The boat scythes across the bay, winding its way around the submerged buildings. Every time they hit a wave, or when Iluk turns the rudder a little too sharply, Okwembu feels a lurch in the pit of her stomach. The top half of her body is freezing, drenched in sea spray.
The only place to sit is on the side of the boat, on the stiff rubber pontoons. Ray and Nessa sit on one side, their feet braced against the centre stanchion. Okwembu and the rest of them sit on the other. Prakesh Kumar is staring up at the buildings, and the low clouds beyond them. Clay looks shell-shocked, his eyes flicking between their captors. His fingers grip the short lengths of rope on the side of the boat that serve as handholds, holding them tight.
Aaron Carver is different. He looks as if he wants to reach across the boat, grab Ray by the neck and launch him into the surf. He doesn’t dare. Nessa still has the rifle, and she’s pointing it squarely at his chest.
Nobody’s said a word since they took off from the beach. But as they come around one of the buildings, Iluk eases off the throttle a little, compensating for a sudden swell, and Carver speaks.
“I don’t get it,” he says, talking to Ray but keeping his eyes on Nessa’s rifle.
“Get what?” Ray is jovial again, like they’re out for a pleasure trip.
“The whole act. Like we were safe, like you were going to welcome us into your society.” He spits out the last word, like it has a bad taste.
“You are welcome,” Ray says. “So long as you can earn your keep.” He knots his hands between his knees, leaning back slightly as the boat crests a rolling wave. “There are only two kinds of people. Those who can serve the Engine, and those who can’t. Some people find it hard to accept their place. They need a little encouragement. But it’s a lot easier if they come of their own free will.”
Iluk accelerates, powering over a wave. A second later the throttle drops and Ray says, “Nessa jumped the gun a little, so to speak. You know, when your friend started getting antsy?”
Prakesh raises his head, the expression on his face just as murderous as Carver’s.
There’s a haze over the water, soft and damp. Their visibility drops to a few yards. Iluk slows the boat, the motor puttering. The last of the buildings passes by on their right: a black shape in the fog, torn and twisted. Okwembu looks over her shoulder, taking it in. At some point in the past, moss began to grow up the walls. It’s blossomed over the years, turning the first three levels a dark, almost luminescent green.
Aaron’s thigh is just touching Okwembu’s, and she can feel it twitching. All his energy and anger is bottled up, kept in one place by Nessa’s rifle. At some point–maybe in a few moments, maybe in a few minutes–he’ll make a play, go for the gun. It’s inevitable. And if he doesn’t, Prakesh Kumar will. Neither of them can see past the current situation, see the need to do nothing until they know what they’re dealing with. If Ray and Nessa had any intelligence, they’d shoot them and be done with it.
Should she say something? Try to calm him down? No. He wouldn’t listen anyway.
But Prophet might.
Society. That’s the word Ray used. And judging by what she’s seen so far, from the vehicles and weapons and the radio message, this isn’t a disorganised group. It’s what she’s been looking for: a community, a collective of people away from the insanity of Outer Earth. It’s this, more than anything else, that keeps Janice Okwembu calm, that keeps her compliant. For now.
She felt a spark of worry when the woman, Nessa, attacked Prakesh. When these people, whoever they are, showed their real faces. But it hardly matters. They hardly matter. They’re foot soldiers, advance scouts. Prophet, whoever he is, is where the real power lies. What can she offer him? Everybody has something they want, and if she can understand his she can survive this.
First, she will make herself indispensable. Then, she will make herself powerful.
Clay’s shocked intake of breath rips her out of her thoughts, and she looks up.
It’s as if there’s a hole in the fog: a huge, looming, black void. Not a building. It’s something much bigger, rising a hundred feet above the water’s surface, curving inwards like a giant wave.
“Holy shit,” Carver says. He actually scoots back a little, bumping into Okwembu. For a second, she has the crazy idea that they’ve hit the horizon–that this thing stretches hundreds, maybe thousands of miles. She tells herself not to be so stupid. She can see the metal surface now, see the openings in it. But this isn’t a building. It’s not part of Anchorage. They’re out into the bay, which means—
A ship.
A distant memory jogs her. A history lesson from far in the past, their teacher talking about the war, about different armies ranged against one another. Their ancestors used these ships to transport fighter planes across oceans, between theatres of conflict. They were nuclear-powered mobile command centres, symbols of military might.
Ray is beaming. “Welcome to the USS Ramona,” he says.
They turn, tracking alongside the aircraft carrier’s hull. Awe overrides her fear. She never thought she’d see one, not in a million years. And yet, somehow, one of them is here, parked in the waters off Alaska. Okwembu sees the same moss that was on the buildings climbing up the curved metal, its tendrils burrowing into the seams between the plates. How long has this ship been here?
And right then Okwembu notices two things simultaneously.
Ray and Nessa are both looking up at the Ramona, their heads tilted back.
And Aaron Carver is looking at the rifle.
He moves before Okwembu can, exploding off the side of the boat. He wraps his hands around the rifle–one on the barrel, another halfway down the stock. Nessa comes alive instantly and the gun goes off.
But Carver’s move knocks the barrel upwards, and the bullet passes over their heads. Clay screams, and Prakesh rockets to his feet. Only Okwembu stays seated, her heart hammering, as Carver wrestles Nessa for the gun. The boat rocks back and forth, threatening to upend them into the icy water.
Ray and Iluk react, trying to shove Carver away. But he’s ferociously strong, and in the next instant he’s got the gun away from Nessa. He smashes Nessa right in the chest with the butt of the gun. She grunts, tumbles over the side, splashing into the water.
Iluk reaches for Carver, but the tracer dodges back, out of range. He’s up on the front of the little boat, his foot on the edge, and he brings the gun around, seating it against his stomach.
Okwembu doesn’t dare move–he’ll shoot her just as easily as he’d shoot the others, without a second thought. Nessa is splashing somewhere out of sight, trying to pull her way back into the boat.
“Aaron,” Prakesh says. “Just—”
“OK,” says Carver, almost shouting. “I have had it up to here with this bullshit. You and you—” He swivels the gun between Ray and Iluk. “In the water. Now.”
But Ray is laughing. He’s sniggering to himself, shaking his head, as if Carver has played a prank on him.
“Something funny?” Carver says, stepping off the prow, lifting the gun towards Ray’s face.
Ray grins. “Look up, son.”
Carver gives a laugh of his own. He jerks the gun at Nessa, who has somehow managed to get both arms over the edge of the boat. “Go for a swim. Take her with you.”
Okwembu looks up, and smiles.
“Aaron,” says Prakesh.
“You got three seconds,” Carver says.
“Aaron.”
Finally, Carver looks up. Okwembu gets the sense that he intends it to be a quick glance, a little upward flick of the eyes, but when he sees what’s above them he can’t look away.
There’s an opening in the side of the ship–huge and rectangular, lit from within by a yellow glow. There are faces in the opening. A dozen of them, men and women, as ragged as Ray is. Okwembu can just make out their military camouflage. Each of them is holding a rifle, just like Nessa’s, and each rifle is pointed right at the boat.
Ray sniggers as Carver lowers his gun. “That’s not even the best part.”
He points at the edge of the deck, far above them. There’s something else there–a large metal cylinder, tilted off the end of the deck. There’s a long, black tube at right angles to the cylinder–a gun barrel, Okwembu realises. It’s pointing right at them.
“See, even if they missed,” Ray says, pointing at the faces in the opening, “Curtis wouldn’t.”
“Curtis?” Prakesh Kumar’s voice sounds flat and featureless.
“Took us a hell of a long time to get the Phalanx gun up and running,” Ray says conversationally, folding his arms. “But Curtis kept at it. That’s his baby. Hardly ever leaves. He did a test-fire the other day, and he got off a thousand rounds in one pull of the trigger. He shoots now, and you’ll be in heaven before you can spit.”
“So will you,” Carver says. Clay is quaking behind him.
“That may be. But I doubt Curtis’d hesitate. He’s always been a little bit too… enthusiastic, if you get my meaning.”
It’s everything Okwembu can do not to yell at Carver. She doesn’t dare. One wrong move and they’ll be shot to pieces.
That’s when the idea comes to her. It arrives fully formed, blazing hot. Her bargaining chip. The thing she can offer Prophet. It’s right there, but if Aaron Carver doesn’t see reason she’ll never get a chance to act on it.
Ray puts out his hand, looking Carver in the eye. “Now give me the gun.”
Iluk pulls Nessa out of the surf. She collapses in the boat, the centre of a pool of icy water, staring daggers at Carver. For a moment, he does nothing. Then his shoulders slump and he hands over the rifle.
“Good boy,” Ray says.