Regeneration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 3)

by Laura Disilverio

  The building I’m looking for is at the far end of the base, set apart from the base’s main operations which have been greatly slowed by the deaths of so many soldiers. The IPF is training new recruits as fast as it can, including nats now, but it’s still a slow process. Amerada is vulnerable and everyone here knows it. The distant sounds of weapons firing and instructors yelling drift to me as I ground the ACV and walk into the building.

  A split second later, I’m sprawled on the floor, palms stinging, the taste of grit in my mouth.

  Fiere’s smug voice says, “Lesson one. Be alert.” She laughs.

  That’s what she did to me the very first day she trained me at the Peachtree house. The memory turns my irritation around and I stand, wipe my hands together, and hug her.

  She suffers it for a moment, never one for physical affection, and then pushes me away. “What? No retaliation?”

  “When you least expect it,” I say.

  She looks good, lean and energetic, her dark hair still short, an enhanced aura of confidence about her. She’s grown into her role as a leader, now that she’s no longer playing second fiddle to Alexander or Idris. I survey the room, a long warehouse, empty except for a few pallets of gear and supplies and two ACVs that look much newer and faster than the one I brought from the MSFP.

  “Get changed and armed while we wait for Wyck,” Fiere says, pointing to a rack of intelli-textile uniform items. I shuck my MSFP jumpsuit and don a camouflaged tunic and leggings, grabbing boots and a beamer while I’m at it. I’m still wearing Saben’s knife, and I rebuckle that around my thigh after dressing. I belt the tunic and hang a holstered pistol and another knife from the belt for good measure. Slinging the beamer and my messenger bag across opposite shoulders, I turn just as the door opens and Wyck comes in.

  He’s backlit by the sun at first, his curly brown hair lit up like a halo. As he advances, his right leg drags a bit. Tears wet my eyes when I see him and something inside me expands so it’s hard to breathe. He’s my dearest, oldest friend since Halla died, and I run into his arms when he holds them out. Our arms lock tight around each other’s backs, and my cheek is pressed hard against his shoulder. We stand twined together, silent, letting our bodies say all that’s necessary, until Fiere clears her throat and says, “Okay, okay. Enough of the reunion. We’ve got a mission.”

  Wyck and I ignore her, pulling back to look into each other’s faces. He’s smiling a goofy little smile, and I suspect mine is equally sappy.

  “You’re limping,” I say.

  “Caught shrapnel during the armory blast. Some of it’s still in there, but it doesn’t bother me much now.”

  “I hear you’re quite the hero. You rounded up a lot of vigilantes the last couple of months, and hijacked a truck to deliver a load of vaccines to St. Louis when a vigilante attack immobilized the convoy.”

  “And you’re a bigwig at the MSFP.”

  “Just ridding the world of locusts.”

  Fiere steps between us, her expression set to “business.” “We find Idris and drag him back here first, then we sit around a campfire and tell stories. Okay?”

  I nod, and Wyck crosses to the rack of weapons and begins to outfit himself. “What’s the plan?” he calls as he exchanges the boots he’s wearing for a newer pair.

  Fiere and I draw closer to Wyck. She pulls out a map. “Intel says Idris is on the Belle,” she says, “probably with a couple of supporters, but we don’t know who or how many. Over the past couple of months, he’s managed to steam down the river system”—her fingertip traces the route—”to the coast. He’s sticking to the inland waterways, making his way south. We suspect he’s headed for the former naval station at King’s Bay, hoping to find a more seaworthy ship. There’s still a small fleet there, operated by the Border Security Service for immigrant interdiction, even though that mission has dropped off in recent years. I’ve heard, though, that they’ve been intercepting refugee flotillas recently. Word must have got around that our military is depleted. Anyway, from there he could reestablish himself in the Jacksonville area—there are port facilities there and he knows the area. He may still have supporters there, or he could colonize one of the small islands off the coast, live off fish and seaweed if there is a fresh water source. If he kept to himself on a barrier island that might not be a bad solution—it would be like he was in prison, and the first hurricane that came through would blow him out to sea.” She sounds as if the thought of Idris as shark fodder gives her great pleasure.

  “Idris won’t give up,” I say flatly. “Wherever he’s going, whatever his plan is, it doesn’t include sailing away, not until every geneborn is dead. They might not be so easily identifiable anymore without the eyes, but I’m sure he has a list of geneborn names and he’ll pick them off one by one if he has to.”

  “Well, he’s not going to get a chance. We’re proceeding directly to King’s Bay.” She jabs a finger at the map. “A gunboat is being outfitted for us, and we’re going to be waiting for him. We will board the Belle and capture him if possible, or sink it if necessary.”

  “I’ve always wanted to be a pirate,” Wyck says with a broad grin. He makes a pass with an imaginary cutlass. Fiere rolls her eyes.

  “Wait,” I say. A boat means water. “I didn’t sign up for a cruise. Vestor told me Idris hadn’t reached the sea yet.” I wouldn’t put it past him to have omitted that detail on purpose, even though I didn’t know how he could have sussed out my phobia.

  “Don’t worry—we’ll have a crew. No one expects us to pilot a ship in the ocean.”

  That’s not what I’m worried about. Deep water and I have a long and unhappy relationship, starting when my foster brother Keegan Usher tried to drown me, and continuing when I almost managed to drown myself in the Chattahoochee River after a Bulrush operation. Saben saved me that time.

  “Ev.” Wyck’s voice claims my attention. His eyes meet mine. “It’s okay. You can do this.”

  He senses my unease, even though I’ve never told him about what Keegan did. I give a shallow nod. I have to do this. If I could walk into a RESCO and let myself be impregnated, I can damn well get on a ship. I lived on the Belle for weeks, after all. I silence the little voice trying to tell me that living on a river boat moored to a dock is not at all the same thing as sailing the Atlantic playing pirate.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Getting to the coast takes almost five uncomfortable hours, going nearly flat out in the ACV, taking as straight a path as possible, even when it means traveling over rough terrain that jounces us around and requires the pilot’s full concentration. Fiere assigns Wyck to pilot the ACV so she can refine our plan. We don’t talk much; all of us, I imagine, focused on the task ahead, of capturing or maybe killing a man who used to be a comrade. Of the three of us, Wyck seems the least bothered by that. I am fettered by my sibling relationship with Idris, and I think a teeny part of Fiere understands Idris’s wanting revenge for Alexander’s death. After all, she loved him, too, and watched him die horrifically at the hands of the geneborn IPF commander.

  It’s late afternoon when we glide up to the gates of King’s Bay Naval Facility. For the last fifty miles, the terrain has been flat, and the base seems to merge with the water around it. The buildings are mostly low and painted a gray that mirrors the sea. Signs of dilapidation are everywhere, a state of disrepair that must predate the recent crisis. Up close, the buildings are missing roofing shingles, and the paint is flaky with rust tears snaking down from the gutters. Ponds and fingers of water reaching from the channel abound. Clouds scud the sky and a brisk breeze whips my hair. The air is moist and smells like salt. It’s bracing.

  Vestor has cleared the way and we are admitted immediately, and escorted to a two-story building on the docks. Border Security Service sentries wearing the blue uniform patches with the stylized wave that signify sea service, move surefootedly on the slippery planks, apparently preparing a tubby forty-foot boat—ours?—for departure. As we exit the ACV, I
eye the sea warily. It’s gunmetal gray with creamy froth riding the waves that slap the pilings. If it’s this frisky in the sheltered anchorage, I don’t even want to think what it will be like on the open water. Hopefully, we won’t have to put to sea.

  I cross my fingers as we enter the building and are greeted by BSS Captain Vancil. He towers over us and sports a full but neatly trimmed beard and moustache generously threaded with gray. His skin is tanned and seamed, his uniform neat but sun-faded; he is the very image of what I pictured a seaman to be. A clunky radio communicator hangs from one side of his belt and a holstered revolver from the other. His eyes are a vivid navy blue and I wonder if they were gold a few weeks ago. Almost undoubtedly, given his command position. It’s weird not being able to tell geneborns from nats anymore. Good, but weird.

  “Minister Vestor alerted me that you were coming,” he says, his voice rumbling up from the depths of his barrel chest. “I’m afraid I have bad news. One of our cruisers spotted what he said was a paddlewheel boat passing through the channel two hours ago. I’m afraid you’ve missed your man.”

  “That’s not an option,” Fiere says. She strides to a wall-sized map on the wall. “Show me where he could be with a two-hour head start on us.”

  “Given what the winds were today, and what I’m guessing is no more than an eight or ten knot speed in that wallowing tub, I’d say anywhere in this radius.” A long finger draws an arc across an area that encompasses a great deal too much water for my taste. “He’ll have to stick close to shore. It’s not a deep sea-going vessel.” He smiles at the thought, most of it lost in his beard.

  Fiere turns from studying the map. “The Minister said you’d have a ship and crew available?”

  “One of my ships is in dry dock—she hit one of those blasted mines two weeks ago. My lead patrol boat is responding to reports of immigrants on a raft approaching the coast south of here. That leaves the back-up patrol boat with too much sea to effectively cover.” He jerks a thumb in the direction of the boat we saw when we came in. Glancing out the window, I see that it has left the dock, a line of wake pointing after it.

  “Do you or don’t you have a boat?” Fiere gives the crusty captain a stare that makes him sigh heavily.

  He squints, and deep crow’s feet fan out. “I do, yes. But she’s small. She’s an old speedboat leftover from the days when they confiscated boats involved in Psyche smuggling.”

  “Fast?”

  “Fast was the name of the game for smugglers. She’s fast all right, but small. With the four of us aboard, she’d only carry one or two others.”

  “Not a problem.” Fiere is only interested in Idris; a bullet will do for anyone else on the Belle.

  “Armed?”

  The captain nods. “Aye. The smugglers had a beamer on her. They sank two BSS patrol boats before they were captured. Three men died.” He looks somber.

  “I’ll bet those smugglers didn’t survive to stand trial,” Fiere says.

  Giving her a sharp look, the captain finally laughs, a warm rumbling sound. “Now that you mention it, I don’t believe they did.” Apparently taking a fancy to Fiere, he says, “Damned if I won’t take you out myself. If we’re going to catch up with your fugitive before dark, we should get aboard.” Taking our agreement for granted, he heads for the door, giving orders via his radio, and listening as someone briefs him on where the Belle was last seen.

  Through the door, I know, lies the dock, our small boat, and thousands of miles of open sea. I swallow hard and bring up the rear.

  The boat is beyond small. Standing on the dock, I peer down at our vessel with dismay. Sleek and emerald green, it’s less than one-third the length of the Chattanooga Belle and narrow with a pointed prow. A large beamer is mounted on the deck in front of a windshield that fronts the steering wheel. Six more seats in two parallel rows lead to the stern where three large outboard motors are mounted. I have to give Captain Vancil this: it does look wicked fast. The name Bahama Mama is stenciled on the side in white block letters.

  The boat rocks violently as Captain Vancil jumps down into it. To my eyes, it wouldn’t take much of a wave to swamp it, or a very large shark or whale to roll it over. A hefty tuna or sea turtle might even do the trick. I’m not very reassured when the captain tosses each of us a limp orange life vest and tells us to strap them on. I pull the tabs tight and a mildew odor wheezes from the sad fabric. I sneeze. Fiere and Wyck drop into the boat which rides a couple feet below dock level. It must be low tide. Wyck steadies himself and turns to offer me a hand. Gritting my teeth, I grasp his hand and jump. Although the drop is only two feet, I feel like I’m leaping off a cliff. I land with knees bent, and Wyck pulls me upright.

  “Okay?” he asks.

  No. I am not okay. I feel sick to my stomach and scared to death. I try not to look at the water so close to the railing. I nod. Satisfied, Wyck claims a chair in the front, diagonally behind the captain. I lurch my way toward one in the middle, behind him and across from Fiere. The seats are upholstered in a tan vinyl that has tiny fissures like the craquelure on an old painting and it sighs when I sit. Up close, the boat’s finish is similarly crazed, and the metal rail rattles loosely when I grip it. I wonder uneasily how old the boat is and how often it’s maintained.

  “There’s a few things you need to know about boats before we set out,” the captain says, hands on his hips.

  “We all used to live on board the boat we’re chasing,” Fiere says. “Skip the nautical lecture and let’s get going.”

  He guffaws, tickled by her brusqueness it seems, and says, “Here’s the abbreviated safety briefing: Don’t fall in the water. If someone does”—he points to the stern—”life ring there. Throw it.” Still chuckling, he moves forward as confidently as if he were on solid land, and flips a few buttons on the small dashboard behind the windshield.

  A dockhand unwinds the ropes securing the boat to the dock, Captain Vancil shouts, “Take a seat!” and guns the engines. The boat rockets forward, jolting me back. I clutch the seat’s sides, but gradually release my grip as nothing bad happens. After the initial jolt, the captain backs off on the power and we motor through the channel at a speed even I don’t find alarming. The base slides by on one side and a sandy strip of land on the other. Pre-locusts, I know that island strip would have been covered with dune grasses, and sea birds of all kinds—gulls, terns, pelicans and others—would have wheeled and soared above it. Now, it’s simply a barrier between the base and the open sea, and a place for sea turtles to lay their eggs.

  I find that as long as I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead so I don’t see the water surging past, I can appreciate the salt tang in the air, the moisture on my face, and the bracing wind. Even the bumpiness of the ride as we pick up speed doesn’t bother me. And then we burst out of the channel and confront the Atlantic Ocean. It’s not like I’ve never seen the ocean before, but it looks different from the water than it does from the beach. It’s vast. And deep. Wading in the shallows at the beach nearest the Kube, I could always see the bottom, the sand glinting, shells rolling in and out with the waves, tiny fish darting, the occasional crab scuttling sideways. Here—I risk the quickest of glances at the water—the bottom is nowhere in sight. There’s only water. Heaving, gray, secretive water hiding who knows what. I fix my eyes on the back of Wyck’s neck.

  Out of the channel, Captain Vancil slams the throttle forward and the slim boat flies across the water. The hull slaps across the tops of waves and I’m sure we’re airborne part of the time. Fiere yells to be heard over the engines’ throaty roar. “How far?”

  The captain half turns to answer, one hand resting atop the steering wheel, the other digging in his pocket for something. His face is alight with pleasure and I can tell he loves the sea and the speed. I wish he’d keep both hands on the wheel.

  “Eight to ten minutes, by my reckoning,” he yells back. “What’s the plan when we catch up to them?”

  “Make them stop,” Fiere shouts.
>
  He nods, like the task makes sense and is easy. “A beamer blast or two ought to do the trick.” He lightly taps a button on the small dashboard and the beamer’s muzzle swivels forty-five degrees. “You.” He beckons to Wyck.

  Wyck gets up and staggers to him. They have a conversation that the wind and engines drown out, and then Wyck nods and lurches to storage compartments at the stern. He pulls out ladders topped with grappling hooks and drags them down the boat’s center. “For boarding the Belle,” he says, stopping beside me.

  I eye the ladders dubiously. We’d have to get awfully close to the Belle to throw them up to the first railing. Climbing while the ship pitched and rolled in the waves would be almost impossible. “There’s got to be a better way,” I say.

  Wyck shrugs and grins. He’s enjoying this. He starts to say something, but Captain Vancil interrupts.

  “There she is.”

  I follow his pointing finger to a smudge on the water ahead of us. At first, it doesn’t even resemble a boat, and I think Vancil’s been on the water too long, but as we speed toward it, it resolves into a boat shape, and then into a river boat. It’s the Chattanooga Belle, plowing through the waves in an ungainly way. I squint, trying to see if I can spot Idris, but see no one. Vancil cuts our speed and the relative silence is a blessing. The Bahama Mama rolls more with the motion of the waves, though, and my stomach starts to roll, too.

  Captain Vancil gets on the megaphone system and his voice booms metallically across the water. “Chattanooga Belle. This is the Amerada Border Security Service. You are ordered to stop and allow access to your ship.”