Falling Sky (14 page)

“But the Feral . . .”

“Will be on an island. Contained. You bring supplies to them, if you need to. Drop them in by air. This way everyone gets what they want. But you get potentially more.”

“I don't know,” she says, but the look on her face says differently. I can see the idea working its way into her mind. Infection is still a threat here and the boffins could give her a way to protect against it. I think I might just have her.

“Give them a trial run,” I say. “Control what gets in and out. Monitor the situation. Then we can go from there.”

“You won't be able to leave,” she says.

“
They
won't be able to leave. I'm not going with them.”

“Oh?” She frowns. “Why not? I thought you believed in their cause.”

“I do. But I believe in my own as well. I'm not a scientist. I'll just go stir-crazy cooped up with them.” I want back in the air, I add silently.

She turns away from me, her arms linked behind her back. “What use is this place if it's just the long wait for the end?” I press. “These people are scientists. Smart people. I'm willing to bet they've accomplished more than anyone else has since the Bug hit. You have the means to contain them. And it's only one Feral. Put a guard there. You'll see. Isn't it worth the chance?”

She turns back to me, her face flat. “I'll consider it.”

Then her people come and toss me into a cell. It's rough stone, hewn from the ground. I call out to Miranda and Sergei (not Clay), but no one responds.

I don't know how long I stew for. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I misjudged Brana. Maybe she'll execute us all. And this was all my idea.

That's what you get for agreeing with Miranda, the voice says. But I know it's bullshit. This is all on me.

Even if it does work, I think, it means not seeing Miranda for a long while. That thought doesn't sit all that well with me, I find. But at least she'd get to do what she wants to do. We may have traveled together for a time, but our courses were always going to take us in very different directions.

After hours of me going back and forth in my mind, someone opens my cell. Brana steps inside. “Very well. I will put them down on a nearby island with some supplies and some barter. And two escorts. They will have access to some of our trade as long as they keep that thing under wraps and will be subject to inspection whenever we feel like it.”

It's what I proposed, but it's a shit deal. Still, it's the best I see us getting. “Fine.” I nod. “And I get passage into Tamoanchan.”

She shrugs. “We have a three-day quarantine period. To make sure you're not infected. After that . . . I don't see why not.”

“Good. Then we're agreed,” I say.

They escort me back to the others, and I steel myself to break the news to Miranda.

I walk down the streets of Tamoanchan and feel the need to look at myself in the mirror. I'm getting stares from some of the people on the street, and I wonder if it's from a red handprint on the side of my face. To say Miranda was upset when I told her I wasn't going with them would be an understatement. Of course I waited to tell her that part until the end of the quarantine period.

Of course she was only marginally more happy about the deal. I thought she was being a little ungrateful. And I told her.

“We're prisoners,” she said.

“Listen, you have a place to stay. A place to do your experiments. That's what you wanted.”

“And what's to stop them from changing their minds? Or from interfering? Or from deciding they'd rather not have us around?”

“Me,” I said.

She snorted. Truth be told, it hurt my feelings a bit.

I feel naked without my father's revolver at my hip. But no weapons. Those are the rules.

Tamoanchan is no Gastown. At least not how Gastown used to be, but they seem to be doing something right. I can smell cooking food, and hunger sparks through me. I walk down the stairs along the city's streets. The buildings are built from cast-off materials, but unlike some of the other settlements, they use wooden frames. Which makes sense. There are no shortages of trees, at least. A carpenter here must eat very well. It makes me wonder if I'm in the wrong business.

Only, it's on the ground.

I think about gathering up supplies, but I don't have much on me. I only took part of the score from the farmhouse—enough to get me through the next few days. I left the rest for the boffins. And everything else I had was back on the
Cherub
. So now I have virtually nothing. Not even friends.

I go looking for a drink.

I figure I deserve one, what with losing my home, the next best thing I had to a home, and the closest thing I have to friends and family. I figure I've been dealt the short end of the stick and my one salvation is that I'm in what passes for civilization these days. And what better does civilization have to offer than a little hooch?

Tamoanchan is no different in that respect. Whether you're talking the Clean or the Sick, get enough people together and a bar will pop up. A tavern. A local watering hole. And while there aren't any wineries or breweries or distilleries anymore, there's still hooch.

I walk the streets of Tamoanchan and look for a drink. I listen for the sounds that would mark a bar—raucous laughter, cheers, the sound of cups clinking or clacking against one another.

I try not to think of Miranda.

I definitely don't want to think of Clay. Standing there, smug, superior, satisfied. That I was finally getting mine. That I had been brought down by my hubris and now he got to watch the last leg of the chair being kicked out from under me.

“I'm doing my best here,” I'd said.

“And who asked you to?” Miranda pushed a strand of hair back from her face.

“Who asked?” I felt the heat rising up my neck and into my face. “Who asked? You goddamned asked. You brought me into this. To help you. To protect you. To cart your ass around. Only now the
Cherub
's gone. And the Core is gone. And Gastown is on some kind of insane rampage across the sky. Pardon me if I thought that getting us all to safety was a priority. Pardon me for actually finding a place crazy enough to take not only you but your little pet.”

I was yelling by the end and Miranda was silent. She just stared at me, her face blank.

Clay opened his mouth. I gave him a look that said I would stuff whatever words he was about to say back in his mouth along with my fist.

“And yet you're leaving,” she'd said.

And there, I thought, is what's really bothering her.

“I have to,” I said. “I can't stay cooped up here with you and that thing. Not now.” Not after losing the
Cherub
, losing my wings, I was thinking. But I didn't say that.

She shook her head and turned away. “Go then.” She waved her hand in the air. There was a small strip of cloth or linen wrapped around one of her fingers. I wondered what she did to it. “Go do whatever it is that you need to do. I'm sure we'll be here when you're finished.” Then she turned back to stare me in the eyes again. “Only there may not be room for you then.”

Despite my anger and my bluster, the words chilled me. Part of me wanted to apologize. Part of me wanted to explain and make things right. Instead I said, “I'll take my chances.”

Then I left. As I walked out, I saw Clay put his arm around Miranda. Everything about that guy is like a persistent itch you just want to scratch at. Except in this case the scratching is me punching him in his smug face.

So, yes, alcohol.

I pass up one place that has some muddy-looking swill in stained plastic jugs on a series of tables made from wooden doors. Another place has the right atmosphere, but it's a brothel. I shake my head. Up until now I couldn't have imagined a brothel in the Sick. Fear of fluids is the law of the day. But here, where Ferals can't reach and access is carefully controlled . . . wow. The place seems well stocked with men and women, and I have to guess they do a brisk trade.

At last, though, I find what I'm looking for. A place with a plastic sign with the words “The Frothy Brew” painted on them. And I realize I'm in the right place. Because this place isn't slinging hooch. This place has beer.

The first time I had beer—at least what could truly be called beer—was when my dad was still alive. We were somewhere over what used to be Oregon, or maybe Washington, and spotted a large house on the side of a mountain, the kind of place only the rich could afford back in the Clean.

It was likely, of course, that the place had already been cleaned out, but it wasn't very accessible from the ground, which meant it was likely to be free from Ferals, and it was shielded from view from above, for the most part, by a stand of redwoods.

Not to mention that Dad had a knack for finding good places to forage. So we brought the
Cherub
down behind the trees and descended to the ground.

Back then the ground made me even more jittery than it does now, but I had Dad with me, and his confidence—whether false or not—helped to calm me.

We entered the house through the upper windows and, as expected, it was stripped. Appliances and fixtures had been ripped from the walls—anything electronic or metal or glass carefully harvested for barter or use elsewhere. We found the hollow shells of a few computers, their guts long gone.

We descended. Two floors. All in the same condition. The house reeked of mold and urine, and we skirted a pile of dusty, leafy debris in one corner that might have been bones.

Then on the ground floor, Dad found the door to the basement. He was like that, always looking at the shapes of things, trying to figure out if there was something more than what was obvious. Turns out this door was hidden behind a knocked-over bookcase. Either the previous foragers had been in a hurry or had missed it.

I opened the door for Dad, while he kept his revolver ready. The bookcase might have been there for a reason, maybe Ferals had made a den down there. But nothing burst out at us, and we couldn't hear anything down below. No breathing. No snarls. Just a steady drip.

So we went down. Armed, of course. With a torch, of course.

What we found was a cellar. There was some furniture down there that we dragged up to the
Cherub
. Some metal pieces we later bartered. But the real prize, the true prize, was the alcohol.

Turns out the people had a nice collection of beer and wine. Much of the wine had been damaged in a partial collapse of the ceiling. And what was left was far too valuable to drink. But the beer, well, that was more accessible. Dad figured we had to check to see if it was any good. Figured it probably wasn't. So he popped the cap off and took a swig.

Something about the temperature down there, and probably the quality of the beer, kept it in pretty good condition. It wasn't as bubbly as it apparently was supposed to be and might have lost some of its flavor, he said. But he still drank the whole thing. Then he handed a bottle to me.

It may as well have dropped out of the past, through a hole in time. Something handed to me from the Clean. I eagerly popped it open and took a sip. Dark, earthy, nutty and with a nice alcohol kicker. It was all I could do to stop pouring it down my gullet. But I forced myself to take my time. To try to take it all in, remember everything about the taste, about the sensation, how the liquid felt in my mouth, how it finished on my tongue after I swallowed.

We packed up a box of beer and brought it up with us onto the
Cherub
, and it lasted us the better portion of a month. Some of it was the same dark beer as before. Other beer was lighter, more bitter. It was like a treasure chest of sensations. Drinking that last bottle was saying good-bye to something meaningful.

I've had drinks since that people claim are beer, but nothing like what we dragged up from that house.

For most of my life I'd learned that the ground held only death. Bones and ruin scattered across a wasteland of the past. That day, I realized there was still some life in the ground yet.