The Indigo Thief

by Budgett, Jay

  “And after that you had to live on the street? They didn’t leave you anything?”

  “They left me books,” said Phoenix. “Books and a brown leather journal.”

  “And that’s the truth?”

  He raised a brow. “Truth?” he asked, and I nodded. “Why wouldn’t it be the truth, Kai? Do you think there’s something I’m not telling you?”

  “I—er—dunno,” I said. “Just seems like there’s parts of the story missing. What was in the journal?” I thought back to the report I’d found in the Morier Mansion’s library—the way Madam Revleon eyes had lingered on the copied pages. “I mean, did you read it?”

  Phoenix nodded. “I read it.”

  “Then, what did it say?”

  Phoenix’s mouth smoothed to a flat line and his brows sank under the weight of my question. “Nothing of great importance.”

  I threw up my hands. “Secrets, then,” I said. “It seems like everything’s a secret, and they’re chewing at me from the inside out.”

  Phoenix stared out at the ocean. “Secrets gnaw at the soul, piece by piece, but the truth devours you whole,” he said quietly.

  “So there are secrets?”

  Phoenix smiled. “Just trust me, Kai. That’s all I ask.”

  I thought about Mom and Charlie locked in Federal prisons somewhere. “Well, trust is a lot to ask,” I said. “And it’s awfully hard to give without the truth.”

  Bertha stomped her foot against the deck. “I see it!” she yelled.

  We joined her at the ship’s starboard side. In the distance, I made out a line of boats. There had to have been at least a hundred, all draped in shades of blue fabric. If Bertha hadn’t pointed them out, I could’ve mistaken them for the crest of a breaking wave, or the space where water met the sky.

  And then there was a flash of light, a mist rose from the ocean, the sky grew hazy—and the Caravan was gone. Mila’s eyes locked with mine, and I realized she was just as frightened as I was. The others, however, stood unfazed.

  “Nothing to be afraid of,” said Phoenix, noticing our faces. “The Caravan’s got spotters circling at all times. If they see a ship, they give a signal, and the fog pours out. There are plates underwater that heat the ocean into steam to make it rise into fog. If it weren’t for them, the Feds would’ve gotten the Caravan a long time ago.”

  “Yeah,” muttered Bertha, “and the nukes they’ve got don’t hurt, either.” Phoenix shot her a look.

  Churchill Wingnut rolled out another square box resting on a table. He placed a black circle roughly the size of a plate on its surface. “Record player,” he said when he caught my eye. “I’ll bet none of you blokes have ever seen one of these babies before.” He dropped the device’s metal hand onto the surface of the black plate, and music erupted from a horn on its side. Trumpet solos roared, and guitars rang out in time. He danced a little jig. “Mariachi music,” he explained. “It’s the signal.”

  Bertha tapped her foot to the music. “The signal?” she asked. “It wasn’t like that before.”

  Churchill nodded. “We have to switch things up every once in a while. Mariachi music’s been the signal for the past two months. Before that was polka.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Bertha, smiling. “I remember the polka.”

  We cruised forward in the calm water. The mist dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared. There were boats on either side of us now, and they formed a spiral canal of sorts. The Caravan was a town wrapped around itself like a coiled snake—a single train that, when bunched together, formed a spiral. From the inside, the boats didn’t look like boats at all, but houses lined up along a canal. Bridges stretched across the tops of the homes, connecting the houses that lined the external border with the ones nestled in the center. The spaces between the boats were nearly nonexistent—they were pushed together like adjacent compartments on subway trains. Bright reds, yellows, and greens glowed on the fabrics that adorned the internal walls—colors that were a sharp contrast to the blues we’d seen before.

  Churchill Wingnut spread his arms wide and threw his head back. “Welcome to the Caravan!” he said. He lifted the hand from the record player, and the music stopped. “The last free nation outside the whole bloody Federation!”

  There was a piercing sound, high-pitched like a mosquito, but perhaps even shriller, and hands hurried out from wooden windows, yanking the colored fabrics down before closing the shutters with a slam. A low rumble emitted from the boat at the forefront of the Caravan—the locomotive of sorts, I guessed.

  Churchill ran into the cabin muttering, “What the hell?” as mist swirled. The locomotive hummed loudly, and then hurtled forward. All around us, the Caravan’s spiral city unfurled, and the wooden bridges that hung across the boats’ roofs snapped.

  Phoenix pursed his lips, and his face grew hard: something was wrong. This was clearly not the welcome he’d expected.

  “The bloody boats think they’re under attack!” Churchill yelled again.

  “Listen,” said Bertha, jabbing a finger in his chest. “I get that all the Caravites are—” Churchill dug a finger in his ear and pulled out a stack of yellow wax like honey. “…Strange,” she continued. “A bit loony from saltwater fumes going to your brains, and all that. But there’s no way those boats think that this little thing”—Churchill winced at his ship being called little—“pulling up into their harbor means they’re under attack.”

  Dove grabbed Bertha’s shoulders and turned her to face the expanse of ocean behind her. As the last few Caravite boats unfurled amid the rush of rising mist, a shadow, roughly the size of a football field, lurched toward them in the water.

  Bertha snapped a hand to her face, and groped her waist for the one of the guns she’d lost in the ocean. Dove flew past her and hurried to take the helm of the ship from Churchill, who—like Bertha—stood in awe of the towering shadow.

  We were on the run again.

  Chapter 20

  The Retired Lobster groaned as Dove yanked it full throttle. The ship’s bow lifted and its engine sputtered, and we shot forward to join the ranks of the Caravan’s last few boats.

  Bertha eyed the Caravan. “One hell of a ship,” she muttered sarcastically as the small craft groaned again. The dull buzz of its failing engine rang in our ears. “Next time, I’m signing up for The Perky Lobster.”

  I glanced back at Dove, who spun the ship’s wheel with his familiar blank look. “Maybe something a bit bigger than a lobster next time,” I said.

  “Good point, Car Battery.” She grumbled something about wanting to drive, then disappeared into the captain’s cabin to push Dove away from the wheel.

  Churchill sat huddled at the back of the deck. I joined him. “You okay, Wingnut?”

  His teeth chattered from the breeze that rose from the ocean. He smiled weakly and gave me a thumbs-up. “Peachy.” The wrinkles that caked his face quivered in the wind. I’d have guessed he was decades older than fifty, if such a thing were possible.

  Mila stole a blanket from the cabin and wrapped it around his shoulders—her way of saying thanks. She owed the man her life. I guess we all did.

  “Hey, Kai!” said Dove, tossing me a pair of binoculars. “You’ve probably got better eyes than me—younger and all that junk.” I realized he probably had no real grasp of the concept of aging. He didn’t know that a couple of years didn’t really make a difference.

  “Whaddya see back there?” he asked.

  I pressed the binoculars to my face, but it was useless: the fog that sprayed from the Caravan left the ship that raced behind us in shadows. “Visibility’s bad,” I said finally. “Can’t see a thing.”

  “Afraid that might’ve been the case.” He turned to Phoenix. “Looks like we’re running blind, eh, friend?”

  A small smile stretched below Phoenix’s hard gaze. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He threw Dove a playful jab.

  The two had known each other for a long time. They looked about the same age
—maybe friends in another life, before they both became orphans. Before everything that happened to them, happened.

  The Retired Lobster plowed forward, and Dove leaned against the metal railing. “Hey, Dove?” asked Phoenix. “If you’re out here, who’s driving the ship?”

  Mariachi music blasted from the cabin, and the boat swerved in the water. A wave shot over the railing, and broke on the deck as Bertha’s booming laughter erupted from the helm. Mila cursed under her breath and Churchill scrunched his face: Bertha had found the record player. A trumpet solo blared, and she danced behind the wheel.

  Then a muted boom sounded off to the ship’s side, and a plume of water shot skyward, twisting in time to the music—an explosion.

  There were bombs in the water.

  The Retired Lobster rocked in the rough waters. Crashing waves tore at the fog that hung around the surface. Through gaps, I saw men throw packages from Caravan boats into the water: mines. They had seen the shadow that had towered behind us and recognized it as a threat, and they were determined to stop it at any and all costs. They’d blow us up too, if they had to.

  The mines continued to burst, and we drove right through them, desperately chasing the Caravan. Another patch of water went skyward. Waves even bigger than the last batch crashed onto the ship’s deck. Water poured in, racing past the Lobster’s wooden railings. The ship teetered back and forth.

  There was another explosion. Another wave. More water. We were drowning in water, even aboard the ship. Still the mariachi music thundered on.

  “Where’s your lifeboat, Wingnut?” I shouted to Churchill. More waves rolled across the deck, and I could see the Caravan pulling farther ahead before it disappeared behind fog and explosions.

  “DON’T HAVE A BLOODY LIFEBOAT!” he shouted. “JUST ME AND THE OPEN SEA!”

  I grabbed a bucket and began bailing gallon after gallon of water off the ship. For every bucket I tossed, ten more splashed on. It was hopeless, but it was still better than doing nothing. Better to die busy, I figured, than to die bored. Another symphony of explosions sent six streams of water skyward. The ocean rocked, absorbing the force of the explosions as the streams fell downward, snapping like lightning as they struck the water.

  A massive wave formed from the shocks erupting from the explosions. Ropes of surface tension yanked the water that covered the deck, pulling it toward a huge tidal wave that was gathering in the distance. The Retired Lobster dropped low as the massive wave pulled us into its trough. A frothing crest loomed overhead, and the boat quivered as its engine gave a final shout.

  Bertha ran out onto the deck. “It’s dead!” she announced.

  “Thanks for clarifying,” I said, and she rolled her eyes. “With engine performance like that,” I added, “I’d have thought you built it.”

  “You better hope we die,” she said, shaking a fist in my direction, “or else I’m gonna kill you.”

  “If you’re half as bad at murder as you are buildings things, then I won’t bother to worry.”

  Phoenix grabbed the deck’s edge, and I did the same. Brace yourself, he mouthed, and I nodded as the wave’s crest curled over us. For a brief moment, our ship hung, suspended, in a shimmering tunnel of blue. And then the wave crashed upon the ship, and light danced in the corners of my eyes. I felt my body yanked from the deck, crushed between salty tendrils. I tried to let myself go limp as the wave tossed and pounded me like a baker with a ball of dough. My neck snapped from side to side, and water forced its way into my nostrils to drown my lungs.

  Then my back was slammed against something solid, and I felt sand in my palms. I moved my fingers, and felt a plastic bottle, and then an aluminum can. I pushed my feet down and I felt land, or something like it.

  New Texas.

  I hauled myself out of the water and onto the beach. I rubbed my eyes and saw Kindred waving to me in the distance. Then a hand slapped itself across my face, and my ears rang.

  “Don’t insult my inventions again,” said Bertha in a husky voice.

  I watched her outline as she hiked toward the fortress, then I turned and ran toward Kindred, who was now leaning over a limp body at the ocean’s edge. As I got closer, I recognized the face: Churchill. A clump of seaweed covered his bald head.

  Kindred raised a hand to her cheek. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, “I think he might be—oh gosh, I really think he might be—”

  “Dead?” I offered.

  She nodded with pursed lips. Sand crunched behind us—Sparky was running across the beach, a wrapped syringe and a beaker full of black fluid in his hands.

  “Hey, KB,” he said, nodding in my direction before kneeling next to Churchill and filling the syringe with the black fluid. Tim poked his hairy head over Sparky’s shoulder and started reaching for the crumpled wrapper Sparky had torn from the sterile syringe.

  I stared at the black liquid in the beaker. “What is that exactly?”

  Sparky tore open Churchill’s shirt and plunged the needle into his chest. “Cafetamines,” he said. “A chemical cocktail of my own creation, consisting of caffeine and amphetamine salts.” He stared at me for a second, and his left eye twitched dangerously. “I use them every day,” he explained.

  “Well, that can’t be good for his heart.”

  “Nothing is bad for a dead man’s heart, and I’d guess we could both agree that a bad heart is better than a dead heart.”

  Tim gained momentum in his quest for the crumpled wrapper, but then Sparky saw and snatched it away. Tim frowned—if such a thing were possible for a sloth. I’d never seen an odder couple.

  Churchill shot upright, screaming. “JESUS CHRIST, MY CHEST!”

  “He’s seen Jesus!” said Kindred, clapping her hands. Tim yawned, and Kindred turned to me. “Tim’s a Jewish sloth,” she explained.

  Churchill panted hard. “It feels like my heart’s smashing against my bloody chest.”

  “Excellent,” said Sparky, his eye still twitching slightly behind his glasses. “That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”

  Kindred patted Sparky’s hand. “We’re going to have to talk about this later, dear. You’ve got a problem. An addiction, I’m afraid.”

  Sparky narrowed his eyes. “And what would you call your obsession with blueberries, then?”

  Surprise flashed across Kindred’s face. “Well, I—er—they’re very healthy, you know!”

  Churchill propped himself on his elbows and scanned the horizon. “Where’s my ship?”

  Kindred bit her lip. The Retired Lobster had, well, retired.

  “And the Caravan?” he asked.

  “We—well, we lost sight of it… what with the tidal wave and the fog,” she explained. “And then you guys washed ashore and—there was a lot of pressure, okay?”

  A horn sounded offshore, and with it, the fog surrounding New Texas dissipated, revealing the Caravan, coiled around the island like a snake around its prey. Someone gave a signal, and the red and gold tapestries we’d seen earlier were spread out again. The blue must have been hanging on the opposite side, I thought: they hadn’t surrounded us to attack us, but rather to hide us. We were now in a world apart. Away from the rest of the ocean. Away from the Federation. Alone.

  A thin line of boats formed a bridge between the island and the surrounding ring of the Caravan. Phoenix walked to where the line met the shore, ready to meet the Caravan’s leaders. His hair glowed gold in the scattered sunlight. You’d never have known he’d just had the crap beaten out of him by the tidal wave.

  “Ah, the Caravites,” said Kindred. “They’ve got their own little clans, they do. The vagabonds, the exiles, the thought-to-be-lost-at-sea-men, the Irish, the—”

  “Founders,” interrupted Churchill. He thumped a fist to his chest proudly.

  “The English,” said Kindred, rolling her eyes. “Few bolts missing in those ones, if you ask me.”

  Phoenix lifted his left hand to his head and rested his thumb along his jaw. His forefinger was pressed to th
e corner of his eye, and his middle finger pointed skyward. It was a strange salute, but I remembered the explosion in the Tube by Moku Lani when Mila had done the same thing on the screen. It was an obvious departure from the standard Federal salute. It was one they could call their own: the Lost Boys’ salute.

  Three men emerged from the first boat’s cabin as its bow struck the beach. They walked single file at first, but, upon seeing Phoenix, the first two broke formation and stood shoulder to shoulder, protecting their beloved leader.

  Phoenix muttered something, his hand still held to his head, and the guards returned the salute before parting. A man with a thick beard, a captain’s hat, and two bushy brows like patches of wool stepped forward. The two guards dropped a ladder from the bow, and the three of them climbed down to the beach.

  Churchill waved a hand. The guards, their leader, and Phoenix approached us, whispering among themselves. Whatever they were talking about, the bushy-browed man appeared to grow increasingly concerned. The guards pulled Churchill to his feet, and their leader offered me his hand.

  Kindred motioned for me to take it.

  “Uh… hi,” I said at last.

  “Name!” he barked. I almost fell backward—here was a man used to giving orders.

  “Kai,” I said, still startled. “Kai Bradbury. And you are?”

  “Vern,” he said with a nod of his hat.

  “Captain Vern,” Churchill corrected him, and he looked mildly irritated. “The great captain. A man who needs no introduction… except for this one.”

  “That’ll do,” said Vern, nodding. He was man of business, not civilities. The titles, the formalities, they were a nuisance to him. He gave Kindred and Sparky curt nods, which were returned with a curtsy and an excited headshake, respectively.

  Tim stuck his tongue out and extended a claw, but Vern ignored him.

  “Shall we board?” he asked, already turning and walking back toward the boats.

  “Come on, Captain!” said Churchill, jogging beside him. “Don’t you care to stay a minute? Flex your feet on solid ground?”

  “I prefer the wooden slats of a ship’s cabin. Solid ground makes me feel woozy after all these years.”