Dark Life: Rip Tide Read Free Page B

to why. Nor did I have one for the question that had floated through my mind ever since seeing the chains across the hatches:
Who
would do it?
    Within an hour, Pa, Ma, and I and a few of our neighbors had managed to tow the township to the Trade Station. We left it bobbing next to the Surface Deck, which was an enormous two-level ring floating on top of the ocean. The lower station lay hidden one hundred feet subsea, with an elevator cable connecting the two.
    Given the late hour, the Surface Deck was deserted. The fish market that circled the promenade, fifteen feet above the waves, had closed hours ago. And only a few boats were hitched to the docking-ring at water level, illuminated by the lights of the promenade above.
    “Heck of a find,” Raj said as he stood back, eyeing the township. Broad, bearded, and loud, he came off more like an outlaw than a pioneer. “Them being all dead”—he waved his seaweed cigar—“makes it your salvage, no debate.”
    “Wonder why I’m not throwing a party?” I replied as I waited for Pa and Lars. They were inside, trying to figure out what had gone wrong with Nomad’s engines.
    “’Cause you’re not counting up the subload of money you’ll make,” Raj said. As if I’d missed his point.
    “It’s a chum deal for them, all right,” Jibby acknowledged, tipping his shaggy blond head toward the township. “But you do stand to make a small fortune off this.”
    “Gemma and I found it together,” I corrected, since she’d ducked into the lounge to shed her diveskin the moment we’d docked.
    “Even if the engines are fried, you can bust up this sucker and sell it for parts,” Jibby went on, ignoring my mention of Gemma. At twenty-three, he was too old for her—at least as far as I was concerned. She was only fifteen. But she was also the only girl in Benthic Territory anywhere near his age, and a pretty one at that, so Jibby had already proposed marriage twice. And though he’d been turned down both times, he wasn’t about to give up hope, which I found both funny and annoying.
    Soon enough, Pa and Lars stumbled out of the township. Lars was big and pale on any given day, but now he’d out-blanch a spookfish as he leaned against the ladder that led up to the promenade. Slamming the hatch closed, Pa wedged a crowbar into the handle as extra measure. Then he dropped to a knee at the edge of the docking-ring and splashed seawater on his face. No one spoke, letting them regain their composure.
    “The engine’s been disabled. Definitely sabotage,” Pa said in a hoarse voice. “But it looks like they got a backup generator going for a while at least. It put out enough power to get the blowers running, but not the heat. Those poor surfs died of hypothermia long before their air gave out.”
    “Most of the equipment is close to fifty years old,” Lars added, still leaning against the ladder. “They were lucky to get the backup generator running at all.”
    “Not lucky enough,” I muttered.
    “They probably hoped someone would find them in time,” Jibby said sadly.
    Lars grimaced. “But had no way to send out a distress signal.”
    I couldn’t imagine how awful it would be, watching the people you love freeze to death.
    “Who would do such a thing?” my mother asked. Arms crossed, she seemed to be holding her distress in check. “Anchor an entire township and chain the hatches?”
    “No idea,” Pa said. He sounded riled, which was rare for him. “But since we’ve got no ranger, I’m calling the Seaguard.”
    “Sure that’s smart?” Lars pushed off from the wall, his legs steadier now. “You’re meeting with the surfs from Drift tomorrow.”
    “What does that have to do with it?” Ma asked. “Selling our crops isn’t illegal anymore.”
    Representative Tupper had seemed so proud of himself when he’d passed on that nugget. The Assembly had denied our bid for statehood—said Benthic Territory wasn’t old enough, established enough, and didn’t