I hand a portable holo-player to Chubs, and as my fingers slide over the smooth surface of the projector screen, my mind skips back to Johnny. Poor Johnny. This plan has to succeed for him, for all he did for us, for Eve.
My heart pauses for a moment. Johnny’s work.
It gives me an idea.
* * *
—
Leaving Ernie was hard. I could see the emotion in his eyes as he boarded the pod with his new army. These people who look to him as some sort of saint, the man who gave them hope, the father of their beloved Eve. His whole life has been building toward this moment, the moment he would return to the Tower to free his daughter.
But that won’t happen unless I succeed in what I’m about to do. What the hell am I about to do? This is crazy! I step into the small black dinghy, which is already occupied by Chubs and Saunders.
Helena emerges from the clock and looks down at me with the expression of a woman prepared for battle. She looks more ready for this than anyone else.
I tilt my head and beckon her closer. “Take this,” I whisper.
She takes the package from me, trying to work out what is concealed inside the large camouflage shoulder-bag.
“It’s heavy,” she says in a low voice, her watery eyes scanning mine for clues.
“There’s a letter for you inside. Only you.”
“Must be a pretty long one. What am I meant to do with it?”
“When you need this, it will be obvious. It’s vital that no one knows this part of the plan. Just you and me,” I explain.
“Ready?” Chubs interrupts us.
Helena nods.
“Let’s get going!” Chubs calls.
The dawn air is cool and brings with it a sense of promise, as if a new era is rising with the sun and only we select few are aware of it.
Dr. Oliva leads the small medical team into an identical dinghy next to ours. We push away from the side of the enormous clockface and drift out onto the open river.
Helena watches us float away, her long gray hair starting to vanish in the mist that forms between us. I see her mouth two words and offer them back in reply.
For Eve.
It’s already busy on the water, people sailing to their places of business, trading goods on the waves from boat to boat. It feels surreal to see such normality ahead of what is potentially a historic day. Soon their holo-players and displays will be dominated with news of Ernie—the return of Eve’s father. Part of me wishes I could be around to witness it, but I have my own task to focus on now.
“There it is,” Saunders announces.
In the distance the shadow of a large black vessel appears through the cloud of murky pollution. It breaks through the smog and pushes up the river.
“Shit, this is scary,” Chubs says.
“It’s okay,” I say in my best fake-calm voice. I can’t let him know how much my own nerves are making my insides twist.
“There’s a small boarding deck on the rear, starboard side. One guard max, if any,” Saunders says. “Leave him to me,” he adds as he pumps a red lever on a long rifle-shaped weapon. A high-pitched ring fizzes out as it charges.
I look at him for reassurance and he understands.
“It’ll knock him out for a few hours. Nonlethal. He won’t remember it. Don’t worry,” he says.
I nod in thanks. I don’t want any unnecessary deaths, or the attention they would bring.
We steer our two tethered dinghies through the traffic, blending in among the countless boats, rafts, and ships. They won’t see us coming.
The EPO vessel draws closer. I see the familiar uniform on the armed guards standing on the top deck. It makes my blood boil now, seeing that patch with the Tower embroidered on it beaming out from the guard’s chest. Everything it represents is a lie.
“It’s time,” Saunders says, and gestures to our captain, who steers the dinghy toward the center of the river, weaving through the traffic. The EPO ship pulls alongside us, slowly overtaking our boats and all the other small craft we’re hiding among.
From his position at the front of our dinghy, Saunders subtly takes aim, keeping the weapon hidden under his rain gear. As the ship pulls in front of us I see the small docking bay, an opening in the back. I feel our dinghy vibrate under my feet as our captain accelerates to match the speed of the target.
“I don’t see anyone,” I say, trying not to look too hard at the ship.
“Me neither,” replies Saunders.
“We’re approaching the bridge,” says Chubs.
I take a look around the side of the giant black ship we’re tailing and see it. This is our cue. This is our chance. Our only chance.
“Once we’re under it we’ll have about sixty seconds of darkness to get on board,” I say quietly, even though we’ve gone over all this a hundred times now, more for my benefit than anyone else’s.
The bridge, an enormous concrete structure, crosses the river about half a mile ahead. It’s one of the few crossing points from one side of the new city to the other now that all the original bridges are rotting at the bottom of this vast river. All water traffic has to pass under it. It’s dark and noisy, the perfect place to board.
As the ship enters the darkness under the bridge, the concrete shadow ripples over it like a wave, until we too are under its blanket.
Our engine roars to life and we rapidly gain momentum. I wrap the wet ropes on the side of our dinghy around my wrist and hold on as we bounce blindly over the wake of the EPO ship.
As my eyes adjust to the lack of light, I see Saunders slip a pair of glasses onto his face that subtly illuminate his eyes. He can see in the dark.
Suddenly he dives onto his stomach, leaning out over the front of our dinghy as it rushes toward the opening at the back of the ship.
He rests his head on the silver gun in his hands, and a brilliant blue flash sparks out, lighting up our immediate surroundings like a lightning storm. In the flash I see a body hit the deck of the loading dock of the vessel, bolts of electricity frying his black overalls as he lies motionless.
“Clear!” Saunders shouts over the deafening roar of the ship’s engines as our inflatable boat bumps its nose up and onto the open dock.
I nod at Chubs and he follows me as I leap onto the ship.
Once the two of us are on deck, our dinghy falls back, making way for the medical team to board. I crouch and take the pulse of the stunned guard. He’s out cold. Alive, but unconscious.
As Dr. Oliva and his two assistants scramble toward the front of their boat, a second blinding flash blasts over our heads. I hear a heavy clang and a sudden thud and see a second body hit the deck. Another guard. I glance out at the river, and Saunders gives me a look that says, Close one. I give him a nod of thanks as the medical team climbs on.
I take a breath. We’re aboard.
60
BRAM
We move quickly, the stomping of our boots lost in the noise created by the ship as it slices through the river toward the Tower.
“Two flights down,” Chubs says, referring to the three-dimensional map shimmering on his holo-player, our destination highlighted by a flashing red beacon at the bottom of the ship, inside a sealed room within its hull.
The five of us descend in the dim light, the change in temperature noticeable by the visible breath escaping our mouths.
“Not far,” I say, seeing the worried expressions of the medical team as Dr. Oliva and his two men hesitantly follow. None of us are soldiers, but especially not the three shivering doctors, who have volunteered to be here. Their lack of combat training and experience is starting to show. “We’re going to be fine,” I say as I lead them down the dark metallic staircase into the unknown.
We reach the bottom and are confronted by an imposing door that looks like it would be more at hom
e on a military submarine. A large metal wheel seals the room beyond it. A thick glass porthole glows with a cold blue light, but it’s impossible to see through the ice crystals that have formed on it.
“This is it,” Chubs says.
I reach out and turn the wheel. It’s stiff. Frozen. Chubs grabs hold too and we turn it together. It takes all our strength, but eventually ice fragments crack off and fall to the floor as the metal lock twists in our hands. After three turns the wheel stops. We step back and pull out the gun Saunders gave me before we left the Deep. I double-check that its nonlethal lock is on and take aim before giving Chubs the nod. The members of the medical team duck behind me as the thick metal door swings open. If any room on this ship would be guarded, it’s this one, where they store their precious cargo.
As a cloud of chilly air escapes it, the cool blue light of Cold Storage hits my face.
I take a moment to scan the room. “Clear,” I whisper.
Chubs steps in front, his round figure blocking the doorway as he takes the lead. I can sense his fear growing with each step he takes into the eerie hull of this vast ship. We follow slowly, all of us expecting someone to jump out at any moment.
The room is packed with huge, seven-foot-tall cylinders. Our distorted reflections mimic us in the frosted chrome as we step deep into the hull.
“There are so many!” Chubs whispers as he takes in the sight of what must be at least fifty cryo-tanks, which, they claim, will perfectly preserve the inhabitant’s body, peacefully frozen, until the time comes for them to be revived. I’m counting on that claim to be true today.
My heart starts pounding in my chest as if it suddenly realizes the events about to unfold. I can almost hear it over the droning of the engine, trying to make up for the beats it will be missing.
“Okay, Doc. It’s over to you now,” Chubs says, coming to a halt at the center of the room.
“Let’s open one and prep the tank for two people,” Dr. Oliva says.
He walks down an aisle between the tanks, his small eyes scanning them through his glasses until he stops at the last tank nearest the wall of the ship. He wipes away the frost with his hand and reads the details of the woman inside it. The steady green light on the side indicates normal conditions within.
“This one will work fine,” he says.
“Great. How long do you need?” Chubs asks.
“The cooling process is rapid, almost instantaneous. The tank takes care of that. Prepping the body…” Dr. Oliva pauses, realizing this is no ordinary operation. “Ordinarily the patient is deceased or placed in a controlled comatose state before this process begins. It has not been tried on a living, healthy young man such as yourself,” he tells me. Again.
“We have no other option,” I say, already stripping off my jumpsuit, dropping my clothes onto the floor until I’m standing in a thin set of thermal underwear, designed to rapidly and evenly distribute the cold around my body as it freezes.
As I pace the aisle, failing to keep myself warm, Dr. Oliva’s two medical assistants climb the metal rungs of the short ladder connected to the side of the tank and begin unbolting the latches securing the lid. The seal gives a little hiss as the pressure holding it shut releases.
They lift the chunky lid of the cryo-tank, and thick white gas spills out, creeping down the side until it meets the floor, where it disperses in every direction, eventually finding my bare feet.
The two men slide the lid onto the top of the next tank and peer inside.
“Whatever you do, don’t touch that liquid,” Dr. Oliva warns. “It’s minus one hundred ninety degrees. Your blood would freeze instantly.”
The men move back from the opening and start climbing down.
“Sir, it’s going to be a tight squeeze in there,” the first medical assistant says to Dr. Oliva, his young eyes betraying his doubt.
I need to see inside for myself. I push past them and climb up toward the top of the open tank. The icy rungs sting the soles of my feet, but I push aside the pain: it’s nothing in comparison to what my entire body is about to experience.
As I reach the top, the last of the cloudy white gas disappears, revealing the liquid that fills the interior. It is crystal clear, like glass, with a subtle tint of blue.
“Chubs, hand me your flashlight,” I say, holding out my hand. “I need to see inside.”
“You don’t need a flashlight,” Dr. Oliva says as he walks around to the small box attached to the outside of the tank. He stares at it for a moment, looking for something. He finds it and pushes a button. The inside of the tank illuminates instantly.
The light is white and harsh, and I have to shield my eyes to allow them to adjust. As I peer in through the opening, I feel the light on my face. Staring down, I see that the base of the tank is made up of a flat panel of lights, blasting up at the body inside it. The lifeless woman, floating peacefully.
The doubtful assistant was right. It will be a tight squeeze, but comfort is of no importance on this trip.
“I’ll fit,” I say to the team.
The woman inside is still. Her features are calm as her body lies in the supercooled liquid. Even her hair seems to float normally, showing no sign that every cell in her body is currently suspended in a deep-frozen state.
“I’ve never seen inside one of these, only in photographs,” I say, almost to myself. My mind flashes to thoughts of my mother and the countless times I’ve visited her, speaking to her through the thick walls of her tank, wondering what’s on the other side. It comforts me seeing the serenity of the woman I’m about to share one with.
“Bram.” Chubs interrupts my thoughts. “We’ve not got long.”
I nod. The freezing temperature of the room is already unbearable. Shivering, I slide onto the top of the neighboring tank and sit on the lid.
“Wait,” Chubs calls up to me. “How’s your pal supposed to find you?”
I glance around at the room full of identical cryo-tanks.
“There’ll be even more of these things in the Tower, right?” he asks.
My heart skips suddenly.
“Pass up my jumpsuit,” I say, reaching down to Chubs.
He hands my clothes up to me and my trembling fingers search the pockets.
“What are you looking for?” Chubs asks.
“For a sign,” I reply. I slip my fingers into the chest pocket and pull out a small strip of silver foil. I unfold it and the sweet smell floods my nostrils.
“What the hell is that?” Dr. Oliva asks.
“It’s called bubble gum,” I say, throwing the blue strip into my mouth. “It’s vintage.”
I chew for a few seconds, feeling the strip become soft and sticky in my mouth. I take the gum out and stick it to the side of the open tank. “It’s small, but it’s better than nothing.” I nod to Dr. Oliva, who climbs up after me and places his medical bag next to me on the tank.
I glance at his equipment—three syringes lined up neatly in a row, the silver needles glistening in the cold light.
“This is not going to be comfortable,” he tells me.
“Let’s get it done,” I reply, not wanting to think about the effects the drugs will have on my body.
“You will need immediate medical assistance once you’re removed from this liquid. Your friend Hartman, he’ll be able to get you to a doctor?” he asks.
I don’t have the heart to tell Dr. Oliva the truth, so I just nod.
“Strap this around your arm.” He hands me a rubber band, then makes a fist and opens it a few times, showing me what he wants me to do. It takes only a few seconds for my veins to obey, the dark blue lines that carry blood around my body rising under my skin as though telling me they’re ready.
“Good,” Dr. Oliva says, admiring my arm. He picks up the first syringe. “This first one is just a drip to administ
er the rest. You can look away.”
I don’t move my head. I want to see.
He shrugs and plunges the needle into my arm. I feel nothing as it pierces my skin, the cold temperature already numbing my senses. He places a small bandage over the point of entry, holding the needle in place as he attaches a tube to the end.
“Okay. Are you ready?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply without hesitation.
“Once I put this into your body, there’s no turning back.” He holds the first syringe up to show me.
I nod.
I’m ready.
He attaches it to the tube that plugs directly into my vein.
“This one will begin to slow your heart rate so your body doesn’t go into shock when it hits the liquid,” he says, and takes a deep breath. I see his thumb twitch nervously over the plunger of the small syringe.
I reach out instantly and press it down for him, slowly administering the contents to my system, relieving him of the responsibility.
“No turning back now,” I say as the last of the drug flows down the clear tube and into my vein.
He unscrews the now-empty syringe and attaches the next.
“This one will feel strange,” he says. “It’s to stop ice forming in your cells.”
“Like antifreeze?” I ask.
“Exactly,” he replies. “It’s nontoxic, but it’s not designed to be used on conscious subjects. It will allow your cells to freeze without becoming stiff. It prevents the damage of traditional freezing.”
“Clever stuff,” I remark.
“Once it’s in your system, we must wait three minutes for it to distribute evenly around your body before you enter the tank. If your cells don’t contain this drug they will not survive the rapid cooling process.”
He slowly pushes down on the syringe and starts a timer on his watch.
Three minutes.
I feel this medical-grade antifreeze flow into my body. It tingles at the spot on my arm where it enters, like cool pins and needles. The tingling spreads up my arm—and suddenly I’m engulfed. It’s the strangest sensation I’ve ever felt. It’s as though I’m aware of all the veins in my body. I feel them. All of them. All the thousands of intricate tunnels and pathways winding around my organs, twisting through my limbs. They’re all alive, like they’ve been wired with electricity.
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