by Dan Wells
“Sandbar,” she called out, kneeling to grip the side for balance, and the barge shook with sudden impact, sending Kira reeling for balance. Afa fell on his side, closing his eyes and clutching his backpack tightly. Samm and Kira separated, each taking two horses by the reins and leading them a few steps away from each other. The sandbar spun them in the opposite direction as they bounced away from it, and for a moment they straightened out. Kira found solid footing, readjusting her grip on the horses, and Heron called out again, more urgently this time: “Fallen bridge!”
“What?” shouted Kira.
“Just hold on to something,” said Heron, and suddenly the barge slammed into an outcropping of twisted steel supports, just barely visible above the water but solid and deadly below the surface. The horses screamed, and the barge screamed with them, metal scraping against metal. The barge tipped dangerously, then rocked back the other way as it rolled around the fallen bridge. Kira fought to keep control of her horses.
“We need to steer,” she called.
“Yes, we do,” said Samm, “but I don’t think that’s an option at this point.”
“Here’s another one,” called Heron, and Kira held on tight as the boat rocked and splashed and shook. They were in the middle of the river now, the current faster and deeper, and Kira saw with dismay that it seemed to be carrying them straight through the path of debris from the bridge. They bobbed like a cork on the surface, thrown back and forth from stone to stone, steel to steel. A particularly bad hit brought a loud crack, and Kira looked around wildly to see if anything had broken. Heron scrambled across the floor and looked up angrily. “We’re taking on water.”
“That’s awesome,” said Kira. “Throw it back out!”
Heron glared at her, but found a discarded board and tried to stop up the hole—a crack in the side wall, thankfully, not the floor, or Kira thought they might have gone down almost immediately. The board didn’t seem to help, and Heron gave up, trying to use it instead as a rudder. The barge ignored her and went where the river wanted it. They shook with another impact, then another, and Kira cried out as the floor rippled beneath her feet. Floors aren’t supposed to do that.
“The floor rippled,” she said.
Samm held his two horses tightly, though they looked ready to tear him in half. “Rippled or buckled?”
“I think it was just—” Kira cried out as the barge hit another obstacle, and the metal floor groaned in protest at some unexpected movement.
“Buckled,” said Heron, bracing her board against the floor for stability. “This is not going to end well.”
“How poorly are we talking,” asked Kira, “assuming it at least ends with us on that side of the river?”
“Poorly,” said Heron. “We lose some gear, maybe most of it. A horse if we’re unlucky, Afa if we are.”
“We won’t lose Afa,” said Samm. “I’ll pull him to shore myself if I have to.”
“You’ll have to,” said Heron. “This rust bucket is falling apart around us, and the river is doing everything it can to speed that along.”
“Try to steer us closer to the side,” said Kira.
Heron looked at her with wide, incredulous eyes.
“What in the hell do you think I’ve been trying for the last five minutes?”
“You’re not trying it now,” Kira snarled.
“You’d better hope you can swim,” said Heron, shooting her an icy glare as she leapt back to the edge, “because Samm’s saving Afa and I’m not saving you.” She stuck the board back into the water, correcting the spin but failing to guide the boat in any particular direction. They almost hit a promontory on the far side, but the same current that had pulled them away from the east shore was now working to keep them from the west one, and even when they finally cleared the debris field, their barge was creaking and sinking and caught in a powerful current. The river turned south with water already lapping around Kira’s feet, and she looked down the river to see that it was rounding a wide U-shaped bend before turning back east again.
“Keep steady on that rudder,” she called to Heron. “The river’s turning hard enough that we might get thrown onto the bank up there.”
“That’s not a bank, it’s a dock,” said Samm. “Getting thrown onto it will hurt.”
“Just . . . save Afa,” said Kira, keeping her eyes on the shore. The river moved surprisingly slowly for something so powerful, and it seemed to take them forever to round the bend. She worried they wouldn’t build up enough momentum to get across at all, but slowly the west shore grew closer, their leaking barge turning just slightly wider than the river was. We’re going to make ground, she thought. Right in the middle of that city. She could see it now, buildings and docks rising out of the overgrown riverbank, masked with trees and tall marsh reeds. The placement of the city seemed almost perfectly designed to catch things as the river carried them around the bend, and Kira briefly wondered if it had been built there for that exact purpose. Her thoughts turned more urgent as the shore drew closer, and the hope of landing became a certainty of crashing into the riverside wharf looming up to meet them. It was flooded, like most of the riverside cities, and Kira guessed their trajectory would carry them straight into a tangle of boats, logs, and other debris caught in a cluster of old stores and buildings. “Can we take another impact?” she asked.
“No, we can’t,” said Heron, standing up and throwing her rudder over the side. “Save what you can.” She grabbed Dug’s reins from Kira’s hand and seemed to be readying the horse to jump over the side. Samm looked at the impending crash, then dropped both sets of reins and ran to Afa. The horses pranced back skittishly, and the sudden shift in weight caused the damaged barge to warp, knocking Kira off her feet and sending Oddjob completely over the side. Kira clung to Bobo’s reins, trying to stand, when the barge slammed into the mass of debris and crumpled like a foil model. Kira went down, and the river swallowed her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Water lapped against the sides of their boat as the soldiers pushed away from the dock. Marcus clung to the railing of what used to be a luxury yacht, retrofitted by the Grid soldiers and filled with a tank of the cleanest gas they could make. There were ten of them, including Marcus and Senator Woolf—though all the men here called him Commander Woolf, and Marcus could tell he was much more in his element here as a soldier than he was as a politician. They were setting out from the extreme southwest corner of Long Island, from an industrial wharf ominously labeled Gravesend Bay. Marcus tried not to think about the implication.
Their plan was simple. There were potentially some unfriendly Partials in Manhattan, but everything they’d learned from Samm suggested that Manhattan was about as far south as they ever ventured, being too busy securing their fragmented outposts in New York and Connecticut. Commander Woolf had charted a course across the Lower New York Bay, miles away from any watchmen on Manhattan, skirting the southern shores of Staten Island to the mouth of the Arthur Kill canal. From there they would travel north through the ruins of New Jersey, ideally staying well out of view to anyone watching Manhattan, all the way to the Tappan Zee Bridge and across into White Plains. If Morgan’s Partials saw them, they were dead; if the other faction of Partials saw them at a bad time, or in the wrong light, or they were just in a killing mood, they were dead. The Grid soldiers were armed to the teeth, but Marcus knew that wouldn’t matter if they met a platoon of Partials who didn’t fancy a chat. Which was precisely why they were going so far out of their way not to encounter any.
The Lower Bay was a treacherous maze of sunken masts and scaffolds and radar antennas, jutting up from the water like a barnacled metal forest. Their pilot was the best they could find on the island, and he navigated through it with white-knuckled intensity. Their yacht was not the most maneuverable thing, and the controls were old and stiff. Marcus crossed the narrow boat—a braver act than he liked to admit—and gripped the far railing next to Woolf, who was looking at the ruins of the wrecked sh
ips as they glided by.
“Please tell me these aren’t what’s left of your previous missions,” said Marcus.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Woolf, “but these missions failed twelve years ago. This is the last great NADI fleet, sailing north to attack the Partial stronghold in New York—quite possibly the one we’re headed to now in White Plains. It was sunk by Partial aircraft before it could enter the narrows.”
“And they’re still here?” asked Marcus, looking around at the wreckage. “Some of these ships are sticking so far out of the water I don’t know if we can count them as sunk, just grounded.”
“The bay through here was only about forty feet deep,” said Woolf, “more in the center where they dredged it as a shipping lane, probably much less now that it’s collected more than a decade’s worth of silt. The bigger ships are out there,” he said, pointing to the southeast, “on an ocean shelf just south of Long Island. All the bigger ships that couldn’t make it in this far.”
“Why were any of the ships trying to get in this far?” asked Marcus. “Even if they weren’t attacking a narrow river, a fleet this size would be overkill.”
“I imagine overkill was exactly what they were going for,” said Woolf, watching as another metal monstrosity floated gently past. They twisted up from the ocean floor like giant metal tentacles, the last, frozen remnants of a rusted kraken. “I know my unit was.”
They left the worst of it when they passed south of Staten Island, crossing from the Lower Bay to the Raritan Bay, but even here there were shipwrecks and hazards. Their pilot watched the northern shore with a practiced eye, taking them into a small inlet that narrowed quickly to a kind of swampy marsh.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Woolf.
“This is it,” said the pilot. “This is the Arthur Kill.”
“This is the canal?” It looked more like a creek through a winding park than the deep shipping lane they’d seen on the map. “Are you sure?”
“Trust me,” said the pilot, “I used to live around here. That thing west of us is the Raritan River—this is the Arthur Kill. It’s man-made, and back before the Break they had to dredge it every year to keep it open. Now that it’s not being dredged, I guess it just filled up with silt.”
“Enough to grow reeds on the sides,” said Woolf. “Can we still make it?”
“I can give it a shot,” said the pilot, and cranked the engine into low gear. They putted almost lazily up the narrow passage, marsh birds screeching and singing and hooting back and forth around them, and Marcus felt like he was on a safari through a giant metal canyon. The buildings on both sides were oppressively industrial, not the once-shiny buildings of Manhattan but the weather-beaten processing plants of the Chemical Coast. The water everywhere around here had an oily sheen to it, and Marcus wondered how the birds could survive on it. A giant fish jumped in front of them, snapping at something near the surface, and Marcus couldn’t help but imagine the reeds full of hungry, mutant crocodiles.
The driver took them as far as the Rahway River before making a detour; the Rahway was pumping enough water into the channel to keep the river south of it clear, but the tributaries farther north presumably had better outlets for their water than this artificial ditch, and the span between here and Newark Bay appeared to be sealed tight with sediment and reeds. They turned west up the Rahway, surrounded now on both sides by tall chemical silos, and wound through it until a series of massive bridges passed over them: a railroad and a multilane highway so broad it took four bridges to contain it. “That’s the Jersey Turnpike,” said the pilot, and brought them into shore near the base of the railroad. “I lived off exit 17E.”
Woolf had the pilot steer them toward the coast, and the Gridsmen gathered their equipment and starting wading to shore; Marcus eyed the reeds on the riverbank warily, still half expecting a crocodile, before jumping in after them.
The New Jersey Turnpike plowed straight through the city on the shore, a giant metropolis separated from Manhattan by yet another giant metropolis between them. “Either they’re not watching us this far west,” said Woolf, “or they see us no matter what we do. I say we screw stealth and make the best time we can.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Just a few more minutes,” said Haru. “They’ll be here.”
“And the Partials with them,” said Private Kabza.
“We’ll be fine,” said Haru. “How many of these drops have we made, and how many times have you been murdered by Partials?”
“That’s not an entirely fair way to frame it,” said Kabza, but Haru cut him off.
“I said we’ll be fine,” Haru insisted. “Check with the rear guard again.”
Kabza got on the radio and sent their rear guard a brief, coded message, whispering into the mic and then listening carefully as the man on the other end whispered back. He signed off and turned back to Haru. “Our exit route’s still clear. I say we dump this stuff and run; the Voice can find it themselves without us here to hand it to them. It’s not like they’re paying us.”
“Did you say ‘the Voice’?” asked Haru.
“Of course I did,” said Kabza. “What do you call them?”
“Delarosa hated the Voice,” said Haru. “She’d never take on their name.”
The radio blinked, and Kabza held it to his ear. After a moment he breathed a quick “Confirmed, over” and looked at Haru. “Point guard’s spotted them. They should be here in a few minutes.”
“Are they being chased by Partials?”
“He didn’t say,” said Kabza dryly. “I think he might have led with that if it was an issue, but I can call back to see if maybe it just slipped his mind.”
“Just relax,” said Haru, “this is what I’ve been telling you. We’ll be fine.”
“Fantastic,” said Kabza. “I’m glad you have such unerring trust in this woman.” He paused, watching the forest, then spoke again. “Speaking of which, why do you have such unerring trust in this woman? I thought you hated her.”
“Delarosa and I . . . disagree on some things,” said Haru. “When she first escaped, she was using innocent civilians as bait—including me, which I think made me a little justifiably upset. But her core principles I agree with completely: that our shores need to be protected, that the Partials need to be destroyed, and that desperate times call for desperate measures. Delarosa is willing to do what it takes, and she knows that as long as she doesn’t put innocent humans at unnecessary risk, I’ll support her.”
“Define ‘unnecessary risk,’” said Kabza. “I’ve spent the last three days in hostile territory, picking my nose and hoping nobody decides to shoot me while I hand Delarosa something we could easily have just left at a dead drop. Is that unnecessary?”
“She asked for something . . . unusual this time,” said Haru, peering into the trees. “I want to know what she’s planning on doing with it.”
A moment later their perimeter guard flashed a silent hand signal, and Haru and Kabza watched as three cloaked figures stepped out of the trees. Delarosa pulled off her hood and stood silently, waiting. Haru stood up from cover and walked to her. “You’re late.”
Delarosa’s face was stony. “You’re impatient. Do you have my gear?”
Haru waved, and Kabza and another soldier brought out two heavy crates full of scuba equipment: masks, fins, wet suits, and four tanks of compressed air, recently filled. “The tanks are almost mint,” said Haru. “Best condition you’ll find on Long Island, and removed at great personal risk from the ruins of the Defense Grid armory.” Delarosa motioned her followers forward, but Haru stepped in front to block them. “Before you take them anywhere, I want to know what you’re going to use them for.”
“For breathing underwater,” said Delarosa. Haru didn’t respond, and Delarosa cocked her head to the side. “You’ve never asked about my plans before.”
“Because everything you’ve asked for has had an obvious purpose,” said Haru. “Bullets, explosives, solar panel
s, radio equipment—that’s all standard stuff for a band of guerrillas. But you know my rules, and the conditions on which I’ll bring you these gear drops, so I want your assurance: No civilians will be harmed by whatever you’re doing.”
“Civilians are being harmed by every second we delay here,” said Delarosa.
Haru kept his gaze steady. “What is the scuba gear for?”
“Scavenging,” said Delarosa simply. “In twelve years we’ve picked a lot of this island clean, but there’s still plenty to be found offshore. By giving me this, you’re assuring that I won’t have to ask you for nearly as many favors in the future.”
“What’s been underwater for twelve years that could possibly be so useful?” asked Haru. “Seems like any supplies or weaponry submerged for that long would be pretty corroded by now.”
“I guess we’ll see.”
Haru stared at her, trying to decide what he thought. Finally he turned and walked away. “Don’t make me sorry I helped you.” He walked back to the rest of his men and signaled that it was time to leave. Private Kabza fell into step beside him.
“That’s a relief,” said Kabza. “The more they scavenge for themselves, the less we have to put ourselves at risk like this.”
“Maybe,” said Haru, still thinking about what Delarosa had said, and how she’d said it.
“What are you going to do?”
Haru furrowed his brow, plans already forming in his head. “We’re going to follow them.”