Floodworld

by Tom Huddleston

  There was a roar and the cannons spat blue fire. The jetski twisted just in time, banking violently, sending up a wall of spray. The firebolt hit the water, plumes of steam rising.

  The rider scanned the Spur desperately, looking for any route back into the Shanties. He angled towards the Last Gasp, where a wooden jetty branched out into the Cut. Beside it the pilings parted, forming a low bridge. If he ducked, he might make it.

  The ski drew closer, and closer still. Kara could hear the whine of the propeller, could see fear in the rider’s eyes.

  Then she saw another shape, low in the water, right in the jetski’s path. A dark brown head broke the surface and she cried out in horror.

  Joe spat out his mouthpiece, gulping real air. He swallowed, and as his ears popped he heard the roar of an approaching engine. He twisted, trying to take his bearings.

  His breath stopped. The jetski was less than fifty feet away and coming fast. There was no time to swim clear, and if he tried to duck the propeller would slice his head open. He felt his bladder go, warmth on his legs.

  Then the rider saw him, and for the briefest moment their eyes locked. He was a young man, thin and bearded, his eyes widening in panic. He glanced up at the Spur and the choice was plain – hold his course and end Joe’s life, or turn aside and risk his own. He gripped the bars as the ski closed in, twenty feet, now ten. Joe bit his tongue and waited to die.

  At the last second the young man tugged on the steering bar and the ski slalomed sideways. Joe felt the wind of the propeller as it missed him by inches, the ski gliding on the glassy surface of the water. It spun once, twice, then it hammered into the jetty behind the Last Gasp and exploded. The rider was thrown free, slamming into the boards, his uniform ablaze.

  Joe swam as hard as he could. The jetty had been split almost in two, staves splayed and planks uprooted. The ski lay upended, the propeller chewing angrily at the air. Joe pulled himself from the water, kicking off his flippers. He tasted smoke and chem fumes.

  The rider had rolled on his back, dousing the flames. Now he lay still, his eyes wide and sightless, his face scorched and spattered with blood. Joe ran to him, dropping to his knees.

  “I’ll get help.”

  But the rider coughed weakly, reaching to take Joe’s hand. He was younger than Joe had expected, his scruffy beard barely grown in. His uniform was burned black, the skin beneath blistered. Their eyes met and Joe could see fear in them, and pain, and courage. He wanted to tell him it would be OK, but he didn’t think it was true.

  “I’m s-sorry…” the dying man wheezed, blood coursing from both sides of his mouth. “I’m so s-sorry…”

  Joe squeezed his hand. “Don’t be sorry. You saved me.”

  Then he heard a shout, and looked up.

  “Get away from him!” Kara flung herself on to the shattered jetty. “Joe, run to me.”

  “No,” Joe protested. “He’s hurt.”

  But the rider had let go, rolling over on blistered elbows. He began to drag himself forward, summoning the last of his strength to claw his way across the jetty. Colpeper hurried towards them, panting.

  Kara ran to Joe’s side, clasping him in her arms. “Are you OK?” she demanded. “Did he hurt you?”

  Joe shook his head. “He saved my life. We have to call a medic.”

  “No point,” Colpeper said. “He’s done for.”

  The man struggled to the edge of the platform, leaving a trail of blood. He glanced back and Kara saw a look pass between him and Joe, sudden and quiet. Then the stranger gave a last push and toppled face first into the water, sinking like a stone. There was a trail of bubbles and for a moment the grey water blossomed red. Then he was gone.

  Joe looked up, tears cutting through the filth on his face. “Why did he do that? We could’ve helped him.”

  “He was a Mariner,” Colpeper said softly. “He’s gone back to the ocean.”

  Kara looked up. “But I thought you said the Mariners never attacked the Shanties?”

  Colpeper frowned. “Seems I spoke too soon.”

  Kara heard engines idling as the MetCo craft drew closer. Through the smoke she saw an officer upright in the driver’s seat, gesturing at them. He had dark eyes and a black moustache.

  “You three,” he said through a loudhailer. “Don’t move.”

  3

  London Zoo

  “Try to see it from my side.”

  The policeman smoothed his moustache, silhouetted in the sunlight streaming through his office window. “A Mariner terrorist is apprehended near the harbour. There’s an explosion. He flees, we give chase, but the only person to make actual contact with him is this boy. Is it just a coincidence that he happened to be in precisely the right place at precisely the right time?”

  “Do we look like terrorists to you?” Kara shot back, her arm round Joe’s shoulders.

  The cop shrugged. “If this job’s taught me anything, it’s that they come in all shapes and sizes.”

  “And what is your job exactly? Officer in charge of scaring kids?”

  The policeman glowered, gesturing to a silver badge on his shirt. “Akharee Singh, second lieutenant, London Metropolitan Police Corporation. Currently assigned to the Mariner Task Force, which means I hunt terrorists for a living. So don’t get smart with me.”

  Kara bit her tongue. He was right, shooting her mouth off could only get them into more trouble. They were deep in enemy territory here, inside the Wall itself, in the concrete maze of offices, barracks and prison cells where MetCo had their headquarters. Precinct Place was its official title, but everyone called it London Zoo.

  Singh’s office was unimpressive, a cramped square box with a desk, three chairs and a framed portrait of a man Kara half recognised. But the view from the window was spectacular – over the lieutenant’s shoulder she could see right across the Pavilion to the harbour and the towers beyond, their silhouettes stark against the sinking sun.

  The Shanties were one big accident, Kara knew – the Wall had been built to keep the rich folks in the City safe when the waters rose, but they hadn’t stopped to think who’d cook their food and clean their houses. And so, in the upper floors of submerged blocks and the ramshackle walkways that linked them, the Shanties had sprung up almost overnight. To some it might seem strange, she thought, this floating slum clinging to the outside of the Wall. But to her it was just home.

  “Let’s try this again,” Singh said, making an effort to smile. “Be straight with me, and I’ll do the same. What were the two of you doing so far out on the Spur?”

  Kara flushed. “We were…”

  “Sightseeing,” Joe broke in. “Looking at … stuff.”

  Singh frowned at him. “Sightseeing, in the most dangerous part of the Shanties. And this Colpeper, what was he? Tour guide? Ice-cream man? I don’t suppose he’s any relation to the Frances Colpeper we picked up last year for running an illegal salvage operation using child labour?”

  Kara gulped. “We wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  Singh sighed. “Employing Beefs isn’t just an offence for the men who run the gangs. The kids can find themselves in serious trouble too. A night in the cells, a tracker bracelet, even a trip to the work farms if they’re really unlucky.”

  “Well, isn’t that just child labour as well?” Kara shot back before she could stop herself.

  The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “I warned you once.”

  He tapped the touchscreen set into his desk, squinting. “Says here you’re Kara Jordan, fifteen years old, father a market trader, knifed in a robbery. Mother died three months later, ruled as suicide.”

  “It was an accident,” Kara said. “She slipped.”

  Sympathy flickered in Singh’s eyes. “You were picked up by the authorities and spent four years at the Sisterhood—”

  “I won’t go back there,” Kara said quickly. “You can’t make me.”

  “Calm, girl. I’m just getting my facts straight. But there’s no reco
rd of the boy at all. How old is he, eleven? Where are his parents?”

  “They ran off,” Joe said. “They didn’t want me.”

  “So we’re orphans,” Kara said. “What are you going to do, adopt us?”

  The officer smiled despite himself. “No, but the state could. I could make a few calls, have you placed in care. It’d be a shame if you never got to see each other again.”

  Kara’s chest tightened. These weren’t empty threats; Singh had the power to do exactly as he promised. But he could also let them go, drop them back in the Shanties and forget all about them.

  “So tell me,” he said, leaning forward. “The truth this time. The boy’s a bottom feeder, am I right? A Beef? And this Colpeper, he’s your crew boss?”

  Kara hung her head and nodded.

  “But your being out there had nothing to do with the Mariners, did it?”

  She looked up. Singh’s stare was intense, but there was no suspicion left in it.

  “I told you,” Kara said. “It just… happened.”

  The officer settled back. “I believe you. Call me a sucker, but—”

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  The door slammed open and a stocky, barrel-chested man came shouldering in, his face as red as a marker buoy. “Explain yourself, second lieutenant.” He wore a sharp black suit with the MetCo logo on the breast, and his light brown hair clung to his head like a shaggy animal. Kara glanced up at the portrait on the wall; it was the same man, and now she remembered his name: Alexander Remick, CEO of MetCo and head of security for the whole of London.

  Singh blanched. “Sir, I didn’t… I had no…”

  “Clearly not,” Remick growled. “We have a major incident on our hands and I find you tucked up indoors, chatting with a pair of filthy mudlarks. Let me assure you, minister, this is not how I train my officers to behave.”

  Kara craned her neck, seeing a tall, serious-looking woman standing behind him in the corridor. She wore a grey skirt and carried a leather briefcase printed with the symbol of the crown. A government minister, Kara realised. Here in the Shanties. This must be serious.

  Singh saw her too, and his jaw tightened. “Th-these are the witnesses from my report,” he stammered. “They were on site when the Mariner went into the water. The lad even spoke to him.”

  Remick regarded them with icy interest. Joe stuck his hand out, but Remick just stared at it until he put it away again. “Well, young man? What did the terrorist have to say?”

  Joe gulped. “H-he said he was s-sorry. I tried to h-help him, and he died.”

  “Is it your habit to offer aid to insurgents?” Remick asked, leaning closer. “Are you a friend to the Mariners, boy?”

  “No,” Joe squeaked. “I didn’t… He wasn’t…”

  “He didn’t have a shirt with Mariner written on it,” Kara said. “How was Joe meant to know?”

  Remick’s face darkened. “He was being pursued by my men. That ought to be enough.” He forced a smile, turning back to the woman. “My apologies for this slight delay, my dear minister. I just need a moment with my subordinate, so if you wouldn’t mind waiting down at the front desk we’ll have this squared away in no time.”

  The minister smiled thinly. “Very well, Mr Remick. But please don’t dawdle; we have a lot to attend to.”

  Remick closed the door softly, then he turned on Singh, nostrils flaring. “Do you know who that was? No? I’ll enlighten you. Her name is Patricia Stephens, she is the junior minister for defence and she is entirely capable of revoking MetCo’s contract if she doesn’t think we can handle the vital job of City security. We have surveillance footage suggesting that the Mariner was inside the Wall, Akharee. Inside. He was on his way back through the Gullet when the alarms went off.”

  Singh looked stunned. “But that’s not possible.”

  “And that’s not even the most pressing issue,” Remick went on. “If you’d bothered to look through your own blasted window in the past fifteen minutes, you’d see that we have another problem on our hands.”

  Singh winced, turning to look down into the Pavilion. Kara angled herself, peering over his shoulder.

  The Pavilion was the heart of the Shanties, a quarter-mile expanse of flat concrete that was the closest they had to a town square. It was always busy at this time of day as weary workers were spat out of the City through the Gullet, the only tunnel leading under the Wall. But tonight the crowds were bigger than ever, a mob gathering at the base of the wide stone steps that led down from the Zoo. They surged forward, a line of riot-shielded MetCo officers holding them back.

  “They’re saying we allowed this to happen,” Remick spat. “That we let terrorists run loose in the Shanties. It needs to be knocked on the head before it spreads. In a few minutes I’m going to speak to them, calm things down and show the minister we’re on top of it. I could use a little backup. Honestly, Singh, her being here is the last straw; if you knew the kind of pressure I’m under…”

  “I’ll be there, sir,” Singh said. “I just need to discharge these two and I’ll be right down.”

  Remick straightened his tie, one hand on the door. “You’re a good man, Singh. Just try to keep your focus where it belongs in future.”

  He shut the door behind him and Singh made a rude gesture. “Focus on this,” he muttered. “Sir.”

  “He’s not as friendly as his picture, is he?” Joe said, peering up at Remick’s portrait. “It’s weird – the eyes feel like they’re following me.”

  “There’s a camera behind the left one,” Singh admitted. “It’s one of his favourite sayings: a family watches over each other. That’s how he likes to think of us. One big MetCo family.”

  “Well, he does tell you off when you’ve been naughty,” Kara pointed out.

  Singh sighed. “You heard him, we’re done here. Don’t forget your possessions.” He rifled through a small polythene bag. “One torch, one bottle, one screwdriver, one … weird plastic bear.”

  “I call him Growly,” Joe said.

  “Good for you. But what’s this?” He took out a damp crumpled ball of white paper, unfolding it. A scrawl of black ink formed a crude oval filled with wavy lines.

  A short list of words were smudged with what might have been chocolate.

  “It’s just a picture,” Joe said quickly. “I drew it for school.”

  “A picture? Of what?”

  “Some…” Joe struggled. “Some spaghetti. See, it’s on a plate.”

  “Why would you draw spaghetti?” Kara asked.

  Joe looked at her intently. “I was hungry.”

  “And what about these words?” Singh wondered, tracing with his finger. “Sun four, six down, news, Wellington? What does all that mean?”

  “They were already on it,” Joe said. “We use old scraps at school. Haven’t you heard of recycling?” He looked at Singh, unblinking. The officer folded the paper and handed it to him.

  “You’re a weird kid,” he said. “But that’s hardly a crime. OK, if you remember anything else you know where to find me. In the meantime, I’ll have your boss brought from holding. But I want you to think long and hard before you get mixed up with men like him. I know you have to eat, but there’s ways and there’s ways, understand?”

  Kara held his gaze for a moment, then she nodded. “Thank you.”

  Singh sighed. “Now split. I’ve got an angry mob to deal with.”

  4

  The Walk Home

  They found Colpeper waiting by the security barrier in the Zoo. His left eye was black and his lip was split. “This has not been a good day,” he growled as they pushed through a set of high glass doors and out into the Pavilion.

  At the base of the steps the mob had tripled in size, many of the protesters still wearing their brown work overalls. They churned like a muddy sea, breaking against a wall of MetCo riot shields.

  Then the shouts subsided and a murmur ran through the crowd. Kara turned to see Remick emerging from the glass
facade of the Zoo, Singh at his side. Just inside stood the minister, watching darkly. Above them the Wall rose, sheer and white.

  “I thought it was time I came out and said a few words.” Remick spoke into a handheld microtransmitter, his voice picked up by speakers all around the Pavilion.

  “It’s past time!” someone shouted, and the crowd muttered their agreement.

  Remick nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s been quite a day.”

  Kara studied the man, trying to size him up. Outwardly there was nothing remarkable about him – medium height, medium build, his clothes sharp but not flashy, his hair faintly ridiculous. But the way he presented himself was powerful somehow; she couldn’t imagine him ever being nervous or frightened or lost for words.

  “I get why you’re angry,” Remick went on, his voice betraying a hint of a Shanty accent. “You all know my history with these Mariners. No one could be more determined than I am to see them driven from our waters.”

  Kara knew the story, everyone in the Shanties did – how as a young naval officer Remick had been captured by the Mariners and tortured half to death, how he’d escaped using his wits and risen to become head of the most powerful security corporation in the City. She didn’t know how much of it was true, but everyone believed it and that was what mattered.

  “Here at MetCo we work hard to keep the Shanties safe,” he insisted. “With the support of our friends in government we have a mission to ensure that London remains peaceful and prosperous, inside the Wall and out. But these Mariner extremists are getting bolder all the time. Led by this thug John Cortez –” he paused for a wave of scattered booing – “they seem determined to harass us, intimidate us, undermine our way of life. We don’t know why they were here today; whatever they were after we don’t believe they got it. But their very presence here is an affront.”