Dark Life, Page 3

  Whistling soft appreciation, Jibby patted down his damp hair and strode toward her. So debonair. Having no better choice, I swung my mantaboard over my shoulder and followed him. We reached Gemma just as the fishermen dispersed. The last one handed her back a laminated photograph, saying, “Don’t recognize him.”

  “It’s a really old picture,” she called after the man. “Imagine him grown-up.”

  “Howdy,” Jibby crooned, closing in.

  She glanced over her shoulder, as if he was talking to someone else, which irritated me. She knew that he was slobbering over her and not any of the sweaty, color-streaked fishermen pushing past. True, some were women, but who could tell the difference when they were coated up to their eyeballs in a mixture of zinc-paste, grime, and stray fish scales?

  Reluctantly, I introduced Gemma to Jibby.

  “So” — Jibby shot me a smirk — “you’re someone.”

  “I hope so,” Gemma replied. “Usually I’m just one of a million someones.”

  “Welcome to Benthic Territory, Gemma.” Jibby thrust out his hand. “Where you’re not only someone, you’re a rarity.”

  Her brow puckered as if she didn’t know what to say. Looking away, I inhaled the ocean’s briny scent to ease the ache behind my eyes. She hadn’t acted flustered with me. No, she’d jabbed me with a flashlight and wouldn’t let up about Dark Gifts.

  I heard her ask, “Have you seen him around here?” and glanced back to see her thrust the photo into Jibby’s outstretched hand. Suddenly my head felt much better.

  “That your brother?” I asked.

  She nodded. “So far, no one recognizes him. But he’s only fourteen in the picture. I don’t have anything recent.”

  “Sorry.” Jibby handed her back the photo. “Haven’t seen him.”

  “His name is Richard.” She rubbed her thumb across the image, as if to brush her brother’s long hair out of his eyes. “Richard Straid.”

  “You look a lot like him,” Jibby said.

  I frowned at him over her bent head. The resemblance between the siblings was slight at best. Both had blue eyes and reddish-brown hair, but Gemma’s brother was a tall, fishing rod of a boy with features too big for his face. Still, she brightened at the comparison.

  “Don’t bother showing his photo to fishermen,” I advised. “Prospectors don’t surface much. Sometimes they rent bunks in the lower station, but mostly they live on their rigs and guard their plots against claim-jumpers. If anyone has seen your brother, it’ll be a pioneer.”

  She looked up with interest. “How do I know who’s a pioneer?”

  “Half the settlement is in the lower station right now, sweetheart.” Jibby offered her his arm. “I’ll take you down.”

  “Aren’t you sailing to Paramus?” I asked.

  “I’ll launch later.”

  “But I have to go below anyway,” I said. “To tell the ranger about that rig we found.”

  Jibby looked at me with new curiosity. “What rig?”

  His ego was a flying fish cresting waves, I noted enviously. Nothing sank him. “A prospector’s by the look of it.”

  “It was awful inside—blood all over the walls,” Gemma added with a shiver.

  “Fish guts,” Jibby assured her. “Happens —”

  “Doubt it,” I interrupted. “The Seablite Gang hauled off that rig like they had something to hide. We barely got out in time.”

  Jibby’s gaze flew to me. “The Seablite Gang only robs government ships.”

  “Till now.”

  “Nah,” he said as if convincing himself. “Prospectors got nothing worth taking.”

  I shrugged. “When a shark is hungry, it’ll eat anything.” Jibby paled, but I went on. “You know, if you’re headed to the coast, you should go now. Launch later and you’ll be sailing home after dark, loaded to the gills with fresh supplies….”

  He absorbed my words. “Nice meeting you, Gemma,” he blurted, then spun on his heel and sprinted down the docking-ring. “Quit your sun soaking, boys! We gotta make wake!”

  As the men on the Seacoach scrambled to their feet, guilt eddied through me. Hopefully I hadn’t ignited mass panic just so I could be alone with a girl.

  “He hardly shimmers at all,” Gemma said, watching Jibby jump onto the Seacoach’s deck.

  “He only came down two years ago.”

  “To stake his claim?”

  I glanced at her, sure that she was teasing me for wanting to do exactly that, but she returned my look with eyes as clear as blue glass. I nodded. “In three years, Jibby will own a hundred acres.”

  A voice carried over the waves as the Seacoach pulled out of its slip. “My Gemma lies over the ocean. My Gemma’s a gem o’ the sea …” Jibby sang as he worked the ship’s wing-sails. “My Gemma lies over the ocean. She’s such a rarity!”

  Scowling, Gemma tucked her brother’s photo back into the pouch on her belt.

  “Off-key?” I asked, pleased that she wasn’t charmed.

  “A hundred acres doesn’t give him the right to be mean.” She turned her frown on me as if I were in on the joke. “The world is crammed with girls like me. I get it.”

  I choked back a laugh. “See any other girls around here?”

  She regarded me suspiciously but glanced around. “There.” She nodded at the docked boats behind me. “What’s your point?”

  No doubt she’d spotted a floater who didn’t count. A girl off a houseboat never stuck around longer than it took her parents to post mail. But when I turned, I was surprised to see a flashy yacht bobbing in the next slip. On deck, two women lounged under bright parasols. Going by their goggles and fluttering dresses, they were from the mainland. That meant well over three hours in a boat, or more depending on the wind, just to be tourists. Normally, we were used to being alone out here, safe that what was left of “civilization” was sixty nautical miles away. But every now and then, “civilization” dropped by to take pictures.

  Alarm straightened my spine. That instant, the woman in yellow spotted me and gasped, followed by the one in green, as if jaw dropping were contagious. Of course, I was facing the sun full-on, which meant my skin was catching every glint. Turning to Gemma, I whispered, “Let’s tack out of here.”

  She pointed to a nearby hitching post. “I left our helmets in the rental sub.”

  “Jet-fin,” I corrected automatically and thrust my mantaboard into her arms. “I’ll get them and meet you on the promenade.” I waved her toward the ladder, silently willing her to hurry.

  But it was already too late.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  It took the two women no time to clatter down the docking plank, hurrying as if I were a breaching humpback about to sink beneath the waves. With our helmets in hand, I reluctantly climbed out of the cockpit and onto the jet-fin’s nose. “Excuse me.” I pointed at the section of the docking-ring where they stood. “That’s about as far as I can jump.”

  “Oh.” They scuttled back to give me room, though not much.

  When I landed a few feet away, their hands flew to their sun-goggles and I heard the familiar click-click-click of tiny levers being depressed as the women lightened their lenses. And my parents wondered why I hated visiting the stack-cities.

  “You have beautiful skin,” said the one in green. She sounded adult, which meant she should have known better than to gawk at a person.

  “Thanks.” I tried to scoot past, but the one in yellow blocked my path.

  “It’s real?” She slipped back her head scarf to reveal elaborately braided blond hair. “Not painted on?”

  “It’s real enough.”

  At least there were only two of them and they were women. That, I could handle. Men really triggered my adrenaline. No matter how polite or friendly, if a man stared at me too intensely or studied me like I was a curious specimen under a microscope, I’d start to choke as if my lungs had collapsed.

  “I don’t believe it.” The woman in yellow strolled closer.
“I’ll bet that glimmer rubs right off.”

  She was teasing—I got that—but goggle-eyed and smeared in white zinc, she came off creepier than any critter out of the abyss.

  “Can I try?” she asked with a smirk.

  “Try?”

  She peeled off one of her long gloves. “To rub it off.” Her anemic hand reminded me of a sea spider as she reached for my cheek.

  I forced a smile. “So long as you don’t mind the fish oil.”

  Her fingers snapped back. “Fish oil?”

  “All the pioneers bathe in it,” I said, straight-faced. “So we don’t dry out from living in salt water.”

  She gave me an appraising look. “You’re making that up.”

  “Oh, stop being coy,” the other woman snapped, thrusting several bills at me. “Now stand still and let her touch you.”

  “Ty!” a voice shouted. Above us on the promenade, Gemma leaned over the guardrail. “Stop showing off your skin! “she scolded loudly. To my horror, every man and woman within a hundred yards swiveled to look at us. “And don’t you dare take that old bag’s money!”

  Muttering their indignation, the two women hurried back to their yacht.

  I scrambled up the ladder to the promenade, where I found Gemma grinning widely. “That was fun!” she said.

  The people lined along the guardrail were now out- and-out staring. I could live with it, but it didn’t mean I liked it. Ducking my face, I headed for the tower at the center of the Surface Deck.

  “What?” Gemma called after me. “No ‘thank you’?”

  I wasn’t quite ready to maneuver through the sweaty throng of people in the market, so I waited for Gemma to catch up and then skirted the edge. But even that wasn’t getting us anywhere because Gemma kept pausing to marvel over the mountains of fish piled onto tables and kneel by troughs overflowing with hairy lobsters and periwinkles. After her fifth stop, I realized it wasn’t the food she was eyeing, but the crowd. She was looking for her brother.

  “You’re wasting your time,” I told her. “Prospectors don’t shop here. It’s the priciest fish market in the world.”

  “Really?” She looked about curiously. “Why?”

  “These fish were caught in the open ocean, which means they weren’t swimming through what’s left of the cities destroyed by the Rising.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a cluster of shoppers pointing at me. “Can we go below now?”

  I thought I’d asked it calmly, but Gemma’s gaze snapped to me as if I’d collapsed in a heap. Then she noticed the gawkers circling us. “Does this happen to you all the time?” she asked.

  “Only when I’m Topside.”

  “How do we get below?”

  I pointed to the tower that was really just an elevator shaft. The only way to get there was through all of the milling people, and I couldn’t spot a break in the throng. The heat, glare, and dead fish stench were getting to me. Then cool fingers entwined with mine as Gemma took the lead and plunged into the crowd, dragging me along. She barreled through the closely packed bodies, shouting “excuse me” now and then, but mostly she elbowed people aside. I held on to her hand like it was a lifeline, only to plow into her when she stopped at a hanging footbridge — one of many that crossed over the enormous hole in the middle of the Surface Deck. Like the spokes of a wheel, the slender bridges all led to the tower platform, suspended in the center.

  “It’s safe,” I told her, stepping onto the titanium mesh footbridge. One story down, submarines lined the inner docking-ring. Gemma followed me while keeping a tight grip on the railing. I pointed out the white glass observatory above us, which creaked as it pivoted in the wind. “That’s the ranger’s station.”

  Inching along, she frowned at the churning water in the launch-well.

  “You don’t like heights?” I asked, walking backward to face her.

  “I don’t like falling,” she said tightly, then scampered past me onto the tower platform.

  When she pressed the elevator button, the doors opened into a transparent compartment with a metal column running through its center. Gemma read off the call buttons: “Observatory, Surface, Quarters, Service, Recreation, Access. Well,” she scoffed, “those are as clear as smog.”

  “Observatory and Surface are the only two levels of the upper station.” I pushed the SERVICE button.

  As the elevator dropped out of the tower and descended through the launch-well, Gemma leaned against the flexiglass to look up at the people on the suspended footbridges. Gaining speed, the elevator zipped past the inner docking-ring and plunged beneath the waves. Gemma jumped back with a gasp, but I relaxed. Surrounded by ocean, I felt like myself again.

  In silence, we plummeted through the sun-streaked water. Then she noticed the slot next to the RECREATION call button. “What’s this for?”

  “You have to insert an adult ID card or the elevator won’t move.”

  “So ‘recreation’ is a euphemism,” she guessed.

  “ ‘Saloon and Gambling Hall’ didn’t fit on the panel.”

  The elevator slid down the cable into the darkening blue. A swordfish glided past, attracted by the lights. “That is one huge fish,” Gemma said in awe.

  “And he’s a baby,” I replied, eyeing the six-footer. “Swordfish usually come twice as long.”

  With a flash of silver scales, the swordfish darted off. Gemma circled the elevator to watch it go. “I’ve seen more wildlife today than … ever.” She turned her attention to a golden cloud of amberjacks. “Unless you count rats and wild dogs.”

  “Tell me again why people live Topside?” I teased.

  Smiling ruefully, she kept her eyes on the fish. One hundred feet down, the lower station swelled beneath us, as big as a transatlantic zeppelin. The elevator slipped into the opening on top.

  Two levels down, the doors opened. “Welcome to Main Street,” I said as we stepped onto the Service Deck. There wasn’t a person in sight, only darkened storefronts.

  She peered in window after window of the empty stores. “Why is everything closed?”

  “These were never open.” I led her down a hall that fanned off the central corridor. “The government thought lots of businesses would set up shop down here, but it didn’t happen.”

  “Why not? There were hundreds of shoppers on the Surface Deck.”

  “It can get rough in the lower station. Make sure you head back to the mainland before nightfall, when the miners and tide-runners ship in.”

  “I’m not leaving until I find my brother.”

  I stopped. She’d said it like she meant it. “No, seriously. Today’s Friday. These men live on the seafloor all week and —”

  “Please. I can take care of myself. I’m tough.”

  Tough? If I wasn’t so astounded, I would have laughed.

  “Anyway, no one is going to notice me. I look like everybody’s kid sister.” Flicking her braid over her shoulder, she waltzed toward the transparent wall at the end of the corridor.

  “Not mine.” I caught up with her and decided to drop the issue for now. I’d explain how things were later, before the lower station got truly rowdy.

  We turned into the outer corridor. The exterior wall was all window — smooth on the inside yet scaled outside. The large squares distorted the view only where they overlapped. Gemma paused as if admiring the ocean but then gave me a sidelong glance. “Why didn’t you want that woman to touch you? She was beautiful.”

  I grimaced. Topsiders sure had a warped notion of beauty—like preferring skyscrapers to coral reefs. “Who cares what she looked like?” I asked as we started down the outer corridor. “I don’t want to be poked by some stranger. The staring and questions are bad enough.”

  “What sort of questions do people ask?”

  We arrived outside the meeting room. “Personal,” I replied.

  “Such as?”

  Angry voices boomed through the closed door, which alarmed me. Town meetings didn’t usually erupt into yelling matches.
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  “Come on,” Gemma pressed. “One example.”

  Exasperated, I gave her one. “ ‘Are you shimmery everywhere?’”

  “Oh.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Are you?”

  Without answering, I cracked the door to the meeting room and peered inside. Chairs were set up in a semicircle but lots of people stood—most wore diveskins. There were maybe fifty people inside — roughly an eighth of the total settlement population.

  Though their backs were to me, I felt the tension running through the group and recognized several of my neighbors. Benton Tupper, the settlement’s Commonwealth of States representative, stood on the dais, looking like an overgrown baby with his wispy hair and plump cheeks. All of the forty-five states had two representatives in the assembly to vote on the state’s behalf. As a lowly territory, we got one representative, who wasn’t allowed to vote, and we didn’t even choose him. The assembly assigned us Benton Tupper and there was nothing we could do about it. At least he was better than no representative at all, which was what the ocean townships had. Truth was, the states didn’t have it that much better. The Commonwealth only held elections for new representatives every twenty years or so. Ever since the Rising became an official catastrophe, we’ve lived under Emergency Law, which means certain rights get suspended. “Can’t switch horses midstream,” the representatives said with every cancelled election. An appropriate metaphor, considering 20 percent of the continent was now underwater.

  Tupper smoothed down the sleeve of his official blue robe as he said, “Well, what do you expect? You own great tracts of land — naturally a hefty property tax comes with it.”

  “Hefty ain’t the word for it,” someone shouted, though I couldn’t see who.

  With a finger to my lips, I held the door open for Gemma and we slipped into the back of the room.

  “Instead of complaining,” Representative Tupper suggested, “you should be grateful the Commonwealth allows you to pay your taxes in crops.”