by Bev Prescott
A hunched woman rummaged through a pile of trash near the north tower. A little boy tethered to her by a long rope played with a palm-sized rock. He tossed it up, caught it, and tossed it again. Neither of them seemed the least interested in Sharon and Federico. The boy was dark-haired and skinny like Inu. Sharon struggled to tear her eyes from him.
Federico’s hand pointed ahead. “Up here, there’s a path!” he shouted. “When you clear the bridge, hover!”
Refocusing, she left her thoughts of Inu behind with the woman and boy on the bridge. The bike complied when she pressed the throttle forward. She brought it to a hover barely above ground once they cleared the bridge. The rattle mercifully quieted. “That is one awesome bridge. I can’t believe it’s standing.”
“A miracle of human ingenuity.” Federico pointed in the direction of a badly rusted cable. Beyond it, an ominous concrete building perched on a craggy island. “She may have survived the earthquake, but the salt mist is slowly eating her away. No one paints her anymore. And that’s Alcatraz Island. The prison still stands. Probably too haunted with the souls of evil men to fall.” His pointing finger moved from the cable and island toward the left of the bridge. “Go four blocks and bang a right,” Federico said. “At the end is Fisherman’s Wharf. That’s where we meet the facilitator of our exchange. Keep your hammer handy. The place is crawling with Banditti. And since we’re late, we’re likely to get a rash of shit. Hold your ground.”
Sharon nodded and unbuttoned her jacket’s two middle buttons. She reached inside and adjusted the baldric. “Hold tight.”
“Sí.”
Keeping watch for anyone making a threatening move, Sharon lifted the bike a meter high. She followed the contour of road toward the wharf. An old-style ship’s wheel with the words Fisherman’s Wharf of San Francisco, hanging on a leaning pillar, marked the entrance. More ramshackle shelters occupied the wharf. Banditti squatters had taken up residence in a broken-down green trolley car. The wharf ran a length of shore to a long pier that curved out into the ocean like a bent finger. “Is that Pier 45?”
“Sí, it is. Here.” Federico squeezed her shoulder. “Set down here.”
Sharon landed the bike and switched off the engine. The people on the street peered at them from the shadows. Several seconds passed.
A man stepped from a rotted building reinforced with concrete at its weak points. The whites of his eyes accented a dark face covered in a thick black beard and moustache. A fedora adorned the top of his head, and he wore a black military-style uniform with no insignia. With a hand to the spectraletto at his hip, he pressed closer.
Federico got off the bike. “Stay ready to get this thing in the air,” he whispered. “We didn’t get here when we were supposed to. The facilitator is a stickler for punctuality. He’s also an asshole.”
“You’re late,” the facilitator growled. “By more than a day.” He pulled a flat tin from his pocket. Eyeing Sharon, he opened and offered it to Federico. Six hand-rolled cigarettes lay in a neat row inside the tin. “You got my water?”
“We do.” Federico took one of the smokes. “You got our seeds?” He fished a sulfur-flint from his pocket and clicked it into a flame.
Holding the tin open to Sharon, the facilitator asked, “For you?”
The last thing Sharon wanted to do was smoke old tobacco. But there were times one did not turn down an offering. This was one of them. “Thank you.” She plucked a cigarette from the tin.
The facilitator snapped the tin closed and dropped it into his pocket. Leaning toward Federico, he accepted the light and sucked in a lungful of stale tobacco smoke. He exhaled and said, “Thanks. Aren’t many of these left in the world. I’ll savor ’em, even if they kill me.”
Federico lit Sharon’s, then his own. He dragged in, then blew smoke from his mouth and nose. “You didn’t answer my question.” Squinting, he asked, “You got my seeds?”
Sharon put the cigarette to her lips, took a small drag, and blew out. The tobacco tasted ancient, but the nicotine almost instantly smoothed the edges of her nerves.
“Do you know how many people are left in the world?” the facilitator asked. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “In 2025, there were eight billion of us. Can you imagine that? Eight billion fucking mouths to feed?” He dragged on his cigarette. Tilting his head back, he streamed the smoke out sideways. “Three wars later, sprinkled with some very ugly diseases, and humanity’s shitting on its ability to farm, hunt and fish, we’ve pretty much fucked ourselves.” He held up two fingers. “Two billion. That’s all that’s left.”
“I appreciate the dissertation on recent human history, but do you have our seeds?” Federico stubbed out his cigarette and dropped the butt into his pocket. “I’ll save this for a rainy day. Now, about our trade.”
“On the positive side, humans, cockroaches that we are, are hanging on by a thread,” the facilitator continued. “The trouble is, we took everything good with us. Food, clean water, good air to breathe. Fuck, you know what people will do for a little food and clean water?”
“All I’m interested in is trading water for seed potatoes and kale seeds.” Federico locked eyes with the facilitator. “No more pontificating.”
“The lesson isn’t over, my friend.” He poked Federico’s chest with a forefinger. “If you want to deal with us, you meet the terms we set. You were late. You want seeds, you get us more water.”
“I told you. We have the water. You get it when we get the seeds.”
“That’s not how it’s going to work.” The facilitator snapped his fingers.
A hulking tattooed man with a spectraletto rifle slung over his shoulder sauntered out of the building toward them.
“You were late. We already traded your fucking seeds.” The facilitator motioned for his armed comrade. “You’ll give us the water you have now, and a second shipment. Then”—he popped a single thick smoke ring from his lips—“you get your seeds.”
Sharon’s heart raced, and her fingers itched to reach for her hammer. She took a deep drag off the cigarette. This asshole and his goon were another hurdle to climb to get to Eve.
“That wasn’t our deal.” Federico shot a glance at Sharon. His fists were clenched. “We want those seeds now, or you don’t get the water.”
“What’s that old saying?” The facilitator paused. “Shit in one hand, and want in the other.” He tipped his hat to his goon. “We’ll keep you two as collateral until we get not one . . .” he held up two fingers, “but two shipments. If that doesn’t work, we have effective ways of making you give us that goddamned water.”
The goon moved toward Sharon. She didn’t flinch, waiting for him to get close enough. In a swift movement, she flicked the cigarette into his eyes, seized her hammer, and swung its claw into the side of his head.
He grunted and fell back.
“Hey!” the facilitator yelled.
Sharon smashed the ignition card into place and the bike rattled to life.
“Let’s go, Sharon!” Federico brandished a spectraletto from under his shirt and leaped onto the back of the bike. “Go! Go! Go!”
Sharon gunned the engine as laser shots zipped past them. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the goon she had hit still lying on the ground. Three other goons spilled out of the building and climbed into a hydro-lorry with the facilitator at the wheel. She jammed the throttle forward, maxing out the bike’s altitude and speed. At least the hydro-lorry couldn’t fly.
A shot grazed the side of the bike, causing it to buck left. “Dammit.” She glanced back. The hydro-lorry on its heavy tracks bore down on them with surprising speed, flattening everything and everyone in its path. The Golden Gate loomed ahead.
Sharon swerved to miss a shanty, looked back and then forward. “No! Get out of the way!” Adrenaline surged through her veins as they tore past the woman and the tethered boy. Sharon waved an arm and yelled, “Get out of the way!” She glanced back once more after narrowly avoiding them.
/> The woman lifted the boy into her arms and tried to climb to safety. But the hydro-lorry slammed into her with the child clutched to her chest. Its impact tore them apart like rag dolls and flung them over the guardrail. The horror was splayed out in crimson gore on the front of the hydro-lorry. The vehicle kept going, into her makeshift shelter of stacked concrete blocks covered in a ratty blue tarp. The hydro-lorry skidded and rolled several times before stopping.
“No!” Sharon screamed. “No!” Her hands, sweaty and tired from gripping the controls, shook. She slammed her eyes closed a moment, begging her brain to shut off the image of the brutal deaths she’d just witnessed. “We can’t leave them!” she yelled, and turned the bike toward where they had fallen into the water.
“No. They’re gone.” Federico grasped her waist firmly. “Keep going, Sharon. You have to keep going. Don’t look back.”
Chapter 14
A pillowy swell rolled toward the hulking ship known as Belosto-One, the predecessor to the Belostomatid. Five times the size of the Belostomatid, the ship’s hull-skin soaked up enough solar radiation during one sunny day to power it for months under cloud cover. Standing low to the water on one of Belosto-One’s pontoons, Sharon breathed in the pungent air blowing over the Pacific. She hoped the sharp, sweet scent might overwhelm the gruesome image in her mind of the deaths of the woman and boy on the bridge.
Seven kilometers offshore from San Francisco, Belosto-One was too far out to be reached by thieves, and in a sunny place to recharge her batteries. Sharon gripped the pontoon’s retractable railing and watched the murky green water, clogged with algae.
The roller lifted the blanket of algae covering the Pacific, dipped beneath the ship’s bow and past the stern. Another swell took its place. The predictable rhythm of the water helped to soothe Sharon only a little. Complicated and contradictory emotions roiled inside her gut. They’d failed to make the water exchange and gotten two people killed in the process. Would her actions lead to the deaths of Annie and Inu, too? What if she’d been killed? Did Eve still hold onto hope that Sharon would come for her? Was she even alive? You have to keep your head.
She plucked a dried beetle from her pocket. Holding it in her palm, queasiness swirled in her belly at the sight of the pathetic insect. With the horrific scene on the Golden Gate Bridge still fresh in her mind, she couldn’t eat. “For any fish left in the ocean, it’s your lucky day.” She tossed the bug onto the watery green carpet.
Erik’s eyes followed it from her palm to the water. He rested his snout on the low railing and kept watch on the carcass.
“I know. Should’ve given it to you instead.” Sharon reached into her pocket for another and offered it to the dog.
He snapped it up.
“Good boy.” She rested her elbows on the railing and touched Eve’s scarf, tied at her neck. A warm breeze wafted in from the water, flooding her nose with the heady scent of decay and thriving algae. “When we get inside, I’ll get you another beetle patty and more water from our allotment.”
Erik’s ears pricked back. “Woof.”
Sharon turned to see what sparked him to bark.
Woody stepped down onto the pontoon. “May I join you?” She strolled forward, wearing a flight uniform and hijab. Her modest insignia included the Qaunik snowflake, an Earth symbol, and a patch bearing her name, Dr. Woodhouse. The color of the ocean brought out the green in her eyes.
On instinct, Sharon straightened. “I’d like that.”
Woody’s demeanor demanded respect. Not because of authority, but because she was extraordinary. She projected power, wisdom, intelligence, humility, and kindness.
Erik trotted toward the petite woman. “Woof.” He wagged his tail.
Woody scratched his head. “Hello, Erik.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t get the potato and kale seed,” Sharon said. “But I hope we’re still going to the Bay of Fundy once you find Elliot. He’s the only one who can get what it is that the Strelitzia wants. I have to save my wife.”
“I’m sorry too. And, yes, we’re still on schedule to head east. We certainly needed those seeds. But right now, that worry is secondary to getting my ship back. The Qaunik won’t survive the Thwaites collapse without the Bird of Paradise.”
“Your ship is called the Bird of Paradise?”
“Yes.”
“Let me guess.” Sharon smiled. “A ship engineered to resemble a bird of paradise flower?” Sharon tried to imagine such a vessel. “What’s special about it?”
“She’s a magnificent floating city. Besides being stunningly beautiful, she has everything we need to survive indefinitely, assuming I’m able to gather more seeds to grow. We can raise plenty of insects for food. But we need the nutrients from the kale, especially.” Woody leaned on the railing and studied the sea. “She’s a self-contained floating biosphere that makes her own air and power; desalinates seawater; filters pollutants; dives deep to avoid storms; and maintains temperature and humidity at set levels. She’ll be our island sanctuary while Earth recovers from the fever we humans caused her.”
Erik sniffed the wind as another large swell rolled toward them. The ship rose and fell slightly in its wake.
Sharon caressed the dog’s soft ears. “A biosphere without things to grow doesn’t seem much of a biosphere.”
“True,” Woody agreed. “Even if I had gotten those kale seeds and potatoes, they wouldn’t provide enough nutrients to keep us alive indefinitely. Not to mention their susceptibility to any number of fungi wafting around Earth. We can get protein and fats from the insects, but there are things the body needs that only plants can provide. My plan after I get my ship back is to search for vegetation that I might be able to grow or synthesize more nutrients from. Unfortunately, Earth has slim pickings these days. And things will get worse when the ice sheet slides into the ocean after the Thwaites collapses.”
“Which is why the Strelitzia wants the secret to my apple tree.”
“Yes,” Woody answered. “That’s my assumption too.”
“I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out how he knew about Eve’s work. Maybe they crossed paths at Harvard before the university shut down. Or maybe he knew Dr. Ryan and Areva, and they inadvertently tipped him off about the apples.”
“That would explain why he kidnapped them too,” Woody said. “When Dr. Ryan refused to reveal your secret, the Strelitzia murdered him. Then killed Areva to get to you. It certainly fits his profile.”
Erik nudged between Sharon and Woody.
“What do you know about the Strelitzia?” Sharon scratched Erik’s head.
“His real name is Thomas Randel. He worked with my father at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and then the Ministry of Scientific Advancement. They collaborated on designing biospheres that could keep people alive during the worst of climate change.”
“Like your ship, the Bird of Paradise?”
A scavenging gull screeched overhead, circling the massive ship.
“That’s right. But for a variety of reasons, they were never very successful together. When my father died, I continued his work on my own, and built the Bird of Paradise.”
“Then the Strelitzia stole it from you.” Sharon turned her head to look at Woody. “Why does he go by that name?”
“Thomas has always had a fascination with flowers.” Woody pushed the cuffs of her sleeves up. “The bird of paradise flower belongs to the plant genus Strelitzia. I think he does it to be frightening. It’s common in nature for animals to puff themselves up and act a little deranged in order to scare predators.”
“It’s certainly working on me. I’m terrified that he’ll hurt Eve if I don’t give him what he wants.” Sharon glanced back at the rolling water. “He didn’t flinch when he killed Areva. It’s all I can do to keep my head on straight after seeing so many innocent people die in the past few days. Dr. Elan, Areva, and Dr. Ryan—the woman and boy on the bridge. I can’t let Eve be next.”
“About th
e woman and boy.” Woody put a hand to the middle of Sharon’s back. “Federico mentioned you took their deaths particularly hard. We can talk about it if you’d like.”
Sharon nodded. “I think I need someone to talk to. Being alone with my thoughts certainly isn’t helping.”
“I’m all ears.”
Sharon blinked and sighed. “After my family died, I got good at not letting myself care about the random awful things that happen to other people. Because it’s easier not to care. I justify it by telling myself that caring is a weakness. That innocent people die all the time because they aren’t fit enough to survive. Part of me says that the smart way to stay alive is to look the other way.”
“Biology dictates that everyone dies, whether we care or not.” Woody clasped her hands together. “And what does the other part of you have to say?”
Sharon studied the floating beetle corpse. A waterlogged leg dangled past the algae to below the surface. “I can’t help thinking of the mangled bodies of the woman and the boy underwater. I wonder whether they’ll be missed. Whether they meant something to someone. Were they happy to be alive? Because I know what it feels like to love and be loved. To be happy. I should care because I’d want them to care. And because I feel empty when I try not to.”
“Ah well, love, happiness and caring, that’s where biology gets complicated. How do we let go of what can’t come back, or what we can’t change?” Woody pointed. “You see that worm trying to bite into the dead beetle?”
Sharon strained to look more closely. An army of tiny green worms wriggling on the algae came into focus. “Now that you’ve pointed them out, I see a whole bunch.”
“The simple biology of things. The climate changed and the oceans acidified, killing the large fish and creating an environment in which algae, fish too small to feed the world, and sea worms thrive. One thing dies, another takes its place. It’s simple biology. Nothing complicated. But throw emotion into the mix and things get very complicated. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with trying to figure out how to keep things simple.”