“They’re gonna go back on their word,” a mutt named Geiger said. “They’re gonna get us to do all this work, and then kick us out.”
“Really?” Angel asked.
“No,” Falkirk said. “This is something else.”
One of the old codgers shushed them.
“Pssst,” someone said. It was Hicks. “Pass this along. Overseers are going to offer double shifts tomorrow.”
Angel, who lay between them, began to relay the message. “Overseers are offering—”
“I heard him, Angel,” Falkirk said.
“Quiet,” another dog whispered. “Guards are right outside. I want to sleep!”
Falkirk whispered the message to Geiger, who huffed in response, as if he already knew.
As the hissing died out, Falkirk rolled over and imagined himself in a place that smelled like dirt, leaves, and grass. But when he drifted to sleep, his dreams carried him to the dock, where he tried to pull the Daunting from the water using a single chain. When the chain snapped, he leapt into the water to retrieve it. He found the links piled at the bottom. He pulled the chain free of the dirt and kicked his legs. The surface drew closer. At the exact moment when his chest felt ready to burst, the chain tightened, jerking him backward. He felt the ship lurch a few inches, but he could go no higher. If he would simply let go of the chain, he could breathe again. No, he thought. No, I can do it.
Falkirk snapped awake. The dogs around him snored, sounding much like his brothers and sisters in the pen where he was raised. As he settled in once more, their breath became synchronized to the sound of the water lapping against the riverbank. When he fell asleep this time, he plummeted into a blackness so silent and deep that he thought the entire world had collapsed onto itself.
The next day, during the morning roll call, Thornton and the overseers told the penitents what they expected to hear. Optional double shifts would begin immediately, with volunteers getting an extra day off at the end of the week, along with extra rations. “The Archon wants this fixed,” Thornton said. “We’re behind schedule.”
To speed things along, they decided to use explosives on the Daunting to break it into smaller pieces more quickly. They needed divers to plant the bombs, and to attach chains to the hull. After the detonation, the chains would pull the loosened debris from the water. The dogs who served as engineers in the Colonial war shook their heads at this. It was too dangerous. Why risk a drowning or an accidental explosion when they could clear the port the hard way by the summer?
The overseers had little patience for all the questions and complaints. “You want your citizenship back, this is the price,” Thornton said. “If you don’t like it, you can go back to the wolves.” She resorted to this threat whenever the dogs complained about the work. They were penitents, not prisoners. At any point, they could sign a document renouncing their loyalty to the Sanctuary Union, then try their luck in the wilderness beyond. So far, no one from this camp had quit, thanks in part to peer pressure from Falkirk and the other dogs who remembered the Change. If this agreement collapsed, then everything he did here would be wasted.
A few dogs wondered aloud why Hosanna wanted this dock cleared. The river offered plenty of places for a ship to land. Falkirk asked himself what a military commander would prefer, and the answer became obvious. Unlike the other docks, this shipyard enjoyed the comfort of a cement barrier and a steel gate blocking it from the city. Tranquility could hide something in here or quietly shove it out into the river if it came to that.
Falkirk kept that observation to himself.
He decided to plow ahead. They all had work to do. Falkirk not only agreed to the double shifts, but also volunteered to plant the explosives. This required him to go through a crash course in diving, using a homemade frogman outfit similar to the ones that humans invented over a century earlier. It consisted of a jumpsuit, a metal bulb where his head would fit, and a hose connected to an air supply. Several of the dogs announced that they would never go near such a thing. Angel nearly passed out when he saw it.
On the morning when Falkirk and two other dogs planned to make the dive, a fight broke out in the barracks. Angel and three other penitents had some disagreement over who would get to organize a zagga tournament, triggering a brawl that left one of the dogs with a broken arm. It was a pointless argument, since the guards would have never allowed them to play. Angel and the others were sentenced to solitary confinement—an especially cruel punishment for a pack animal. Falkirk begged the overseers to discipline Angel after he helped with the dive. For all of Angel’s faults, his fear and loyalty could keep Falkirk alive. He would pull Falkirk to the surface the second the humans started to panic. The overseers reluctantly agreed.
That afternoon, Angel helped him zip up the suit. He fastened the helmet onto a metal ring on the collar. A single glass portal allowed Falkirk to see straight ahead, but with no peripheral vision. Nearby, the other divers climbed a ladder into the water and vanished into the murky depths, their hoses snaking along the dock.
Falkirk noticed Angel smiling, despite having a cut on his snout from the fight.
“What is it?” Falkirk asked, his voice echoing in the metal chamber.
“Got some more news from Vera,” Angel said. “It’s nothing. I should tell you after the dive.”
“Tell me now.”
“Nah, it’s not that big a deal,” the pit bull said, guiding him toward the ladder.
Falkirk placed his weighted boots onto the rungs and awkwardly climbed into the water. As he broke the surface, the tension pressed the suit against his fur like a second skin. In the training, the water made him feel weightless. But here, he felt heavy as a boulder, ready to sink to the bottom. He forced himself to breathe.
“Tell me what you heard, Angel, and I’ll see if I can get you a break on the solitary.”
“Aneega is coming here.”
The words almost knocked Falkirk off the ladder and into the water. “D’Arc is coming to Hosanna?”
“She’s coming here. To the shipyard.”
“Why?”
“Hey!” one of the overseers shouted. “Hurry up. You’re wasting your air supply.”
Falkirk ignored him. “Why?” he demanded.
Angel laughed. “Does it matter?” He patted the helmet. It was enough to push Falkirk under the surface. As he sank, the battered hull of the Daunting rose all around him, much like it did in his dream. You can’t stop me, he thought. You can’t keep me here. I’ll take you apart bolt by bolt if I have to.
The anchor chains—eight in all, with links the size of a man’s arm—emerged from the water inch by inch. Dump trucks pulled the chains along a concrete ramp at the edge of the dock. The bulkhead for the engine room rose from the depths like the carcass of a sea creature. It was the last piece of the Daunting, the final obstacle to getting out of the camp. The engineers decided against using explosives on this part of the ship—doing so would scatter the remaining debris and create more work. Because the chamber remained largely intact, they figured they could siphon out the water with a pump and lift out the bulkhead whole.
In the driver’s seat of one the trucks, Falkirk rested his elbow on the window frame while his right hand gripped the steering wheel. One of the overseers signaled to the drivers to keep going. Falkirk tapped the gas pedal, feeling the weight of the chain holding the vehicle in place. Angel sat beside him. At this last stage, he could do nothing else but watch.
“Check it out,” Angel said.
The enormous gate opened at the entrance to the shipyard, letting in a crowd of people, escorted by Tranquility soldiers. Several of them wore the robes of the council. They had come to see the raising of the final piece, which would reopen this shipyard. Maybe D’Arc had come too.
Falkirk could smell the forest once more. It was so close. He pressed the pedal again. This time, the wheels stalle
d, and the chassis let out a sad creaking sound. The overseer demanded that they keep going. Falkirk stuck his head out the window.
“What is it?” Angel asked.
The water frothed around the bulkhead. Some of the engineers shouted. Off to the side, a trio of humans frantically worked on the pump.
“Something’s wrong,” Falkirk said. “The pump is choking. Too much water.”
Something must have compromised the hull on its way to the surface. Judging from all the bubbles, it would flood in minutes and start to sink again.
“Take the wheel,” Falkirk said as he opened the door and slid out.
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” Angel said. He continued shouting Falkirk’s name as the husky walked away.
Falkirk waved his arms, trying to get the engineers’ attention. The overseer stepped in his way.
“Get back in the truck,” the man said behind his reflective sunglasses.
“They need another pump,” Falkirk tried to explain. “That thing can’t—”
Before he could finish, a chain broke loose from one of the trucks. It slithered along the ground, heading toward the water.
“Look out!” the overseer shouted.
The chain caught the wheels on the pump, and the entire apparatus pitched onto its side, tearing free from the hose. The machine fell into the water with a splash.
With the pump gone, the bulkhead began to sink again. The remaining chains lifted from the ground, the metal groaning from the strain.
Falkirk followed the chain to the concrete ramp and dove into the churning water. All the shouting went dead around him as the liquid filled his ears. The pump sank below him like a submersible. Falkirk tilted his body entirely upside down as he grabbed the handle. The weight of it pulled him deeper, even as he righted himself and kicked toward the surface. The pressure squeezed his lungs. He grunted, and a burst of bubbles left his mouth, floating away. He kicked harder, pulling with both hands. Above, humans and dogs jumped in after him. Finally, he began to rise. He let out a giddy laugh. More bubbles. His tail swished beneath him, propelling his body.
Slippery human hands gripped his arms. He broke through this quiet world into the air, where the voices barked and screamed all around him.
“Get the hose!” he gasped. “Get the hose back on.”
Together, they lifted the pump and rolled it onto the dock. Falkirk flopped beside it as a human reattached the hose. The pump kicked on again, but nothing happened. On his knees, Falkirk slapped the machine, and a torrent of water shot out of the other side.
Delirious, he got to his feet and limped toward the trucks. “Do it! Hit the gas!”
Angel gave him a thumbs up. The wheels spun, releasing the acrid smell of burnt tires. This was their only chance. If the pump failed, if the chains broke, the bulkhead would sink, and all of this would amount to nothing.
The links rattled as they slid across the yard. Near the entrance, the soldiers formed a line to keep the civilians from getting too close.
Dripping wet, Falkirk turned to see the bulkhead rise. It made contact with the ramp. The chains gave a final tug, and the steel beast tipped over and smacked onto the dock like a great whale, defeated after a long battle.
The penitents let out an incredible roar, followed by howling so loud, so sincere, that even the overseers smiled when they heard it.
Falkirk melted to his knees. He did not have the energy to shake off the excess water.
Someone stood over him, blocking out the sun. He lifted his snout to see their silhouette. A hand reached out. It was her. D’Arc. Her tail wagging, her sword clipped to a belt. Her fur was slick and clean, with some black lupine war paint on her brow and ears.
Her bodyguards filled in the space around her, with Quay standing at D’Arc’s side. “He looks like he’s gonna pass out,” she said.
Falkirk stood and wrapped his arms around D’Arc. She was so warm. Her heart beat so strong against him. She was real. This time, he would not awaken in a tent full of strangers.
“You made it just in time,” he said.
“No. You finished just in time.”
He gave her a look—tilted head, with the ears going floppy.
“Let me show you,” she said.
Holding his hand, she led him around the crowd of workers, around the engineers and the overseers, one of whom patted Falkirk on the arm as he passed. At the edge of the dock, the council waited, surrounded by guards. Castor and Gaunt stood among them. Grissom stood on his own, away from everyone else. He folded his hands and bowed when he spotted D’Arc. She returned the gesture.
Falkirk noticed that more people had assembled outside of the shipyard, forming a cluster along the chain-link fence.
The Archon waved Falkirk over, toward the edge of the pier. The others made room.
Far downriver, an object approached, something neither Falkirk nor anyone else had ever seen before. At the front, a ship led the way, its entire crew waving from the bow. Behind the ship, towed with cables, floated something that resembled an iceberg, with several shiny, craggy peaks that reflected the sun. And all around this flotilla, propelling it, were long, flexible paddles, swaying in the water.
No, not paddles, he realized. Tentacles. Like the flagella of some enormous bacterium.
“What in the world is that?” he asked.
“The future,” D’Arc said.
The al-Rihla quietly made its way to the shipyard, making a perfect turn into the space that the dogs had spent months trying to clear. On either side of its hull, the Sarcops tentacles undulated in unison. The creatures had fastened themselves to the metal and pushed it forward like the oarsmen of an ancient human vessel. The ship had sustained heavy damage at sea. Only a single windmill remained on deck, and an enormous hole, large enough for a car to fit through, punctured the port side. Water sloshed in and out of it. Though the crew had sealed the breach in time, the damage had clearly disabled the ship.
The object it towed barely fit into the dock. While the iceberg shape dwarfed the al-Rihla, it rested atop another vessel, about the same size as the ship. Falkirk’s mouth fell open. D’Arc squeezed his hand. This was the Vesuvius, or what remained of it. Falkirk remembered Gaunt flinging the object across the giant map room, declaring it lost forever. The balloon had collapsed, crinkling into a shape like crushed tinfoil. That left the canopy as the base.
“It’s like one of those popcorn pans,” the Archon whispered to a cat beside him. “Remember those things? You cook ’em on the stove?” He mimicked holding a pan by the handle and waving it over a flame. The cat did not seem to understand.
The two vessels came to a halt as the al-Rihla dropped its anchor. The dock workers attached a gangplank. As the crew members disembarked, D’Arc grew more excited. She hopped on one foot and waved. The gangplank emptied the crew into the middle of the crowd, where the Archon and his council greeted them with hugs and handshakes. By the time they reached Falkirk and D’Arc, the crew seemed disoriented from all the jostling.
“Harlan!” D’Arc said. A middle-aged human saw her and nearly tripped over his own feet. She hugged him while he gaped in disbelief. More of them followed, and they all had the same reaction. The ship’s cook. The lead scientist. Even a bear named Moab, who did not wish to be hugged, but got one anyway.
On the deck of the al-Rihla, Falkirk recognized the aquamarine jumpsuits of the crew of the Vesuvius. A lump formed in his throat. He positioned himself behind D’Arc, where he could simply nod to them as they passed. Now was not the time to plead his case. Maybe some other day, if ever.
His heart pounded as they clustered on the gangplank, eager to touch land again. The ordeal that brought them here must have decimated the crew. O’Neill limped on a pair of crutches, her frayed hair barely held together in a ponytail. Bulan the orangutan waddled along behind her. Unoka came next, standing a fu
ll foot taller than the others. His smile conveyed the happy bewilderment of a survivor who has blocked out the terrible things he endured. And behind him, the last member of the Vesuvius, acting captain Ruiz. Falkirk nearly fell over when the man appeared. After what happened, he did not deserve to see his first officer alive again. Ruiz’s face had thinned; his hair had gone gray. The new captain of the Vesuvius survived a betrayal, a bullet wound, a mutiny, and a crash landing in the water. In Ruiz’s distant stare, Falkirk saw the months of hardship and grief where the man’s resolve had taken root.
D’Arc must have sensed Falkirk’s unease with all of this. As the crew of the Vesuvius passed through, she gave them gentle handshakes. Either out of mercy, or fatigue, they gave Falkirk the same tired head nod, an acknowledgment that fate tossed them out into the sea and brought them back for reasons they may never learn.
Ruiz would not acknowledge him at all. Falkirk understood. On a better day, in a better world, he would have told Ruiz how proud he was, how Ruiz deserved to be the captain.
The crowd suddenly went silent, as if the volume had cut out on a loudspeaker. Captain Vittal of the al-Rihla made her way across the plank. A small woman, she wore her full ceremonial uniform, complete with epaulets, medals, and a cap over her white hair.
Two animals escorted her. One of them resembled a cat, with golden fur and a thick tail that ended in a tuft of brown hair. An enormous mane covered his ears.
“Yo, that’s a fucking lion,” someone behind Falkirk said.
Following the lion was a leathery beast walking on all fours. The creature rose onto its hind legs. Everyone in the crowd gasped at how tall it stood. Two impossibly large ears splayed out. This was an elephant matriarch, larger than any bear Falkirk had ever met. The gangplank dipped in the middle as she made her way across.
A pair of hands gripped Falkirk and shook him. “They made it,” D’Arc said, nearly in tears. “Do you see? The Sarcops took them across the ocean.”
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