lump of gray meat wasn’t up to the challenge just now.
Her eyes drooped, slipped closed. She must have slept, because when she opened them again Prumble was back and he was eating. Fish stew, from the pungent smell of it. A staple of Darwin’s ground dwellers that she normally shunned due to the often dubious ingredients. Here and now, though, it seemed perfect. Her stomach growled so loudly that Prumble turned to face her, spoon hovering halfway to his lips. “Top of the morning, Sam. Breakfast?”
“Please,” she said. The word barely escaped her dry throat.
The first-aid kit had been tidied up and returned to its shelf. On the table now, she saw, was a chipped red Dutch oven resting on a camp stove, curls of steam wafting up from the edges of the lid. Next to it was a thermos, a few bowls, and mismatched spoons. She went to the table and scooped a bowlful of the stew from the cookpot, inhaled the salty aromas, then grabbed a spoon. “What’s in the thermos?”
“Coffee.”
“You’re a magician.”
Prumble shook his head, chewing on a piece of stubborn meat. “I’m a scavenger just like you, Sam. Only you work the Clear, and I work the city. Usually I find buyers, but sometimes it’s necessities. Like coffee.”
She smiled at him. “Those days are over, I think,” she said with as much sadness and nostalgia as she felt.
He glared at her with mock incredulity, gesturing to her bowl and the thermos. “You’re the one lazing away in this palace while I forage.” At her wrinkled nose his expression became more serious. “You’re right, of course. Still, the day I can’t scrounge a cuppa is the day I’ll consider myself unworthy of the Builders’ filtered air.”
The stew tasted wonderful. Scalding hot broth thick with chunks of fish that must have been hauled in recently near Aura’s Edge, not by the coast where the waters were filthy. But the soup paled in comparison to the coffee. It was like drinking liquid focus. Each swallow chipped away at her exhaustion and the fog it brought. “Holy hell that’s good.”
Skadz stirred. A sharp intake of breath, followed by a catlike stretch of his arms. “Do I smell what I think I smell?”
Prumble spoke before Sam could. “Better hurry before it’s gone, mate, because we’ve still got a job to do.”
“Bollocks,” Skadz said. He hauled himself to his feet and came to the table, going for the coffee first. “Cloak-and-dagger time is over. If Nightcliff wasn’t already locked up tight as a Jake’s ass, it will be now. The streets up there must be full of—”
“The streets,” Prumble said, “are a powder keg. And about”—he glanced at his wrist—“twenty minutes ago I lit the fuse.”
Samantha glared at the big man, impressed despite herself at the smug satisfaction on his face. “Prumble? What did you do?”
His grin grew wider. “Do you recall what our good friend Jaya said about the current landscape of Jacobite politics?”
She grimaced. “Er. Not really.”
“Tsk-tsk, Samantha. Luckily I was paying attention. Jaya spoke of a growing rift. Grillo on one side and Sister Haley, the so-called girl who talks to God, on the other. And while it’s true that the three of us are at the top of the most-wanted list, a rumor will be spreading like wildfire through Darwin today that we’ve holed up inside Temple Sulam, under the protection of our dear friend, the lovely pariah herself, Sister Haley. Eyewitnesses will swear they saw us enter to open arms.”
The room went so quiet that Sam could hear the flow of runoff water in the sewer main ten meters outside the door.
Skadz wiped a hand across his face, as if trying to banish his own smile. The effort failed. “Bloody. Brilliant.”
Prumble’s face lit up at the praise. He rocked from foot to foot in his excitement, his fingers twitching with nervous energy like a drummer tapping out a mentally composed riff. “With any luck,” he said, “by nightfall Grillo’s forces will have the temple surrounded. Haley will deny our presence, of course, but she’ll never let Grillo in to search the place because she fears he’ll never leave. Meanwhile …”
Sam leaned forward now, her hands on the table. “Meanwhile, we go after the object.”
“Precisely,” the big man said.
His tone implied he had a plan for that, too.
* * *
Prumble led them through more sewers, his bulky form lit by dancing shadows cast by an LED camping lantern he held before him. They had no other light, nor a functional weapon between them. The gun Skadz picked up during the brawl with the Jacobites was empty, and the prospects of finding more ammo were slim.
Samantha stepped carefully. Every surface was slick with humidity and stank with an intensity that made her eyes water, yet the others didn’t complain, so she kept quiet. Short of flying across the city at altitude, this was undoubtedly the best way to reach their destination without being seen.
Ahead, Prumble gestured at a branch in the tunnel. “That way leads to Nightcliff. Skyler took it when he had to sneak in, and they collapsed it a week later.”
Sam couldn’t see much in the dim light. She tried to imagine Skyler’s trek through this dismal place. He’d somehow saved the Elevator from total failure, though only a few people knew it. Her captain had pulled it off and moved straight on to orbit, seeking to save her and then Dr. Sharma. Never once had he asked for thanks or praise. Few in Darwin knew how close the city had come to total collapse, or who their true savior was.
Prumble walked on, taking the branch that led west. After what seemed to Sam like a thousand kilometers the tunnel began to slope upward until it finally, blissfully, ended at a locked gate, bars as thick as her arm. Prumble, of course, had a key. Beyond was a disgusting stagnant pool near the ocean. Sam heard waves lapping against rocks, along with the creaking of hundreds of small boats. She gagged at the addition of rotting seaweed odor to the still-pungent reek of sewage. The big man seemed not to notice. Instead he just clambered up the large gray rocks piled around the mouth of the tunnel and continued on as if out for a morning hike. The rocks soon gave way to a barely visible path through shoulder-high reeds. The sun, though still low behind the city’s skyline, already made the air uncomfortably warm and thick with flies.
The path led up onto an embankment that ran along one side of the artificial cove. Occasionally she spotted ragged camping tents nestled within the reeds, heard the sound of snoring from one. Once they were high enough on the inlet’s side the ocean came into view. Boats and rafts of every size and condition clogged the waters out to a few hundred meters from shore. Those nearest the open ocean were in the best shape, either coming or going in their effort to catch fish. With no room for livestock in any appreciable quantity, Darwin relied on these boats as much as the farms high above to keep people fed. The placement of the Elevator on Darwin’s coastline, either on purpose or otherwise, left almost half of the protective aura covering open ocean. This left fishing as an option, but the coast was so clogged with the watercraft that swarmed Darwin in their flight from the disease that it had become an ecosystem all its own. Fishermen came back to the edge of the flotilla with their catch, trading the haul for whatever supplies they needed, and so began a byzantine process far too complex for Samantha to comprehend. The net result was that some fish made it to shore, but not much.
Prumble halted their march here, overlooking the cluttered bay. He studied the flotilla for a long time.
“Oy,” Skadz said, “big man. Why’ve we stopped? And isn’t Nightcliff way the hell back that way?”
“Tell me something,” Prumble said, as if he hadn’t heard. “What’s the one thing we possess of value?”
The question left Skadz speechless. Sam as well.
“Knowledge,” Prumble said.
Sam smirked. “Okay …”
“We know, for example, that Darwin is not the only place on Earth people can live. We know there’s another option. That’s valuable.”
Samantha put her hands in her pockets and shrugged. “So what? Hardly anyone could get there.”
“Mate,” Skadz said, “if you’re proposing to sell seats on Skyler’s bird, don’t bother. He said it would barely fit us.”
In response Prumble raised one hand and pointed out to sea. Sam had to stand next to him and sight down his arm to see what he was looking at. Even when she found it, she didn’t understand. “That black square?”
“Indeed.”
“What is it?”
Prumble grinned. “The Vadim Zorich. A Russian submarine, thorium powered. She surfaced here a full six months after SUBS hit. The last refugees, and the only people other than you immunes or the suited scavengers who can leave the aura.”
Squinting in disbelief, Skadz said, “And in all this time the crew didn’t bugger off?”
“Many did, yes, but there’s still enough of them left to operate the craft. They go out for months at a time, just because they can, I suppose. Luckily for us, they’re here now.”
“Prumble,” Sam said, “we’ve already got a ride. What’s the point?”
“We have a ride, yes. People who can assist us in entering Nightcliff do not, and I’ll bet they’d like one very much.”
With that he turned and continued his march, his pace reinvigorated. They crested the embankment and left the stench of the shore behind. Prumble guided them through a junkyard of abandoned, crushed vehicles, through two chain-link fences, and finally out onto the strip of land that led to their goal.
“Best to conceal that rifle now,” Prumble said to Skadz without looking back.
Ahead, perched on the shore of East Point, were the six functioning desalination plants. From a distance the huge buildings blended together into one massive industrial complex. A confusing array of pipes and storage tanks.
People, kids mostly, trudged along the crumbling road that led out to the facilities from homes nearer the coastline proper. They carried buckets, bottles, even mixing bowls—whatever would carry water. Empty going out, full going back. Their path took them through a gauntlet of street vendors hawking everything from fresh fish to reasonably clean undergarments. Plant workers weaved through the throng as well. Those carrying water parted for them, and the peddlers treated them as if invisible. They were something akin to an upper class in Darwin, though not quite on the same level as the roof dwellers. Payment being a rather dubious reward in the city, Sam had heard these people kept the water plants running mostly out of a sense of duty, not for the rewards they received. They were a small and dwindling brain trust, something Platz, Blackfield, and now Grillo all realized. So they had choice living conditions within the safety of the peninsula, food provided, and of course all the fresh water they required.
Prumble moved quickly through the crowds. At the far end of the narrow road, in front of the industrial buildings, were guards in both Nightcliff and Jacobite garb. They were checking paperwork as the workers shuffled in.
“Used to be all Platz people out here,” Prumble said. “A lot of the bits and bobs you fetched over the years came this way.”
“I recall,” said Skadz. “Paid handsomely, too.”
“It did at that.” He hunched a bit as he weaved his way past a pair of merchants selling some kind of groundfish cakes, and then kept going down the embankment on the other side.
The reeds here were taller. Dry, tough things that snagged on any piece of loose clothing available. Unlike the side of the peninsula they’d entered from, there was no worn path here. The going was slow, and the day grew hotter with each step. All signs of the previous night’s storm were gone, leaving nothing but a brilliant blue sky and a glaring heat lamp of a sun.
“On occasion,” Prumble said in a low yet conversational tone, “I used this route when the items I needed to fence were, um, personal in nature.” He came to a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The barrier ran well out into the ocean. Multiple signs warned against trespassing. Prumble moved to a spot in the fence under one such sign and pulled a section aside. He waved Skadz through first, then Samantha.
Beyond, he took the lead again as the landscape turned from reeds to rocks once more. Sam could see the tips of giant exhaust stacks above the lip of the embankment, though no visible steam or other emission came from the towers just now. A steady noise began to build, a sound she assumed was the by-product of superheating ocean water over a nuclear furnace.
She was sweating profusely and her throat felt dry as paper when they came to a meter-high pipe that ran half buried down the rocky slope and out into the ocean. Sam placed her hand on the cool metal and felt the vibration of water flowing within. Prumble followed the pipe from there, surprisingly steady in his pace despite the distance they’d come in such heat. His trademark leather duster flapped behind him, snapping in the stiff ocean breeze.
When the main building of the desalination plant came into view, Prumble stopped. He leaned against the pipe, and sighed in relief as the cold metal chilled the back of his neck. Skadz mimicked the posture and so Sam did, too.
“Have the next bit figured out yet?” Skadz asked.
Prumble didn’t look back. Instead he just raised one hand and waggled his fingers, urging quiet.
Skadz turned to Samantha instead. “Holding up, love?”
“Nothing like a brisk stroll to start the morning.”
He smirked. “Wish we had some weapons.”
Prumble did a half turn and hissed at them. “Silence.”
“They can’t hear us over these pipes, man,” Skadz shot back.
“I don’t care if they can hear us. I’m trying to listen.”
“For what?”
Prumble held up one meaty finger, his eyes darting upward toward the sky. “Aha. Here we are, like the Tranz on a Friday afternoon at beer-thirty. Right on time.”
“The hell are you on about?”
Sam gripped Skadz by the arm to quiet him. She heard the noise now, too, and nodded at Prumble. The wail of vertical thrusters grew from a whisper to a rushing gale as the water hauler came in from Nightcliff. The aircraft flew low on a curved approach that kept it well away from the coast, a route likely chosen to minimize any chance of being shot at. Darwin was full of people with little hope of improving their lives. They snapped all the time, and an aircraft hauling water for the “bloody Orbitals” made as good a target as any when the desperate needed to vent some frustration.
As the aircraft slowed and descended to its landing pad, the engines began to howl in their battle against gravity. The noise became painful. Just before it peaked, Prumble moved. He went with laserlike focus, never bothering to pause or even look around at the bevy of guards stationed around the complex. His focus lay squarely on a carefully chosen path, one he’d probably perfected over the years. Or, Sam thought, perhaps it was a path he’d stumbled upon on his first visit and never wavered from. Whatever the case, she followed. First he led them along the pipe as it crested an earthen berm and began to descend into a depression behind the complex. At one point Prumble seemed to duck low, then Skadz did the same a second later, and she realized they’d dropped into a shallow pit. Who’d dug it, or when, she couldn’t know, but soon she found herself hunched over and moving under the big pipe. The metal dripped with condensation. Cold drops that splattered on her head and down the back of her sweat-soaked shirt. It felt wonderful, and ended all too fast. The “tunnel” ran only three meters before exiting on the other side of the pipe. She had to haul herself up on the other side, with help from Skadz’s outstretched hand.
Now they were between two identical pipes. These converged until parallel, with just a meter separating them. Prumble squeezed between and surged forward. When Sam took a second to look up, she saw a few guards standing on a loading dock at the building’s rear. They’d stopped patrolling to watch the aircraft land. She could see their contorted expressions as the noise and wind generated by the plane buffeted them.
And then they were out of sight. The sky became obscured by a network of smaller pipes overhead, and then blotted out entirely. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden darkness. Behind and above, the aircraft’s engines began to power down, and their noise was replaced by the now-amplified drone of water rushing through the pipes to either side of her. From the volume Sam suspected there were dozens of such pipes converging here.
Prumble stopped at a metal door with a submarine-style circular handle. He gripped it with both hands and wheeled it easily until a wet ripping sound like almost-dry glue came from within. The thick hinges squealed when he yanked the door open. Soft yellow light spilled out from within. The big man climbed inside.
When Sam stepped in, Prumble wheeled his index finger around, his gaze on the door behind her. She closed it and wheeled the handle back into the sealed position. The cramped room went totally silent, save for the labored sounds of her breathing. An aroma hit her—salt and metal and stagnant water. The dimpled steel floor was grimy and dotted with pockets of damp, dark sand.
“We’re inside,” Prumble said, an expression of satisfaction on his face. Sam realized he’d been expecting some kind of confrontation or alarm.
Skadz laughed. “Sorta noticed that. The question is, how do we get on that water hauler for the return trip into Nightcliff? That is your plan, right? Can’t fight our way on. Even if we succeeded, they’d be waiting for us at the other end.”
“Agreed,” Prumble replied. “I had something more subtle in mind.”
“We’re going to sneak aboard?” Sam asked.
“No. We’re going to ask.”
He stepped through another junction, the shape of which again reminded Samantha of a submarine. Oval, a good five centimeters off the floor, and thick. The entire basement was riddled with the odd things, and every third had the same wheel-handle door. Sam realized it must be some kind of spillway, the rooms meant to baffle rushing water. She imagined the doors could be opened remotely, probably by computer if the equipment still worked.
She hoped they would move on before high tide, and Prumble did not disappoint. After just three more of the raised doorways, he led them into a stairwell. There was a similar bulkhead door at the top of the first flight, and the big man opened it with extreme caution. When the seal made its little pop, he pushed the metal plate up just a centimeter and peered through, a band of light shining across his eyes. He waited for a few seconds, his gaze tracking something in the space above.
Sam felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. All extraneous thought melted away, leaving behind a pristine focus she loved.
Prumble raised the hatch and moved up, holding it as Skadz rushed up the steps. Sam went last and took the weight of the thick door so Prumble could resume the lead. He nodded to her, his eyes exhibiting the same focus she felt. She realized with sudden certainty that she’d underestimated him for years, either due to his size or his jovial nature. He was good at this. It was that damn cane he always hobbled around with. A myth, he’d said at Dee’s. Goddamned long con. Perhaps she’d known it since last night, but she’d been too shell-shocked to really comprehend.
Sam lowered the hatch until it made a soft clank, then gripped the wheeled handle but changed her mind. If they needed to exit in a hurry every second would count. Better to leave it open.
More stairs led up in flights that zigzagged back and forth, reminding her of similar spaces in Japan and then Hawaii. She’d left Jake’s body near the bottom of one there. The memory of his placid face, his distant, unblinking gaze ripped her from the state of adrenal euphoria she’d found moments before. Sam grasped the railing beside her and stopped for a few seconds, letting the image of her friend fade and the singular focus return. When she moved again Skadz was looking back at her, his unvoiced question clear. “You okay?”
She gave him a nod and waved him forward.
Despite his size Prumble took the steps silently. That was no small feat in Sam’s book. She had to keep her footsteps to the sides, knowing a step in the center would send a reverberating clang up and down the enclosed space. It was only the ever-present vibration of machinery in the building that kept her from moving at a snail’s pace.
They went up eight flights—four floors—before stopping at a more traditional door. Here Prumble transformed into his usual self. He stood up straight, turned the handle, and went through as if he owned the place.
Skadz glanced back at Sam, shrugged, and did the same. She followed, finding herself on a catwalk not unlike the one that ringed the hangar back at the airport. Only this one was much higher, overlooking the entire interior of the building.
Two huge machines dominated the floor below. She could feel the heat pouring off them even from this high above. Dozens—no, hundreds—of pipes fed into the behemoth devices, all but covering the actual floor of the massive room. She saw a few people moving about on narrow catwalks that rested atop the pipes in a grid, apparently inspecting the equipment below.
Prumble strode to a door at the middle of the catwalk, turned the handle, and moved silently inside. Again Skadz followed, tossing a single quizzical glance back at Sam before he entered. Sam shrugged at this and moved through the door, pulling it closed behind her with a soft click.
They were in an office. A big one, yet somehow not pretentious. There was a desk at one side, covered with a handful of slate terminals and a few old-fashioned clipboards. On the wall behind it, a map of the water processing plant was dotted with green, yellow, and red lights. Most were green.
On the other side of the space were three love seats, facing one another around a rectangular faux-wood coffee table. The layout reminded her of Grillo’s office in Nightcliff, only larger and without the sterile cleanliness.
A man and a woman were standing near the couches, clearly surprised at the intrusion and perhaps, Sam thought, caught in the middle of a lover’s tiff or marital argument. Given their apparent age, Sam decided it was the latter. The woman’s face had tracks of tears running in two parallel lines down her cheeks. Her eyes were raw and red.
Skadz stood at Prumble’s right shoulder. Sam dutifully came to his left, drawing herself to her full height, realizing suddenly that the three of them must look like thieves or a hit squad. She waited for something, anything to happen, but the pregnant pause only went on. Five seconds.
Ten.
“Do you know these people?” the woman asked out the side of her mouth. She’d balled her fists, Sam realized. Her eyes were squarely on Prumble.
“It’s okay, honey,” the man said. “They’re old friends.” Despite the words he still put his arm out protectively, urging her to move a step behind him. The woman did so reluctantly. Her hands remained clenched at her side.
“Arkin,” Prumble said. “Sorry to drop in like this.”
“Prumble,” the man replied. “It’s been a long time.”
Prumble took a casual step farther into the room. Sam kept her gaze on the woman. Her bloodshot eyes darted briefly to Arkin, then to the comm on the desk, then to the far corner of the room. Sam stole a glance in that direction and saw a small safe embedded in the wall.
Out of instinct Sam turned and locked the door. Then she took in the room again, looking for anything that could become a weapon. Two sturdy umbrellas in a bin by the desk, a cricket bat mounted on the wall. Nothing substantial, then. Next she glanced about for another exit and found nothing.
Not good.
“Prumble?” the woman asked. “He’s Prumble?”
“Not now, dear,” the man named Arkin said.
The big man bowed to her. “I see my reputation precedes me. Does she know about the last time I was here? When you had a hood thrown over my head and hauled me in here at Neil’s beckoning?”
Arkin cleared his throat. “She does, actually. There’s no secrets between us.” He hesitated, his stiff posture relaxing slightly. “Sorry about how that went down, by the way. It couldn’t have been avoided. Platz didn’t need to know about our little side arrangement.”
“Forget it. A lot has changed since then.”
“Yes,” Arkin said. “I thought … well, everyone thought … you were dead. Or locked up.”
Sam kept her eyes on the woman, saw her flinch as if jabbed at the mention of captivity. Their eyes suddenly met, and the woman’s expression changed. Suddenly she was evaluating Sam, as if trying to gauge her weak points.
“On the contrary,” Prumble said, “I’ve been busy.”
The woman raised her chin. “Why are you here? Sneaking around, interrupting—”
“We need your help.”
Arkin motioned his wife to silence with a curt wave. He took a deep breath and addressed the trio now, not just Prumble. “You can’t stay here. You shouldn’t even be here. I’m sorry, it’s just—”
Prumble waved him off. “That’s not what I meant. But we’ve interrupted you in the middle of something important, obviously. My apologies. Is there somewhere we can wait, at least, until you can talk?”
“We can’t help you.”
“Hear us out, at least.”
“I’m sorry, but I insist you leave. If they found you here—”
The woman cleared her throat. “Maybe they can help us, dear. Perhaps their presence is a sign, or gift.”
Arkin glanced at his wife now, studying her even as she studied the three intruders.
Suddenly Sam understood that appraising gaze. The woman hadn’t been assessing danger, but opportunity. The question was … “Help with what, exactly?”
“You first,” she replied.
Prumble took a small step farther into the room. “We need to get inside Nightcliff,” he said. “And, ideally, back out again. Quickly and quietly.”
The couple stared at each other as Prumble spoke, some silent conversation passing between them.
Prumble went on. “Grillo has something that doesn’t belong to him, and we intend to get it back.”
“Sweetheart,” the woman whispered to Arkin, her gaze locked on his. “They can help us. We must act.”
“June,” Arkin said, turning to her now. “June, my dear, we’d put all of our lives at risk. Hers most of all.”
“Mind telling us what you’re talking about?” Skadz said. “ ’Cause we’ve got a clock and that bitch is ticking.”
Sam shot her friend a look she hoped would produce an apology, or at least silence. Skadz just shrugged at her.
The woman, June, seemed unoffended. She turned abruptly from her husband and looked at the three of them in turn. “Our daughter is in Nightcliff. Our little girl.” Her lip began to quiver, fresh tears welling at the corners of her eyes. When she spoke again her voice was thick and full of forced strength. “Grillo has kept her there since the water strike. A willing member of his flock, he claims, but we know the truth. She’s a prisoner, plain and simple. A pawn, something to keep my husband in line and the water flowing.”
Arkin looked down at his feet.
June went on, oblivious. “And it’s working. We haven’t seen her in a year. She could be …” June’s voice cracked. She paused, gathering herself. “I hear terrible things. And she’s little more than a child.… ”
A shiver ran up Samantha’s arms.
“I keep telling my husband we must act. Something bold. Sabotage the plant and threaten the others unless our little girl is returned.”
“To what end?” Arkin said. “Suppose we get her back? Then what? Do you think Grillo will just leave us alone? That he’ll let things go back to how they were? No. Impossible. We would be fugitives, and he owns this city now. Where could we hide that he couldn’t reach? It’s not like we can go anywhere else.”
“We’ve been over all this a thousand times,” June snapped, her voice growing in intensity. “I don’t care anymore. I’d rather risk that, or death, than let our child endure one more day with that monster!”
Sam opened her mouth to speak. Skadz beat her to it.
“We can help,” he said. “Right, guys?”
“Perhaps,” Prumble said.
“Not perhaps. We’ll help them. Simple as that.”
Arkin shook his head. “I won’t risk all of our lives just so we can hide in some hole in the ground.”
Skadz leaned to his side and whispered something into Prumble’s ear with a vehemence that matched what he’d said a moment before. The big man winced, then nodded. Skadz kept talking but his eyes, Sam realized, were on her. Looking, it seemed, for backup. Or at least for a shared conviction.
The memory of something he’d said to her months ago flashed into her mind. The girl he’d failed to save, whose name he’d forgotten along with the medicine he was supposed to find for her. Skadz had found his chance at some kind of redemption and latched on with both hands, and Sam found herself unable to argue. She’d been on the verge of offering to help before her friend had spoken, for the simple reason that she knew what Grillo was capable of, what he’d done to Kelly, and what he’d threatened to do. Threats he might well make good on, given the events that transpired the night before.
Prumble crossed the room. He gripped Arkin’s shoulder and eased him down to the couch. June sat, too.
“Suppose there was somewhere else to go,” Prumble said. “Somewhere safe. Not a hiding place, Arkin. I’m talking about a city. Far from here.”
“Impossible. There’s nothing outside the aura—”
June leaned forward, cutting her husband off. “What other city? You are sure that such a place exists?”
Prumble nodded. “We’re going there, once we have what we need from Nightcliff. And never coming back. Zane Platz is there. I assume you know him?”
“Very well,” Arkin admitted, his eyes lighting up at the mention of the younger Platz’s name.
“He’d be happy to have you there, I’m sure. They could use someone with your knowledge.”
June stilled her shaking hands. “Assuming we believe you, how do we get to this city? You have an aircraft?”
“We do,” Prumble said, “but it’s not big enough. There’s another way, though.”
Arkin and his wife stared expectantly at the big man.
“Have you ever been aboard a submarine?”