Escapology (4 page)

She’s so massive from prow to stern that, from up here and on a day as calm as this, it might be possible to believe yourself on dry land if you didn’t know any better. Before the breaking of the world,
Resurrection City
was a corner of Eastern Africa, Somalia to be exact, and her crew and citizens comprise an ethnic mix of Africans, Afrikaans, and émigrés from other land ships all living and working together. An extended family of once-strangers.

Shaped like a Palaeolithic spearhead, she scythes through the waves on twelve sets of massive jerry-rigged wheels much like an old steam-boat’s, but larger, leaner and forged from steel. They gleam darkly in the sun, the sound of their churning a thunderous roar like the approach of giant waves. Her sides like cliffs, she supports upon her extraordinary back a tri-level haphazard city of freakish driftwood and metal towers, dazzling in sunlight and twisted to wind-defying complexity, all strung with a cat’s cradle of ropes upon which crawl the thousands of citizens and crew whose daily toil keeps her afloat.

It’s a sight that never fails to move him. This immense lady, this ship formed of land, is home. He wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. No other ship would be adequate, no city hub grazing the edge of space, no bedraggled commune eeking out an existence on the tiny green spars of land or half-intact cities clinging to the ranges, and certainly not the Gung, whose claustrophobic streets he tried and failed to survive as a teen, running from one horror it seemed right into the jaws of another.

Through the Tri-Asian ranges the sun plays hide-and-seek with
Resurrection
’s haphazard towers until they emerge out the other side, threading between jagged rocks to sea like glass, a mirror for the sky. If you could see to the bottom of the ocean here you’d find the tsunami defence wall. In an emergency the wall rises from the water high enough to blot out the view of the sea for the highest-living citizens in the Gung.

Sailing as long as he has, Petrie’s witnessed them testing it more than once; all that steel against the might of the ocean. One day there’ll be a wave too high to hold back. Everything down here is on borrowed time, hanging on by sheer dumb luck.

The harbour at Foon Gung is dead ahead now, rearing from the water like a metal-capped grin. Only ten minutes away at full speed, but they daren’t come in that fast.

Steady!
he yells to the wheel crews.
Half power. Don’t wanna scrape anything off those harbour arms.

Carved out of the Gung’s south-east corner during the breaking, the harbour is only twenty miles wide, with two long arms reaching plaintively into the ocean, and, like the rest of the Gung, every inch of it groans with architecture. Foon-Gung being the last solid land, every one of its seven hundred miles, including the mountains to the rear, bristles with steel and glass and stone, reaching up into the clouds in audacious rebellion against nature.

The
Resurrection
’s come close to nudging one of the ’rises teetering on the edges of the arms before now. His chest shrinks thinking how many people they might kill if they inadvertently topple one—those ’rises are cage apartments, hundreds of families crammed into tight spaces like barnacles on a rock. Not life at all, at least not one he wants.

Bosun Petrie, slow your boat. You’re set to break my arms there.
Harbour Master Sigmund lacks basic IM manners, always slamming in without so much as a warning chime.

Petrie takes a breath, thankful that Sigmund can’t see his face.

We’re slowing. Half speed already. We’ll dock safe just like we always do. We’re a ways out yet.

Sigmund snorts.
Sure son, and these folk from Fulcrum love to be kept waiting. Don’t spin me any of that bullshit you try with the deputies, I can see your wake from here, and you’re coming in too fast. Make ’em wait. You’re paying aren’t you?

Irritated, Petrie snaps,
We are, through the nose as ever, but we’re not going to crash in like pirates trying to please them.

Silence.

Petrie curses his tongue. He shouldn’t have said that, it was damned foolish. But Sigmund merely comes back with a warning.

Careful, son, a loose tongue is a dangerous thing. Now get that speed down for crap’s sake. I’ve got crews out; don’t need ’em ploughed under your wheels.

Aye, aye.

A cantankerous, mannerless old bastard Sigmund might be, but he feels the same about Fulcrum as everyone does. Fulcrum’s the Corp that runs the Gung, that owns and runs the Slip that keeps the world together. That’s some goddamn power right there. Too much. Four times a year they send Techs to check your server equipment. It’s mandatory and costs a bloody fortune.
Resurrection
isn’t alone in sometimes being unable to pay when it’s due and Fulcrum always charges more for delays.

When they’re close enough for dammit, Petrie clips on to a line and slides down to the central crow deck to stand by his Captain, Cassius Angel, as they negotiate the southeast arm. Folks hang out the windows on the edge ’rises to wave and holler. Used to be they might throw confetti but though a land ship berthing is still an event, it’s not the wonder it used to be. Familiarity breeds complacence.

Once they’re in the harbour proper, the berthing klaxon begins to sound.
Resurrection
responds with three of her horns and they have an ear-splitting exchange as the harbour crews and
Resurrection
wheel crews coordinate her toward her berth, 800 metres out from the docks. The splash of great wheels, louder by far in the enclosure of the harbour churn her to a gentle halt, waves slapping at her sides, loosing small clods of earth they’ll have to stop and patch at the Tri-Asian ranges on their way out.

Petrie roars the order to anchor via IM. Feels rather than hears them drop, a deep dragging and grind, a vibration like a shudder, as if the
Resurrection
dislikes her sudden immobility.

He pats the ropes, grinning. “Easy, old girl. We’re not here long.”

For the next ten minutes he supervises the wheel crews with lashing and clearing, organizes the Tech teams into groups to make sure the server checks run smoothly.

Hoi, Bosun! Petrie!
The head of their medical team, Lane, barely reining in her impatience.
We off? I’ve got four of my staff by the schooners ready to go. Going to need all the time we can squeeze out of this server check.

“Shit!” he mutters, remembering.

Several vicious attacks in the two months since they last berthed to drop off trade goods have left their hospital supplies dangerously low and he promised Lane time to stock up whilst the servers are being checked. Reaching the bays he vaults onto the lower ropes, clips on his zip and sails down the line to unclip and land beside her. A large man and packed with muscle, he towers over her. Petrie towers over most everyone and it never feels normal. He’s never become used to the body good nutrition gave him.

“Let’s go then,” he says.

“Impressive timing there,” she says, smiling.

“Hey, you call, I come running. Let’s go wangle some inland time.”

She places a hand on his arm as her staff scramble down the ropes to the schooner.

“I know you hate handling Sigmund, Petrie. This is much appreciated.”

He pats her hand. “Just do me a favour and sneak me some brandy, will you? Chances are I’m going to need it.”

“Done.”

“You’re an angel.”

Their schooners are thirty feet long, solar powered and nippy as hell, and the journey from shipside to dockside takes less than ten minutes. The negotiation for an inland trip on the other hand takes over fifty; despite Sigmund knowing he’s keeping Petrie from dealing with Fulcrum’s Techs.

Maintaining calm by willpower alone, Petrie manages to wangle Lane a whole hour and hire her a truck at half charge so she can bulk buy. He sees her and her team off safely before heading back to oversee the transfer of Fulcrum’s Techs to
Resurrection
. They’re none too pleased. They can’t leave until they’ve done their job and they think he’s stalled on purpose. Yet another irritation in his day.

Once they’re soothed and on their way, Petrie ventures over to the dock to vet the waiting refugees, a bedraggled bunch who’ve likely checked the berthing schedules and made certain to be here on the right day for a good ship. His head aches at the sight of them. It seems cruel, especially when people are desperate, but a land ship is a working community and they’ve learnt not to be indiscriminate, as much as they might want to be.

For Petrie, this process is especially tough. He knows what it’s like to be willing to do anything to escape a bad situation and yet terrified of somehow walking into something worse. And there’s plenty of something worse to go round. Of the hundreds of land ships sailing the ocean, maybe three quarters could be described as friendly. The rest, not so much.

Some are scavengers, taking what’s already been remade useful, their grotesque visages built to terrify smaller ships into submission. Others are pirates out for trash, flesh and treasure, preying on any ship caught in their sights and occasionally hitting the harbour district for whatever can be snatched before the sec-drones attack. The worst of all are totalitarian states, with flags and laws and dire punishments for transgression—and the most notorious of these is the
Saskatoon Ark
, captained by Daly Pentecost.

Petrie was born on the
Ark
, amongst all that filth and horror, under the iron hand of Pentecost. He ran away when he was fifteen during a short dock for supplies at the Gung. Jumped clean over the side. Pretended to drown so no one would think to follow, swimming through icy waters to hide under the dock, shivering and terrified of being found.

He thought then that he could survive anything, but two years living rough on the streets of the Gung left him so desperate to get back to the ocean he took the first ship that came in. Lucky for him, that was
Resurrection City
.

Today there are thirty refugees hoping for the same luck, and only he stands in their way. From the info they shoot to his IM, he has to turn down six straight away. The rest are a mix of skilled WAMOS—Passes, the so-called well-adjusted members of society—done with living inside the system, and Fails wanting to try out life on the seas—all of whom are easy to accept. Except one.

Her records seem perfect: a high-level Tech WAMOS fresh out of Corp life and wanting freedom, but her timing is interesting. Questionable. He beckons her forward.

“Name?”

It’s on her info, but sometimes they forget their own cover stories, the names on fake records bought in haste.

“Volk,” she replies in a soft voice with a burr of accent he can’t place. Perhaps Nordic. Unusual if so. Close up, he can see she’s packed with augments, her gaze remote, but he can feel the life in her. She’s angular and fair-skinned, with untameable red hair to match the energy he can sense leashed within. She’ll make a good sailor if she’s fit for it.

Volk. Just like her records. That’s a good start maybe.

“No other names?”

“None I like to give. I’m not close to my family.”

“Any reason for that?”

“The usual. Confliction of life goals, gradual estrangement none of us particularly tried to prevent.”

“I see. You realize we’re an extended family aboard the
Resurrection
? We’re pretty much obliged to get along even if we don’t agree with one other. Not many places to get away from someone you dislike on a land ship, not even one of her grand size.”

She forces a smile, clearly struggling hard to make a good impression.

“I said I’m not close to
my
family, that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of getting along with other people. You can’t choose the family you’re born to. It’s not like you get a free pass from being the offspring of absolute arseholes.”

Her dry humour is such a surprise he finds himself laughing.

“True enough. How are you with teamwork?”

“I’m ex-Corp, Bosun. Teamwork was my life.”

“Why the
Resurrection
? I see you’ve been waiting on a ship for over two weeks. Rest of this bunch have only been here ten days—missed the
Hepzibar
. You didn’t though. Good ship, that. Not good enough for you?”

She regards him steadily, her remote eyes giving away nothing.

“It has a good reputation, yes. But it isn’t
Resurrection City
.”

“Afford to be choosy, can you?”

She raises her brows, as if it’s obvious.

“With my stats? Of course.”

Petrie considers her carefully for a moment. His instincts tell him she’s in some deep trouble. Frightened. Is she trouble for the
Resurrection
though? He thinks not. Not only is her record clean but he’s finely attuned to hidden malice and he gets no sense of it from her. He has no concern about anyone who might be after her.
Resurrection
is a titan, well armed and battle hardened. Coming after her once she’s on board would be foolhardy.

“Well, okay,” he says to Volk, “I can see you’re in some kind of trouble, but you aren’t trouble yourself, so welcome to the family.”

She nods, but her relief is like a tidal wave, it almost knocks him over.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t prove me wrong.”

“I’ll do my very best.”

“Do better.”

“Aye, aye Bosun.”

Aye, aye, indeed. He watches her go, clutching her bag so tightly he knows for a fact her hands are going to hurt for a week, and hopes he hasn’t just made a very big mistake.

A neural drive is like a mind, there’s no switching it off, no running from it. You can mute it, sure. You can even do as Shock does and fry your brain on bumps, wiping as many clear seconds as possible from the clock. But much like a persistent thought a drive will let you know by hook or by crook when you’ve a million and one messages backed up and pounding on their horns like angry drivers in a ten-mile tail-back.

Shock’s had his on mute since speaking to Mim, which was dumb knowing her pro-stance on harassment. Now his drive’s buzzing away with angry message wasps, sending ripples like the after-effects of ECT to bug up his beleaguered brain meats. Cutting straight through the messy high of cheap bumps. He’d delete them all without reading if he hadn’t once taught Mim a way to circumvent that. Why did he do that?