“Miss Elvie?” he asks. “You’re crying.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, holding up the can of syrupy milk. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
“Ah.” Oates settles in right beside me and looks out at the water. I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but he’s way too British to let on. “It’s quite lovely, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say, sniffing.
“It’s been too long since I’ve been on the water. I hadn’t realized how much I truly missed it.”
“Well, seems like you could have called your buddies here to escape from prison anytime you wanted to.”
“I broke the law of my people, even if I felt that law to be unjust. If I wanted my actions to mean something, I could not run away from their consequences.”
“I didn’t realize extra hanky-panky was such a weighty subject for you,” I say. Seriously, I’ve always thought the Almiri “code” was a bit bogus—deciding who a dude gets to sleep with, and then locking him up indefinitely if said dude can’t keep it in his pants—but my buddy Oates has taken things to a new level of bogusitude.
Oates looks me dead in the eye. Now I’ve done it. I should just keep my mouth shut for the rest of the trip so that I don’t piss anyone else off.
“These sailors who aid us in our journey home . . . ,” Oates begins.
“The smugglers? What about them?”
“They are not smugglers. Well, they are, but not in the manner that you suppose. They are freedom runners. They transport the, shall we say, recently liberated, to safer harbor.”
“You mean like escaped convicts?” I ask.
Oates shrugs. “Perhaps, sometimes. But not always. They have been making their covert runs for centuries now.”
“They’re Almiri?” I’m stunned. I mean, I guess they were handsome enough dudes, but with this entire alien race war being such a sausagefest, I’ve been getting kind of immune to hot guys.
Oates nods. “They have helped to transport freed slaves. Illegal prisoners of war. And even men and women like yourself.”
“Enosi,” I say, slowly beginning to understand. “You mean they’ve helped hybrids escape from Almiri camps. But how did they . . .” And then it dawns on me, full force. “You!” I turn to face Oates straight on. “Cape Crozier wasn’t originally for Almiri Code-breakers with extra ants in their pants, was it? The Almiri held Enosi captive there, back when the continent was unexplored. And you . . . your trip to the South Pole in the twentieth century . . . you were freeing them.”
Oates is way too classy a dude to even acknowledge his own heroics. He simply rubs the palms of his hands along the cool rail. Me, being not so cool or classy, I slap him on the arm.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything? You helped rescue, what, a hundred Enosi prisoners? A thousand? You need to tell them that! They need to see that not all Almiri are raging prejudiced asshats.”
“The time may very well be at hand,” Oates agrees. “I am equally concerned with convincing the Almiri Council that they have been, as you put it so poetically, ‘asshats.’”
“So you, what? Stayed in the prison as a statement to Byron and the others?”
“I did. And it has already had some positive effects.”
“Such as?”
“Well, your grandfather sent you to me, did he not?”
Byron, aka James Dean, aka my grandfather. Who would have imagined that sending your granddaughter to an Antarctic prison could be considered a relaxed position in the whole Almiri-Enosi conundrum?
“So he sent me to you to keep me and Olivia safe,” I say.
“That was the idea. God laughs at all our plans, child.”
I feel the tightness in my chest that comes whenever I allow myself to think about my daughter. “Byron will help us get Olivia back, won’t he? I mean, I know the world is coming to an end and everything, but . . .”
“We will find your daughter. I gave you my word. But you must be patient. There are many developments that we must account for now, not the least of which is the imminent Jin’Kai invasion.”
I clench my teeth and say nothing. I mean, I know he’s right, that there are bigger things going on right now. That I need to be patient.
But that doesn’t mean I can do it.
I grip the railing and smell the salty air as a frigid breeze blows across the deck of the rickety old boat. There’s a bitter taste in my mouth, which can only be blamed in part on the milk residue on my tongue.
“How did you know?” I ask.
“Miss?”
“You stayed trapped for so long, because you thought it was the right thing to do. How did you know when it was time to free yourself?”
“We are all captains of our own destiny,” he says, putting an arm gently around my shoulders. “When the time comes, you just know.”
And for some reason that starts me bawling, crying like some sort of girl. I press my face into Oates’s coat, letting it absorb my tears. He pats my back.
“There, there, Miss Elvie,” he reassures me. “Everything’s all right now. You’re almost there.”
And as I look out at the water, I can almost allow myself to believe it.
Hold on, I think to my daughter, wherever she may be. Just hold on a little longer. Mama’s coming for you.
Hold on.
Chapter Two
In Which Things Are Seen That Cannot Be Unseen
“Wait,” Ducky says as we walk down the narrow hall toward the med bay. “You broke up with Cole? Like, ‘broke up’ broke up?”
“Let’s not make a thing about it, please,” I say. “Let’s file it under ‘Old News.’”
“Old news? It happened, like, three seconds ago. And need I remind you that you’ve been swoony over that guy since you first laid eyes on him?”
“Seriously, Duck. Focus. We’re almost home. Well, to the Poconos, at least. One short helicopter trip away from the Poconos.”
Ducky clears his throat. “Helicopter. Goodie.”
“Duck, you can barf out the window, okay? Nut up. We’ve got to be ready to leave as soon as we dock. And I’ve got one more Dad-shaped piece of luggage left to pack up.”
We reach the med bay, and I knock gently on the door. There’s no response, so I knock again and finally receive a very weak “Come in” from inside. Ducky and I enter quickly, closing the door behind us in order to give Dad some privacy from the hustle and bustle out in the hallway.
“Dad, everything’s nearly ready to— Oh my God!” I spin around away from Dad and try to grab the door but instead smash head-on into Ducky.
Ducky slaps a hand over his eyes, but it’s too late for him. For either of us. “Mr. Nara! I’m so sorry. Marnie told us you were almost ready to, um, go.”
“Elvie, Donald, for heaven’s sake, what’s the matter?” Dad asks, his voice thin.
“Scarred. For. Life,” I tell my father, emphasizing each bit of punctuation so that I really make my point clear. I push myself against the door, leaning my forehead against the cool metal surface. There’s a hideous sloshing behind me, but I don’t dare turn around again for fear of being subjected to the horrific sight another time.
“Dearheart, please don’t be so dramatic,” Dad scolds.
“Dramatic?” I shout, rather dramatically. “Did it ever occur to you that if someone has the decency to knock before entering that you should try to sink below the goo line if you’re floating naked in a tub?”
“It’s a medical recuperation bath, Elvie, and this ‘goo’ is healing my wounds. It’s not like I’m in here enjoying a leisurely soak.”
“That doesn’t mean you should reenact Welcome to My Dingle for your daughter,” I say. “Goo line. Get under it. I’m begging you.”
Ducky still has a hand over his eyes, which is making it difficult for him to find the doorknob and
escape. “I just . . . I just . . .” He gives up and slithers to the floor, back against the wall, eyes still shut tight. “Don’t mind me,” he says. “I’ll be over here. Not looking at anything.”
“Dad, for God’s sake, you’ve broken Ducky,” I say.
“Please tell me you’re not here to make me drink more of that vile tea,” is Dad’s only reply. His voice is wavering between legitimately enfeebled and playing the martyr. “Donald, tell your girlfriend her tea stinks.”
Ducky manages the incredible feat of becoming even more flustered. With his eyes still squeezed shut, his face turns a crimson red, and he begins sputtering like a backed-up faucet. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he gets out at last.
“Dad, Marnie told me she was getting you out of the tub.” I shield my eyes with my hand, in case Dad hasn’t found the good sense to shift deeper into the goo yet, and turn to speak to him more directly. “It’s almost time to leave.”
Dad sloshes a bit in the tub, making a sickening slorp! sound. I try to keep down the little bit of food I managed to eat today. “I’d never make the trip, Elvie,” he says, laying it on even thicker than the liquid he’s currently marinating in. “Not in my condition.”
“Dad.” I roll my eyes, which is a mistake, because the ceiling is reflective. “Marnie says you’re more than capable of making the helicopter journey. And in any case, you don’t have a choice. I’m not about to leave you here.”
Dad’s response is quiet. “I’m not well, dearheart.”
I sigh the dramatic sigh a million girls have used on a million fathers before me. But the truth is that even though I’ll probably have my father’s disturbingly pudgy image burned into my brain until death or a severe head injury releases me, I’m really glad to still have a father who is able to flash me. And I totally get why he’s hesitant to go back out into the elements. I mean, he was frostbitten before we had to bail out of that exploding space elevator car, and the blisteringly cold air and the whole semi-crashing into the snowy fields of Antarctica didn’t do him any favors.
“We’ll make sure you’re all bundled up,” I say. “The warmest suit we can fi— Dad, seriously, can’t you, like, cover yourself with a washcloth or something?”
“I mean, we’ve never used the words ‘girlfriend’ or ‘boyfriend’ before,” Ducky says, clearly off in another world that does not involve a buoyant parent in his birthday suit. “We were prisoners together, so we were bound to be close. But now that we’re not in Antarctica anymore, I figure . . .” He trails off.
“Ducky,” I tell him lovingly. “You adorable, idiotic dillhole. You and Marnie are totally boyfriend-girlfriend. You’re practically joined at the hip. I’m surprised you don’t break out in a rash when she eats fresh fruit. Now can we please focus on my father?”
“I don’t know,” Ducky says, eyes still squeezed shut. “I can’t help thinking that this whole time I’ve just been her special camp friend.”
Suddenly there’s a new voice at the door. “Wha’s this all about, then?” I turn to see Marnie, arms akimbo, wearing a very disapproving look on her face. “Dinnae I tell ye to get clear of that stuff twenty minutes ago?” she asks my father.
“I’m not well,” he reiterates.
“Oh, ye poor wee bairn,” Marnie says, the sarcasm slicing through her thick Scottish burr. I notice that she really lays into her accent when she’s annoyed.
She pulls a thick bathrobe from a cabinet along the far wall. “Now come on outta there, and let’s get the goop off ye,” she says. “Hello there, Donald.”
Ducky replies with little more than, “Yeep!”
Dad is still pleading his case. “I shouldn’t be moved in my condition,” he says. He’s really working it now, all coughs and groans. Fortunately, and perhaps in an attempt to prolong his stay in the tub, he has submerged himself so that everything from the chin down is safely below the surface. I open my mouth to scold him, but Marnie holds up her hand, stopping me.
“Very well,” she says, handing me the robe. She heads back over to the closet and starts rummaging through the now pretty bare supplies. Dad peeks over the edge of the tub to catch a glance at what she’s up to. “I think I know why ye’ve been feeling so uncomfortable, Harry,” Marnie calls over her shoulder. “Ye’ve been rolling around in that regenerative enzyme bath fer days now, and yer healing quite nicely, but there are . . . side effects.”
“Side effects?” Dad asks squeamishly. His chin is resting on the edge of the tub, his eyes boring holes in Marnie’s back as she digs out what she was looking for.
When she steps back from the closet, she is holding a large green synthetic cloth pad, a box of latex gloves, and what looks to be a small baby’s bottle. “Yer stopped up, ye poor love,” she says. “Constipated. Ye haven’t moved yer bowels since we got ye in here, have ye, Harry?”
The goo makes another slorp sound as Dad moves to the far edge of the tub. “My . . . bowels?” comes his thin, worried voice.
“’Tis nothing to be ashamed of, Harry. We all get plugged up now and again. We’ll just be givin’ ye a wee enema to get things moving, and then ye’ll feel much more able to move about.”
“Enema?” Dad says, his eyes wide as, well, really wide eyes.
Marnie snaps a latex glove over her slender hand. “Of course, if that doesn’t work right away, we can always try digital extract—”
The slorp turns into a fwa-plop as Dad practically levitates out of the tub and lands with a thud on the micro-tile.
“No need, no need!” Dad cries, suddenly sounding a lot less feeble. “You know, I’m actually feeling pretty mobile after all.” As if to prove his point, Dad starts swinging his arms and legs around like he’s getting a good stretch in after a run. Which, in case it weren’t obvious, is not helping any with the whole buck-naked-Dad situation I’m having. I can only imagine the long-term trauma inflicted on my cerebellum by watching my father twist and flex while green ooze sloughs off his rotund nude body.
“What’s happening?” Ducky cries, hand slapped over his eyes again. “What’s going on?”
“Come on, Duck. Let’s give Dad and your ‘special camp friend’ a little alone time,” I say, and I yank him to his feet so we can hightail it out of the room as quickly as possible. Marnie gives me a quizzical look as we head to the door, and I realize I might have tipped Ducky’s hand a little bit, which makes me feel bad. But not bad enough to stick around to explain myself.
“Dad, I’ll be out here!” I call to my father. “Don’t come out till you are completely dressed!”
With any luck, maybe someday I’ll get kicked really hard in the head.
• • •
As modes of transportation go, helicopters most definitely rank in the top-ten loudest. That plus the invention of repulsor tech has really made them pretty obsolete. Before succumbing to a much needed nap, Dad subjected us to a mini-lecture on the copter we currently found ourselves riding in. A retrofitted Dragonfly 20 with magnetic stabilization, it was apparently one of the last helicopters ever mass-produced, back in the ’50s. Originally a military craft, the only ones left in circulation tend to be used by emergency relief organizations with limited funds to transport personnel and/or supplies to destitute regions such as Africa, Eastern Europe, and Detroit. The thing is roomy enough that it easily houses half of our Antarctic contingent—Dad, Cole, Ducky, Marnie, yours truly, and the rest of the Enosi—while Oates flies on a second copter with the Almiri.
Of course, the novelty of flying on such a relic is somewhat muted by the Fantastic Barfing Twins huddled together over a bucket near the back of the copter.
“Blaaaaaaargh!” goes Ducky, face stuck in the bucket, hands tightly gripping the sides. Cole shoves him in the shoulder.
“Quit hoggin’ it, Donalll . . . ,” he slurs. Clearly, at some point between our little chat on the tanker and now, Cole managed to get int
o something quite a bit stronger than condensed milk. He tugs the plastic bucket toward him with the sloppy urgency that only the truly inebriated possess. The contents of the bucket slosh around as Cole envelops it in a nauseated bear hug.
“Oh God, Cole,” Ducky gasps. “Please, give it back. I’m gonna . . . Oh, blaaaaaaargh!” He manages to grab the bucket just in time, but even as he’s still yakking, Cole steals it back and shoves Ducky more forcibly, causing him to lose his balance and tip over.
“Hey, you leave him alone!” I have to scream to be heard over the whirring of the helicopter’s blades.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore!” Cole screams back. “Because you arnamygirfren!”
“What?”
“You,” Cole says more deliberately, staring daggers at me. “Arna. Mygirfren.”
“They’re quite the pair, aren’t they?” Marnie muses. I’m sitting on the ground next to my snoozing father. (How he can sleep with all the racket/barfing is a true mystery.) Marnie sits on the other side of Dad, her back to the dueling vomiteers, and gives me a smile. She checks Dad’s forehead with the back of her hand.
“Good,” she says. “No fever. He’s going to be fit to bring down a bear sooner ’n not.”
“He was lucky to have such a good nurse,” I tell her.
“Eh, give credit where it’s due. The man has a will on ’im.”
“Still,” I say. “Thank you.”
Marnie shakes me off. “So, I hear ye’ve called it quits with the cologne model, is that it?”
“Word gets around fast.”
“Ducky’s spoken of naught else since ye told him. He really loves ye, that one.”
“Ducky?” I feel my cheeks getting red.
“No, the other lad who’s followed ye around yer whole life,” she says with a wink.
“Ducky’s the best,” I say. And I mean it.
The World Forgot Page 2