Director Hilliard was standing before the navigation console. Shrapnel had shattered a window, and there was a cut on her forehead. She had a vague look about her, as if she were wandering the wheelhouse of a dream.
“Director Hilliard, we have to go!”
There was a second blast as another ship was hit. The vessel exploded midship, the bow and stern rising like a twig snapped in half.
Hilliard stared in stunned disbelief. “Was this the Thunderhead’s plan all along?” she muttered. “We’re useless to the world now. The Thunderhead couldn’t kill us, so did it send us to a place where it knew we would be killed?”
“The Thunderhead wouldn’t do that!” Loriana said.
“How do you know, Loriana? How do you know?”
She didn’t – but clearly the Thunderhead had no eyes on this place, which meant it didn’t know what to expect any more than they did.
Another blast. Another ship hit. Their own vessel was foundering, and it wouldn’t be long before the sea swallowed it.
“Come with me, Director,” said Loriana. “We have to get to the safety pods before it’s too late.”
When Loriana arrived at the pods with Hilliard in tow, the main deck was flooding. Several pods had already ejected; others were too damaged to use. Agent Qian lay deadish and badly burned in the corner. Not deadish, but dead. There’d be no way to revive him out here.
There was one pod left, overstuffed with maybe a dozen agents who were unable to close the door because of a damaged hinge. It would have to be closed manually from the outside.
“Make room for the director!” Loriana said.
“There’s no room left,” someone inside shouted.
“Too bad.” Loriana shoved the director in, forcing her into the crush of bodies.
“Loriana – now you,” said Hilliard. But clearly there was no space left for her. Seawater was pooling around her ankles now. Before the pod could flood, Loriana grabbed the door and, struggling against the bent hinge, closed it. Then she waded to the manual-launch mechanism; slammed down the release button, which launched the pod into the sea; and then dove in after it.
It was hard to keep her head above surface so close to the sinking vessel, but she gasped what air she could and swam for all she was worth to put some distance between her and the dying vessel. Meanwhile, the pod’s engine kicked in, and it began to power its way to shore, leaving her behind.
The blasts from the island had stopped, but all around Loriana were burning ships in various stages of death. There were more agents in the water screaming for help. And bodies. So many bodies.
Loriana was a strong swimmer, but the shore was so far away. And what if there were sharks? Was she destined to go the way of the Grandslayers?
No, she couldn’t think about that now. She had managed to save the director. Now she had to put all her attention into saving herself. She had been a distance swimmer on the Nimbus Academy’s swim team, although she was not in the shape she had been in a year ago. Distance swimming, she knew, was about pacing yourself so that you had enough energy to finish the race. So she began a slow and measured crawl toward shore. Loriana resolved not to stop until she either reached the island or drowned.
An open response to Her Excellency, High Blade Barbara Jordan of Texas
You requested to be left alone, and your wish is granted. I have consulted with the High Blades of East- and WestMerica, as well as NorthernReach and Mexiteca. As of this day, no other North Merican scythedom will engage with your region. Furthermore, all shipments of goods and resources to and from the LoneStar region shall be confiscated by scythes just beyond your borders. You will no longer benefit from the good will of your neighbors, nor will you be seen as a part of the North Merican continent. Yours shall be a pariah region until you see the error of your ways.
I would also like to say, High Blade Jordan, that it is my sincerest hope that you self-glean in the not-too-distant future, so that your region can benefit from more reasonable, and rational, leadership.
Respectfully,
Honorable Robert Goddard, High Blade of MidMerica
7
Dancing in the Deep
Salvage was a painstakingly slow process. It took three months of digging through the submerged debris until they found the outer vault.
Possuelo had resigned himself to the pace of the process. He found that it was actually beneficial, because the other scythes had short attention spans. Nearly a third of them had sailed off, vowing to return the second the vault was found. Those who remained bided their time and kept a close watch on the Spence – albeit from a distance. Tarsila, the Amazonian High Blade, was a formidable woman, and no one wanted to raise her ire by challenging Possuelo’s authority and autonomy over the salvage.
As for Goddard, he had finally sent a delegation under Nietzsche – his first underscythe – who then proceeded to glean several of the salvage crews that were not under the direct protection of a scythe.
“It is not only our right, but our duty to glean civilians whose greed leads to their violating the Perimeter of Reverence,” Nietzsche claimed. Some scythedoms were angered, others supportive, and others strategically indifferent.
While Possuelo negotiated the convoluted politics of the fractured scythedom, Jerico spent each day in a pair of VR goggles, immersed in the world of the dive. Joining Jerico in that virtual journey was a conservator to catalogue every find, as well as a structural engineer to help weave their way through the ever-shifting wreckage.
They used a remotely operated vehicle – or ROV – for the job. Jeri controlled the submersible with hand gestures and turns of the head – to the point that it looked like some exotic dance. Possuelo only took the virtual trip when there was something of particular interest to see – such as the ruins of the Endura Opera House, where eels weaved in and out of dangling chandeliers, and the set of Aida lay in pieces on the sideways stage, like a glimpse of some apocalyptic ancient Egypt, the Nile having swallowed everything in its rising waters.
When they finally reached the outer vault, Possuelo was ecstatic, but Jeri’s response was measured. This was only the first stage of the battle.
They breached it with a steel-cutting laser; then the hole they were cutting gave way before they had completed cutting it – the water pressure having caved it in – and the robotic sub plunged through the air pocket, shattering on the vault’s floor.
“Well, at least now we know that the outer vault remained watertight,” Jeri said, taking off the goggles.
That was the fifth ROV lost.
At first, each time a new robotic sub had to be brought in, it added another week to the operation. After the second one was lost, they requisitioned two at a time, so there’d always be a backup.
The escaping air created a telltale bubbling of white water on the surface that alerted everyone they had breached the outer vault. By the time the crew prepped the standby sub later that day, every scythe that had left the area was either back or on their way.
The following morning, the new robotic sub was negotiating the dark void of the flooded chamber. While the outer vault was covered with residue and slime from its tenure in the sea, the Vault of Relics and Futures was just as pristine as the day it sank.
“The best thing to do would be to cut a hole in this vault as well,” suggested Jeri, “then vacuum the diamonds out.”