Chapter 15
The Shape of Broken Things
Kael
The journey back mimics swimming upstream through a current of shattered glass.
For weeks, I have existed in the stark silence of the Gray Wastes.
The freezing water there is heavy and bitter, but honest. It presses against my scales with a uniform, predictable weight.
It lacks the stench of burning engine grease, processed nutritional kelp, or the sharp, metallic tang of anxiety leaking from a walled city of five thousand souls.
Now, as the House of Drift grinds its way up the steep continental slope, the suffocating feeling of the Reef hits my sensitive lateral line long before the glowing boundary lights appear.
The city vibrates in my teeth.
The rhythmic vibration of the atmospheric processors churns the water. The nauseating, low-frequency hum of the magical perimeter shields presses against my skull. The chaotic insect-buzz of armored patrol skiffs darts across the upper boundaries.
The sheer volume of civilization sparks a sharp, throbbing headache behind my dark eyes.
Standing at the helm of the shell, I grip the rusted iron wheel Bolt jury-rigged to the main steering column.
I adjust our upward course. We are avoiding the guarded main gate, aiming for the forgotten, rotting cracks in the city's ancient foundation.
We are heading for the Silt District. The industrial drain.
"You are grinding the gears, shark," Bolt grumbles from his copper cage. The eel glows a muddy, exhausted shade of orange. He hates the shallow waters. "Ease up on the torque. We are fighting strong gravity now, not just the friction of the silt."
I nod in silent acknowledgment. Easing the heavy iron wheel to the left, the shell groans in protest as it changes trajectory.
I look down at the white sand floor of the shell.
We have vulnerable passengers tonight.
Vaelis sits on the woven net-bed in the corner, polishing the silver hand-mirror with a repetitive, nervous motion.
Swipe the glass. Check his reflection. Swipe the glass.
Check his reflection. He practices our clumsy, makeshift language in the polished surface, his fine fingers moving in silent, jerky rhythms.
He tries to learn my signs, spending hours memorizing the placement of my hands so I don't have to live in the quiet alone. The devotion of the act makes my heart ache.
And then there is Mira.
The disgraced Vanguard lies crumpled on the sand near the radiating warmth of the engine, wrapped in a blanket I made from salvaged human sailcloth.
She has not moved a muscle in two full tidal cycles.
I leave the steering wheel, locking the heavy column in place with a carved bone-pin. I swim over to her resting place on the floor.
The stench of her failing biology hits me before I reach her.
She smells of burning chemicals and bitter herbs.
The rotting scent of the Abyssal Draught.
A scent I know from the cautionary stories my mother used to tell us in the dark of the trench.
She told us horrific stories about the desperate things soft surface-dwellers do to survive the crushing pressure of the deep.
The Draught only borrows time from the ocean, Mother had said, her voice a heavy rumble in the dark. And the ocean always collects its debts.
I kneel in the sand beside her, pulling back the frayed edge of the sailcloth blanket.
Her skin, once the smooth, vibrant tan of a proud Reef Guard, has turned a dull, sickly shade of slate gray. It looks dry and fragile, mimicking crumbling paper. Her short blue hair, has thinned out, floating white and listless in the water. She has lost all her color.
She looks old. Not ancient and powerful like the Trench Witches. Worn. A fragile stone tumbled in the punishing surf.
Her eyes have closed.
Reaching out, I touch her thin wrist to check her fading pulse.
Her eyes snap open. Milky, confused, and filled with raw terror.
She gasps, moving for the first time. A dry, rattling sound deep in her throat. She tries to recoil from my touch. She reaches for a heavy iron weapon no longer strapped to her belt.
Her ruined body betrays her intent. Her thin arms tremble under the strain, collapsing back onto the sand. She lacks the physical strength to lift them.
"Don't," she wheezes. Fresh tears spill from her milky eyes. "Please don't eat me."
I freeze, looking down at her terrified face.
I am a trench shark. I have rows of jagged, serrated teeth. I am covered in brutal scars from a lifetime in the dark. I understand why she expects the violent end of her life. But the cruel accusation still stings my chest.
A flash of motion catches my attention.
Pip darts across the sand floor. The small shrimp ignores the heavy dread in the cabin, scuttling up Mira's arm and over her pale face. His tiny appendages tap a quick rhythm across her nose.
Mira tenses. Her eyes widen as Pip then inspects each strand of her white hair, finding nothing of value. She lacks the strength to shake him off as her eyes continue to widen in horror.
The absurd sight shatters the dark tension in the room. I let out a low rumble of amusement.
Shaking my heavy head, I pick up Pip, dropping him to the side where he scurries off to do whatever the creature spends its day doing. Cleaning the outside of the shell, most likely.
Reaching for the warmed stitched water-skin kept near the engine, I pull out the bone plug. I hold it out to her trembling hands.
She stares blankly at the offering, then looks back up at my dark eyes in fear.
"Is it poison?" she whispers.
I almost laugh at the sheer audacity of the question.
No, a thought forms, my jaw tightening. You are the one who poisons innocent things. I am the one who feeds them.
I take a slow, deep sip from the skin to show her the water is safe. Then I offer it to her again.
She hesitates for an agonizing moment. Her physical thirst wins the internal battle.
I guide her head upward, sliding my rough palm beneath her brittle neck.
The effort is minimal for me, but her head feels impossibly light, a fragile thing that might fall away without support.
She drinks from the water-skin, her throat working with a desperate, parched rhythm.
The warmed water spills from her lips, tracing pale rivers down her chin to darken the salvaged sailcloth beneath her.
When she finishes, she slumps back against the sand with a soft sigh, her body trembling from the exertion of a few simple swallows. The effort leaves her breathless, her chest rising and falling in shallow, painful-looking movements.
"Where," she coughs, the sound like grinding stones, "where are we?"
Vaelis materializes from the shadows of the shell, his body cutting through the water with the effortless grace of a predator.
He positions himself between her and the rest of our makeshift home, a living barrier.
His crimson fins catch the blue light of the engine, glowing like embers in the darkness.
He is clean, radiant, and his golden eyes burn with a cold fire.
"We are in the belly of the beast, Mira," Vaelis says, his voice sharp as broken glass. "We're riding inside the very shell you tried to annihilate us in."
Mira's milky eyes flutter, struggling to focus on his luminous face. "Vaelis? You're still alive."
"Disappointed?" he asks, the question a thin blade of ice.
"No," she whispers, the word barely disturbing the water. A single tear escapes her eye, cutting a clean path through the grime on her cheek. "You're safe. Thank the currents, you're safe."
"Don't thank the currents," Vaelis snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. "My own people left me to be torn apart on the ridge. They saw the swarm descend and they swam away. You know the Commander's orders. You were there."
Mira flinches, her body curling inward as if struck by an invisible spear. "I had to follow orders, Vaelis. They made me. I had to fall back." Her voice cracks, thin and desperate. "But I came back. I came into the dark to find you. To bring you home."
"This is my home now," Vaelis says, his golden eyes blazing with a fury that makes the engine's heat feel like a dying ember. "And the first thing you did to betray me was poison the mer who saved my life. You stole his voice."
"I was trying to save you from him!" Mira's voice rises, old and shrill, vibrating with a panic that seems to shake her brittle bones. "He has you magically charmed! Look at yourself, Vaelis! You're defending the enemy! You're domesticating yourself to feed him!"
Her look shifts, raw hatred blazing in her milky eyes as she glares up at me.
"He is a monster," she spits, the words like acid in the warm water.
The ugly word doesn't touch me. It's what the glittering light has always called the dark. I have heard it since my first breath in the trench.
But Vaelis reacts.
He swims forward, his striking face darkening with a fierce, protective rage I have never witnessed before. His hand moves to the small, sharp dagger strapped to his belt.
"Do not ever call him that word again," Vaelis warns her, his voice a lethal, vibrating threat.
I straighten up, swimming close to Vaelis. I place my hand flat against his chest. His heart races beneath my palm, a frantic drumbeat of righteous fury. I push him backward, wedging my broad body between him and the broken old mer on the floor.
Stop, I sign with my free hand, the movement sharp and commanding.
Vaelis looks up at me, his golden eyes wide with anger. "She is ungrateful for your mercy, Kael. She is unrepentant."
She is broken, I sign, my movements sharp. Look closely at her, Vaelis.
Vaelis takes a deep, shuddering breath and finally looks down.
He registers the sickly gray skin that mimics crumbling stone. He registers her frail, shaking hands that cannot even lift a simple water-skin. He registers the pathetic way she huddles deep in the sand like a discarded, empty shell, her brittle body curled in on itself.