A Sea of Shattered Glass

by Kyla Stone

  He leaned over the railing, shielding his eyes with his hand.

  “Finn!”

  He didn't speak, only pointed. She edged a few feet closer and looked.

  The dark sea heaved far below them. Her stomach lurched, her head spinning. She was about to leap back from the edge when something caught her eye.

  Boats. Four—no, five—of them, speedboats traveling fast, coming up along the starboard side of the Grand Voyager. The boats looked almost like toys, if not for the clusters of men on each boat. They were all dressed in dark clothes, with little sticks in their hands. Her stomach dropped to her toes.

  “What—who is that?”

  Finn turned to her. The whites of his eyes were huge. “I'm no expert, but I believe those are pirates.”

  “What!” She imagined peg-legs, feathered hats, patches over eyes. But those were cartoons. She'd heard of pirates taking boats, but cargo ships and oil rigs over in Indonesia and Malaysia, Somalia and South Africa, countries and continents she'd never been to and never would. Back in the Philippines, she had a second cousin who'd been arrested for piracy a few years ago. But she'd never imagined anything like this.

  They stood, frozen in shock, unable to do a thing but watch in growing horror as the boats closed in. Something small and dark flew through the air and caught on the lowest deck. A rope with a grappling hook on one end. Then another and another. The pirates climbed the ropes, hand over hand like scrabbling spiders.

  “Oh, hell,” she breathed.

  A half-dozen security officers burst onto Deck Four, lugging large hoses and gesturing wildly. They aimed the hoses and sprayed the ropes. A few pirates slipped and fell into the snarling sea. But there were so many of them. Another crawled up to replace the one they lost.

  Further down the lido deck, two other officers raced to a large, dark object. “What are they doing?”

  “That's an LRAD,” Finn yelled in her ear. The officers uncovered the object, which looked like a small satellite. “A sonic cannon.”

  The security officers aimed the LRAD at one of the boats. The boat jerked and parried, speeding a few dozen yards away and then spinning back to parallel the Voyager. Past the ship's lights, the boats were skimming shadows.

  “Look out!” Finn cried. He grabbed her arm and shoved her down. She stumbled and fell, scraping her elbows and knees on the deck. She lifted her head in time to see a bright orange ball carve a graceful arc toward the ship. There was a flash of light as a firebomb exploded on the lido deck. The world flashed orange beneath her eyelids.

  She climbed carefully to her hands and knees. The hover cart from earlier was tipped on its side. The metalhead lay next to it. Its scorched silicone skin peeled away, revealing the metal, wires, and nanotubes of its insides.

  Further down the deck, both security officers manning the LRAD were down, unmoving. The LRAD itself was broken off its base and riddled with gunshot holes.

  “We've got to get out of here!” But her legs were weak and sloshy as water. Terror pulsed in every cell of her being.

  “Crawl around the other side of the funnel. I think they're only on the starboard side.”

  Finn started to crawl, shimmying on his belly.

  She still couldn't move. She kept seeing the bodies of the security officers, their white uniforms blooming red.

  “Gwyneth, come on!”

  The use of the name she'd given him—her lie so much more grotesque now that they were suddenly fleeing for their lives—jolted her out of her fugue.

  “Willow,” she mumbled. “My name is Willow.” He couldn't hear her, but still, it seemed to matter.

  Before she turned and crawled after Finn, she saw them.

  On Deck Four, a dozen shadows leapt over the railing.

  21

  Micah

  Micah wiped the sweat from his brow as he pushed through the galley doors, his tray full of half-empty soup bowls and salad plates. The chefs were preparing the evening's special meal—hand-cut Charolais steak tartare placed on sterling silver trays with sparklers projecting from each side.

  Chef Jokumsen was in a foul mood. The whole display was for the captain's birthday, but the captain hadn't yet arrived at dinner. The Second Officer, Aisha Walsh, had simply stated the captain was indisposed and ordered the meal to go on as planned.

  Which seemed odd, but it was none of his concern. He grabbed one of the sterling platters and held it as a service bot lit the sparklers. There were ten waiters in front of him, each with their own platter.

  The lights went out, plunging the Oasis dining room into darkness. The crowd gave a collective gasp. They oohed and aahed as the first waiter pushed through the galley swing doors, the sparklers glittering and flashing like jewels. The string quartet started in on a rousing song.

  The waiters marched around the tables as the guests clapped in time. They threaded their way through the room until the procession encircled the table of honor. In the dark, all eyes were on them. Micah stopped next to Amelia's mother, Elise Black. The captain wasn't the only one missing. So was Amelia. His heart dropped. He wanted to listen to her play.

  He balanced the weight of the tray carefully, watchful of the sparklers burning down their wicks, the sparks getting much too close to his uniform sleeve.

  That's when he felt it. A sudden swift movement behind him.

  Several sharp cracks split the air. Multiple panes of glass shattered all at once, crashing to the floor. The quartet squealed to a halt. Guests froze mid-clap. Someone screamed. A cacophony of angry shouting filled the dining room.

  It was hard to see anything in the dark. The sparklers blinded his night vision. He shoved the platter to the table and twisted around. Shapes moving fast. Quick dark shadows erupted into the dining room from the main entryway. They came through the starboard deck entrance like a horde of ants boiling out from a kicked nest.

  Micah froze. Fear coursed through him. His body went hot then cold, cold all over, like the cold was in his very cells. Guests leapt to their feet, screaming and bumbling in the dark in blind panic. They bumped into each other, struck tables, knocked over chairs. Cutlery and wine glasses smashed to the floor.

  More sharp cracking sounds. Several orange flashes. Guns. And men shouting, shrieking unintelligible words.

  A bullet struck one of the chandeliers, the shattered crystals raining down on Micah’s head. The lights flickered on, revealing a scene too horrific to possibly be real.

  The Grand Voyager was under attack.

  He couldn't move. The attackers shouted, swinging their weapons, shooting indiscriminately into the crowd. Everyone was yelling and screaming. The Oasis dining room was in chaos.

  Two security guards emerged from behind the bar area, shooting at the attackers. They went down fast and easy, as easy as the rest of the wild, screaming throng. A woman in a zebra-striped mini skirt ran in a crazed zigzag pattern in front of Micah. A burst of gunfire, and she dropped to the floor.

  An older couple in matching white outfits who'd ordered steak and mashed potatoes stood and stared in confusion. Their bodies jittered and they fell, the old man on top of the woman, like he'd been protecting her.

  Every person standing was a target. Instinctively, he crouched next to the table. He glanced up at Mrs. Black, rigid in her seat, her eyes wide with terror. He tugged her arm. “Get down!”

  She didn't move.

  “Everyone crawl under the table!” he said as loudly as he dared.

  Mrs. Black scrambled out of her seat. Micah lifted the tablecloth draped half-way to the floor and she crawled under on her hands and knees. Others at the table followed her. Declan Black pushed his way in, along with the other CEOs and senators. They huddled against each other, cramped in the much-too-small space. Micah pressed against Mrs. Black. She trembled as she whispered a prayer. Micah whispered his own desperate prayers.

  “My daughter,” Mrs. Black gasped. “I don't know where she is.”

  “Shut up,” someone hissed. Micah�
�s shoulder bumped against the table leg. There was a rustle of movement. He strained his ears, his heart banging so hard against his ribs he could hardly hear anything at all.

  Black boots. Standing next to the table, only two feet from him. He tried to draw his legs closer to his body, to make himself invisible. Sweat stung his eyes. He bit the inside of his cheeks, trying not to breathe.

  “Silence!” a deep male voice shouted. A volley of shots rang out.

  The noises quieted. A strange and terrifying hush fell over the room.

  “Declan Black, where are you?” The man's voice was strong and commanding, every word spoken in perfect English. Something about the way he spoke sounded vaguely familiar. “Please reveal yourself from whatever cowardly hole you've crawled into.” And then, incredibly, the man laughed.

  “Here!” a woman cried. She was close, someone among the group huddled beneath the table. “He's right here. Don't shoot! I'm coming out!”

  The attacker with the boots moved. With a groan and a crash, the table upended, the china dishes and half-full wine glasses spilling to the floor.

  “Stand up! Make your entrance!” The man dressed in black in the center of the room pointed his rifle at the ceiling.

  The group stood. Micah blinked in growing horror. More than two dozen men were scattered throughout the dining room. A few wore deck officer uniforms, a couple others were dressed as wait staff. Most wore dark clothing, strapped in combat gear with ski masks pulled over their faces. Each man carried a wicked assault rifle. They almost didn't look human. They could've been robots, or invading aliens.

  Tables were upturned, chairs knocked over, broken china and shattered glass everywhere. Steak, potatoes, wine, and various steamed vegetables mashed into the carpet. And bodies. Arms and legs flopped awkwardly, gowns and tuxedos spattered with red. At least thirty, from what he could see. Maybe more. Bile churned in his gut.

  The unharmed guests cowered on the floor. A balding man in his sixties held his wife, who was cradling her right arm, blood dribbling between her fingers. Several people lay prostrate, their hands folded over their heads. A brunette woman whose elaborate bun sagged halfway down her head moaned, holding out her purse beseechingly with both hands. Like that was all they wanted. Like it could protect her.

  Everyone stared at the men with the guns, their faces leached of color, eyes shockingly wide. Like they were in a trance, a nightmare they slowly realized they were all sharing together.

  A middle-aged woman with a squash-shaped body and a helmet of glossy blonde hair gathered the trail of her dress in one hand and stepped away from the table. She pointed at the CEO with a shaking finger. “There! That's him. He's the one you want.”

  “Judas Iscariot,” Black muttered, his face darkening.

  A man in a waiter's uniform strode up to Black and pressed a gun against his head.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the man with the commanding voice. He stood on the musicians' platform. Two violins lay at his feet, one broken, its bow shattered. He had a ski mask and a gun but was dressed in a gray suit with a salmon-colored tie. A passenger. No wonder he'd sounded familiar. Micah had probably served him a half-dozen times.

  “There will be no heroes, not today,” the man continued. “We have already secured the bridge and the engine room, the radio room, the security department. The lifeboats are guarded. Escape is futile. Be assured, any attempt at resistance will result in death.”

  Some of the women started crying. A couple of men, too. The man in the suit ignored them. “You may be wondering who we are and what we want. We are the New Patriots, the sons of a long legacy of liberty too long polluted. We are here to claim it back. We hereby declare war on the sham of the corrupt and greedy corporations—the shadow puppets of what was formerly the government of the United States of America.

  “We declare a civil war upon insatiable greed and we demand—no, we shall have—justice. It is finally time to pay the piper.”

  Micah stared at the man in horror. The New Patriots? No, he wouldn’t believe it. He couldn’t.

  Three men in combat gear guarded the man in the suit. One of them hadn't bothered with a mask. He was Southeast Asian, Filipino or Malaysian, with a silver scar carved down the right side of his face. He had twitchy eyes and a hard, dangerous smile, like he was born to kill.

  The man in the suit turned to the waiter holding a gun on Black. “Take these agents of corruption as hostages and bring them to the bridge. As for the rest—” he spat on the opulent carpet. “Round them all up. Kill any who resist.”

  “They’ll want Amelia,” Mrs. Black said in a low, desperate voice.

  Micah turned toward her. Things seemed to be coming from far away. He tried to focus on her face, but everything was jerky, both sharpened and blurry, if that were possible. Gabriel, he thought over and over. Gabriel. He couldn't die yet, with so much anger between him and the only person who mattered. He wasn't ready to die. Not like this. Please God, don’t let us die. Keep my brother safe.

  “Whatever they want from my husband, he won't give it to them,” Mrs. Black said, her eyes filling with fear and desperation. “They'll look for his family, to use as leverage. Amelia doesn't know.”

  “I'll find her.”

  “God bless you. Thank you.”

  Several men in ski masks surrounded the group. “You,” said a towering bulldozer of a man in a security uniform. The cords in his thick neck bulged, and his eyes through the slits of the mask were dark and beady.

  Micah knew this man. The one Gabriel always complained about for ogling the passengers and harassing the lower level female staff. Kane. The traitor's name was Kane.

  Kane gestured at Micah. “Go back to the kitchen where you belong. The rest of you maggots, fall in line.”

  “Find her,” Mrs. Black whispered.

  Kane prodded her in the back with the muzzle of his assault rifle. “Shut your mouth, bitch.”

  “Don't you dare speak to my wife with such impudence!” Declan Black bellowed. Even with a gun to his head, he was self-assured, convinced of his own worth in the world—and sure everyone else knew it, too. “Your sins will find you out!”

  The man in the suit strode up to Black. “No, my friend,” he said. The ski mask made his face featureless and so much more terrifying. “I'm afraid your sins are about to find you out.”

  He smashed the rifle butt into Declan Black's nose. Blood gushed over his lips and dripped into his beard.

  The armed men jerked Black to his feet and led the hostages out of the dining room.

  Something jolted in Micah's memory. He knew the man in the suit. Knew that walk, that voice. Simeon Pagnini. The leader of Gabriel’s New Patriots group. No. No, no, no. Dread stuck in his throat like a hook. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.

  Kane elbowed Micah out of the way. He stumbled over an overturned chair and fell, his glasses sliding off his face.

  “You!” A brawny man with a huge belly stretching over his belt pointed at Micah. His eyes were dark slits, his mouth full of yellowed, crooked teeth. He jerked Micah up, wrenching his arm. “Back to the kitchen. Make food. Now.”

  Micah swayed on his feet. The ship pitched and rolled and the man took an unsteady step toward him. He rammed the muzzle of his rifle into Micah's stomach. “How many do we have to kill? Or do you comprende?”

  “We get it,” Micah forced out, shoving his glasses back into place with trembling fingers. His voice was ragged, his throat raw.

  The attackers marched Micah and the other waiters back into the galley. Two other armed men stood guard over the terrified cook staff.

  Think. He had to think. He had to find a way to escape. Find Amelia for her mother. But first, he had to find Gabriel. He could not, would not believe Gabriel was involved in this horror. There was an explanation. There had to be. One his muddled, terrified brain was too confused to work out. He needed to find Gabriel. Then they’d figure out the rest.

  He moved to
one of the massive stoves on trembling legs, picked up a ladle, and stirred the pot of bubbling cheddar broccoli soup. At least here, there were weapons. Knives of all shapes and sizes.

  He could get one.

  And then? What next?

  He had no idea.

  22

  Amelia

  Lightning shimmered in the distance. The air was heavy with humidity. Damp strands of hair stuck to Amelia's forehead and neck. The officer's deck was deserted and partially shielded on either side by the steel walls of the ship and the deck above it.

  “Everybody’s either at the crew mess hall, working their shifts, or entertaining high value guests,” Gabriel said. “We've got this place to ourselves.” His walkie-talkie spat noise. A voice started to speak, and he turned it off.

  “You don't need that?”

  “Nah. Everything's fine.” He placed the walkie-talkie on a small patio table outside the doorway. “You want to get in the hot tub?”

  “I can't,” she said, her cheeks heating.

  “Why not?”

  Her mind flailed for an excuse before landing on the most obvious one. She fluttered her dress. “I'm a bit overdressed.”

  “No one's here to judge you.”

  The truth was, she'd never been in a hot tub in her life. She couldn't. Too much heat was dangerous. But she was so tired of all the rules, all the don'ts, can'ts, and shouldn'ts governing her life.

  “Maybe I can put my feet in.” She put her clutch on the table next to his walkie-talkie and kicked off her heels. She settled gingerly on the tiled edge of the hot tub, hiking her dress up past her knees. The bubbling, swirling water was hot and soothing against her shins.

  Gabriel sat down beside her. He tugged off his shiny black shoes and socks and rolled up his pant legs. “Your dad seems upset. He's been on his earpiece constantly the last couple of days.”

  “Have you heard what's happening on the mainland?”

  Lines bracketed his mouth, his expression taut. “I've heard enough. I have an aunt in Baltimore. She messaged me two days ago. She's sick. She's sick and she stood in line for six hours to get that damn shot. Your father's latest cure.”