I don’t have to wonder long. Downriver I hear the crack and sizzle of a dart fired into the air. Just one at first, but Callum must be on the move. Every few hundred feet, he fires another, then another.
In the sky, electric nets burst like blue fireworks as dozens of flashlights come out of the woodwork. About half are ordered to follow the noise while the rest stand their ground, scanning the forest—I watch the lights converge on one spot, then race off in a different direction. My stomach twists. . . . Don’t catch him.
Behind the outpost, a gray-haired shadow zigzags through the trees. Benny! I nearly fall off the glass ledge as I catch him headed for the fenced area—where he thinks they keep the circuit breaker.
The woman in the outpost holds her wrist to her mouth. Rangers line up and down the bank, creating a wall. But where’s Ter?
Seconds later, he comes tumbling down the dirt and diving under the waterfall—but I’m in his way. He slams me, the soles of his shoes smacking into my shoulders. My legs slide over the ledge. Water soaks my DI uniform, freezing me from the thighs down. “Ter!” I yell, grasping for his ankle as my heart plummets.
Ter sits up—grabs me with both hands. “Throw your leg over,” he tells me, grunting, and I do. With one hand holding mine, and the other holding my knee, he pulls me the rest of the way.
Shivering, heaving—I collapse into him.
“Holy hell,” Ter whispers into my ear as he strokes my damp hair. “Holy, holy hell.”
My body warms quicker than it would if he were anyone else.
Then, a quiet hum I hadn’t even noticed . . . stops. Along the bank, every outpost goes dark. Ter’s cuffcomm buzzes, and we read the message together.
You have ten seconds until the generators kick in.
“Yeah, yeah, Benny!” Ter pumps his fist by his side, helping me up as he stands. “You ready?”
I’m soaked to the bone, I’m shivering, and I can’t feel my feet.
“Totally,” I say, and take the lead. We walk along the ledge, spines hugging the rock face, until it gets too narrow. Then I grip the metal handle in the wall. “Eight seconds,” Ter says.
Hands stacked on the knob, Ter laces his fingers over mine. I feel him against my new skin in a different way, in places that are decidedly not my hand. The back of my neck. My belly button.
He looks at me, and it’s like being wrapped in a blanket of grass.
We twist the handle.
56
AVEN
11:50 P.M., FRIDAY
The emergency exit door swings open without a sound.
Ter flips on his comm light and we step into a completely dark corridor carved straight through river rock. We fly through it, about two hundred feet, when we reach another door—
DISTRIBUTARY CONTROL CENTER
The keypad on the right is dark. We crouch and hear confused yelling from the other side. He opens the door an inch, and we glance into another pitch-black hallway. Someone else’s cuffcomm casts white light on a small room with dozens of blank screens.
“Dammit!” a woman says, slamming her hands against a darkened switchboard. “Why the hell aren’t the generators on?”
“They’re coming, any minute now. You know there’s a delay. Jack, why don’t you find out what’s wrong before Lil here throws herself over the dam?”
They must be the aqueduct switchboard operators.
Each of their cuffcomms buzz.
Tapping Ter’s shoulder, I point to a tiny room across the hall. As quietly as possible, we tiptoe across, ducking under a counter and exhaling. His heart beats so fast I actually feel it bumping against my skin.
“Shit, you guys. Something’s going on. Something big,” the other man says, reading his message. “Jack, go check the hall. We may have a break-in on our hands.”
Moments after Jack disappears into the corridor, blue overhead lights buzz on and a muted glow fills our tiny room. Ter and I tuck ourselves in the darkest corner. Across from us are maps—backlit black glass atlases outlining the entire Falls region. At least ten aqueduct lines snake out in neon green from this very dam, including the one that leads to the UMI. Most branch southeast, which makes sense; the Wash Out hit coasts the worst, affecting both groundwater and reservoirs.
“Thirty to midnight,” the man behind the switchboard says as the door to the corridor swings open and Jack reappears. “Let’s get started.”
I grab Ter’s arm and we slide even further under the counter. Jack takes his seat watching rows of screens.
Signs line the topmost row: Engle, Bergen, Orange, Pelham, UMI, and other places I don’t recognize. The Engle duct is being aired right now—BROADCAST is illuminated in red, over its row.
Every other screen watches a different section of its city’s aqueduct. But under Engle only half the screens are on.
I scan the other cameras.
Inside each city’s duct, leftover water pools at the bottom. And at the end of each row, I see in red lights: WEIGHT: 0 gallons.
This is how they do it, I realize. This is where the surplus comes from—leftover water. The weight reads zero gallons in the duct, but right there, I’m seeing it’s not true. There’s not a lot of water in there now, but after decades and decades, it would add up . . . wouldn’t it?
I poke Ter in the shoulder and mouth to him what I’ve just discovered. He points to my cuffcomm, trying to tell my something.
“Video it,” he whispers, and he taps his wrist.
A recording. Wiggling off my comm, I adjust the settings. Then I aim it at the switchboard, making sure it’s in view of every screen. I zoom in on the Engle row.
“Hello, Engle,” the woman says, tapping her headset’s mic. “We’re commencing delivery of your fifty million gallo—”
Before she can finish, the distributary goes dark.
I grab Ter’s hand—this isn’t good.
Red strobing lights tucked into every corner click on, sparking my heartbeat to life. An alarm sounds.
“This is not a drill. Remain where you are. Commencing lockdown of all aqueducts and distributary entrances and exits in ten, nine, eight . . . ,” a woman’s computerized voice announces, continuing to count down.
“Holy shit, you guys. The Hudson security cam—”
I peer into the hallway, trying to catch a glimpe of the screen, but it’s behind a corner. Simultaneously, both Ter’s and my comm buzz. It’s Callum.
They’re here.
“Did you hear that?” the woman asks, and all three of the distributary’s technicians stand.
The computerize voice continues her countdown: Six. Five. Four.
“We gotta leave—we’re about to be trapped,” Ter says. Lifting me by the arm, he pulls me across the hall.
“Someone’s inside!” one technician yells, just before seeing us.
Ter flings open the door and we sprint back through the rock-carved corridor, racing for the emergency exit. I’m breathing heavily, unused to so much running. As red lights chase us, the countdown continues.
Three. Ter slams into the door, reaching for the handle. Two. He presses down. One. It opens. We swing out the door and cross under the waterfall. As we jump onto the riverbank—
Rangers. By the thousands. . . .
Uniformed men and women take formation up and down the river, camouflaged against the woods. They march in units of ten or twenty, creating barricades with their bodies. Their rifles face the water.
In the distance, Dunn’s barge powers upriver. It can’t be carrying any more than a thousand—the five hundred prisoners, and the rest of the DI. Officers in blue fatigues hold position, shooters in hand.
We’re outnumbered tenfold at least.
“Hands up!” a woman shouts—the unit of rangers stationed at the outpost turn their guns on us, while a troop of five form a closer semicircle.
They aim for our chests, dead center.
57
AVEN
12:03 A.M., SATURDAY
T
er and I raise our hands. Vomit rises from the fear curdling in my stomach.
“What are we gonna do?” I whisper, shaking.
The closest ranger jabs me in the ribs with the barrel of his gun—I drop my arms, bones throbbing. He does it again. “Hands up!”
Another ranger lifts his cuffcomm. “Magistrate Harcourt, we have the intruders. Bringing them to you now, as directed.”
The man prods Ter and me uphill, toward the dam’s stony wall. He brings us to a second winding staircase this side of the river.
At the top, two hundred rangers point their guns over the stone embankment. Magistrate Harcourt stands in the middle of the pathway, speaking feverishly with a group of men and women. The rangers usher Ter and me under an abandoned candy-cane-striped tent, where we’re met with Benny and Callum, whose his cheek and jaw have started to turn purple. We cast each other looks, no idea how we’re going to get out of this mess.
A few hundred feet downriver, where it’s too shallow for such a large vessel, Chief Dunn’s barge slows to a stop.
“Open the duct, Harcourt!” he commands, the ship’s intercom at his mouth. His voice booms through the internal speakers. In unison, the thousand officers slam their barrels against the ship’s floor. Then they slam again. It starts slow, but grows in speed. Soon, the rhythmic metal-on-metal echoes the pounding of a thousand hearts about to explode.
Magistrate Harcourt isn’t shaken—he glares down at the chief, unknowing, barely offended by the threat. Holding his own megaphone, he hollers, “Quiet!” but the hammering only grows louder—until altogether, in unison, it stops.
The magistrate takes five seconds of calculated silence before speaking. “Chief Dunn! You recklessly put your people at risk! I don’t want a massacre on my hands, so I have to ask: What are you playing at?”
“You think I’ll show my cards that easily?” Dunn laughs, a tinny sound through the megaphone.
“I, Chief Craig Dunn, acting governor of the United Metro Islets, come to you with a single, peaceful request: Open. Our. Aqueduct. The city of Falls gets only one chance at peaceful negotiation.”
Magistrate Harcourt turns to a woman on his left with auburn hair and deep crow’s-feet. The two confer. Nodding, he shifts to the bald man listening at his other side. His face is expressionless. Their eyes meet; he agrees.
“This can’t come to blows,” Callum whispers. “No news would spread faster across the globe.”
The magistrate calls over the nearest ranger and whispers something in her ear. A moment later, a troop surrounds Ter, Callum, Benny, and me.
What’s going on?
The magistrate doesn’t take his eyes off the chief. “Because I’m not a heartless man, I’m returning your paltry excuse for an espionage unit . . . albeit with a message.”
Unable to see us, Chief Dunn turns to his captain, confused.
“Girl.” Harcourt waves me over. “You’re to tell your superior the following: The city of Falls does not, under any circumstance, comply with Chief Dunn’s ‘peaceful’ demand. You may play whatever cards you wish.” He whispers something to another ranger, and adds, “We are not afraid of war.”
Like a balloon popping, my lungs empty. I take breath after breath, but a tighntess squeezes against my brain, and I can’t catch air. Me? I have to pass Dunn this message?
Ter touches my back, only to have his hand swatted away by a gun.
Harcourt looks back over the embankment and reproachfully clicks his tongue. “Really, Dunn,” he says with mock pity, sending us down the stairwell, rangers at our backs. “Three children and an old man?”
By the time Dunn opens his mouth to deny it, we’re halfway down. He recognizes us, covers the megaphone to argue with his captain. They wait in silence.
All the way down the riverbank and through the tall grass, our circle of rangers follow. When I snag my foot on a rock and stumble, I’m shoved onward by a gun’s thick barrel. Ter tries to take my hand, but another ranger divides us with her rifle.
Nearer now, we see how massive the barge really is—it’s as wide as this river, with heavy-duty light fixtures built directly into its red metal siding.
On the hull, a painted tiger bares its teeth.
Chief stands at the ship’s bow, unmoving. Only the twitch of his mustache declares him human, not statue. He’s as taut as an arrow held back too long, hands crossed behind his back.
The docking ramp lowers.
Ter risks a touch—his fingers reach for mine. I grab on to them, panting. My palms begin to sweat, and I wipe them against my fatigues.
The rangers prod me forward, but not the others. I walk the plank in reverse, more afraid of Dunn than all the rangers combined. The barge carrying a thousand makes no noise as I step onto the vessel.
Chief Dunn stops me—I’m patted down by the five closest officers. I cover my body, shaking in anger. Water pricks at my eyes, so I bite the inside of my cheek to stop it.
I stare at the floor until they’re done.
The orange-and-white tiger—she bares her teeth at me from the ship’s bottom. Wide block letters circle her: THE ENGLE BENGAL, COMMERCIAL SHIPPING AND FREIGHT.
When an officer announces that I’m clean, I grit my teeth. My cuffcomm is a snare, biting my wrist until I free the recording inside. Chief Dunn needs to know Harcourt’s stealing water.
It could stop this war from going any further.
I’m a battlefield of nerves, skin ice-cold. The rangers behind Ter, Callum, and Benny haven’t lowered their guns.
“The city of Falls does n-not—” I stammer. My tongue buckles under the weight of Harcourt’s message. “—under any circumstance, comply with Chief Dunn’s ‘peaceful’ demand. You may play whatever cards you wish.” Pausing, I add, “Those were his exact words.”
A gun is fired.
I spin around.
The first act of war—Benny is doubled over the water’s edge, gray smoke wisping from the ranger’s gun. His white shirt turns the color of hate as he bleeds into the river, while Ter rushes to his side.
In unison, all the other rangers lift their weapons.
The shot was a message from Harcourt: He will not negotiate. Leave, or enjoy the blood he’s not afraid to shed.
“Ready!” Chief Dunn shouts, loading his shooter. He drops to one knee and rests the barrel over the stern. Behind him, our thousand soldiers load their shooters as well.
Dunn raises his hand.
“Aim!”
My ribs burn, straining against my heart, and the world rolls away like a pair of dice—in seconds, it will land on a number. The number amounts to the history of the world, about to change forever. An avalanche opens up beneath my feet, and I can see straight through the fire inside.
Hot tears collapse onto the ship, but I am not weak. I am no child. I’m human. I cry and I shake, because I am afraid of things bigger than Chief Dunn or a bullet in my chest.
“Wait!”
My voice whirlpools in the air, drawing every last officer’s attention. It’s hundreds in one, far louder than I thought was possible—I’m not just speaking for myself. It’s a voice that would stop even Ren. “Harcourt has been stealing water from everyone—that’s where all his extra comes from,” I announce, and quickly remove my cuffcomm. “I have proof. He was about to steal from Engle before you got here.”
I hold the comm for Chief to take.
His hand lingers in the air. The word fire sits on the tip of his tongue.
“Even more reason to lodge a dart between his eyes,” Dunn finally says, head cocked, peering into the shooter’s viewfinder. Eyes never leaving his target, Dunn lowers his hand and gestures for the captain to take my comm.
“Hold fire!”
The captain projects the video onto the ship floor, and Dunn calls for two teams of officers. He sends one below deck. Moments later, they return with a yellow plastic gurney, and the second team marches down the ramp. As gently as possible, they lift Benny from the riverbank. Ter
and Callum follow as they lay him, slack and barely breathing, onto the cot.
From there, Callum takes over, calling out supplies left and right.
Chief begins watching the holo projection, eyes dark. I rush past him, falling at Benny’s side. His blue-veined hand is ice in mine. I breathe into it, watching the rise and fall of his chest like it’s an antenna trying to catch a signal. His face is marble-white. Choking back a sob, I lay my head against his leg.
This would break Ren. . . .
“Up, up,” Benny breathes, tugging his hand free and waving me off his leg. “I’m not dead yet, kiddo.” I laugh at him and cry at the same time. Slowly, he opens his pale gray eyes. As he blinks, water runs down his temples; he’s crying too. He looks like he saw a ghost. An officer hands me his canteen, and I bring it to Benny’s mouth.
“Today’s your lucky day,” Callum says, cauterizing the wound.
Benny winces, his face scrunching up. He stifles a yowl. Even his whiskers look wilty. “Do tell.”
“The bullet went straight through your shoulder. It did not hit one artery.” Callum begins wrapping Benny’s shoulder in gauze. “A very clean wound.”
“So, Harcourt,” Chief says, having seen enough of the video. “Should I get Engle on the shortwave transmitter?”
Small and far from atop the dam, the magistrate doesn’t answer. His wide bulk turns left, then right, arguing with his advisers. The bald man and the auburn-haired woman disagree—their hands wave in the air as they shoot each other ruffled looks.
“Do it,” Chief commands, and the captain reaches for a black box left of the helm. He lifts the intercom and begins twisting a dial, flipping through channels.
“Dunn!”
Magistrate Harcourt’s voice rings out, echoing downriver. “How much do you want?”
Now, Dunn lifts his eye from the viewfinder. “A lifetime supply,” he answers easily.
Harcourt shakes his head, waving his hand over the dam. “You’re joking.” His thin laugh echoes through the megaphone. “Try again.”
Dunn repeats himself. “A lifetime supply.”
The Isle Page 23