“I don’t understand why you don’t just teleport off,” Sikorsky said, coming through the projection, his jacket flapping in the breeze.
“Is that why you’re keeping us out here? You’re trying to trigger another Disappearance. I’m sorry, it doesn’t work like that,” Amanda sighed, kicking her feet against the hull. “Do you know how to swim?
“Do you have a thermal suit under that tunic?” Sikorsky asked, tugging the sleeve of Amanda’s borrowed clothes. “It’s cold.”
“I just need a tutorial,” Amanda said. “Nothing fancy.”
“You don’t swim?” he asked. Amanda had thought about jumping overboard and taking her chances, but they were so far from land, she couldn’t even walk the distance without wearing out.
“It’s not like they have swimming pools on Terrana,” she smirked. “That would be a waste of a water haul.”
“Right.” Sikorsky squinted his beady, gray eyes, as if challenging Amanda to teleport.
“My Virp isn’t getting signal,” Amanda said, touching the device she’d stolen from Tarelli’s quarters.
“That is by design,” he confirmed. He wasn’t nearly so threatening when he didn’t have her in a chokehold.
“But if I can swim to that buoy,” she said, pointing to the nearest object. It bobbed in the water, and stood about three feet above it. She suspected it was meant to monitor weather.
“You’ll die of hypothermia before you make it,” Sikorsky said flatly. That was a deterrent. Even if she could swim the distance, she’d be trapped on the buoy, and still succumb to the cold.
“I don’t understand why we’re still on the water,” Amanda sighed, rolling to her feet. “The other day, you seemed so eager to get to land.”
“A lot of people have gone missing, and not in the way you’re missing,” he said gravely, a hint of emotion making his cheeks twitch. “Janiya Coro is missing. She has the ability to teleport. Is it possible for you to ‘tap in’ to her power and locate her?”
Amanda was startled by the serious tone, but the low-level threat in his voice resonated in her bones. She shook her head.
“Then I cannot return you to Pierce,” he said, strutting through the projected wall. No challenge? He’d just accepted her answer at face value?
“There are plenty of places left in Quin!” she called.
“We’re going to Kemah,” Sikorsky replied. “If I’m right about one of my missing persons, he’ll meet us there.”
He went through a wall, but when Amanda followed, she slammed into something solid. The projection changed to an outdoor view, but there was no breeze. A part of her wondered if she’d even left the psych ward.
Tray sat at the kitchen table with a selection of raw vegetables and sliced meats available. He’d made a simple chicken salad sandwich for Hero (Demissie said it was the boy’s favorite), and mixed in carrot shreds and relish to the chicken salad for his sandwich.
Jamese, the guard assigned to Hero in the house, brought the boy downstairs and directed him to the chair across from Tray. After forcing these interactions all week, Tray had convinced Jamese that he didn’t need supervision to share a meal with his son. Today was the first day Jamese didn’t have a shock-dart trained on the boy as they walked, and it took a stern glare from Tray for her to retreat from the kitchen altogether. Ayize, Jamese, and two others lived on the property, but they had their own wing, and Tray hadn’t seen much of them. He’d been told that aside from a few burns and a swollen eye, Ayize hadn’t suffered any lasting damage from the attack. Given how often he’d seen Morrigan dip into her medicine cabinet, Tray wasn’t sure he believed the good news.
Seeing the chicken salad, Hero picked up the sandwich and took a huge bite. Yesterday, he’d neither spoken nor ate; he just sat at the table in defiant silence. Eating was a step up.
“Is there more?” he asked, pausing for breath when he’d wolfed down half the sandwich.
“I mixed other stuff in it,” Tray said, opening his bread, showing Hero the enhanced mix he’d made for himself. “Try a carrot.”
“What is that?” Hero asked, gulping down his water.
Tray picked up a slice of orange carrot from the platter on the table. “They’re grown on Terrana. We didn’t have them on Quin for two whole years because of the Revolution. These taste a little funny because they were frozen, but once that Terrana embargo ends, I’ll get you fresh ones.”
“I’m not supposed to take candy from strangers,” Hero said.
“It’s not candy,” Tray said, popping the carrot into his mouth. “And I hope by now, I’m not a stranger.”
Hero made a face, but he reached for a carrot and gave it a test nibble. “Can I go swimming?”
“I hope later today. Did you know I was attacked when I first came here?” Tray asked.
Hero shook his head, taking a ladle-full of carrots and adding them to his plate. “Is it the same person who hurt my mom?”
“Different person. Same fight, though,” Tray said, his appetite rapidly shrinking at the serious talk. Although, he needed to push through the serious topics with Hero, because pretending nothing was wrong wasn’t working for them. “I have been working on a way for us to safely leave and go out into the city, and I was thinking I would take you on a boat, and we could go swimming.”
His hope was to reunite Hero and Mikayla so they could take that inaugural swim together, but Tray didn’t know enough about what Sikorsky was bringing to the table.
“Are there other kids there?” Hero asked.
“Probably not,” Tray said, his brow furrowing at the new crimp in his plan to win Hero. Hero picked up the sandwich again, licking at the chicken salad glopping off the side. He seemed less enthusiastic about this half, but he was probably full. Tray had no idea how much six-year-olds ate.
“About your schooling—” Hero perked up. “—we need to catch you up on some of the work you’ve missed while you were here. I know Miss Merridie gave you assignments when you first arrived, and you used to do them before you tried running away.”
“But I didn’t,” Hero argued, slamming the sandwich against his plate.
“You did plenty of assignments. Dem showed me,” Tray said.
“I didn’t run away,” Hero said. “A scary man came into my room and said he could take me to my mom in the blink of an eye, but I had to leave the house.”
“If he was scary, why did you go with him?” Tray asked, concerned by the news that this stranger had made it into Hero’s bedroom.
“I didn’t,” Hero insisted. “I thought about it. I blinked my eyes. Like this.”
He squeezed his eyes closed, and suddenly he was gone. Tray nearly fell out of his chair, fumbling for his crutches.
“Hero? Hero!” Tray cried.
Hero reappeared next to the table, dripping wet, coughing up water.
“What happened? Where did you go?” Tray asked, kneeling in front of him, wiping the water from his face, keeping a grip on the boy’s shoulders, as if that could keep it from happening again.
“I was in the pool. I wanted to go swimming, and then I was in the pool,” he said, coughing again.
“It’s called teleporting,” Tray explained, his mind racing. Where did this ability come from? Did Mikayla know? “How long have you been able to do that?” he asked.
Hero shrugged. “That was only the second time. It doesn’t usually work.”
“Where else have you tried to go?” Tray asked.
“I think about mommy, but I can’t make it work. I never get to her,” he pouted. “I got into the pool. Why can’t I get to her?”
“This is a scary power to have. You’re going to have to be careful what you wish for,” Tray advised.
Moping, Hero slouched at the table and nibbled on a carrot, leaving a puddle of water on the floor. He was shivering, but Tray was glad he liked the carrots. For a moment, he looked like a typical kid. Then he put his hands to the side of his head, whispering ‘mommy, mommy, mommy.�
�� He was trying to teleport.
26
The boat engine revved as it pushed through a shallow spot in the river. The rocking turned Tray’s stomach, and he gripped the railing on the side to keep steady. They’d taken the car down the Matthews side of the hill, following the dried part of the riverbed until they’d met the boat, half a mile upstream of the main dock.
“Do we have confirmation from Sikorsky?” Ayize asked. The entire right side of his face was puffy and red, and his voice cracked when he spoke. Tray wasn’t sure if he looked worse than he felt or if he’d come because he didn’t want any of his other people getting hurt.
“Confirmation of what? Last week, he said get on a boat. He hasn’t really been communicative since,” Tray said. “The trip to the grav-clinic is a reasonable cover, and it would be nice to use that sheltered boat house and talk to Mikayla while I’m not seasick.”
“A typical first session will last only half an hour,” Morrigan said, her head cocked to one side. Tray wasn’t sure why she’d come, except that every successive day at the house, she seemed to go deeper into a trance. Tray figured she missed her work.
“It might take Sikorsky more than a half hour to notice we’ve hit the water. Especially since we’re on this super-secret path,” Tray said. “I sent a message.”
“I might be able to stretch it to forty-five, but any more than that, and we open the clinic to suspicion,” Morrigan frowned, twirling a braid around her finger, lost in her own conversation.
“And how exactly do you plan to explain returning home with a fugitive?” Ayize griped. “I am against bringing Mikayla Wright to the fortress.”
“That’s why she’ll live at my estate,” Tray pointed out. “I’m working on the fugitive thing. Hero dropped a bombshell on me at lunch, and I wouldn’t be rushing if I didn’t absolutely believe he needed her.”
“What bombshell?” Saskia asked, her hand falling to Tray’s knee. She retracted instantly, concerned that the distraction would make them vulnerable to another attack. They’d projected a covering over the boat, and even though it looked covered, the chilled air whipping through the projection reminded them that they were exposed.
“No one’s there,” Morrigan said, standing when the boathouse came into sight. “It looks safe.”
The boat slowed, and the speed change made Tray queasy, but a few minutes later, they were docked, and his feet were on solid ground. A wheelchair waited, and Tray sat down.
“Do we have to move our boat to make space for Mikayla’s?” Tray asked.
“Let Ayize worry about that,” Morrigan said, pushing Tray into the protected walkway, up the sloping path toward the sentence.
“Coming here is just part of the show. I don’t do micro-g,” Tray said.
“I happen to think it will help you,” she said sternly, using her doctor voice.
Micro-g therapy had been around for hundreds of years, but the practice of it had always been relegated to the realm of alternative medicines like chiropractice and acupuncture. Despite its general effectiveness, the sharp variation in results from patient to patient and the relative expense of taking both patient and practitioner into space meant that micro-g therapy was reserved for the wealthy and the occasional sensationalized charity case.
When grav-tech appeared in Quin, ground-based micro-g therapy chambers were one of the first things built and mass-produced. Many of the fad clinics and travel prep chambers had only had low-grade grav-sources, and couldn’t affect more than a five percent change in local gravity.
“They closed an hour ago, but I asked the manager to leave the equipment active for us,” Morrigan explained. “We’ll be safe in there.”
“I know,” Tray said. He was relieved when they emerged from the moonslate-lined walkway, but entering the small clinic set off a new wave of anxiety. Morrigan brought Tray to a room at the end of the hall, and began the first battery of tests, checking his heart rate, blood pressure, toxicity, and breathing. In the adjacent room was a clear, glass box—the gravity chamber. It reminded him of the loathsome quarantine chamber in Oriana’s infirmary. His jaw clenched and his stress levels increased to the point where Morrigan’s machines took notice.
“When did you last eat?” she asked him. She was astute, and always a doctor first. It made it easier for Tray to be honest with her.
“I had lunch with Hero,” he said, checking the time on his Virp. His glove-mount matched his suit. “That gives you another hour before I get hungry again.”
Morrigan laughed, putting him at ease, and running through the paces of the strength exercises he would be doing once in the low-gravity field. Keeping her arm linked with his, she helped him walk into the gravity chamber, set him on the uncomfortably stiff medical bed, and then closed him inside. Tray closed his eyes, already feeling the panic sink in. He wished Saskia had come in with him, but he also wanted her at the dock, protecting Mikayla from Ayize, who was clearly prejudiced against her.
Tray wasn’t supposed to be able to tell when the artificial gravity in the chamber first came on, but he could. It felt like an electric current going through his body, making his hair stand on end. He could feel the way his curls didn’t sit right over his ears, and the way his clothes lifted off his skin.
“Do you need to lie down?” Morrigan asked.
Tray’s hand went to the scar on his belly, but he shook his head. His abs were sore from the rough boat ride, but there were no sharp pains. The hum in Tray’s ears increased and his stomach flipped. His eyes shooting open, Tray searched for a place he could throw up if he needed, but there were no bowls or bags in the grav-chamber.
“Take a deep breath for me,” Morrigan said.
Frowning, Tray obeyed. The influx of air made him feel better, and he closed his eyes, taking more deep breaths. Feeling sweat dampen his clothes, he shrugged out of his jacket, vest, and shirt. Getting out of the clothes was easier than getting in, but it still strained his torso. Even down to his undershirt, he still felt hot.
“There’s water on the counter behind you,” Morrigan said calmly.
Tray scooted across the bed, picked one of the water bottles, and drank. There was nothing to throw up in over here either. There were a few books and games to pass the time, but their presence only made Tray feel more trapped. He’d been in confined spaces before and never had a panic attack.
Taking another deep breath, Tray used his crutches and walked along the rest of the back wall, checking in all the cupboards for something—a way out maybe.
“You’re looking steady on your feet,” Morrigan commented proudly. Her voice came over a speaker, just to the left of the door.
“Just let me hobble in real gravity,” Tray begged, coming to the door, talking to the speaker. The hum in his ears grew louder.
“You’d be worn out already in real gravity. This way, you can get your muscles moving again. Do you feel any tightness?”
At present, Tray couldn’t sit up for more than a few hours at a time, and his walking was limited to the distance from the bed to the kitchen. He had Hero brought downstairs because climbing up took him half an hour with all the rests. If he’d thought about it, he’d have been delighted at how long he’d lasted and how steady he was.
“It’s making me ill. Morrigan—”
“Doctor,” she corrected.
“Doctor,” Tray repeated, pressing his face to the door. “Trust your patient. I spent five years in low and micro-g and felt sick the entire time. My ship crashed a thousand miles away; I suffered dehydration, starvation, hypothermia, sprains, contusions, and a mortal gunshot, but I never got as queasy as I do when I’m without gravity.”
“You’re at 70% gravity. This is hardly going without,” she pointed out. “Can you walk to the—”
“Please, I feel sick,” Tray whined, sinking onto the floor, pressing his hands over his ears. He tasted blood on his tongue and wiped his mouth. His gums were bleeding.
The gravity returned to normal. The pi
ercing hum in Tray’s ears subsided, and he fell sideways. Concentrating hard on breathing without inhaling the blood in his mouth, Tray dragged his body clear of the door. He felt much better than a moment ago, but he couldn’t muster the strength to lift his head. Morrigan gave him water to wash out his mouth, and she poked and prodded him with her medical devices.
“Wow, Mr. Sensitive. I’m guessing you don’t do roller coasters either,” she teased, dabbing his face clean with a soft rag.
“Really? You’re mocking me?” Tray grumbled, squeezing her hand appreciatively. When she teased him like that, she reminded him of Danny.
27
Danny Matthews emerged from his bedroom attaching cuff pins to his fingerless wrist-warmers, then hooking the sleeves of his shirt over the pin. After a three-year battle with an incurable disease, his mother had died. She’d woken the entire house with her scream of agony, and the entire upper floor stank of blood and bodily fluids. Danny had only caught a glimpse before his father shoved his little brother into his arms and herded them to the Zenzele’s next door. He wasn’t happy about sending them there, and he’d come to retrieve them as soon as the body was gone. It was an awful night that had cascaded into many more awful nights.
The Gray Market: A Space Opera Adventure Series (The New Dawn Book 5) Page 22