A Sea of Shattered Glass

by Kyla Stone

  Gabriel stood beside Kane in front of the camera and pressed the metal switch recessed into the left wall. The captain and bridge officers accessed the bridge through a retinal bioscanner. Everyone else entered the old-fashioned way. The bridge officer on the other side of the door would glance at the CCTV monitor and see only Kane, a radio officer, and Gabriel, dressed smartly in his security uniform with the black epaulettes on the shoulders. It was nothing out of the ordinary.

  Reinforced steel couldn't protect against treachery. Gabriel's heart jolted at the word. This wasn't treachery. It was justice. Justice for the people. A new revolutionary war, beginning today.

  There was a buzzing sound and the hatch swung open.

  Everything happened at once.

  They rushed inside, Gabriel trailing behind. One of the Patriots tossed him a rifle. He caught a glimpse of the panoramic windows encircling the room. The long, rectangular console featured a sleek bank of digital charts, position readouts, and satmaps. He'd been in the bridge dozens of times. But never like this.

  Time seemed to slow. All sound faded save for the blood whooshing through his ears. Two bridge officers, a security officer, and the helmsman turned toward them. The captain stood at the center of the console in front of the helm.

  “Don't move!” Hollis screamed at the helmsman, a British man who started for the mayday button as soon as he saw the guns. He lunged for the center console, not hesitating for a moment.

  Neither did Hollis. She slammed out two shots in quick succession, puncturing the helmsman's chest. He dropped to the floor, red spots spreading like ink stains across his shirt.

  The sound ricocheted louder than Gabriel expected. Silencers couldn't suppress all noise, but it wouldn't be heard through the steel door and thick walls.

  The remaining officers gaped at the fallen body. Gabriel stared with them, fighting down the acid rising in his throat. The rifle hung limply at his side.

  Simeon moved swiftly to Captain Johannes Liebenberg and pressed the gun against his head. “No one does anything foolish, and you'll all live. This fight is not with you. Do you understand?”

  Hollis swiveled, aiming her Glock at each of the officers until they nodded. The Second Officer, an attractive African-American woman with short hair, stood next to the captain, unmoving. The Third Officer stood halfway between the console and the exterior door to the portside wing. He was trembling, sweat beading his forehead.

  “You'll never get away with this,” Captain Liebenberg growled.

  “Oh, but we already have.” Simeon's voice was steady, but Gabriel recognized the rush of his words. Adrenaline must be kicking through him the same way it streaked through his own veins, filling him with frenetic energy. His heart slammed against his ribs.

  “This was easier than hijacking a semi-truck.” Hollis laughed, her eyes gleaming. “At sea, there's no law enforcement. No surveillance drones. It’s like stealing candy from a baby. A rich, gold-gilded baby.”

  Gabriel turned to the right, where the security monitors mimicked those in the security room—a large transparent screen showing images in quadrants of four, the feed shifting to various hallways and external areas of the ship in ten second intervals. Not a thing looked out of place, though he knew fellow freedom fighters were barging into the radio and engine rooms that very second. But the screens revealed nothing.

  “Everyone against the wall,” Simeon ordered. “Davison and Hernandez, tie them up.”

  “Why are you doing this?” The Third Officer's voice trembled. He was middle-aged, with short blonde hair and a harsh Ukrainian accent tinged with fear. “Are you pirates? Are you with one of the syndicates? Are you—”

  Simeon smiled at him. “You read the daily reports from the Maritime Bureau's Piracy Reporting Center. You tell me—what should you do now?”

  The man licked his lips, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head with terror. “If pirates board your ship, do not resist. They're after money and ransom. Do what they say, they'll leave you alone. Let the company worry about losses.”

  “Exactly. Now sit down, hold out your hands, and shut up.”

  “Voyager Enterprises will pay you. They have hostage insurance. Just tell us what—”

  “You're no pirates,” the captain interrupted, his voice laced with barely contained rage. “This isn't the southern Red Sea, the Malacca strait, or the coast of Somalia.”

  “Sir, I have to respectfully ask you to stop talking,” Simeon said.

  “You're Americans!” Captain Liebenberg glared at Kane and Gabriel, the only two men not wearing ski masks. “You’ve both served this ship for months, if not years. You're traitors!”

  “Shut the hell up!” Kane barked.

  “You're terrorists!”

  Simeon slammed the butt of his gun against the captain's head. “I said, that's enough!”

  Liebenberg's head lolled to the side. A trickle of blood dripped down his forehead, thickened in his left eyebrow. “Whatever you want from me, I will not give it to you.”

  Kane stood splay-legged, monitoring the hostages as Hollis bound their arms behind them with zip ties. “If he doesn't shut his ugly mouth, I'm gonna do it for him.”

  The Second Officer still stood beside the captain, a grim smile on her face. No one had touched her.

  Gabriel started to lift his gun, but Hollis shook her head.

  “This is treason! You’re murderers.” Captain Liebenberg looked straight at Gabriel. “Each and every one of you—murderers and terrorists!”

  Gabriel flinched. His free hand curled into a fist at his side.

  “I'm warning you!” Kane swung his weapon around to point at the captain.

  The captain raised his chin defiantly. “I'll see you get the needle, if it's the last thing I do.”

  “Nah, man,” Kane said, his smile a fierce slash of teeth. “This is the last thing you'll do.”

  Kane pressed the trigger.

  17

  Amelia

  “Don't forget your meds,” Amelia’s mother reminded her for the millionth time.

  Like she could ever forget. Amelia grabbed her clutch off the vanity. “Happy?”

  Her mother tucked a diamond tiara in Amelia’s hair. “To have you healthy and safe? Always.”

  Amelia smoothed the Grecian gown her father had picked for tonight. Three crystal-encrusted straps wrapped around her shoulders, with another glittering belt at the bust line. The soft fabric draped around her, shimmering between ivory and silver. If only she felt the way she looked.

  The veranda door slid open and Declan Black strode into the room with a litany of curses. He yanked off his ear piece and hurled it at the settee, narrowly missing Silas.

  “Everything all right?” Elise asked meekly.

  “Does everything look all right to you?” Declan’s brow furrowed, his eyes blazing with indignation. “I'm in the middle of crucial negotiations. First the internet, now no calls or messages will go through!”

  Amelia flinched, pressing herself against the vanity. Ever since the ballroom, her father had barely spoken to her. If he looked at her at all, his expression was full of disdain. She felt hollowed out, like she was crumbling into pieces.

  Silas rubbed his face, still careful to avoid his right cheek. “Last I heard, the CDC declared a national health emergency. Maybe that has something to do with it.”

  Declan rounded on him. “Where did you hear that?”

  Silas snorted. “It's all over the vlogs. Not the actual news, though it'll be damn hard to hide it now.”

  “Is that attitude helpful?”

  “It's the truth. People are actually dying.”

  Elise's hands fell from Amelia's hair. She stared at Declan in the mirror. “Is that true?”

  Declan paced the living room, his eyes darkening. “How should I know? Who could possibly know, with every thirty-year-old living in their parents’ basement posting their opinions?”

  “There are vid feeds,” Silas said. “Dozens,
maybe hundreds, from all over the country. Armed police turning sick people away from the hospitals. Everyone wearing masks. They've even given it a name. The Hydra Virus. Cool, huh?”

  Acid burned the back of Amelia's throat. “That's terrible.”

  Her mother's hand fluttered to the hollow of her neck. “What can we do?”

  “You've never concerned yourself with the wellbeing of the ghettos before,” Declan snapped. “Why would you start now?”

  “That's not true,” her mother said.

  “It's not just the ghettos,” Silas said. “Not anymore. They're closing the country clubs.”

  “I have eyes and ears, Silas,” Declan cut him off. “I don't need you to repeat the nonsense the rabble is screeching.”

  Her mother eye’s eyes widened. “But—”

  “Dense populations with poor sanitation are breeding grounds for disease,” Declan said contemptuously. “Fifty-five percent of them are parasites who contribute nothing. They turned their back on God’s will, and now they pay the price. I argued against such a poor utilization of the vaccine, but then, I am not the one in charge.”

  Her mother leaned against the vanity, her face pale. “Should we go back? Try to help?”

  “There is no help.” Declan's expression hardened. “God chooses to protect his own. It is by His grace that we are here, all of us spared.”

  Amelia's mouth went dry. The newsfeed headlines popping up on her SmartFlex were always screaming death and disaster. Critical water shortages. Epic storms. Droughts and famines. Riots in Chicago and Atlanta. Terrorist attacks. But this—she couldn’t even comprehend it. “Is it that bad?”

  “The proper response is gratitude and prayers of thankfulness,” Declan said. “Enough of this. We have a dinner to get to.”

  Elise nodded weakly. “Yes, you're right.”

  A hundred questions rushed through her. What was really happening? How many people were sick? Why didn't the vaccine work? And what would happen now? “But I don't understand—”

  “I said enough!” Her father's eyes flashed. “Or did you not hear me correctly?”

  “She didn't hear you, did you, Amelia?” Her mother's hand wavered at her throat, like she could protect herself from something. “Let's go to dinner.”

  “I asked you a question, did I not?” Her father took a step toward her.

  Her cheeks burned with heat. She swallowed hard, dropping her gaze. “Yes, sir. I—I'm sorry.”

  Someone knocked on the door. Jericho popped his head in, waved at Silas and Amelia, then led her parents out into the corridor. “You coming?” her mother asked.

  “In a minute. Go ahead.” Amelia struggled to keep her voice even.

  She leaned toward the mirror and daubed concealer over the pimples on her forehead, her hands trembling so badly, she nearly messed up. Face. Hair. Posture. Dress. Check. She attempted a smile. It came out like a grimace.

  “You're as bad as she is.” Silas slouched against the back of the settee, his fists shoved in his pockets.

  Amelia stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

  They stared at each other's reflection. Silas's dark, seething eyes cut into her. He had their father's eyes, that same contemptuous gaze. “Weak and subservient. Pathetic.”

  Bile roiled in her gut. “I do not. I am not like her.”

  “She never does anything. Not a freaking thing. And neither do you.”

  “I told you,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

  The door burst open. “Amelia?” Jericho said. “Sorry to interrupt, but your father wants you. Now.”

  “Run along, princess,” Silas sneered.

  His disgust was aimed at her. But she’d never felt it like this, sharp as a dagger in her chest. Maybe because this time, she knew she deserved it. The memory of the ballroom burned in her mind, shame and fear flaring through her.

  Maybe Silas was right. Maybe she was like her mother. They were both cowards.

  She gripped her clutch with trembling hands. “Silas.”

  “We wouldn't want to disappoint Daddy, now would we?” He stalked back into the bedroom, sliding his VR glasses down over his eyes. She was dismissed.

  “Amelia,” Jericho said.

  The ship rolled gently beneath her. She took a breath to steady herself, to choke back the tears threatening to bubble up out of nowhere. She couldn't let herself feel it, not now.

  She needed to check herself in the mirror one last time, to make sure she was presentable. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. She couldn't bear to see the accusation in her own eyes.

  18

  Gabriel

  Gabriel stared at the captain's slumped body, his stomach churning. “You didn't have to do that.”

  “He was irritating the hell out of me.” Kane glowered at him. “You got a problem?”

  “Nobody has a problem,” Simeon said coolly. “As long as we stick to the plan.”

  “That was part of the plan?” Gabriel gestured at the dead captain, his voice rising. There wasn't enough oxygen in the room. In all the months he'd imagined this scene, it hadn't gone like this. “He didn't do anything. He's not—”

  “Calm down, son. There is collateral damage in every war. Unfortunately, he chose his side long ago.”

  “Didn't we need him?” Hollis asked.

  “Anything you needed from him, I can do.” The Second Officer wiped in vain at several specks of red on her uniform. “Aisha Walsh, at your service.”

  Kane slung his rifle over his shoulder and dragged the two bodies around the other side of the console. The two remaining hostages huddled against the far wall in silence, their faces drained of color.

  Simeon spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Mission completed. No casualties on our side.”

  “What happens next?” Gabriel asked. “When do the others get here?”

  “Didn't I say to trust me, son?” Simeon slapped his shoulder. “Walsh will continue command of the ship. We’ve taken out the secret service agents per the information you provided us earlier. Everything is on schedule.”

  Hollis set up the portable satellite navigation system, since the ship’s communications were still down. She placed two EMMASAT satphones on the console. “We continue as if nothing has happened, at least until our friends arrive.”

  Simeon grinned. “And we have many friends. More than we can count.”

  The radar blipped and Walsh turned back to the console. “These are your boys?” She pointed to five small green dots making their way toward the ship.

  Simeon jerked his ski mask off his face. “Captain Cheng and his men, right on time.”

  “Is he a Patriot?” Gabriel asked.

  “Just hired grunts, like I said before.”

  “Pirates,” Hollis said in disgust.

  Gabriel rubbed his slick palms against his pant legs. “Pirates?”

  Simeon shrugged. “Look, this is a twenty-billion dollar a year business—hijacking, cargo theft, drug running, smuggling. Syndicates go after ships containing high value commodities easy to sell on the black market: diesel fuel, rubber, steel, copper and aluminum concentrates.”

  “Captain Cheng is part of the Singapore syndicate,” Kane said. “They control the South China Sea and Malacca Strait, with branches in Vietnam, Malaysia, Sumatra, Cambodia, the Philippines, Burma, and now South and Central America. Their connections with officials in the U.S. government and senior officials on mainland China keep their operations well protected.”

  Gabriel still couldn't breathe properly. The stench of blood stung his nostrils. He could taste it, sour and metallic. He knew others were involved. He’d just assumed they would be fellow Patriots, not pirates. “Who are these people?”

  “Gabriel. Son.” Simeon put his hand on his shoulder. “We need them. They're a means to an end. How do you think we got on as crew? The syndicate uses body shops based in radicalized countries—Indonesia, Pakistan, the Philippines. The syndicate pays the agencies to place certain applicants on th
e rolls, even with zero experience, with screening completely bypassed or fabricated, including retinal and bioscans.”

  “It’s the perfect crime.” Kane cracked his knuckles. “How would anyone even begin to investigate? In which jurisdiction? A ship built in Japan, owned by a corporation in Malta, managed by a company in Cypress, crewed by Filipinos, financed by a British bank, chartered by the Swiss, carrying cargo by multinational companies or international passengers. How would you begin to follow such a paper trail? Any investigation is hopelessly entangled before it begins. Dirty officials either look the other way or actively take part in the piracy.”

  “A case may be superficially investigated by the Office of Naval Intelligence in Washington,” Simeon said. “But nothing ever comes of it. There's too much money pouring in, and everyone wants a drink. Less than ten percent of attacks are even reported.”

  Kane grinned. “Of course, we'll proudly admit to ours. Even then, the government will have a hell of a time nailing any actual evidence to the wall.”

  Simeon moved to the main console. “Bottom line, these guys know how to take over a ship. They've made a profession of it. And they'll do anything for the right price. Offer them twenty grand apiece, they'll massacre the entire ship.”

  Gabriel tried to keep his expression flat, but the blood drained from his face.

  “Calm down, kid,” Hollis said. “It's just first-time jitters. You'll be fine.”

  He didn't feel fine. His stomach roiled. But arguing only made him sound weak. Complaining only deepened Simeon's irritation. He was here because Simeon vouched for him. He had to prove his worth, his value to the cause. He fell silent.

  Simeon bent over the portable GPS map, then pointed. “Here.”

  Walsh raised her eyebrows. “That will take us right through the tropical storm, sir.”

  “The storm will provide cover and besides, we only have a small window to meet our extraction point. We've paid our weight in gold, but the syndicate doesn't mess around. We make it, or we're left stranded on the ship. Can we make it, Captain Walsh?”