Rising Tide (12 page)

But I need Miranda for that.

Think, Ben, think. If nothing else, that should be your mantra from now on.

I test my bonds again—they seem to be secure. That makes sense. These people are on a military base—they would have access to good equipment. I scoot back on my butt until I hit the wall, and I get myself to my feet. I may be trapped, but I don't need to be a victim.

Using my hands, I slowly move around the circumference of the room, trying to figure out how big it is, see if there's anything else in here with me. It's slow going since my hands are behind me, but I manage to do it.

It's not a typical cell, at least not compared to those I've seen in police facilities. There are no bars. Just hard walls and a door. The door doesn't appear to have any openings in it, though I guess there must be some kind of window, so that they can look in without opening it. Only it's too high for me to feel with my hands restrained.

I'm racking my brain for my next move when they come for me. The door clacks and opens, and as I start to speak, my voice muffled by the bag, two people grab me by my armpits and drag me out of the door. For a brief moment, I think about trying to struggle, trying to get lucky and make a break for it, but I can't see and I'm restrained and they can and aren't. And I'm guessing they're armed.
No, Ben
, I tell myself.
Bide your time for now. And hope they're not taking you to an execution.

I'm getting really sick of biding my time.

They march me down what I'm guessing is a corridor, then around a bend, then into another room. They force me into a chair, two of them holding me down, and with quick, practiced movements, they release my hands, pull them behind the back of the chair, then latch them up again, I think securing them to the chair. Then I hear footsteps recede.

A moment later, the bag is pulled away and I blink in the light. A woman, pale-skinned, tall, and wearing a uniform, takes a seat opposite me. Her uniform is different from the others I saw. More formal. Tan in color. There are flecks of color on her collar. Some sign of rank, I guess.

“My name is Captain Danning,” she says. “I'm in charge here.”

“Well, Captain, I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding here. I came, with my friends, to ask you for help.”

“Let's have your name first,” she says.

I sigh. “Ben. Ben Gold.”

“Very well, Ben,” she says. “You say you came here for help. What kind of help?”

“I'm in need of pumps. The kind that keep a ship from taking on water.” I realize I don't know what they're called. “I was told you had some here.”

Her eyes narrow. “And you expected me to just hand over these pumps to you?”

“No,” I say, hoping I sound suitably appalled. I'm not naive enough to expect charity in the Sick. “We came with barter.”

Captain Danning tilts her head. “Came from where, exactly?”

I take a breath. I don't know this woman, and she just threw me into a cell, so I'm not exactly inclined to be forthcoming. On the other hand . . . Miranda.

“From a ship.”

“Seaworthy?”

About here's where I would normally clamp down and make her work for the information. But do I really need to protect Mal? And even if she had designs on, say, his ship, should I stand in the way? I care only about Miranda.

But something about selling Mal out to this woman feels wrong.

“Yes,” I say. “Seaworthy. For now.”

She nods slowly. “Ah. I see.”

“So we need replacements.”

“Heard from whom?”

“Sorry?”

“You said you were told that we had pumps.”

“Oh.” I nod. “Lord Tess. She's a knowledge broker.”

She waves a hand impatiently. “I know the name.”

“Then you know how she operates. I came to her with my problem, she suggested you.” I shrug. “So I came to try to barter.”

Danning stands up and starts to pace in front of me, her hands clasped behind her back. I notice she's wearing gloves. Strangely bulky gloves compared to her outfit. She starts to nod, once, twice, again, again. “I get it.” She stops and stares at me. Then, taking me by surprise, she slams a fist into my face.

My head snaps to the side, and as I'm still reacting, another blow takes me from that side, snapping it right back again. Two more follow. My head is screaming with pain and shock and surprise. She grabs my hair with one gloved hand and pulls my head up so that I'm facing her.

“Now tell me why you're really here.”

I'm still reeling from the punches. Things escalated so quickly. “I told you,” I say, spitting blood. “The pumps. That's it.”

“Oh, Ben,” she says, in utter disappointment. “You're going to make this hard, aren't you?”

I try to catch her eye. I feel blood dripping from my nose and down over my already-swelling lips. “I'm being straight with you. All I need are pumps. Let's settle on barter and I'll be out of your way. We'll leave.”

She smiles, but it's a predatory thing. All teeth. “I don't think so.”

Her fist flashes again, and this time I black out for a moment.

When I come to, Danning is gone, but the pain remains.
What have you gotten yourself into, Ben? And more importantly, how are you going to get yourself out?

There's no one else in the room with me. It's empty, save for the two chairs and some ceiling lighting, which I'm guessing must be rigged to solar cells. The door to this room also has a window set in it, and I'm pretty sure I see a brief flash of movement through it, proof of guards outside. But they're not looking at me right now.

I pull at the bonds around my hands. They're tight against the chair back, and the chair looks to be metal. No chance of breaking it, then. I push my weight back, and it rocks. Not bolted to the floor.

I push down with my feet and jerk the chair backward. It slams against the floor, me still attached, and I almost cry out as the movement sends a jolt through my whole body, originating somewhere in the vicinity of my spine. The back of my skull slams against the back of the chair, and I need a moment to grit my teeth and bear out the pain.

I rock the chair to the side, but it doesn't move. Too much of my weight is pushing it down. But I manage to swing my legs (which aren't restrained) to one side, and with some wiggling and shifting, I manage to get the chair on its side.

It's even less comfortable as my body wants to slide to the ground, but it's attached to the chair, so my one arm is stretched. But now I can test my bonds again. My fall didn't seem to do anything to loosen them, but the angle has shifted.

If only I could see better. Metal won't break, but it could be soldered together. That could mean weak spots, especially after decades of use. I'm starting to form a plan of dragging it to the wall and doing what I can to slam the chair into it when the door opens and someone comes in.

This time it's not Danning. A man with dark-brown skin introduces himself as Commander Marcus. He also wears a formal uniform, but his looks more cared for than Danning's. Crisp. Clean. Likewise, his appearance. Not a touch of stubble on his face. His hair neatly trimmed. He doesn't react to my position. “Let's start fresh,” he says. “Just you and me.”

I nod.

“Captain Danning, well, she's my commanding officer and all, and she's a great soldier and a fine captain, but she has a tendency to be a little hard,” he says. “It's the pressure of command, you see. Have you ever led?”

I shake my head. “No.” It seems I'm the only one, too. Mal is a leader of men. Even Lord Tess. Me, I'm still the loner.

“It's a difficult job,” Marcus says. “It's a lot of responsibility.” His words drip sympathy. Appreciation. “So you have to forgive her.”

I grin at him and it opens the wounds on my lip, turning the expression into a grimace. “Maybe when I can't feel her fists on my face.”

He shakes his head. “We can put a stop to all of this. Get you some bandages. All I want to know is the truth. Then I'll tell Captain Danning and it will all be okay. Just tell me why you're here.”

“Like I told Captain Danning, I came for the pumps. That's all.”

“And you need these pumps because you have a ship out there? One that's operational?”

“Yeah.”

“What's her name?”

“The ship?”

“Yes,” he says as if I'm an idiot.

“Uh . . . the
Phoenix
.”

He frowns. “That doesn't sound like any naval ship I've ever heard of.”

“I don't know. She was probably renamed. Names don't always keep in the Sick.”

“What kind of ship?”

“I don't fucking know,” I say. “It's big. It floats. It has a big back end.”

“And yet you came from there?”

I lick some blood from my lips. “I'm what you would call a recent arrival.”

He nods, pacing in front of me. His face is thoughtful. Then he stops, looks down at me calmly, then kicks me in the stomach. I gasp with the fresh pain, and he continues to kick. My chest. My shoulders. My stomach. My thighs. He avoids my head. I grunt and yell as each kick adds a new star of pain to the constellation that's lighting up inside of me. Through it all, I'm aware that he's being oddly restrained. Precise. As if he doesn't want to damage me too much. Makes sense—I can't talk if I'm dead. A broken rib or two . . . fine. But no more.

I repeat the truth again and again. Eventually he gets tired and moves off. I lay there and pant, and moan. And think about what I'm going to do to him if I ever get the chance.

And through it all, I see Miranda. Tied to the same pipes I was, waist deep in the cold, dirty water. The water rising every hour.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

At some point, some others come in to put my chair back upright, and the change in position makes my body hurt in all sorts of different ways. I'm just glad that I'm not coughing up blood. Not yet, anyway. But even breathing hurts as my abused muscles expand and contract.

All I have left right now, aside from the pain, is a white, blinding rage. I think about all the things I can do to my tormentors. I think about beating them in retaliation, but that's not really my thing. All that contact. All that blood. And I don't like inflicting pain. I don't relish violence.

Except in this moment. The thoughts expand in my mind, each one more violent than the last. Guns, knives, large rocks. I think about bringing the
Raven
in and using her guns—one for Danning, the other for Marcus.

I know, it's not very productive, not useful in any way, but it helps me get through the pain and it gives me a sense of hope, strangely. Something to look forward to.

I'm picturing what I can do with an old spoon when the door opens again. This time they replace the bag, then take me out and drag me to another room. I'm lifted and slammed onto a table or something. I feel my feet up higher than my head. My arms and legs are locked into different restraints. Then they pull the bag from my head. Now it's coated with my sweat. My blood.

Danning's face, upside down, above my own. “Ben, Ben. You're not being cooperative. So we have to get serious. I'm going to ask you one more time why you came here. Why you really came. And then things are going to get bad.”

From upside down I can see that her features are all thin lines. A thin slash of a mouth. A straight, narrow nose. Thin eyebrows that arch in neat angles. “Okay,” I say. “Fine. The truth. I came because, well, I want to join up.” I smile at her and feel my scabbed-over lips crack. “What do you say, will you take me?”

She shakes her head.

“No, wait,” I say. “It was because I heard you had the last Twinkies in all of North America.”

She walks away.

“Or was it that I thought you could help me with a fungus problem I have?”

“Do it,” is all she says.

A damp cloth is placed over my face, and a hand holds it down over my nose and mouth. Then water starts washing over it.

I start to drown.

I try not to let the water in, but at this angle and with the cloth, it's flowing right into my nose and down my airway. I try to shut it out, but I can't. I start trying to move, twisting, pulling on my arms and legs, but they're held fast and all I can think of is that I'm drowning.

I'm drowning. Water is in my nose, my mouth.

Oh, God. Oh, God. I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

Oh, God.

I'm going to die.

This is it. Really it. I'm dead. I'm—

The water mercifully stops and it's sweet relief. The cloth is removed, and I splutter and cough and through it all I taste and smell vomit. In my mouth. In my nose.

“That was seven seconds,” Danning says, returning to view. “A taste. Next time, we double that. Unless you tell me the truth.”